Jakob leaned in the open doorway and rapped twice against the jamb. “Problem?”
Henrik chuffed out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. I apparently pissed off the wrong person in a former life.” He tossed the file to the corner of the desk. Jakob could read it for himself. Or not. He was beyond caring.
Eyeing him warily, his brother retrieved and opened the folder. “Son of a—Her father was a member of The Electorate Council? Jesus, Henrik, that probably means she would’ve—”
“I know.” He held up a hand. He didn’t need the male to finish the sentence, to tell him that, had her father lived, Kaira very likely would’ve been trained among the ranks of the Proffered, as so many of the daughters of The Electorate were.
The Council was comprised of influential human allies who assisted in the prosecution of their war against the Soul Eaters. In exchange for the humans’ silence on the vampires’ existence, their assistance in conducting the war when necessary, and their providing of the Proffered, the vampires gave them protection and blood, which cured many diseases and extended their lives.
Henrik’s debate about offering Kaira his blood roared back to life in his mind. Could his blood cure her leukemia?
“Does she know this?” Jakob asked.
He blinked away his thoughts. “What? Oh. I think not. She was genuine in her surprise about our existence.” Only eight when her parents had died in a car accident, no doubt she hadn’t yet been made privy to that part of her father’s business. And apparently neither had the mother’s sister who raised her.
“Brother, this changes things.” Jakob tossed the folder to the desk.
Weary and heartsick, Henrik reclined into the chair and propped his feet on the corner of the desk. His boots thumped against the wood. He crossed his ankles and got comfortable. “It changes nothing. Pour the akevitt, will you?”
Jakob crossed the room to the small bar in the corner. Norwegians reputed the grain alcohol to be the “water of life.” If only.
“Bring the bottle,” Henrik said.
His brother settled the bottle and two shot glasses in front of him. The warm scent of the spiced spirit reached his nose as the golden liquor filled the little glass. They clinked and tossed the alcohol back. Heat ripped down his throat and pooled in his gut.
But it still was not enough.
He placed the glass next to the bottle and didn’t have to tell Jakob what he wanted. He poured and they drank again.
“What happened in there?” Jakob asked, falling into the seat in front of his desk.
“Just lost control.” Henrik topped off another shot glass.
“Bullshit. That was the most controlled I have ever seen you in the middle of one of your rages. Hands down.”
The king shrugged and downed the akevitt. Heat snaked outward from his belly. Perfect.
“You like her.”
He threw the glare before he’d thought better of it. He’d all but agreed.
“She obviously likes you, too.”
“Nei, she pities me.” He spun the glass in his hand.
“That’s not what I saw. Not even a little. She stood up to four warriors for you.”
Henrik’s mind resurrected the image of Kaira approaching him as he fought with everything he had to maintain a shred of his rational self. Holding her bloodied cheek, the neck of the johnny askew over the ruins of her lovely gown, wayward strands of blond hanging down from the remains of the stylish twist she’d worn the night before. Beautiful. Brave. Fierce. He’d been bone-crushingly terrified for her. “She has leukemia, Jakob. She needs her medicines, her doctors, her whole life around her.” He gestured with his hands, spilling a drop of liquor on his shirt.
Jakob flew out of the chair and loomed over the desk, hands braced against the hardwood surface. “Jesus, if that’s the case, you could heal her and you could both get what you need.”
He poured another drink. “There are no guarantees, brother. You know that. None at all. Except that enough of this fine spirit will cure what ails you, even if only for a few hours.” He raised the glass in salute and threw it back.
“This solves nothing.” His brother grabbed the bottle and marched it back over to the bar.
The office phone rang before Henrik had time to protest. He stared at it a minute and decided whatever it was could wait. As it continued to ring, he clomped his boots to the floor and shoved out of the chair, throwing a glare at Jakob for good measure.
At the bar, he set out a row of shot glasses and filled each of them to the top, not worrying about the liquor spilling into the spaces between. The phone stopped ringing. He braced his hands against the edge of the marble surface and heaved a breath. “When you are king, you can decide what does and doesn’t work. Until that time—” He tossed back the first of the shots. “—I will make that call.” He slammed it down and reached for the next. The telephone unleashed its screech again—at least that’s what it sounded like in his head. “Dra til helvete,” he muttered. Go to hell.