Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
As he came to the kitchen, he tracked every shadow thrown by the bright ceiling lights. In contrast to the rest of the house, which was a showcase for glymera visitors, back here it was all business, the appliances stainless steel, the pans hanging on racks in descending size, the ladles and knives and utensils all organized and within reach of the cutting boards, the stoves and ovens, the service line.
Big-ticket setup for a house that catered to a big-ticket master.
After checking the walk-in refrigerator and then the freezer—because hey, aristocrats, like all snakes, were cold-blooded—he did a pass through the pantry, and came out into the dining room.
That was when he stopped.
The table was what pulled him up, that long, glossy run down the middle of the formal room with all those chairs tucked in tight like soldiers called for inspection: twenty-two chairs, the two at the ends sporting arms.
“Now is not the time,” he said under his breath.
Nonetheless, his memory banks coughed up a hairball of the past, the room before him replaced by a what-once-was. Instead of this grand setup, he saw a downright imperial one, and instead of empty chairs, there were familiar faces in candlelight… the Brotherhood, their mates, and the fighters, along with the First Family. And all the young were there, too, everybody eating, drinking… being merry.
It was so clear, so painfully clear. Even though it had been thirty years and change since they’d gathered in that gargoyle’d royal house up on Great Bear Mountain, he could picture the amalgam of countless Last Meals vividly, like it was a dream he was in, rather than a memory that stalked him.
A lingering nostalgia registered as pain in the center of his chest. There had been problems back then for all of them, issues in life that ranged from the little annoyances to the big worries to the outright terrors. And the war, always the fucking war.
But things seemed simpler—
He went to rub his pounding head, then remembered he had a loaded gun in each hand with the safety off—and now was so not the time to shoot himself in the dome for a dumb reason.
And not just because it’d ruin all this pretentious gold-leafed wallpaper.
On that note, he thought of another table, a totally different one—and this time, it really was from memory, not some post-traumatic mental spasm that he couldn’t seem to move past: A cozy family table now, in an open, casual kitchen that was ringed with windows overlooking a meadow and a pond. No butler and waitstaff. No sterling or crystal. No swooping drapes or heavy chandeliers.
No brothers, either.
Just his immediate family: Blay, and the male’s parents, Lyric and Rocke, with the twins, Lyric and Rhamp, in high chairs. The Last Meal spread was served in mismatched dishes and steaming with warmth, but the plates were as yet empty because there was one more dish being brought over. Meanwhile, snow was falling outside, and the decor was red and green for Christmas, even though there were no humans in the house…
Rocke saying something about his shellan and looking her way. And Qhuinn also glanced over to the stove.
The elder Lyric was there, with her apron on and her hair pulled back sensibly. She was cutting up the lasagna she’d made just for Qhuinn, the light fixtures over the island catching the planes of her lovely face.
Healthy. Whole. With life still in front of her—
“One minute out.”
Qhuinn jerked around to the archway. Rhage was standing there, filling the double doorjambs, and there were no more lollipops in sight. It was game time, so he had a gun in each hand.
Still, the guy asked, “You okay?”
No, he wasn’t. But Hollywood—just like everybody else—knew that already, and knew the reason. Some things you just didn’t want to say out loud, though.
My beloved mahmen-in-law is dying was still not a statement he was prepared to make. And the same was true about the inevitable add-on: And it’s killing everybody.
So he pivoted on his reply. Even though now was also not the time for him to get a hair across his ass because someone who lived off Fluffernutter sandwiches, chips, and ice cream suggested that maybe he was halfway following rules.
“Just so we’re clear.” He touched the silver hoop in his lower lip, even though his Beretta nearly poked him in the eyeball. “I’m still who I’ve always been.”
Rhage chuckled. “You mean a badass?”
“Yeah, exactly.” He cleared his throat. “But enough about me. How is this happening?”
“It was not my idea,” Hollywood muttered. Then he called out, “Basement and garage, clear.”
Qhuinn put volume into his voice as well: “First floor, clear.”
From out in the foyer, Z answered with, “Second floor, clear.”
And Phury chimed in, “Attic, clear.”
A vibration went off inside Qhuinn’s leather jacket, and when the text was answered—the countdown started. Exactly thirty Mississippi’s later, headlights washed across the front of the mansion, the hard beams penetrating a seam in the heavy, closed curtains like an adversary that’d found a weakness.