To say nothing of the ask he’d laid down the night before. Not that V was about to put that out to the group.
Conversation sprang up from all corners, and Wrath sat back, his black wraparounds as much of a mask as his tight expression was. When the voices got even louder, the King reached to the side, gathered up George, his service dog, and put the golden retriever in his lap. George hated conflict. So he spent a lot of time cozied up to his master.
And this dissension wasn’t going to last long. The King was going to once again order everyone to make like the Book and Devina were out and about somewhere in Caldie. It was the only way to proceed, and though Sahvage still maintained his position was correct, the brother was going to come around quick. It cost nothing to be cautious and assume the worst—although Wrath wasn’t going to put his shitkicker down right away. He knew the kind of males he was dealing with. They needed to blow off some steam, not that anybody was disagreeing with what Balz had reported.
V frowned and checked his phone. Then he leaned into his roommate and whispered, “I’ll be right back.”
Butch tilted in as well and kept his voice down, not that anybody was going to hear them over the booming back-and-forths. “Where are you going?”
“Smokes.”
“Can you bring some Mr & Mrs back with you?”
“If Fritz catches me with a silver tray and a glass of that new bourbon you like, I’m a dead male.”
“You can outrun him, you know. Especially for the black label.”
“Not without killing him from a heart attack. And how’d that go over in this household, true?”
Leaving that hell-no where it landed, V got to his feet and weeded his way to the door—and as he came up to Xcor, he tugged the male’s arm. The Bastard didn’t ask any questions; he just followed the way out into the hall.
As V shut the double doors and leaned back against them, he looked at his phone once more. Then he stared across the second story landing with its gold balustrade and its blood red runner. When he looked to the right, the Hall of Statues was where it had been last night, and down by the entry into the servants’ wing, he could hear two female doggen speaking in low tones about the schedule for bedsheet changing. To the left was the second-story sitting room, and beyond that, the east wing that had been opened to accommodate the Band of Bastards moving in.
When he went to look at his phone for a third time, he shook his head. “I just spoke with Balz.”
The head of the Bastards nodded once. Xcor was broader than all the others, and with his deformed upper lip, he looked like a bare-knuckle street fighter. He wasn’t crude, though. Mated of the Chosen Layla, adopted sire to Lyric and Rhamp, he was a good guy to have at your six. In your house. Guarding your King. Your shellan.
“And,” the male prompted.
“He wanted cigarettes and food.”
“Okay.”
Vishous glanced at his phone and couldn’t figure out what the fuck his problem was. “I told him after the meeting, I’d roll him some and hook him up with the calories.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” Xcor crossed his arms over the steel daggers that were holstered, handles down, onto his thick chest. “He will not speak to me. I call, he never returns it.”
When the urge to check his frickin’ Samsung hit again, V shoved the thing in his ass pocket. Then he gave his hands something to do by lighting up a hand-rolled. As he exhaled, he thought about the conversation he’d had with Balz out behind the Caldwell Police Department’s headquarters.
“What are you leaving out?” Xcor demanded. “You tell me the now. He is mine.”
The Bastard had plenty of Old Country in his accent on a good night. Tonight? His words were almost a language other than English.
“Last evening,” V said, “he made me swear I’d kill him if the shit with Devina came down to it.” As Xcor’s face hardened, V shrugged. “He doesn’t want to saddle you with the deed. And you need to chill. I know he’s serious, but we can get that demon. I know we can.”
Xcor broke away and paced over to the head of the grand staircase. As he stared down the red-carpeted steps to the foyer below, he looked like he wanted to throttle the other Bastard with his bare hands. He also appeared devastated in the manner of someone whose best friend was dying.
It was a hot minute before he came back. When he did, there was no expression on his face at all. He was showing absolutely nothing.
But his words were rough: “He has broken my heart.”
V put up his gloved palm. “Look, I’m sorry I had to shit on your parade, but I need to know. Does he cycle, or something? Like, go through periods of depression and mania?”