Better than a cold shower.

“Nothing that made any sense,” he rasped.

“Flaming psychopaths rarely make sense.”

“True enough.”

She tilted her head to the side, all too easily sensing the gnawing unease that plagued him.

“There’s something bothering you. What is it?”

Salvatore stiffened, battling the instinct to retreat from her probing. Harley wasn’t a casual lay to be ignored unless she was in his bed. She was the woman destined to rule at his side.

“He claims that he possesses the power to restore children to the Were.”

There was a startled silence as Harley absorbed the significance of his words.

“Easy to claim,” she at last said. “Does he have any proof?”

“It is all to be revealed when the timing is right.”

“Sounds like a bunch of mumbo jumbo crap to me. Remarkably like the bull that Caine is always spouting.”

Salvatore toyed absently with his heavy signet ring, an unpleasant knot in the pit of his stomach.

“They do drink from the same glass of Kool-Aid.”

“So why are you letting him get under your skin?”

“Until I know the source of his power, I can’t fathom what he’s capable of. There’s no doubt he’s convinced himself that he’s the true King of Weres.”

“If he was the true king, wouldn’t he be sitting on the throne?”

“So I always believed.”

With a scowl, she crossed the carpet to stand directly before him, as if afraid he might be oblivious to her annoyance unless they were nose to nose.

“Are you listening to yourself? You’re letting that rotting POS screw with your head.”

Salvatore arched a brow, startled by her fierce reaction. Was it because she was terrified of Briggs? Or was it more personal?

Cristo, he wanted it to be personal.

Intimately, deeply personal.

Naked wouldn’t hurt, either.

Unable to resist temptation, he reached to grab her hand. The mating had stolen a measure of his strength, but touching her offered something just as important.

Peace.

An all too rare sensation in his life.

“He has raised questions that need to be answered.”

“What questions?”

Salvatore led Harley to the wide leather sofa set across the room from the desk. Settling on the cushions, he tugged her down beside him.

A part of him was restless, in need of being on the hunt for Briggs and the bastard who was pumping him full of black magic. It was a part easily overwhelmed by his savage need to protect this woman.

Until he knew that Harley was safely in the hands of Styx and his Ravens, he wasn’t about to leave her side.

“Whether or not the previous king was involved with the same demon who is controlling Briggs.”

She shifted uneasily, but didn’t pull away. Progress.

“Is that what the Were told you?”

“Si.”

“And you believe him?”

Salvatore grimaced. “I don’t want to.”

“But?”

He lifted his free hand to rub the muscles of his aching neck. “But I can’t ignore the memory of Mackenzie’s peculiar behavior the last century of his life.”

She flashed a dry smile. “You’re going to have to be more specific. I assumed being peculiar was a prerequisite of kinghood.”

“Very amusing.”

Her smile faded. “Did you suspect anything at the time?”

Did he?

Salvatore didn’t have a ready answer.

In many ways, the past had been lost in shadows. After becoming king he had too many troubles to look back. The future consumed his every thought.

Now it was difficult to dredge up the memories without shading them with his growing suspicions.

“He was secretive. Short-tempered. Dangerously unstable,” he admitted, recalling his resentment as Mackenzie increasingly ignored his duties to the Weres and remained alone in his lair. “I thought he was battling the Telos.”

“What’s that?”

He considered his words. “Like all immortals, Weres are vulnerable to the punishment of time,” he at last said. “Endless days that become decades and centuries and millennia. Despair can be as destructive as any illness.”

The hazel eyes darkened, perhaps for the first time comprehending that immortality had a cost.

“What happens?”

“It’s different for each individual.” He stroked his thumb over her knuckles, comforted by the feel of her satin skin. It was said that Weres who found a true mate never endured the Telos. “Most complain of a numbing apathy or a lurking darkness they can’t escape. Eventually they call on the Vekpos, a mystical fire that will consume a pureblood from the inside out.”

“Yikes.” Harley grimaced. “We can’t do it by accident, can we?”

“No. A Were must be in the throes of the Telos for the power to emerge, and it’s a very rare occurrence. Most Weres are too violent not to die in battle long before the threat of ennui can consume them.”

She choked back a laugh. “Fantastic. I’m completely reassured.”

“You asked.”

“The previous king had this…” She stumbled over the unfamiliar word. “Telos?”

He shook his head, turning to absently study the pastel paintings hung on the wall.

“That was my assumption. And when his ashes were discovered in his lair, it simply confirmed my theory.”

“Sounds fairly cut-and-dry,” she pointed out. “Just because Briggs made some wild accusations doesn’t make them true.”

Intellectually, Salvatore agreed.

Briggs had been an accomplished liar long before he’d ever traded his soul for power. Hell, he’d nearly convinced the Roman werewolf pack to return to the ancient tradition of sacrificing humans to appease the Were gods before Salvatore had stepped in and halted the nonsense.

His instinct, however, refused to dismiss the wild claim.

He couldn’t afford to overlook any possibility.

God knew his blind assumptions had already led to near disaster.

“No, but even at the time I knew that the Telos didn’t completely explain Mackenzie’s furtive habits,” his voice thickened with self-disgust. Maybe if he hadn’t ignored the vague doubts about Mackenzie all those centuries ago, he could have stopped Briggs before he managed to acquire his black powers. Then he gave a shake of his head. There was no going back, only forward. “Those who are committed to death devote their last years performing small rituals to easing the grief of those they’ll leave behind.”

She squeezed his hand, as if sensing his inner torment. “What sort of rituals?”

“They give away their belongings, they travel to visit the burial grounds of their ancestors, they surround themselves with the pack.”

“Grim, but understandable, I suppose.” She wrinkled her nose. “What did Mackenzie do?”

“He hid in his lair, refusing my pleas to return to his throne, even as the Were packs fractured and turned on each other.”

She considered his explanation a long moment, then astonishingly, cut straight to the heart of the matter.

“Did the Weres begin losing their powers beneath the previous king?”

Salvatore surged to his feet, hating the knowledge that he was stumbling through the dark, constantly one step behind.

Dio. The fate of the Weres depended on him.

If he failed, they all failed.

“It’s difficult to pinpoint an exact moment or even decade, but it was whispered that the decline started shortly after Mackenzie’s reign began.” His wolf prowled just below his skin, needing a tangible enemy to rip into shreds. “Maybe he sensed the encroaching weakness and turned to desperate measures.”

Harley crossed to his side, her brow furrowed. “Or maybe he used the black magic to become king, and that started the troubles.”

Salvatore gritted his teeth, wanting to deny that any king would be willing to put his own ambitions ahead of the good of his people, but the lies wouldn’t pass his lips.

Magic couldn’t force the throne to accept a Were as king, but a corrupt Were could certainly use it to clear the field of contenders.

“It’s possible that Mackenzie used black magic to dispose of the true heirs ahead of him.”

“Wait.” Her eyes widened, as she was struck by a sudden thought. “If he sold his soul to the devil, why wasn’t he offered the Lazarus treatment that Briggs got?”

Salvatore shrugged. “Maybe Briggs made a pact with the same devil to make certain Mackenzie couldn’t rise again.”

“Honor among thieves, and all that?”

“Briggs is desperate for the throne.”

Harley shuddered, wrapping her arms around her waist. Salvatore didn’t blame her. Briggs was shudder-worthy.

“So how does Caine fit into all this?”

Salvatore felt another pang of self-disgust. He’d been following Brigg’s false trails for years. Like a particularly stupid hound hunting the chickens and allowing the fox to escape his notice.