William and Bart, along with Simon, Rosie, Kat, and several others, stepped forward to form a barrier between them that said they weren’t in the mood for none of their shite, but if they wanted to persist in a brawl, they’d be happy to meet it.
Yet they didn’t get a chance to say anything.
The moment they neared the one in charge, a bright light flashed in the room and Kalder appeared. Still in his mermaid form that left his skin a shimmering silver, his tattoos were extended out as gills that vibrated with every breath he took. Something that made him appear even fiercer and deadlier than normal. Truly an impressive feat that was altogether spellbinding.
His clothes clung tight to his well-muscled body, but that wasn’t what made Cameron’s jaw go slack at the sight of him. It was the raw, unmitigated rage on his face. Not that she hadn’t seen him looking angry and lethal in the past.
He rather lived in that state.
Yet never quite to this extent. There was a special ferocity to him now that said he wanted to taste blood in the worst sort of manner, and that he was salivating for a taste of theirs. More than that, he held a malformed demon by its throat in his left hand.
Curling his lip, he tossed it at the three men in front of them.
“Greetings, me brothers. I thank you for the welcoming party you sent for me homecoming.”
The tossed demon screeched as their leader kicked at him, then it skittered off into the shadows and vanished.
If Cameron had thought their leader cold and stern before, he’d been downright grandmotherly and warm in his affections compared to the hatred that flared in his eyes at the sight of Kalder now.
But it was only there for a moment until it was replaced by disbelief. “I thought you dead! How could I send you a welcoming party when I had no idea you were still about?”
“Not dead enough for your sanity, eh?”
The watchman on the left gaped. “Prince Kalderan?”
That title was met with audible gasps from the Deadmen. Especially Cameron, who turned to stare at him over something he’d failed—in all their conversations—to mention.
And how could he, given it shouldn’t have slipped his mind?
Hi, mate, I have dark hair, a gimpy leg…
Anda royal title.
“Prince?”
Before he could answer, the watchman on the right snarled. “He’s no prince of this empire! Just a piece of whore slag!”
Kalder ignored Cameron’s shocked question so that he could smirk at his idiot brother, who was dressed as a watchman. If he wasn’t in so foul a mood, he’d be amused at the fact that Perrin was insulting his own mother, too, with that slight.
As it was… “Better to sell the flesh than the soul. At least I can look at meself in the mirror and not flinch.”
“Can you?”
Kalder ground his teeth and steeled himself so that he didn’t let his brother know he’d hit the mark with those words. The one thing when dealing with his oh-so-lovely family was that one could never show them weakness of any sort. Not unless you wantedthem to pick it deeper and leave you a bleeding, rotting corpse at their feet.
Stay on the offensive and keep them on the defensive. It was the only way to deal with them. The minute you retreated to lick your wounds, they’d set in on you like a pack of vultures to pick your bones clean.
It was a hard lesson learned from his youth and one he hadn’t forgotten even these many years later.
How could he?
He was still bleeding in places from their last encounter, and that had been centuries ago. Their level of cruelty tended to linger.
“Me beauty is so great, I seek every mirror I can find, brother.” Kalder moved to stand right in front of Perrin, who looked so much like their father that it was hard to be this close to him and not slap him for it.
It was bad enough that Kalder had all the years of hatred for what his brother had done to him to deal with, but that was compounded now by the added anguish of unresolved pain left in the wake of his father’s neglect and abuse. They were the same size. Same build and sculpted features.
Same dark curly hair and amber eyes.
