Kane complied with a fumble of the hand that still had fingers; then he collapsed back into the seat. As his head lolled, he discovered he had a partner in injury. Next to him, Mayhem seemed to be in the same shape, his face covered with blood, his eyes blinking in an uneven rhythm.
“You all right?” the other prisoner mumbled to him.
Kane didn’t bother answering as it seemed like a reflexive inquiry, the kind of thing that came from politeness or practicality, even though Mayhem was not known for either—and in any event, the male did not seem to have enough energy to track whatever reply would be proffered.
And oh, interesting. The prisoner had his collar still on, the steel band with its explosive charge and tracking device, intact. Somehow, itmust have been disabled or it would have detonated as soon as they were off the grounds.
Forcing his head to other side, Kane stared out of a stretch of milky glass. Up on the road, he saw Lucan straighten from a crouch and focus on something just outside of view. And beyond the male, in the darkness, snaking through a landscape of trees… a line of headlights.
Cars. Many. On the approach.
Guards.
Although Kane was not of this modern era, having been locked in time since he had been incarcerated centuries before, he recognized what he was in and what was coming at them. He had seen all kinds of motorized conveyances, the trucks, SUVs, and cars used to transport the drugs that were packaged at the camp and sold for a profit. And he knew how many guards could fit in a lineup like that.
This was going to go very badly. For all of them.
As if a horse spooked, his mind abruptly retreated from the present. But rather than go to a safe void, it went to the worst possible place, sucking him down into memories that he always fought: He went to another night when death had come, although not on tires, but upon footfalls…
On the evening of hisshellan’s last breath, Kane was sitting at his desk in his study, the accounting of his estate before him, the columns of figures and tallies like sand sifting through his palms, nothing sticking except the odd numeral or line title. No matter how oft he reengaged with the material, he tracked none of it, his lack of comprehension forcing him to start and restart.
And start once more—
Fidgeting in his chair, he relit his pipe because the ember had gone out in its rosewood bowl, and as he puffed out clouds of smoke, they floated up and lingered high in the elegant, masculine room, making him think of steam engines—
When a rhythmic tapping sounded, he was confused as to its origin. Then he tilted to the side and looked under the desk. His heel was bouncing on the rug, animated by the surges of energy that had made it difficult for him to settle in any fashion, in any activity, in any position, for the previous eight nights and days.
He was not the only one within the household who was not feeling himself. As well, his Cordelhia was off, although her symptoms were the opposite to his own. In contrast to his hyperactivity, she had been sluggish and without impulse, neither eating nor sleeping overmuch of late.
And what joy for them both.
Like a present for the anniversary of his birth, her needing was on the arrival. The change of her hormones, the fertile charge, was thick in the air, teasing his nose, causing his fangs to descend and stay in that position, making him restless nearly to the point of insanity. And the servants in the house felt it as well, although given that they weredoggen, they were not affected on a visceral level. They did endeavor to provide extra privacy, however, dispatching themselves unto errands that kept them away during both the day and the night in a rotating schedule.
As soon as the full blooming came, supplies would be left and the property monitored from the perimeter until the fertile hours had passed. Indeed, the only way to ease a female’s intense cravings was to mount her and service her as only a male could, and though he and hisshellanwere both aristocrats, biology was a force of nature that could not be negotiated with—and she was reaching her apex soon. He could sense it—and so could she, though he had, of the last two nights, felt as though she were fighting the tide. He could not blame her. The risks of the birthing bed were real, and yet his beloved wanted a young. It was all she spoke of, especially since her brother’sshellanhad presented a fine son unto the family bloodline this summertime.
Thus Cordelhia was not the only one who was impatient. Hermahmenwas a constant source of pressure.
As was custom in both the Old Country and the New World, when a young was born unto an aristocratic family, themahmenof the newmahmenwas invited into the house of the mated pair, for to oversee the initial rearingby the staff whilst the recovery from the birthing occurred. Following a successful rebound, themahmenherself would then take over the proper monitoring of thedoggen. In the case of Cordelhia’s brother, theirmahmenhad of course been denied the opportunity, and Kane gathered that she did not feel things had been attended to in an appropriate manner with her son’s progeny. She was determined to set the right example in her daughter’s household, and intended, as soon as the pregnancy was confirmed, to move in to hire new staff and train them in a fashion she considered correct.
Kane was surprised she did not anticipate redecorating the entire manor as well. Although mayhap that was on the docket and had as yet to be communicated unto him.
It was… such a joy… to have the involvement of family. Wasn’t it. Especially one’sshellan’s.
Although a birth would be a blessing from the Scribe Virgin, assuming the young was healthy and Cordelhia returned unto full health, an interminable cohabitation with Milesandhe was nothing to anticipate with glee—and mayhap his restlessness was both the fertile time and the impending descent of such an honored, nosy guest—
Unable to remain sitting, Kane’s body bolted up on its own, the accounting pages slipping off the blotter as his sleeve caught some of the parchment. Tugging at the knot of his cravat, he rebuttoned his jacket as he stepped over the ledger bits and out around his desk.
Crossing the Persian rug, he went to a brass cart laden with cut crystal decanters, all manner of liquors glowing citrine and ruby and amber in bellies that caught and refracted the light of the oil lamps. Placing his pipe between his teeth, he regarded the selection, even though there was but one liquor that he e’er imbibed.
To battle his sexual cravings, he had availed himself of very much of the sherry. Verily, as he lifted the topper of the decanter, it was impossible not to notice that it had had to be refilled once again. He did not approve of the vice, yet for the previous few nights, he had been drinking steadily from the moment he awoke until he passed out at dawn’s arrival. It was the only manner in which he could remain partially sane.
His struggle to stay within the boundaries of customary decorum was a shock for him, a reminder that beneath his fine clothes, behind his proper education, lurked an animal, with an animal’s base urges to mate, impregnate, and carry forth the species.
So, yes, either he partook or he could not stand himself.
Pouring an ale-sized portion of sherry into a crystal tumbler, he took a bit of misplaced pride that he had made it until—whate’er was the time? He glanced over to the grandfather clock in the corner. Nine forty-nine. So he had made it an hour and twenty minutes, nearly to ten o’clock this evening, before having to lean on the liquid crutch.
As he brought the glass to his mouth, he tilted his head back and his eyes went to the ceiling.