Taking the white towel from his arm, Lyandros dabbed at his lids and cheeks. Today’s tears were not his own. Each one belonged to the goddess, Themis. The mora called them the tears of the damned. When Lyandros examined the cloth, it was splashed with red. Red for bloodshed. Red for anger and fear and pain. Red for death. He handed the towel to Isander who examined it with a nod. The will of the gods had been done. The King Ruler blessed the sentence and its fulfillment with a murmured prayer, and the tribute bond with Akito was cemented.
“Please.” The monarch of the Fae Realm swept his hand upward in polite invitation, drawing Lyandros’s attention. “Join us.”
Lyandros tucked the towel into an inner coat pocket and approached the banquet table. Akito trailed after him, two steps behind. A servant stepped forward to pull out Lyandros’s chair, and Lyandros stayed him with a raised hand. Dipping his head, he signaled his wish. Akito hesitated, cheeks pinking. Apparently, he thought the task beneath him.
“Do not make me chastise you here.” Lyandros spoke so only Akito could hear.
A defiant flash edged Akito’s gaze, but he pulled out the chair. Lyandros, sat, glancing sharply to the place on the floor to his left. Gingerly, Akito kneeled there. Flawless grace accompanied the tribute’s motion, though a minute wince crossed his features.
Lyandros frowned. “All right?”
Akito nodded, surreptitiously smoothing his right trouser leg downward. An uncomfortable looking ridge disturbed the leather’s otherwise smooth lines.
Aha. Akito was merely enthralled by the newness of their bond. It was always good when the tribute-Justice Giver bond included the sensual. It didn’t always work out that way, of course, but those erotic connections were more likely to result in easily won complicity. The promise of pleasure in exchange for obedience kept a man in check far longer than the threat of a beating. Lyandros had never doubted he would have an intimate relationship with this tribute, but it was good to see the gods had seen fit to strengthen that need on both sides.
“Later,” the king said, speaking over the rim of his bejeweled goblet, “you and your new tribute will entertain us further.”
Lyandros’s hand paused mid-smooth against his own trousers. “In what way do you wish to be entertained, Majesty?”
He knew damned well how the king wished to be entertained, but wasn’t about to let him get away without saying it. Though Lyandros had nothing against sex with a select audience if the situation warranted, it was not a way in which he would ever make Akito submit. Though he refrained from looking at Akito, he felt the man’s revulsion as clearly as if the emotions were his own.
“We assumed the bonding with your tribute would prove more of a show.” Metal-tipped manicures clinked against crystal goblets up and down the banquet hall in a show of support. The king’s smile broadened. “I believe the court would like to see how the Justice Giver couples with his love slave.”
Lyandros’s laugh rang hollow in his chest. “We couple as any two men do, majesty.”
Akito himself, red faced and growling, began to rise to his feet, but Lyandros’s hand to his shoulder pressed him into place.
Lyandros leaned in, repressing Akito’s anger with his own displeasure. “Do not test me.”
Akito backed down, lowering his mutinous gaze to the floor. Hands that should have been laid flat on his knees were balled into fists.
“You may use our gardens this evening.” The cracked desert landscape of the fae king’s face deepened with his smile. “To enjoy him further.”
Lyandros opened his mouth to protest.
“No.” Abruptly, the king’s smile disappeared. “We insist.”
Lyandros rolled another sip of wine over his tongue, pretending to consider. “It is kind of you to offer me their use.”
Isander flashed him a look that asked, What are you up to, brother?
It had been a long time since anyone had forced Lyandros to act against his conscience or his will, and no one knew this better than his sibling.
Lyandros continued, “It is especially kind since that will prevent you and your court from enjoying the grounds.”
“The entertainment of your tribute bond did not suffice. We seek a different kind of claiming.” The king jabbed the tines of his fork in Lyandros’s direction. “You will break him in for us, or we will have him yet.”
Lyandros barely repressed the growl building in his throat. At his feet, Akito vibrated with a wash of fear and fury.
“I believe, Majesty, that the tales we have to tell will more than entertain.” Isander stepped in, saving Lyandros from committing violence. “When it pleases you to hear them.”
Fae fans snapped and wagged, disrupting the candle flames. They members of the court turned to each other, whispering and snickering. What was it, Lyandros wondered, about the long lives of these isolated beings that had turned them toward such juvenile perversions?
“What stories would you have us hear, King Ruler?” The fae king slid his gaze to a smirking lord. “Perhaps you wish to tell us of your dreams while a captive to the Boston coven these last twenty years? Or perhaps of your brother’s maudlin ghostly meanderings? Or maybe of his anticlimactic death?”
The court tittered and Lyandros felt his own gaze darken dangerously.
“Not at all, Majesty. Those would be dull accounts, indeed.” Isander leaned forward, his blue eyes placid as he played the king’s game. “Rather, I would tell you a tale of Faery, and the destruction that will soon lay waste to its lands if the Morgan succeeds in building his own bridge.”
“Bah.” The king stood and the court stood with him, Lyandros and Isander included. “He would not dare. And if he did, my soldiers would lay waste to him and the pathetic coven he calls his army.”
“I would not be so sure.” Lyandros jumped in, seeing where Isander headed with his distraction. “He has amassed a large amount of magic by capturing Boston’s ley line. He has already created an undead army and seeks to bend shades and other dark denizens to his will.”
Taking his seat, the king drank deeply of his wine. An advisor, seated to the king’s right, signaling that the man was of the king’s own house and bloodline, sneered when Lyandros met his gaze.
“You lie, vampire,” the fae advisor said.
Isander sucked in a breath. The last being who had called Lyandros a liar had died with his entrails around his neck.
“I never lie,” Lyandros said, fist squeaking audibly around his fork.
At his feet, Akito shivered once, as if cold ghosted over his skin.
The court leaned forward, the milling colors of their gowns and frock coats a dazzling distraction that Lyandros resolutely ignored. He wondered that they did not speak until he realized the buzzing and hissing he’d heard all evening was the fae tongue spoken on rapidly moving lips. One half music, one half insect-like hum, it bordered on enchanting and disturbing.
“You will take the tribute for our pleasure, or we will take him.” Arms made more of bone than flesh crossed a gaunt chest.
Lyandros stood. The court chatter morphed into an excited buzz.
“Pray, do not make me choose for you,” the king warned, lids at half-mast.
“Your Majesty.” Though Lyandros tried to find an ounce of deference in his soul he failed, and his gaze clashed with the king’s. “The making of a tribute has never, before tonight, been witnessed by those outside the mora. I trust…” He placed a hand on Akito’s head. “I trust you understand how valuable this sort of arcana could be when creating your own…attendants.”
“There was a time, it is said, when you enjoyed an audience.” Ignoring the tidbit, the king regarded Lyandros through narrowed eyes.
Lyandros met Akito’s gaze, questioning. He needed verification.
Akito shook his head.
So be it. If the king judged that Akito be made the court’s plaything, Lyandros would meet his death in this realm before he let a man under his care be subjected to such base and vile a fate against his desire.
“My tributes are my charges.” Finding his voice shook with anger, Lyandros breathed deep. “They are under my judgment and care by edict of the gods. If, or when, I judge that an audience is a fit use, and that the tribute in question would not be damaged by the lesson, then it is made so.” He tipped his head, indicating Akito. “That is not my ruling, nor my tribute’s desire.”
Judging by the craning of necks, the fae court had rarely seen a better tennis match than the one between their king and Lyandros.
“Those are large words for a man who has lost his seal of office.” The king tilted his chin, indicating the empty circle where a medallion had once graced the harness crisscrossing Lyandros’s chest.
Lyandros looked down. It was true, the place where his medallion had once rested was vacant. When in ghostly form, it had been there. He’d bathed, dressed, and put his harness back on, and not noticed it had been missing.
“He lost it after he died,” Isander said. “As I…lost my staff some time ago.”
Cup… Shield… Staff…
Distracted, Lyandros ran a hand down his face. Where had the objects been taken? Had the Morgan once possessed all three?
“We really need to discuss the Morgan, your majesty.” Lyandros faced the king.
The fae king’s face hardened to a craggy alabaster landscape. “You know my price for a parley with you on the subject.”
Lyandros shook his head slowly, forgetting the mora’s sacred objects. Anger at a slow boil, he said. “And you know my answer. It is not my kingdom that is in danger.”
Paper white flesh turned purple, the king’s anger seeming to implode inward before exploding outward in a spittle-laden shout: “Get them out of my sight!”
Three guards seized him, Akito, and Isander by the arms to escort them from the long hall. Frog marched to their suite, doors slammed and locked behind them, he and Isander stumbled into each other and righted themselves. Akito landed in a heap at Lyandros’s feet. Slowly, hair curtaining his eyes, he took up the submissive posture Lyandros had taught him. Palms upward on his thighs, he appeared the model tribute.
“Stand,” Lyandros said.
Akito complied, going to parade rest, and Lyandros cast him an approving look. A fire crackled warmly in the hearth, and a few well-placed candelabra lent the room a mellow glow. Shadows danced around the billowing curtains, the cool breeze lush with frangipani and night blooming jasmine.
“Do you think…” Pacing the swirls of green and gold carpet that warmed the room’s gold and white marble, Lyandros addressed Isander, his thoughts turning to matters more important than the fae king’s perverse fixation on public congress. “That the Morgan once had all three instruments of the archon’s office?”
“He does not have them, though I know he once did.” Isander’s attention alighted on Akito. “You rescued the kylix from the Morgan.” He frowned, gaze going inward as if he searched his memory. “Do you know if the prince still has the shield and the staff?”
“What prince?” Akito’s dark brows lifted, snapping together. “What shield? What staff? I only know about the kylix.”
“Each of the archon has their own instrument of power,” Lyandros explained. “Tzadkiel’s is the kylix. He is the arbiter of the blood, deciding which vampires may be made and which may move on to Gemini after death. He draws his power from blood magic, feeding it to the rest of the mora as he sees fit.”
“So, what’s yours?” Akito asked.
“Mine is the Justice Giver’s shield.” Lyandros indicated the place at his chest—an empty circle devoid of the bronze medallion that had once nested there. “It allows me to call on the gods to shield the innocent—the mora as a whole or its individual members. Through Themis, I cast protection over the pure, and judgment on the damned.”
Akito’s gaze went to Isander, whose face had taken on an ashen quality. “And your item?”
“A staff,” the King Ruler answered. “It draws power from the gods in Gemini, acting as a divining rod and instrument of power. It gives me the ability to bring the mora together in times of crisis and guide it as a cohesive unit.” He glanced to Lyandros. “It also allows me to settle internal discord among the mora and the archon.”
“And together?” Akito seemed to intuit where this led.
Lyandros smiled faintly. He’d only seen the three objects brought together to form the Tarot once. His uncles and father had used them at Thermopolae. Legend had it that the 300 Greeks who fought there had perished, mortal men. Nothing was further from the truth.
The mora had dressed defeated soldiers in Spartan armor as decoys, and afterward left Greece to avoid human detection. To this day, mostly, only other magical beings knew of the vampires’ existence. If the mora had still possessed all three instruments—and the archon had still been intact—the Morgan would never have been able to take or keep Boston Common.
“Used together, they make us invincible,” Lyandros said.
“Okay…” Akito pushed both hands through his hair. “So, who is this prince you think has them?”
A shape separated itself from the drapery that framed the arched balcony doorway. A young fae, not more than twenty-eight in human years by appearance, swept a courtly bow. The fall of his short, dark hair momentarily obscured his eyes. This, he flipped back with a toss of his head as he rose.
“That would be me.” Though the fae spoke to the room, his green eyes affixed on Akito.
Lyandros reflexively reached for his sword, and belatedly remembered it had been taken from him upon his arrival.
Akito, slack jawed, gasped.
“How long have you been listening?” Lyandros asked.
Ruby lips formed a pout of indecision, then relaxed as finely boned hands went to boyish hips. “Long enough to know that I might have to cut your balls off if you abused my friend.”
Lyandros’s brows snapped up. Something about the fae read as off. Almost like an illusion… No… An illusion lifted. Next to Lyandros, Isander stood silent, his face a storm of conflicting emotions. Unless Lyandros missed his guess, there was affection there, mixed with anger, doubt and, lastly, a layer of hurt betrayal. Recalling that Isander had been in the Morgan’s not-so-loving care for twenty years, the tumblers of Lyandros’s mind clicked into place, releasing the information he had somehow known all along.
Lyandros blinked and saw it. Yes. There he was. The slim nose and pointed chin. Those thick black lashes, and eyebrows more like wings. Gods. How had she…he…remained under an illusion spell for so long?
“You are the child of the Morgan and Lady Morgana,” Lyandros observed.
The fae-witch offspring stepped forward with surefooted grace. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Gods…” Akito attempted to approach, but Lyandros stayed him with an outstretched arm.
“And…you are the prince of Faerie?” Lyandros confirmed.
“My given name is Nicolas. I am a Prince of Faerie, in line of succession and doomed to inherit all you see… Unless—of course—” Nyx’s smile flashed, an ironic show of even white teeth. “—my father or the Morgan kills me first.”