Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath
I’m back in the grand foyer, standing on the mosaic depiction of that apple tree in full bloom.
As I look up the blood red carpet, I contemplate slipping off the heels and going barefoot.
Resolving not to be a pussy, I go to the right and use the gold-leafed balustrade for balance.
On the rise, I spend most of the time looking over my shoulder.
Those marble and malachite columns have always caught my eye.
I love rocks, and the way the towering cylinders are polished to a high shine, you can really see every vein of color.
Up at the top, I find that the study’s double doors are open, and yeah, wow, hello, Versailles.
I remember the first time I saw the Black Dagger Brotherhood squeezed into the pale blue room, their huge bodies perched on the French antique furniture, their subtle distaste of the frilly confines mostly hidden.
I believe after that session, Fritz hurried in and shored up all the seats.
Stepping into the study, I bend over and look through a forest of spindly legs.
Yup, the settee has a block under it that runs the length and width of the thing.
Good idea, for when it was keeping over six hundred pounds off the floor.
The other bergères and side chairs have the same, proof that the butler finishes whatever he starts.
But there’s at least one piece of furniture that requires no buttressing.
The ancient throne looms like something expelled from Bram Stoker’s universe, dwarfing even the big, also-out-of-place desk that Wrath brought in to match it.
Its wood has darkened from age, and I picture a craftsman almost a thousand years ago, chipping away at the oak to create the repeating dagger and warhorse pattern that covers every inch of every surface except for the flat seat.
I can’t help but contrast it with the chair I sat in while I typed out Dark Lover.
I’ve always had my desk in the bedroom. I know this is frowned upon by all kinds of professional advisers: Your workspace must be distinct from where you try to sleep.
Fuck ’em. It was fine for me in prep school, college and law school. No reason to change now.
The bedroom where I first outlined the series and wrote those first sixty-nine pages had the best windows.
Coming from up north, I was used to four or six paners that filled the wall space from the ceiling to about halfway down.
These ran all the way to the floor. They literally had a clearance of three inches at the bottom.
I loved opening them all the way up so that the breeze would go through the space.
My desk was against the wall on the left, and I could stare out at the treetops. Everything in Louisville turns green in the spring and stays like that through the color change in October. I felt like I was writing outside, and all those leaves meant there was no glare from direct sunlight.
My chair was a bog standard office one from Staples. I had to take the rollers out so I could put my feet up on the edge of my table and type in my lap—
Someone is looming behind me.
Just like it was back then.
I turn around. Wrath has come up the stairs and is standing at the top like the god he is.
He seems to get taller every time I see him lately, but that’s more the mood he’s in.
Behind the wraparounds, his black, slashing brows are drawn tight, and his lips are pressed flat.
His huge shoulders under his black leather jacket are tense, and the ropes of muscle that fill out his chest are twitching.
No George. And no one with him.
He has daggers mounted, handles down, on his pecs.
So he’s going out somewhere.
“I can’t stay for long.” His voice is full of bass and tinted with that aristocratic accent. “Sorry.”
He’s not sorry. He’s saying that in a nod at being polite, and I appreciate the effort so much. It’s more than most get around him.
“Feel free to stay however long you like.”
Oh, so he’s leaving right now. With my chance to talk to him slipping away, I face the reality that there wasn’t much we could have talked about anyway.
There’s so much he’d shut down—and if you read the story at the end of this book, you’ll know why he’s so tense now and you’ll see the aftermath of what’s about to happen.
As he turns away from me, his long, black hair swings free, and he hits the stairs like he can see them. Then again, he knows well enough how many steps there are.
Of course I follow, but not directly. I go over to the second story landing’s balustrade and look down.
The Brotherhood has gathered for him below. Rhage and Butch. Phury and Z. V, who’s lighting up. Tohr, who’s pacing around and talking into his phone.
Butch has changed into fighting clothes. So have the others who were not in leather.
They don’t even glance in my direction, and in this, it’s like when I’m describing a scene with them from an omniscient narrator perspective: I’m hovering somewhere up in the corner, nothing but a pair of eyes, watching so there’s a recording.
Their voices percolate up as Tohr tells them who’s on the advance team already at the location.
Which of them is going right now. Who escorts Wrath in about ten minutes.
Wrath doesn’t say a damn thing. He doesn’t give two shits about these logistics. He just wants to get where he wants to go.
As a unit, they head for the vestibule’s door, and file out.
The troika goes first. Wrath is behind them. Tohr is after him. Phury and Z bring up the rear.
At the last moment, Vishous ducks back in and looks up at me. He’s wearing his Boston Red Sox hat so I can’t see his eyes, even with the tilt of his head.
His gloved hand, the one with the cigarette, goes to the brim, and he doffs things ever so slightly.
Then he turns away and disappears out into the vestibule.
The door slowly closes behind them, landing against its jambs with a bump and the shift of a locking mechanism that is quiet, yet audible, even all the way up here.
In the wake of their departure, the mansion is so very quiet, nothing but the soft whistling of the heat blowing in behind me through the grates in the floor.
I start down the grand staircase, following in Wrath’s footsteps, as I have all these years.
When I reach the mosaic flooring, I go around, not over, the apple tree out of respect, and head for the exit myself.
There’s a temptation to find a bed and lie down on it, enjoy the luxe of it all, pretend this is my house, with all of its beautiful art and antiques, and its grandeur and scale.
But I don’t live here. This is not…my world.
At best, I’m an insignificant intermediary.
The purpose of it all has just left, and with them not here? Making these ghostly rooms breathe with life?
My brain actually does know this is not real.
I lay my hand on the heavy brass handle of the vestibule door, but before I put my shoulder and all my weight into the pull, I look to the billiards room. Look to the dining room. Look up and over to where I have just stood.
As my heart aches, I realized I wanted some kind of acknowledgment from Wrath for my role in all this. I know he’s in charge here, but I do handle the typing. So we both need each other, we’re a kind of team.
But I suppose that’s not really true. I’m not necessary to him. He is very necessary to me—
Unexpectedly the door opens out of my grip, and my emotions immediately well in my eyes. I should have known the King wouldn’t leave me high and dry.
Not Wrath.
“Challa, are you ready to go?”
Fritz’s old, wrinkled face is hopeful, as if nothing would make him happier than driving me back to my old family home on Lake George.
I blink quickly, in hopes I can clear my tears without having to wipe them in an obvious way.
“Oh, here,” he says as he takes the handkerchief out of his front breast pocket. “Please.”
My hands shake, and I note, as I unfold the precisely starched square, that the fine cotton weave is not initialed, nor does it have a crest. It’s simple and perfect and humble. Just like the doggen who owns it.
“What an honor to serve them.” Fritz clasps his hands over his heart and beams. “Don’t you find?”
Well, yes. Actually…it is.
As I dab things carefully, I suddenly feel lighter. Then again, gratitude is very, very buoyant, isn’t it.
“You know, that’s exactly it.” I hand things back. “Thank you.”
The Brotherhood’s butler bows low and then holds the door wide. “The car awaits.”
The fact that I walk out with Fritz seems appropriate. We’re both servants of them, and I am very content with my role. As I’ve always said, I’m not cool enough to write these books, and it’s important to know your place in the world.
And in spite of how meta this section is, I do know my place.
The cold slaps more clarity into me, and though doggen prefer not to have contact with those they consider to be superiors, it is very functional for him to help me down the steps given my heels.
The blacked-out Mercedes is running, the headlights illuminating the battened-down fountain, the Pit’s front door, the far-off ring of trees and the way down the mountain.
When we come up to the car, he rushes over to the rear door and opens it with a smooth, practiced motion. The interior illuminates with a red tone, the seat I came in on visible in the glow. My notepad and phone are right where I left them.
As I hesitate, I find myself wishing it was the summer, and that I could ask him if we could take a detour to Martha’s Ice Cream. I would like a small vanilla cone, and I wonder if I could talk Fritz into joining me, and what he’d pick if he did.
He shuts me in and hustles around.
I’m staring up through my window’s tinted glass as he gets behind the wheel. Only shadows of the mansion register through the dark wash and I think that’s good. It’s time for this vivid intersection to fade back to what’s normal, and a clear view of the house would make that harder.
Fritz puts the engine in gear and we pilot around the fountain and link up to the lane that twists and turns through the mhis. I am sad to leave and feel hollow.
What saves me?
The knowledge that tomorrow, at 5:30 a.m., I’ll be back with them again, hovering off to the side or behind their varied eyes, back in this world you and I love so much.
“Are you all right, Challa?” I’m asked.
I smile as I ease my head back onto the rest and close my lids. “Absolutely, Fritz. All is as it should be.”
In my world.
And theirs.