The Shadows

“What comes next”—she pulled the second of many sheets free—“is a dossier for each subject that goes into greater detail.”

Abalone frowned as he reviewed her notes, and then riffled through the reports. “How did you find all this out?”

“I have my sources.” She grinned. “Okay, so some of it comes off of people’s Facebook pages, and other stuff is from friends of mine.”

“This is . . . I didn’t know he’d been mated.” Her father tilted the folder toward her. “Him?”

“Last year. It was a low-key thing.” Paradise dropped her voice even though they were alone. “They say she was with young.”

“Ah. So now he wants the mating validated.”

“She’s about to give birth. If I were Wrath, I’d spare the poor male the indignity of asking too many questions about the due date, and just give him the respect he wants to provide his young—”

“Trying to take your father’s job?” Wrath’s voice interjected.

As the Blind King himself appeared in the parlor’s archway, Paradise jumped. “I didn’t mean, oh, no, I—”

The King smiled. “I’m impressed with your thinking. Keep up the good work, Paradise.”

With that, he and his blond dog went across to the dining room.

“I can’t feel my feet,” she mumbled.

Her father embraced her. “You are exceeding any expectation I had for this.”

She pulled back and pushed her hair over her shoulder. “I like this. I really do.”

“You’re making me quite proud.”

To hide her flush, she sat down behind the computer that she already felt was hers. “How’re things at home? With—”

“Just fine. I am very well, although you are missed.”

“I could come back.”

“No, no, it’s best you stay here.” He tucked the folder under his arm. “Did you and Peyton enjoy yourselves last evening?”

“He left right after you did.”

Abalone frowned. “I hope you didn’t quarrel?”

“He’s got an antiquated way of looking at things.”

“He does come from a traditional family.”

She picked up one of the Montblanc pens she’d found in the desk. Tapping it on her palm, she pulled her navy-blue skirt down further on her knees. “Ah . . . Father.”

“Yes?”

Drawing in a deep breath, she pulled open the top side drawer and took out the application to the training center’s program. “Father, would you ever let me do something like this?”

As she handed the paperwork to him and his eyes traced the wording, she hurried on. “I’m not saying I want to go into combat or anything. It’s just, they’re accepting females, and I—”

“Fighting? This is . . . this is to fight.”

“I know. But see”—she reached up and pointed to a part in the preamble—“they’re saying they can train females—”

“Paradise.”

Annnnd his viewpoint was all pretty much summed up in the way he said her name: a combination of be-serious and don’t-break-my-heart.

“You’re not cut out for this,” he said.

“Because I’m a female, right,” she countered bitterly. “Which means desks and papers at the most—and only until I’m mated—”

“This is war. Do you understand what that really is?” He jogged the application. “This is death waiting to happen. It’s not a Hollywood movie or a romantic fantasy.”

She kicked up her chin. “I know that.”

“Do you?”

“I’m not as sheltered as you think I am. The family you lost in the raids was my blood, too, Father. Friends of mine died. I know what this is about.”

“No, Paradise. I will not allow it.” He leaned down and put the application in the trash. “This is not for you.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode off, somehow managing to close the hidden panel doors in her face, even as the panels stayed in their pockets in the walls.

* * *

Throe materialized about a half mile from the house Abalone went to every night.

The GPS locator Throe had put into the outer chest pocket of the male’s camel-hair coat had worked like a dream. And one had to admire the wealthy neighborhood.

Not bad, not bad a’tall.

Falling into a casual stroll, he checked out the houses as he zeroed in on the signal his cell phone was directing him to. Actually, the proper term for the residences would be mansions. These places were far too large to count as mere houses: multi-storied, sprawling, set back from the road, they all had dramatic landscape lighting on their exteriors, as if the wealthy humans living inside couldn’t bear to think their position would be ignored during the night hours.

As he proceeded, he had to control his frustration. He missed the fighting more than he’d thought he would. In fact, the lack of bloodshed—of any variety—was a shocking dissatisfaction. When he had started with the Band of Bastards, he’d been horrified by the aggression and gore. After several centuries, however, the warfare had become what he thought of as normal.

The stone manse that came next was an effeminate, mod-con’d version of the medieval pile of rock the Band of Bastards had all lived in back in the Old Country, and he stopped in front of the sprawling expanse. Figures moved inside, crossing windows that were framed by heavy swaths of fabric as lights inside picked up glints of gold and silver on the walls.