Prince of Blood and Steel Page 5

  She sits primly on the pew beside him, tired of facing the stares. She crosses her ankles gracefully and stares at the church, its Saints. She can smell liquor. She wouldn't mind some herself right now.

  “We'll rule this city, someday,” she says softly, her words seizing his attention and reclaiming his gaze. She didn't expect him to break like this. But then, maybe she doesn't know him anymore. Maybe two years were too many. “You said that once.” She gathers her nerves, looks him in the eye. “Are you sure that's what you want?”

  “You're what I want. It's always been you.”

  She looks away. Two years have changed her, but he can still say just the right thing to make her feel. He has always known the words of her soul, but she has always wondered if he really means them.

  “There is no other life for us, is there?” she says, eyes dropping to her hands.

  “No,” he says, face scrunching a little at his angry stomach. “We're far too deep for that.”

  “We will fight our parents' wars someday,” she answers, kicking herself for believing that her father would be on board with her exodus from the family business. He had humored her, yes, but she can see clearly that she has a responsibility to fulfill.

  “We have been fighting them since we were born.” He sighs. “But when it's our city, we can end them.”

  She gives him a long look, one that flays him. The ball that has begun to roll cannot be stopped now. Now is not the time for ideals. They must strengthen their allies while they can; they must know where their loyalties lie. The look says that she will not carry him, he will have to be strong for himself. He fields her implications well, considering how drunk he is still. Then she stands, leaves him as suddenly as she came. He watches her shoes retreat, catching in his sidelong vision a hushed conversation between Remi, Mikie, and Bethania, whose hawk-like eyes slide away from him.

  Seth's brow furrows at the floor. It feels as though the pew stretches for miles beside him. It is reserved for immediate family, so long and so empty. A mockery. Just as he is sure his stomach is going to give, another body lights beside him. It's Emma. She hands him a bottle of water, content to sit quietly beside her cousin, picking at the hem of her knee-length black skirt. He makes a wan, dry laugh and says, “Thanks, Em.” He takes a few tentative sips. “You grew your hair out,” he adds, finally giving in to her patience. It’s overdue.

  She blushes, kicking her black Mary Janes at the floor. “You don't like it?” she asks, looking up and glancing shyly his way.

  He can't believe how mature she is. Her face has lost the softness of youth, revealing cheekbones many girls would die for. She's thin, like Seth, though slightly curvier than last time he saw her. She's still so shy. She has always been his favorite cousin.

  “Yeah, I do, it's great. You got the looks from the good side of the family,” he says, and for the first time since he watched his brother get shot in the head, he smiles. It's small, and weak, but it's sincere. She blushes again, quieting as her mother sits down beside her. Bethania gives them each a firm, narrowed look, which they both ignore. He watches Emma from the corner of his eye, the slight smirk, the arrogant tilt to her head—she’s changed in the past two years.

  The lights dim as a signal of the ceremony's commencement.

  The priest begins his opening statements. Seth wishes he had some headphones with something upbeat to play. This man's words mean nothing. He hardly knew Caleb; he just happens to be a member of the church to which the family pays for its sins. The only times Seth has ever really witnessed the observation of the Catholic faith were at weddings and funerals and major holidays.

  Five minutes in, Seth realizes he can't really understand the man anyway. The priest's words bounce off the church's surface then swirl together on the way into Seth's head. Well fine, he thinks. Success. Uncle Mikie never did try to get him to speak at this funeral, like he did for his father's. Good thing.

  The eulogy does not last long. Most everyone here knows these things aren't about the service. At the moment the echo of the last word dies, Seth pushes himself off the bench and toward the right wing. He passes saints and candles and finds a door leading off somewhere he is sure he's not supposed to be.

  He doesn't care about appearances now; he cannot physically endure the long line of people who will file by with their handshakes and hugs. He stumbles down a forever hallway with doors he does not care to investigate, finally finding a trash can beside a closed door. He promptly hits his knees in front of it and vomits up most of a bottle of water and some fetid alcohol, sour from sitting in his stomach, unable to break down as quickly as he consumed it. Hot tears sting his eyes as the vile substance burns his nose. The stuff comes violently at first, wrenches his gut, then gives way to dry heaves. When he is finished, he does not even lift his head. He miserably rests it on his arm, which hugs the can, and lets mucus and tears and spit run into the putrid smelling contents below. He lets out a low moan.

  Beside him, there comes a soft cough, the kind people use to grab attention. He looks up at the shoes and habit of a nun. His expression flickers with a nasty sentiment as he squints up at her, trying to make out her face. She kneels several feet away from him as if he is a wild animal, and extends a white hand towel. He stares warily at it for several moments, fingers finally tentatively reaching back. He finds that it is warm and damp.

  “Thanks,” he mumbles into the terry cloth and shoves the trash can away from him. The warmth feels good against his skin, eases the tension just a little. When he looks up again, she is holding out a cup of water to him, looking concerned. “I think I'll be alright,” he adds as he takes it. She stands and goes as quietly as she came, leaving him with a strange feeling like he does not deserve such compassion.

  “I think you will, Seth,” a low, smooth voice says.

  Seth's eyes grow wide, and he whirls to find Remi standing with his hands in his high-dollar pockets. He looks down on the scene with a reserved interest. Seth puts his face back into the towel, slowly breathes in the warm damp, and wonders at his luck of being stuck alone with this man. When again he raises his head, Remi is reaching out a large hand. Seth stares at it for a moment, thinking that it is just as red as his Uncle's with the blood of his brother, and of cousins and friends and enemies alike. He takes the bloody hand.

  Remi easily pulls him up, then gives him a short pat on the shoulder. Seth carefully sips at his cup, begs his stomach to just please keep it down this time. He's not sure what to say so he stares at the Styrofoam.

  “You know, Seth,” Remi says, putting one hand on Seth's back to lead him out toward the church. “You're a big deal now. You need to act like a big deal.”

  Seth has no choice but to be guided. A small, jaded part of him wants to make sure the hand on his back does not have a knife in it. It is a part of him that hardened fully when his closest relative betrayed him. “I have always acted like a big deal,” Seth says. Now, he finds he is on the defensive. No one is trustworthy. Power means so much to these people that they kill for it, frequently. A larger part of him wonders why he wanted to build it bigger. But isn't he one of these people?

  Remi cannot quite deny Seth's snide point, so he continues with his own topic. “We have cultivated you for a long time, because you are a natural leader for your family. Caleb saw that and resented it. He could not accept it, and that is sad. But your father was easy on you, Seth. Your time of leniency is coming to an end.” Remi stops short of the door, turns to pin Seth with an uncomfortable stare. The older man's dark eyes look evil, void of color and remorse. Surely he can see the anger that intrinsically rises in Seth at the mention of his father. Remi's hand squeezes Seth's arm, almost too sharply, but he would never go as far as to outright threaten the neighboring kingdom’s chosen. “Your personality is the only thing that can quell the unrest your brother created. You must unite them.”

  “While it is you who controls the strings?” Seth asks angrily, louder than he means to. Whiskey makes
him bold, also something he learned in Cuba. “I'm not some fucking puppet!”

  “Yes! Seth, you are. That is your place, a place I thought you knew well before you left. What has happened to you?” Remi looks suspicious, hard. Seth feels from him the vicious cold-bloodedness his uncle will not show him.

  “What happened?” he all but screams. “I spent two years in exile and came back to watch my family start killing each other. That's not the way things are supposed to happen. So what the fuck went wrong here? That's what I want to know, Remi.”

  Then Remi's hand does squeeze too tight. It is enough to silence Seth, to remind him that no one, not one soul, is ever immune to the way of things. It would be very inconvenient and difficult to swallow, but they can find someone else if he wants to refuse his current role. Mikie would never put a bullet in his forehead, but Remi would. It occurs to him suddenly—he must first change his role before he fully exerts himself. He sips at the water again, cheeks reddening. He cannot take his words back, and would not. Really, is he not just doing as he's told and acting like a brat prince? If it were Uncle Mikie, he would say so.

  Without another word, Remi turns them back toward the door and leads them out of it, slipping his hand to Seth's back before they come into sight. Remi, too, knows how to feign grief. It is learned early in this life.

  Seth's misery is real. He joins his uncle beside the giant, offensive picture. Mikie pats him on the back in an understanding gesture. Seth forces shaky breaths and faces his people, one by one, to accept their condolences. His head still spins just a little. He keeps it together enough to respond appropriately. He even manages some small talk, looks them in the eye and everything. But he doesn't, won't, see them. The demons are too heavy. He will trudge on with this day until he can no longer take it. Tonight, he will most likely break down again. Tomorrow, he will retrieve his crown from its nail. He will wear it with pride.

  Then he will look them in the eye, and he will be the one who decides who to trust.

  Chapter 5

  Elise, New York City. January 24th.

  She's waiting. It feels as if that is all she has done since Tinney arrived at Irving two days ago. She sits on a low couch at the back of the room, flanked by three midlevel guns.

  Mikie wants her protected at all times—or he's deciding what to do with the brother’s favorite cousin.

  The thought should be more distressing than it is. She's aware of the angry undercurrent running through the room—the family is furious over Caleb's removal and the subsequent house cleaning. It was brutal and thorough—his entire division is gone, like it never existed.

  There will be no more funerals.

  One of her female cousins presses a glass of white wine into Emma's hand, a sympathetic crease to her brow. "How are you, Emma?" Genna asks.

  Emma stares at her for a long second—and then looks away. The other girl makes a noise of offense. It doesn't matter. She doesn't matter—if the king can kill a prince, what does this distant cousin think her place is?

  She's nothing, the daughter of a bookie, looking to earn some goodwill with the grieving. Emma has no patience for it; her nerves are strung tight. She wants a dark room, a bottle of vodka, and a line of blow.

  She wants her cousins—both of them, whole and happy. Not this. Not Caleb dead and Seth a shattered mess.

  Seeing him. Talking to him—it's all she's thought of for so long. She imagined it a million ways. At a family dinner. On the street. Finding him outside Irving. Him and Caleb together.

  She never imagined it would be at his brother's funeral. She never imagined that Seth would treat her like spun glass, like a stranger.

  "He's lost it," a nearby man says. She recognizes him--—he's a favorite of Uncle Mikie, a dark-haired, barrel-chested enforcer. He was recently given control of some of the dock operations. A low-level thug drunk on his own importance.

  Fury boils in her veins and she straightens. He sees her, and she smiles. Not the demure smile Uncle Mikie and Mother know so well. No, this is a smile straight from the princes—from her favorite and best teachers. It reeks of power and indolence, with an edge of Caleb's danger and impatience.

  "Emma. I didn't see you," he says, unsure if he should apologize or just play it off. Everyone knows Emma, the quiet princess, the protected daughter of the syndicate. There were whispers that she was close to Caleb while Seth was gone, but if that were true, would Mikie leave her alive? Does her innocence protect her now?

  Her ice blue gaze sweeps over him, assessing and dismissing as she pushes past him and her guards. The elevator dings and she looks over. Seth and Nicolette prowl out. Her breath catches.

  This is her cousin. Cocky and untouchable. His emotions and instability from the church have been locked away, and he looks every inch the insolent heir.

  The family will whisper, where he can't hear. Where he cannot go. They already are—the ground Seth walks on is built on a crumbling foundation.

  His eyes flick to her briefly, and she keeps her face blank. Then she skirts the crowd, eyes downcast, expression blank. Listening to the whispers as she accepts the condolences of her family.

  Emma never imagined this. Never imagined that Caleb would be gone—and Seth's back unguarded. She's lost one cousin to this family. Her lips thin.

  She refuses to lose Seth as well.

  Elise is a furtively upscale restaurant located on the fifth floor of the Morgan International Building. Today it is closed to the general public for a private reception. Vera Rohan tucks her clutch bag under her arm and focuses on keeping her head down. She managed to lie herself through the staff security, and she hasn't been recognized yet. It would be disastrous to get caught before she finds him.

  She has been here before, though it was for dinner with a source who thought his information had been worth time in her bed. The place looks completely different now, dreary daylight seeping through half-cocked bamboo-slotted blinds, tables cleared and rearranged to present a spread of obscenely expensive hors d'oeuvres. Servers bustle among sleek and deadly mourners. She feels dangerous in their midst, and in danger. How many guns are beneath all this wealth? How many wouldn't think twice to silence her forever?

  She has dressed discreetly in a black wrap dress and conservative pumps. Her hair is up and back, the telling red mostly covered by a black mourning hat with netting that covers half her face. Her lips are done in a chic nude—there is nothing that makes her stand out. She quickly scans the room under her veil.

  Seth is nowhere to be seen, but she sees Michael Morgan across the room, nowhere nearly as sexy as Gabriel had been. Where would the young heir be? Surely he is in attendance. She sinks into a corner, catching the eye of a male cocktail server nearby.

  “Doesn't this place have a more private location?” she asks silkily. His eyes light, and he nods to a small hallway beside a server alley. She follows him with a glance around. No one has noticed. “Where is Seth Morgan?” she asks in a whisper, pressing in close to the server. His eyes drop in disappointment, but they fall on the crisp bills she has pulled from her bag.

  “There's a balcony we use for upscale parties down the hall,” he answers with an appreciative smile, snagging his thumb behind him. “He's out there.”

  She slips him the money with a demure smile and a nod, then presses past him. She creeps down the hallway, considering that there may be a guard. She finds the double glass doors an empty post, sees him beyond. A table is set for him beneath a large maroon umbrella. It sits abandoned, food half eaten upon a fancy plate, the chair scooted back so that the icy rain has covered it. An untouched glass of water sweats onto the tabletop. He stands with his back to her, leaning against the balcony with an umbrella cocked against his shoulder.

  She takes a steadying breath and slides the door back enough to step out and close it behind her. He lifts his chin with a snap, turns on her as if she might be here to attack him. Then he pauses, quite obviously surprised by his visitor. His eyes flash with a heat
that seems to take him off guard. Then his brow furrows, as if perhaps he is unable to understand how she is here at this moment.

  “Oh. My. God,” she whispers, unable to help herself. He is absolutely the most gorgeous thing she has ever seen, despite the waning bruises, despite the shock and strange fear in his eyes. At twenty-one, he was a brilliant and shining face, audacious and unpredictable. At twenty-three, he is a stunning and commanding man harboring the sort of dark mystique that says he isn't afraid of courting death.

  His gaze crawls over her. “What are you doing here?” he asks, voice not quite the admonishing tone she expected, yet not quite the carelessly bold sound she has heard from him so many times. His gaze lingers on her lips.

  “I had to see you,” she answers, voice trembling the slightest bit. “I want you to have this.” She indicates a small piece of paper in her hand. She moves carefully to the table and slips it beneath the edge of his plate, then steps away. She doesn't care about the cold drizzle. He is the substance of exotic and steamy dreams. She wants to kiss away his frown. How can she tell him that she used every connection in her arsenal to find him? That she failed for two long years?

  He looks like he wants to argue, to say something, but his eyes harden and he sighs. “It's not safe,” he whispers.

  Moments stretch between them, ticks of silence that are filled with so many things neither can say. Then the glass door slides open again and suddenly they are no longer alone. The movement is a blur as Vera is rushed, grabbed by the throat and slammed against the outside wall. Stars spin behind her eyes as pain explodes through her skull, her gaze blurring. Manicured fingernails dig into her flesh. A flurry of white-coated staff moves around inside, gathering to assess the situation and the danger of getting involved. Vera ignores them, gasping, her focus on the furious woman holding her throat.

  “Fucking bitch,” Nicolette spits. Just as quickly, Seth is at her side like a quiet reaper, moving like a fierce machine. He grips her arm without finesse, pulls her away. She turns on him, eyes blazing with the question: how can he call her down now?