Lover Reborn

ONE

“The bastard’s taking the bridge! He’s mine!”

Tohrment waited for an answering whistle, and when it came, he tore off after the lesser, his shitkickers slamming into puddles, his legs going piston, his hands fisting hard. He passed Dumpsters and parked POSs, scattered rats and homeless people, jumped over a barricade, vaulted over a motorcycle.

Three a.m. in downtown Caldwell, New York, gave you just enough obstacles to keep shit amusing. Unfortunately, the little gnat of a slayer up ahead was taking him in a direction he didn’t want to go in.

As they hit the entrance ramp to the westbound bridge, Tohr wanted to kill the fool—natch. Unlike the blocks of privacy you could find in the maze of alleys around the clubs, you were guaranteed traffic over the Hudson, even this late. Okay, sure, the Herbert G. Falcheck suspension special wasn’t going to be choked with cars, but there were going to be a few—and God knew every human behind the wheel had a goddamn iPhone these days.

There was one rule in the war between the vampires and the Lessening Society: Stay the fuck away from humans. That race of nosy, upright orangutans was a complication waiting to happen, and the last thing anyone needed was widespread confirmation that Dracula wasn’t a product of fiction, and the walking dead weren’t just a TV show that didn’t suck.

Nobody wanted to frontline on the network news, the papers, the magazines.

Internet was fine. No credibility there.

This down-low tenet was the single thing that the enemy and the Black Dagger Brotherhood agreed upon, the one deference that was given by both sides. So, yeah, the slayers could, say… target your pregnant shellan, shoot her in the face, and leave her for dead, taking away not just her life, but your own. But God forbid they rile up the humans.

’Cuz that would just be wrong.

Unfortunately, this directionally challenged, hydraulic-legged motherfucker up here hadn’t gotten the memo.

Nothing a black dagger in the chest couldn’t fix.

As a growl rose up his throat and his fangs elongated in his mouth, Tohr dug deep and tapped a reserve of high-octane hatred, his gas tank refilling, his flagging energy instantly renewed.

It had been a long road back from the nightmare of his king and his brothers coming to tell him that his life was over. As a bonded male, his female was the beating heart in his chest, and in the absence of his Wellsie, he was a ghost of who he had once been, form without substance. The only thing that animated him was the chase, the capture, and the kill. And the knowledge that he could wake up the next night and find more to take down.

Other than ahvenging his dead, he might as well be in the blessed Fade with his family. Frankly, the latter would be preferable—and who knew, maybe he’d get lucky tonight. Maybe in the heat of a fight he’d suffer a catastrophic mortal injury and be relieved of his burdens.

A male could only hope.

The blare of a car horn followed by a chorus of screeching rubber was the first sign that Captain Complication had found what he was looking for.

Tohr got to the top of the ramp’s rise just in time to catch a quick visual of the slayer bouncing off the hood of a Toyota nothing-special. The impact stopped the sedan dead; didn’t slow down the slayer in the slightest. Like all lessers, the bastard was stronger and more resilient than he’d been as a mere human, the black, oily blood of the Omega giving him a bigger engine, tighter suspension and better handling—as well as racing tires in this case.

Its GPS sucked, for real, though.

The slayer sprang up out of his roll across the pavement like a professional stuntman and, naturally, kept going. He was injured, though, that noxious baby-powder smell of his more pronounced.

Tohr came up to the car just as a pair of humans popped their doors, scrambled out, and started flapping their arms like something was on fire.

“CPD,” Tohr yelled as he ripped past them. “In pursuit!”

This calmed them down, and lined up damage control. It was virtually guaranteed that they’d now become a peanut gallery with all kinds of Kodak inclinations, and that was perfect—when this was all over, he’d know where to find them so he could scrub their memories, and take their cell phones.

Meanwhile, the lesser appeared to be gunning for the pedestrian walkway—not his best move. If Tohr had been in the dumb-ass’s position, he’d have taken over that Toyota and tried to drive off—

“Oh… come on…” Tohr gritted out.

Apparently, the bastard’s goal wasn’t the walkway, but the lip of the bridge itself: The slayer jumped up and over the fencing that contained the pedi-way, and landed on the thin ledge on the far side. Next stop: the Hudson River.

The slayer looked behind himself, and in the peachy glow of the sodium lights, his arrogant expression was that of a sixteen-year-old boy after he’d sucked down a six-pack of beer in front of his friends.

All ego. No brains.

He was going to jump. The fucker was going to jump.

Fidiot. Even though the Omega’s joy juice gave the slayers all that power, it didn’t mean the laws of physics went out the window for them. Einstein’s little ditty about energy equaling mass times acceleration was still going to apply—so when the dipshit hit the water, he was going to get blown apart, sustaining substantial structural damage. Which wouldn’t kill him but would incapacitate the hell out of him.

Fuckers couldn’t die unless they got stabbed. And they could spend eternity in a purgatory of decomposition.

Boo-frickin’-hoo.

And before his Wellsie’s murder, Tohr probably would have let it go. On the sliding scale of the war, it was more important to wrap those humans up in an amnesiac bullshit blanket and head over to help John Matthew and Qhuinn, who were still handling business back in that alley. Now? There was no pulling out: One way or the other, he and this slayer were going to do a meet-and-greet.

Tohr leaped over the guardrail, hit the walkway, and bounced up onto the fence. Locking a clawhold into the links, he swung his lower body over the top, and landed his shitkickers on the parapet.

The lesser’s beery bravado fizzled a little as he started backing away.

“What, you think I’m afraid of heights?” Tohr said in a low voice. “Or that five feet of chainlink is going to keep me from you?”

The wind howled against them, plastering their clothes to their bodies and whistling through the steel girders. Far, far, far down below, the inky waters of the river were nothing but a vague, dark stretch, like a parking lot.

Gonna feel like asphalt, too.

“I got a gun,” the lesser yelled.

“So take it out.”

“My friends are coming for me!”

“You don’t have any friends.”

The lesser was a new recruit, his hair and eyes and skin having yet to pale out. Lanky and twitchy, he was likely a drug user who suffered from brain-fry—which was no doubt why he’d fallen for the pitch to join the Society.

“I’ll jump! I’ll fucking jump!”

Tohr palmed the handle of one of his two daggers and withdrew the black blade from his chest holster. “So quit yakking and start flying.”

The slayer looked over the edge. “I’ll do it! I swear I’ll do it!”

A gust gave them a blast from a different direction, sweeping Tohr’s long leather coat out over the free fall. “Don’t matter to me. I’ll kill you up here or down there.”

The lesser peered over the edge again, hesitated, and then let ’er rip, leaping to the side and hitting all that nothing-but-air, his arms pinwheeling as if he were trying to keep his balance so he landed feetfirst.

Which at this height would probably just drive his thighbones up into his abdominal cavity. Better than swallowing his own head, however.

Tohr resheathed his dagger and prepared for his own descent, taking a deep breath. And then it was…

As he went over the edge and took that first gasp of antigravity, the irony of the bridge jump wasn’t lost. He’d spent so much time wishing for his death to come, praying for the Scribe Virgin to take his body and send him up to be with his loved ones. Suicide had never been an option; you took your own life, you couldn’t get into the Fade—and that was the only reason he hadn’t cut his wrists, sucked on the business end of a shotgun, or… jumped off a bridge.

In his descent, he let himself enjoy the idea that this was it, that the impact coming in a second and a half was going to be the end of his suffering. All he had to do was reposition his trajectory so he was in a dive, then not protect his head and let the inevitable happen: blackout, likely paralysis, death by drowning.

Except that kind of goner-for-good couldn’t be his end result. Whoever made the call on these things would have to know that, unlike the lesser, he had an out.

Calming his mind, he dematerialized himself from the free fall—one moment gravity had a death grip on him; the next he was nothing but an invisible cloud of molecules that he could will in any direction he wanted.

Next door, the slayer hit the water not with the splash! of someone going off the side of a pool, or the ker-chunk of somebody working a diving board. The fucker was like a missile hitting a target, and the explosion registered in the form of a sonic cracking as gallons of displaced Hudson River shot up into the brisk air.

Tohr, on the other hand, chose to re-form himself on top of the massive concrete support to the right of the impact site. Three… two… one…

Bingo.

A head popped up downstream of the still-bubbling entrance point. No arms moving in an attempt to regain access to oxygen. No legs kicking. No gasping.

But it wasn’t dead: You could run them over with your car, beat them until your own fist broke, rip their arms and/or legs off, do whatever the hell you wanted… and they would still be alive.

Fuckers were the ticks of the underworld. And there was no way he wasn’t getting wet.

Tohr shrugged off his trench coat, folded it carefully, and left it nestled in the juncture where the upper part of the support met its broad, aquatic base. Getting in the drink with that on his back was a drowning recipe; plus he had to protect his forties and his cell phone.

With a couple of bounding leaps, so he could get enough momentum to put him over open water, he threw himself into dive formation, his arms pointed above his head, his palms together, his body straight as an arrow. Unlike the lesser, his penetration was elegant and smooth, even though he came at the surface of the Hudson from a good twelve- to fifteen-foot drop.

Cold. Really frickin’ cold.

After all, it was late April in upstate New York—which was still a good month away from anything remotely balmy.

Exhaling through his mouth as he stroked up from the depths, he fell into a powerful freestyle. When he got to the slayer, he locked a grip onto the jacket and began pulling the undead weight to shore.

Where he would finish this. So he could go look for the next one.

As Tohr went off the side of the bridge, John Matthew’s own life flashed before his eyes—sure as if he were the one whose shitkickers had left solid ground in favor of nothing-but-net.

He was on the shore, under the exit ramp, when it happened, in the process of finishing off the slayer he’d been chasing: From out of the corner of his eye, he saw something go into a fall from the great height above the river.

It hadn’t made sense at first. Any lesser with half a brain would know that wasn’t a good escape route. Except then everything had become too clear. A figure was standing on the lip of the bridge, leather coat billowing around like a shroud.

Tohrment.

Noooooooo, John had shouted while making no sound at all.

“Motherfucker, he’s going to jump,” Qhuinn spat from behind him.

John lunged forward, for all the good that would do, and then screamed mutely as the closest thing he had to a father jumped.

Later, John would reflect that moments like this had to be what people said of death itself—as you one-plus-oned the series of events that were unfolding, and the math added up to certain destruction, your mind flipped into slide-show mode, showing you clips of life as you had always known it:

John sitting at Tohr and Wellsie’s table that first night after he’d been adopted into the vampire world… The expression on Tohr’s face as the blood results had announced that John was Darius’s son… That nightmarish moment when the Brotherhood had arrived to tell them both that Wellsie was gone…

Then came images from the second act: Lassiter bringing a shriveled shell of Tohr back from wherever he had been… Tohr and John finally losing it together over the murder… Tohr gradually working his strength up… John’s own shellan appearing in the red gown that Wellsie had mated Tohr in…

Man, destiny sucked ass. It just had to barge in and piss all over everyone’s rose garden.

And now it was taking a shit in the other flower beds.

Except then Tohr abruptly disappeared into thin air. One moment he was all fly-be-free; the next, he was gone.

Thank God, John thought.

“Thank you, baby Jesus,” Qhuinn breathed.

A moment later, on the far side of a pylon, a dark arrow sliced into the river.

Without a glance or a word between them, he and Qhuinn tore off in that direction, getting to the rocky shore just as Tohr surfaced, grabbed the slayer, and started to swim in. As John got into position to help drag the lesser onto dry land, his eyes locked on Tohr’s grim, pale face.

The male looked dead, even though he was technically alive.

I got him, John signed as he leaned in, nabbed the closest arm, and heaved the soaking-wet slayer out of the river. The thing landed in a heap and did an excellent impression of a fish, eyes bulging, mouth gaping, little clicking sounds coming from its wide-open gullet.

But whatever, Tohr was the issue, and John looked the Brother over as he emerged from the water: Leather pants were sticking like glue to thighs that were thin, muscle shirt was second-skinned to a flat chest, cropped black hair with that white stripe was standing straight up even though it was wet.

Dark blue eyes were locked on the lesser.

Or studiously ignoring John’s stare.

Probably both.

Tohr reached down and grabbed the lesser by the throat. Baring fangs that were viciously long, he growled, “Told you.”

Then he outted his black dagger and started stabbing.

John and Qhuinn had to step back. It was either that or get a paint job.

“He could just hit the damn chest,” Qhuinn muttered, “and get this over with.”

Except killing the slayer wasn’t the point. Desecration was.

That sharp black blade penetrated every square inch of flesh—except for the sternum, which was the lights-out switch. With each slashing blow, Tohr exhaled hard; with every jerk free, the Brother inhaled deep, the rhythm of respiration driving the gruesome scene.

“Now I know how they make shredded lettuce.”

John rubbed his face, and hoped that was the end of the commentary.

Tohr didn’t slow down. He just stopped. And in the aftermath, he listed to the side, propping himself up by throwing a hand out to the oil-soaked dirt. The slayer was… well, shredded, yeah, but he wasn’t finished.

There’d be no helping out, though. In spite of Tohr’s obvious exhaustion, John and Qhuinn knew better than to mess with the end game. They’d seen this before. The final strike had to be Tohr’s.

After a couple of moments of recovery, the Brother lurched back into position, double-handing the dagger and lifting the blade over his head.

A hoarse cry tore out of his throat as he buried the point in the chest of what was left of his prey. As bright light flashed, the tragic expression on Tohr’s face was illuminated, a comic book rendering of his twisted, horrific features, caught for a moment… and an eternity.

He always stared down into the illumination, even though the impermanent sun was too bright to look into.

After it was done, the Brother slumped sure as if his spinal column had turned to putty, his energy disappearing. Clearly, he needed to feed, but that subject, like so many others, was a no-go.

“What time is it,” he got out between breaths.

Qhuinn snagged a peek at his Suunto. “Two a.m.”

Tohr looked up from the stained ground he’d been staring at, focusing his red-rimmed eyes on the part of downtown they’d just come from.

“How about we go back to the compound.” Qhuinn took out his cell phone. “Butch isn’t far away—”

“No.” Tohr shoved himself back and sat on his ass. “Don’t call anyone. I’m fine—just need to catch my breath.”

Bull. Shit. The guy was not any closer to fine than John was at the moment. Although, granted, only one of them was dripping wet in a fifty-degree gust.

John shoved his hands into the Brother’s field of vision. We’re going home now—

Wafting over on the breeze, like an alarm breaking through a silent house, the scent of baby powder tickled into each of their noses.

The stench did what all that breathing on the ground couldn’t: It got Tohr onto his feet. Gone was the logy disorientation—hell, if you’d pointed out to him that he was still wet as a fish, he probably would have been surprised.

“There’re more,” he snarled.

As he took off, John cursed at the maniac.

“Come on,” Qhuinn said. “Let’s get our run on. This is going to be a long night.”

TWO

“Take some time off… relax… enjoy yourself.…”

As Xhex muttered to a peanut gallery of antique furniture, she walked out of the bedroom and into the bath suite. And back again. And… back once more into marble-landia.

In the bath she and John now shared, she stopped by the pond-deep Jacuzzi. Next to the brass faucets, there was a silver tray with all kinds of lotions and potions and girlie what-the-fuck. And that wasn’t the half of it. By the sinks? Another tray, this one full of perfume by Chanel: Cristalle, Coco, No. 5, Coco Mademoiselle. Then there was the fine wicker basket of hairbrushes, some with short naps, others with pointy bristles or spiky metal crap. In the cupboards? A lineup of OPI nail polish bottles in enough variations on cocksucking pink to give even Barbie a nosebleed. As well as fifteen different brands of mousse. Gel. Hair spray.

Really?

And don’t get her started on the Bobbi Brown makeup.

Who the hell did they think had moved in here? One of those Kardashian nut jobs?

And on that note… Christ, she couldn’t believe she now knew Kim, Kourtney, Khloe, Kris; the brother, Rob; stepfather, Bruce; little sisters Kendall and Kylie; as well as the various husband(s), boyfriend(s), and that kid Mason—

Meeting her own eyes in the mirror, she thought, Well, wasn’t this interesting. She’d managed to blow her brains out with E! Entertainment Television.

Certainly less messy than a sawed-off, and the results were the same.

“That shit needs to come with a warning label on it.”

As she stared at her reflection, she recognized the buzzed-off black hair, and the pale skin, and the tight, hard body. The clipped nails. The absolute lack of makeup. She even had her own clothes on, the black muscle shirt and leather pants a uniform she’d put on every night for years.

Well, except for a couple of evenings ago. Then she’d worn something else entirely.

Maybe that gown was the reason for all the fembot stuff that had shown up after the mating ceremony: Fritz and the doggen may have assumed she’d turned over a new leaf. Either that or it was all just part of the standard, newly mated shellan welcome wagon.

Turning away, she put her hands up to the base of her throat, to the big, square diamond John had bought her. Set in sturdy platinum, it was the only piece of jewelry she could ever imagine wearing: tough, solid, able to withstand a good fight and stay on her body.

In this new world of Paul Mitchell, and Bed Head, and Coco’s stinky stuff, at least John still got her. As for the rest of them? Can you say “education”? Not the first time she’d played teacher to a bunch of males who thought that just because you had breasts, you belonged in a gilded cage. Anyone tried to turn her into a glymera chickadee? She’d just saw through the gold bars, set a bomb on the base of the stand, and hang the steaming remains from a chandelier in the foyer.

Heading into the bedroom, she opened the closet and pulled out the red gown that she’d worn during that ceremony. Only dress she’d ever put on—and she had to admit she’d enjoyed the way John had taken it off with his teeth. And yeah, sure, the nights lounging around had been great—first break she’d had in forever. All they’d done was have sex, feed from each other, eat great food, and repeat with bouts of sleep.

But now John had gone back out into the field—whereas she wasn’t due to start fighting until tomorrow evening.

This was just twenty-four hours, a delay, not a dead end.

So what the hell was her problem?

Maybe all the chicky-chicky was just triggering her inner bitch for no good reason. She wasn’t cooped up, nobody was making her change herself, and that Kardashian car accident of a marathon on the boob tube was her own damn fault. As for the beauty stuff? The doggen were just trying to be nice, in the only way they knew how.

Not a lot of females like her. And not just because she was half symphath—

Frowning, she cranked her head around.

Letting the satin fall from her hands, she went for the emotional grid that was outside in the hall.

With her symphath senses, the three-dimensional structure of sadness and loss and shame was as real as any building you could drive by, look around, or walk through. Unfortunately, in this case, there was no fixing the damage to the supports, or the hole in the roof, or the fact that the electric system wasn’t operational anymore: As much as she experienced a person’s emotions as if they were a private home, there were no subcontracting workers to come in and repair what was wrong, no plumbers or electricians or painters for this shit. The homeowner had to perform their own improvements on what was broken, battered, and busted; no one else could do it for them.

As she stepped out into the hall of statues, Xhex had a tremor go through her own little house. Then again, the robed, limping figure up ahead was her mother.

God, that still felt weird to say, even if only in her head—and it didn’t really apply on so many levels, did it?

She cleared her throat. “Good evening… ah…”

It didn’t sound right to throw out mahmen or mom or mommy. No’One, the name the female went by, wasn’t comfortable, either. Then again, what could you call somebody who had been abducted by a symphath, violently forced to conceive, and then trapped by biology to bear the result of the torture?

First and last name: I and Sorry. Middle name: Am.

As No’One shifted around, the hood that was in place covered her face. “Good evening. How fare thee?”

The English was stiff across her mother’s lips, suggesting the female would have done better speaking in the Old Language. And the bow that she gave, which was utterly unnecessary, was lopsided, likely because of whatever injury that caused the uneven gait.

That scent she threw off was not anything by Chanel. Unless they’d recently added a Tragedy line.

“I’m well.” Try restless and bored. “Where are you going?”

“To tidy up the sitting room.”

Xhex sucked back a wince of don’t-go-there. Fritz didn’t let anyone but fellow doggen lift a finger in the mansion—and No’One, in spite of the fact that she had come here to attend to Payne, was staying in a guest room, eating at the table with the Brothers, and accepted here as the mother of a mated shellan. She was not a maid by any standard.

“Yeah, ah… how’d you like to…” Do what? Xhex wondered. What could the two of them possibly do together? Xhex was a fighter. Her mother was… a ghost with substance. Not a lot of common ground there.

“It is all right,” No’One said gently. “These are awkward—”

Thunder roared through the foyer below, sure as if clouds had formed, lightning flashed, and rain had started to piss down. As No’One recoiled, Xhex glared over her shoulder. What the hell was—

Rhage, a.k.a. Hollywood, a.k.a. the biggest and most beautiful of the Brothers, all but leaped up onto the second-floor balcony. As he landed, his blond head shot around in her direction, his teal eyes on fire.

“John Matthew called. It’s all hands on deck downtown. Get armed and meet us at the front door in ten minutes.”

“Hot damn,” Xhex hissed as she smacked her palms.

When she turned back to her mother, the female was trembling, and trying not to show it.

“It’s okay,” Xhex said. “I’m good at fighting. I’m not going to get hurt.”

Nice words. Except that wasn’t what the female was worried about, was it: Her grid was showing fear… of Xhex.

Duh. Given that she was a half-breed symphath, of course No’One would think “dangerous” before “daughter.”

“I’ll leave you alone,” Xhex said. “Don’t worry.”

As she jogged back toward her bedroom, she couldn’t ignore the fact that her chest was killing her. But then, she couldn’t ignore reality, either: Her mother hadn’t wanted her.

And still didn’t.

And who could blame her.

From beneath the brim of her hooded robe, No’One watched the tall, strong, merciless female she had birthed rush off to fight against the enemy.

Xhexania didn’t seem fazed at all by the idea that she would be facing deadly lessers: Indeed, that sneer she had shown upon the Brother’s command suggested she would relish it.

No’One’s knees went weak as she thought about what she had brought forth into the world, this female with power in her limbs and vengeance in her heart. No female of the glymera would respond such as that; then again, they would never be asked.

But the symphath was in her daughter.

Dearest Virgin Scribe…

And yet, as Xhexania had spun around, there had been an expression quickly hidden on her face.

No’One hurried forth, limping down the hallway to her daughter’s room. At the heavy door, she knocked softly.

It was a moment before Xhexania opened up. “Hey.”

“I am sorry.”

There was no reaction. That showed. “What for?”

“I know what it is to be unwanted by parents. I do not wish you to—”

“It’s okay.” Xhexania shrugged. “Not like I don’t know where you’re coming from.”

“I—”

“Listen, I have to get ready. Come in if you like, but be warned: I’m not dressing for tea.”

No’One hesitated at the threshold. Inside, the room was well lived-in: The bed was mussed; there were leather pants draped on chairs; two sets of boots were on the floor; a pair of wineglasses were set on a table over in the corner by the chaise lounge. All around, the bonding scent of a full-blooded male, dark and sensuous, lingered in the air.

Lingered on Xhexania herself.

There was a series of clicks and No’One looked around the jamb. Over at the closet, Xhexania was putting some kind of nasty-looking gun through its paces. She was utterly competent, slipping it into a holster under her arm and taking out another. And then it was the bullets and a knife—

“You’re not going to feel any better about me if you keep standing there.”

“I did not come for myself.”

That broke the flow of those hands. “Why, then.”

“I saw the look on your face. I do not want that for you.”

Xhexania reached in and pulled out a black leather jacket. As she yanked the thing on, she cursed. “Look, let’s not pretend either one of us wanted me born, okay? I absolve you, you absolve me, we were the victims, blah, blah, blah. We need to stipulate that and move along our separate ways.”

“Are you sure that is what you want.”

The female froze, then narrowed her eyes. “I know what you did. The night of my birth.”

No’One took a step back. “How…”

Xhexania pointed to her own chest. “Symphath, remember.” The fighter came forward, her gait like a prowl. “That means I get into people—so I can feel the fear you have right now. And the regrets. And the pain. Just standing in front of me, you’re right back where you were when it all happened—and yeah, I know you buried a dagger in your stomach rather than face a future with me. So like I said, how about you and I just avoid each other, and save both of us the hassle?”

No’One lifted her chin. “Indeed, you are a half-breed.”

Dark brows popped. “Excuse me?”

“You sense but a portion of what I feel for you. Or perhaps you do not wish to acknowledge, for your own reasons, that I might wish to care for you.”

In spite of the fact that the female was strung with weapons, she abruptly seemed vulnerable.

“In your gruff self-protection, do not cut off avenues for us,” No’One whispered. “We do not need to force closeness if it is not there. But let us not stop it from blooming if there is a chance. Perhaps… perhaps you shall just tell me this night if there is some small way I can help you. We shall start there… and see what transpires.”

Xhexania broke off and walked around, her tight, hard body more like a male’s, her dress more like a male’s, her energy masculine. She stopped when she was in front of the closet and, after a moment, pulled out the skirting of the red gown Tohrment had given her for the night of her mating.

“Have you cleaned the satin?” No’One asked. “And I am not suggesting you have sullied it. Fine fabric must be cared for, however, in order to be preserved.”

“I’d have no idea where to start on that one.”

“Allow me, then?”

“It’ll be fine.”

“Please. Allow me.”

Xhexania looked over. In a low voice, she said, “Why in God’s name would you want to do that?”

The truth was as simple as four words, as complex as an entire language. “You are my daughter.”

THREE

Back in downtown Caldwell, Tohr shed the cold and the aches and the exhaustion that gumshoed him and went in pursuit once again: The scent of fresh lesser blood was like cocaine in his system, buzzing him up and giving him the strength to carry on.

Behind him, he heard the other two closing in, and knew damn well they weren’t seeking enemy—but good fucking luck trying to get him back to the mansion. Dawn was the only thing that could do that.

Besides, the more wiped out he was, the better shot he had at actually sleeping for an hour or two.

As he rounded the corner of an alley, his shitkickers skidded to a halt. In front of him, seven lessers were circling a pair of fighters, but the centerpieces were not Z and Phury, or V and Butch, or Blaylock and Rhage.

That was a scythe in the left one’s hands. A big-ass, sharply honed scythe.

“Son of a bitch,” Tohr muttered.

The male with the curving blade had his feet planted on the pavement like he was a god, his weapon poised, his ugly face smiling in anticipation as if he were about to sit down to a good meal. Next to him, a vampire Tohr hadn’t see for aeons was nothing like the guy he’d once met in the Old Country.

Looked as though Throe, son of Throe, had fallen in with a bad crowd.

John and Qhuinn pulled up on either side of him, and the latter glanced over. “Tell me that isn’t our new neighbor.”

“Xcor.”

“Was he born with that puss or did someone make it for him?”

“Who knows.”

“Well, if that was supposed to be a nose job, he needs a new plastic surgeon.”

Tohr looked over at John. “Call them off.”

Excuse me? the kid signed.

“I know you texted the brothers back at the house. Tell them it was a mistake. Right now.” When John started to argue, he cut off the conversation. “You want there to be an all-out war here? You call the Brotherhood in, he calls his bastards in, and suddenly we’re balls to the wall without any strategy. We’ll handle this by ourselves—I’m fucking serious, John. I’ve dealt with these boys before. You haven’t.”

As John’s hard stare met his own, Tohr had the sense, as always, that they had been in these situations together far, far longer than just the past few months.

“You gotta trust me, son.”

John’s response was to mouth a curse, get his phone out and start hitting the buttons.

And at that moment, Xcor tweaked that there were visitors. In spite of the number of lessers ahead of him, he started laughing. “It’s the bloody Black Daggers—and just in time to save us. You want us on our knees?”

The slayers spun around—big mistake. Xcor didn’t waste a moment, striking with a circling sweep, hitting two of them in the lower back. That was his free shot. As the pair fell to the ground, the others split into two camps, half heading for Xcor and Throe, half gunning for Tohr and his boys.

Tohr let out a roar and met the onslaught with his bare hands, leaping forward and locking onto the first slayer that got in range. He went for the head, grabbing on hard, before putting up his knee and cracking the fucker’s face open. Then he wheeled the thing around and threw the loose body skullfirst into the side of a Dumpster.

As the ringing faded, Tohr faced off at the next in line. He’d have preferred to have gone more with the fist action, but he wasn’t going to dick around: At the far end of the alley, seven more newbies were dropping like snakes from a tree, dripping down the front of a chain-link fence.

He ripped out both daggers, set his boots in the pavement, and assessed an offensive strategy for the fresh arrivals. Man… say what you would about Xcor’s ethics, social skills, and GQ eligibility; the motherfucker could fight. He was swinging that scythe around like it weighed less than a pound, and he had a knack for judging distance—lesser parts were flying all over the place, hands, a head, an arm. The bastard was incredibly effective, and Throe wasn’t incompetent, either.

Against all odds, and the choice of any of them, Tohr and his crew fell into a rhythm with the bastards: Xcor drove the first round into the waiting blades at the head of the alley, while his lieutenant held the second wave in place so no one got blocked in. After Tohr, John, and Qhuinn picked the tide off, one by one the other slayers were sent to the slaughter—freshly wounded.

Whereas there had been showboating in the beginning, now this was work. Xcor wasn’t doing any flashy moves with his wide blade; Throe wasn’t jumping around; John and Qhuinn were in the zone.

And Tohr was knee-deep in revenge.

These were nothing but new recruits—so it wasn’t like the slayers were offering much in the way of skills. The sheer numbers, however, were such that the tide could turn—

A third squadron popped over the fence.

As they landed one after the other on the payment, Tohr regretted his order to John. That had been vengeance talking. Fuck the shit with avoiding a BDB vs. Band of Bastards showdown; he’d wanted to save the kills for himself. The result? He’d put John’s and Qhuinn’s lives in danger. Xcor and Throe—they could die tonight, tomorrow, a year from now, whatever. And as for himself—well, you could jump off a bridge in a thousand different ways.

But his boys…? They were worth saving. John was someone’s hellren now. And Qhuinn had a lot of living ahead of him.

It wasn’t fair for his death wish to put them in early graves.

Xcor, son of an unknown sire, had his lover in his hands. His scythe was the only female he had ever cared for, and tonight, as he faced off against what started as seven of the enemy, and then grew to fourteen, and then swelled to twenty-one, she repaid his loyalty with a performance unparalleled.

As they moved together, she was an extension of not just his arms, but his body, his eyes, his brain. He was not a soldier with a weapon; united, they were a beast with mighty jaws. And as they worked, he knew this was what he had missed. This was why he had come across the ocean unto the New World: to find a new life in a new land where there was still plenty of the old, worthy enemy.

Upon his arrival, however, his ambitions had identified an even loftier goal. And it meant the other vampires in this alley were in his way.

At the opposite end of the alley, Tohrment, son of Hharm, was something worth seeing. As much as Xcor hated to admit it, the Brother was an incredible fighter, those whirling black daggers catching the ambient light, those arms and legs shifting positions fast as a heartbeat, that balance and execution—sheer perfection.

If he had been one of Xcor’s males, the Brother might well have had to be killed so that Xcor could retain his prime position: It was a basic tenent of leadership that one eliminated those who presented a potential challenge to one’s position… although it wasn’t as if his band were incompetents—after all, one had to eliminate the weak as well.

The Bloodletter had taught him that and so much more.

At least some things had proven not to be lies.

There would never be a place for the likes of Tohrment in his band of bastards, however: that Brother and his ilk would not slum themselves for a shared meal, much less any professional association.

Though one cohesed briefly, this night. As the fight progressed, he and Throe fell into a cooperation with the Brothers, funneling lessers in small groups into blade range, whereupon they were dispatched to the Omega by the other three.

Two Brothers, or Brotherhood candidates, were with Tohr, and both were larger than him—in fact, Tohrment, son of Hharm, was not as broad as he had once been. Mayhap from recovery of a recent injury? Whatever the cause, Tohr had chosen his backups wisely. The one on the right was a tremendous male, the size of whom proved that the Scribe Virgin’s breeding program had had a point. The other was more the girth and vertical of Xcor and his males—which was to say he was not small. Both worked seamlessly and without hesitation, showing no fear.

When it was finally done, Xcor was breathing hard, his forearms and biceps numb from exertion. All who had fangs were standing. All who had black blood in the vein were gone, sent back to their evil maker.

The five of them stayed in their positions, weapons still in hand as they panted, eyes peeled for any signs of aggression from the other side.

Xcor glanced at Throe and nodded ever so slightly. If others from the Brotherhood had been called in, this was not the kind of showdown they would come out of alive. If these three engaged? He and his soldier had a chance, but there would be injuries.

He did not come to Caldwell to die. He came here to be king.

“I look forward to seeing you again, Tohrment, son of Hharm,” he announced.

“Leaving so soon?” the Brother countered.

“Did you think I would bow before you?”

“No, that would require class.”

Xcor smiled coldly, flashing his fangs as they elongated. His temper was held in check by his self-control—and the fact that he was already begining to work on the glymera. “Unlike the Brotherhood, we lowly soldiers actually work during the night. So instead of kissing the ring of antiquated custom, we’re going to seek and eliminate more of the enemy.”

“I know why you’re here, Xcor.”

“Do you. Mind reader?”

“You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Indeed. Or mayhap it shall be the other way around.”

Tohrment shook his head slowly. “Consider this a friendly warning. Go back where you came from before what you set in motion rolls you right into an early grave.”

“I like where I am. The air is bracing on this side of the ocean. How’s your shellan, by the way.”

The cold draft that surged forward was what he wanted: He’d heard through the convoluted grapevine that the female Wellesandra had been killed in the war some time ago, and he wasn’t above using any weapon he had to throw off the enemy.

And the shot was a good one. Immediately, the bookends on either side of the Brother stepped in and grabbed on. But there would be no fighting or arguing. Not this eve.

Xcor and Throe dematerialized, scattering themselves into the chilly spring night. He was not worried that they would be followed. That pair was going to make sure Tohr was okay, which meant they were going to dissuade him from a half-cocked, angry whim that might possibly lead to an ambush.

They had no way of knowing he couldn’t access the rest of his troops.

He and Throe regained their forms on top of the tallest skyscraper in the city. He and his soldiers had always had a rallying point such that the band could be reunited from time to time during the night, and this towering rooftop was not only easily visible from all quadrants of the battlefield; it seemed apt.

Xcor liked the view from on high.

“We need cell phones,” Throe said over the din of the wind.

“Do we.”

“They have them.”

“The enemy, you mean?”

“Aye. Both of them.” When Xcor said nothing further, his right-hand male muttered, “They have ways of communicating—”

“That we do not require. If you allow yourself to rely on externals, they become weapons over you. We have done just fine without such technology for centuries.”

“And this is a new era in a new place. Things are different here.”

Xcor glanced over his shoulder, trading the view of the city for the sight of his second in command. Throe, son of Throe, was a fine example of breeding, all perfect features, and comely body that, thanks to Xcor’s lessons, was now not merely decorative, but useful: For truth, he had grown hard over the years, finally earning the right to declare his sex as that of male.

Xcor smiled coldly. “If the Brothers’ tactics and methods are so successful, why did the race get raided?”

“Things happen.”

“And sometimes they are the result of mistakes—fatal ones.” Xcor resumed his perusal of the city. “You might consider how easily such errors can be made.”

“All I’m saying—”

“This is the problem with the glymera—always looking for the easy way out. I thought I beat that tendency out of you years ago. Do you require a refresher?”

As Throe shut the fuck up, Xcor smiled more broadly.

Focusing on the expanse of Caldwell, he knew that dark though the night was, his future was bright indeed.

And paved with the bodies of the Brotherhood.

FOUR

“Where the hell are they finding all these recruits?” Qhuinn asked as he walked around the fight scene, his boots slapping through the black blood.

John barely heard the guy, even though his ears were working just fine. With the departure of those bastards, he was sticking by Tohr’s side. The Brother seemed to have recovered from that uncalled-for kick in the nuts Xcor had just nailed him with, but it was still waaaaay break time.

Tohr wiped his black blades off on his thighs. Took a deep breath. Seemed to pull out of an inner suck hole. “Ah… the only thing that makes sense is Manhattan. You need a big population. With a lot of bad seeds on the periphery.”

“Who the hell is this Fore-lesser?”

“A little shit, last I heard.”

“Right up the Omega’s alley.”

“Smart, though.”

Just as John was going to broach the whole Cinderella-turning-into-a-pumpkin thing, his head shot around.

“More,” Tohr said on a growl.

Yeah, but that wasn’t the problem.

John’s shellan was out in the alleys.

Instantly, everything went from his mind; his toilet bowl flushed. What the hell was she doing out? She wasn’t on rotation. She should be home—

As the stench of fresh, breathing lesser entered his nose, a deep inner conviction clawed into his chest: She shouldn’t be out here at all.

“I need to get my coat,” Tohr said. “Stay here and I’ll go with you.”

Fat. Chance.

The instant Tohr dematerialized back to the bridge, John took off, his shitkickers pounding the asphalt as Qhuinn shouted something that ended with, “You cocksucker!”

Whatever, unlike Tohr’s wild, crazy, maniac diversions, this was important.

John cut through the alley, shot down a side street, jumped across two lines of parked cars, bolted into a detour.…

And there she was, his mate, his lover, his life, squaring off against a quartet of lessers in front of an abandoned rooming house—flanked by a big, loudmouthed blond traitor.

Rhage should never have recruited her. John had said reinforcements—he sure as shit hadn’t meant his Xhex. And second of all, he’d told them to stay home, at Tohr’s request. What the fuck were they—

“Hey!” Rhage called out cheerfully. Like he was inviting them to a party. “Just thought we’d take the air tonight in beeeeautiful downtown Caldwell.”

Right. This was one moment when being mute sucked. You fucking ass—

Xhex turned her head around to look at him—and that was when it happened. One of the lessers was tucking a knife, and the sonofabitch had both a good arm and great aim: The blade flew through the air, hilt over point.

Until it came to a sudden stop… in Xhex’s chest.

For the second time in one evening, John screamed without making a sound.

As his body surged forward, Xhex whipped around to the slayer, an expression of rage tightening her features. Without losing a beat, she grabbed onto the handle and tore the weapon out of her own flesh—but how long would her strength last? That was a direct hit—

Jesus Christ! She was going to try to take care of the bastard. Even injured, she was going to go after him tooth and nail… and get herself killed in the process.

The one thought that shot through John’s mind was that he didn’t want to be like Tohr. He didn’t want to walk that stretch of hell on earth.

He didn’t want to lose his Xhex tonight, tomorrow night, any night. Ever.

Opening his mouth, he roared all of the air out of his lungs. He wasn’t conscious of dematerializing, but he was on that lesser so fast that going ghost and re-forming was the only explanation. Locking onto the thing’s throat with his palm, he pushed the piece of shit backward off its feet and let his own weight follow. When they hit the ground, he head-butted its face, smashing the nose, and likely breaking a cheekbone or an eye socket.

No stopping there.

As black blood splashed up all over him, he bared his fangs and tore into the enemy with his teeth while he held the thing down. The destructive instinct was so finely tuned and focused, he would have kept going until he was chewing on pavement—but then his rational side sent up a hi-how’re-ya.

He needed to assess Xhex’s injuries.

Taking out a dagger, he raised his arm high and locked eyes with the slayer. Or what was left of the lesser’s pair of peepers.

John buried that blade so deep and hard that after the flash and bang faded, he needed a two-handed grip and a full-body pull to free the weapon out of the asphalt. Scrambling around, he prayed to see Xhex—

She was more than up on her feet. She was engaging another one of the quartet—even though there was a growing red stain on the front of her chest, and her right arm was hanging loose.

John nearly lost his mind.

Leaping up, he threw his body between his mate and the enemy, and as he shoved her out of the way, he took a hit meant for her—a solid swing with a baseball bat that rang his church bell and made him momentarily lose his balance.

Exactly the kind of thing that would have knocked her flat and put “paid” to her coffin.

With a quick shift, he reestablished equilibrium, and then caught the second try at turning him into a homer with both hands.

Quick punch forward and he slammed the lesser in the face with its own Louisville slugger, giving the undead a split second of show tunes in its head. Then it was domination time.

“What the hell!” Xhex hollered at him as he forced the slayer onto the ground.

No good way to communicate, considering his hands were locked on the lesser’s throat. Then again, it wasn’t going to help them for her to know what was on his mind.

With a quick stab, John dispatched the slayer back to the Omega and got up. His left eye, the one that had gotten corked with the bat, was starting to swell, and he could feel his heartbeat in his face. Meanwhile, Xhex was still bleeding.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again,” she hissed.

He wanted to jab his finger in her face, but if he did, he couldn’t talk. Then don’t fight when you’re injury-injer-injured!

Christ, he couldn’t even communicate, his fingers clogging up over words.

“I was just fine!”

You’re fucking bleeding—

“It’s a flesh wound—”

Then why can’t you lift up your arm!

The pair of them were closing in on each other, and not in a good way, their jaws jacked forward, their bodies hunched in aggression. And when she didn’t counter him on his last potshot, he knew he’d guessed right—knew, too, that she was hurting.

“I take care of myself, John Matthew,” she spat. “I don’t need you looking over my shoulder because I’m a female.”

I would have done the same for one of the Brothers. Well, mostly he would have. So don’t push that feminist bullshit on me—

“Feminist bullshit?!”

You’re the one making it about your sex, not me.

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, really. Funnily enough, I’m not persuaded. And if you think my standing up for myself is a goddamn political statement, you mated the wrong goddamn female.”

This is not about your being female!

“The fuck it isn’t!”

On that note, she inhaled deep, as if to remind him that his bonding scent was so strong, it knocked out even the stench of all the lesser blood splattered around.

John bared his fangs and signed, It’s about your stupidity creating a liability on the battlefield.

Xhex’s mouth cranked open—but then, instead of countering, she just stared up at him.

Abruptly, she crossed her good arm over her chest and focused out over his left shoulder, slowly shaking her head back and forth.

Like she was regretting not just what had happened a moment ago, but maybe meeting him in the first place.

John cursed and went to pace around, only to find that everyone else in the alleyway—and that would be Tohr, Qhuinn, Rhage, Blaylock, Zsadist, and Phury—was watching the show. And what do you know, each of the males wore an expression that suggested he was really, truly, completely, and utterly glad that John’s last statement hadn’t come out of his piehole.

Do you mind, John signed with a glare.

On cue, the bunch of them started milling about, looking up at the dark sky, down at the pavement, across at the brick walls of the alley. Manly muttering floated over on the stinky breeze, as if they were a convention of movie critics discussing what had just been screened.

He didn’t care what their opinions were.

And in this moment of anger, he didn’t care what Xhex’s was, either.

Back at the Brotherhood mansion, No’One had her daughter’s mating dress in her arms—and a doggen planted in front of her, thwarting her quest for directions to the second-story laundry room. The former was welcome; the latter was not.

“No,” she said again. “I shall take care of this.”

“Mistress, please, it is a simple thing to—”

“Then letting me tend to the gown will be no problem for you.”

The doggen’s face fell so far, it was a wonder he didn’t have to look up to meet her eyes. “Perhaps… I shall just check with Superior Perlmutter—”

“And perhaps I shall tell him how helpful you were in showing me the cleaning supplies—and how much I appreciated your fine service unto me.”

Even though her hood was up and shielding her face, the doggen seemed to gauge her intention clearly enough: She wasn’t budging. Not to this member of the staff or any other. His only option was to throw her over his shoulder and carry her off—and that would never happen.

“I am—”

“Just about to lead the way, aren’t you.”

“Ah… yes, mistress.”

She bowed her head. “Thank you.”

“May I take the—”

“Lead? Yes, please. Thank you.”

He was not holding the dress for her. Or cleaning it. Or hanging it up. Or redelivering it.

This was between her and her daughter.

With dejection worthy of a castaway, the servant spun about and started walking, taking her down the long corridor that was marked by beautiful marble statuary of males in various positions. Then it was through a pair of swinging doors at the end, to the left, and through another set of doors.

At this point, everything changed. The runner on the hardwood flooring was no longer an Oriental, but a plain, well-vacuumed cream. There was no art on these pristine creamy walls, and the windows were covered not with great swaths of color with fringe and tassels, but heavy bolts of cotton in the same pale color.

They had entered the servant portion of the mansion.

The juxtaposition had been the same at her father’s manse: One standard for the family. One standard for the staff.

Or at least she had heard it was as such. She had never gone to the back side of the house when she had lived therein.

“This should be”—the doggen opened a pair of doors—“everything you seek.”

The room was the size of the suite she had had at her father’s estate, big and spacious. Except there were no windows. No grand bed with a matching set of handmade furniture. No needlepoint rugs in peaches and yellows and reds. No closets full of fashions from Paris or drawers of jewels or baskets of hair ribbons.

This was where she belonged now. Especially as the doggen described the sundry white contraptions as washing machines and dryers, and then detailed the operation of the ironing boards and irons.

Yes, the servants’ quarters rather than the guest accommodations were her home, and had been ever since she had… found herself in a different place.

In fact, if she could convince someone, anyone, to let her have a room down in this part of the mansion, it would be preferable. Alas, however, as the mother of the mated shellan of one of the household’s prime fighters, she was accorded privilege that she did not deserve.

The doggen began to open cupboards and closets, showing her all manner of equipment and concoctions that were described variously as steamers and stain removers and pressers.…

After the tour was completed, she went over and rose up awkwardly on her good foot to link the top of the gown’s hanger upon a knob.

“Are there any stains of which you are aware?” the doggen asked as she flounced out the skirting.

No’One proceeded to go over every square inch of the full bottom, the bodice, the capped sleeves. “There is only this that I can see.” She bent down carefully so as not to put a lot of weight on her weak leg. “Here where the hem meets the floor.”

The doggen did likewise and inspected the faint darkening on the fabric, his pale hands so sure, his frown one of concentration instead of confusion. “Yes, the manual dry cleaner, I think.”

He took her to the far side of the room and described a process that was easily going to fill hours. Perfect. And before she allowed him to depart, she insisted that he stay at her side for the first couple of treatments. As this made him feel more useful, it worked for the both of them.

“I believe I am ready to continue on my own,” she said eventually.

“Very well, mistress.” He bowed and smiled. “I shall go down and endeavor to ready Last Meal. If you should need anything, please call me.”

From what she had learned since her arrival, that required a telephone—

“Here,” he said, over by the counters. “Press ‘star’ and ‘one’ and ask for me, Greenly.”

“You have been most helpful.”

She looked away quickly, not wanting to see him bow to her. And she didn’t try for a deep breath until the door shut behind him.

Now alone, she put her hands on her hips and let her head hang for a moment, the pressure in her chest making it difficult to fill her lungs.

When she had come here, she expected to struggle—and she was, just not with the things she had anticipated.

She hadn’t considered how difficult it would be to exist in an aristocratic house. The home of the First Family, in fact. At least when she had been up with the Chosen, there had been other rhythms and rules, with no one below her. Here? The lofty position people forced upon her cut off her oxygen a lot of the time.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, mayhap she should have asked the servant to stay. At least the innate need for composure had given her a draw in her ribs. With no one to hide from, however, she fought for breath.

The robe was going to have to come off.

Limping over to the doors, she went to lock them, but found there was no bolting mechanism. Not what she was expecting.

Opening them a crack, she put her head out and double-checked the long hallway.

All the servants would be downstairs preparing food for the people of the house. Even more significant, there was no way anyone but doggen would be in this part of the mansion.

She was safe from other eyes.

Ducking back in, she loosened the tie around her waist, removed her hood from the crown of her head and then stripped herself of the weight she bore anytime she was in public. Ah, glorious relief. Reaching her arms up high, she stretched her shoulders and her back, then pulled her neck from side to side. Her last reclamation was to lift the heavy braid of her hair and put it over her shoulder, relieving some of the pull at her nape.

Save for that first night that she had come unto this house and confronted her daughter—as well as the Brother who had tried to save her life so long ago—no one had seen her features. And no one would henceforth. Ever since that brief revelation, she had been e’er covered, and she was going to stay that way.

Proof of identity had been a necessary evil.

As always, she wore beneath her robing a simple linen sheath she had made herself. She had a number of them, and when they grew too thin, she recycled them as towels to dry herself with. She wasn’t sure where she would find the fabric for replacements here, but that was no problem. In order to refresh herself so that she did not need to feed, she went regularly to the Other Side, and she could get what she needed then.

So different the two places were. And yet in either, her hours were the same: infinite, solitary—

No, not entirely solitary. She had come to this side to find her daughter, and now that she had, she was going to…

Well, tonight, she was going to clean this gown.

Stroking the fine fabric, she couldn’t stop the memories from bursting forth, a geyser, unwelcomed.

She had had gowns like this. Dozens of them. They had filled the closet of her nighttime quarters, those beautifully kitted-out rooms that had had the French doors.

Which had proved to be less than secure.

As her eyes misted over, she fought the pull of the past. She’d been through that black hole too many times to count—

“You should burn that robe.”

No’One wheeled around so fast, she nearly tore the dress off the worktable.

In the doorway was a massive male with blond-and-black hair. Verily, he was so big he filled the double-size jambs, but that was not the astonishing thing.

He appeared to gleam.

Then again, he was covered with gold, hoops and studs marking his ears, his eyebrows, his lips, his throat.

No’One dived for what normally covered her, and he stood calmly as she girded herself with the robe.

“Better?” he said softly.

“Who are you.”

Her heart beat so fast that the three words came out in a rush. She wasn’t good with males in enclosed spaces, and this was very enclosed, and he was very male.

“I’m a friend of yours.”

“Then why have I yet to make your acquaintance.”

“Some people would say you’re lucky to have been spared,” he muttered. “And you’ve seen me at meals.”

She supposed she had. She typically kept her head down and her eyes on her plate, but yes, in the periphery, he had been there.

“You’re very beautiful,” he said.

There were two things that kept her from completely panicking: First, there was no speculation in that deep voice of his, no masculine heat, nothing that made her feel preyed upon; and second, he had shifted his position so he was lounging back against the jamb—leaving her room to bolt out if she had to.

As if he knew what made her nervous.

“I’ve been giving you some time to settle in and get your bearings,” he murmured.

“Why would you have cause to do that.”

“Because you’re here for a very important reason, and I’m going to help you.”

The male’s bright white, pupil-less eyes held hers, even though her face was in shadow… as though he were not merely looking at her, but into her.

She took a step back. “You do not know me.”

At least that was a truth so solid she could plant her feet on it: Even if whoever this was was familiar with her parents, her family, her lineage, he did not know her. She was not who she had once been: the abduction, the birth, her death had wiped that slate clean.

Or had broken it to pieces, more accurately.

“I know that you can help me,” he said. “How about that.”

“Are you looking for a maid?”

Hard to imagine, given the number of staff in this household—but that was beside the point. She didn’t want to serve a male in any kind of intimate way.

“No.” Now he smiled, and she had to admit he looked a little… kind. “You know, your default doesn’t have to be servile.”

She kicked her chin up a notch. “All work is honorable.”

That was a fact that she had missed before everything had changed. Dearest Virgin Scribe, she’d been a spoiled, overpampered, entitled brat. And the shedding of those ugly, jeweled robes of self-inflation had been the only good thing that had come out of it all.

“Not maintaining to the contrary.” He tilted his head, as if he were imagining her in a different place, with different clothes. Or maybe he just had a stiff neck; who knew. “I understand you’re Xhex’s mom.”

“I am the female who birthed her, yes.”

“I heard that Darius and Tohr put her up for adoption after she was born.”

“They did. They sheltered me through my convalescence.” She skipped the part about her taking the latter’s dagger and putting it to use upon her own flesh: she had already spoken o’er much to this male.

“You know, Tohrment, son of Hharm, spends a lot of time looking in your direction at meals.”

No’One recoiled. “I am certain you are wrong.”

“My eyes work just fine. As do his, apparently.”

Now she laughed, the hard, short burst breaking out of her throat. “I can assure you, it is not because he fancies me.”

The male shrugged “Well, friends can disagree.”

“With all due respect, we are not friends. I do not know you—”

Abruptly, the room was infused with a golden glow, the light so buttery and delicious, she felt her skin prickle with warmth.

No’One took a further step back as she realized it was not an optical illusion courtesy of all the jewelry he wore. The male was the source of the illumination, his body, his face, his aura like a banked fire.

As he smiled at her, his expression was that of a holy man. “My name’s Lassiter, and I’ll tell you all you need to know about me. I’m an angel first and a sinner second, and I’m not here for long. I’ll never hurt you, but I’m prepared to make you pretty goddamn uncomfortable if I have to, to get my job done. I like sunsets and long walks on the beach, but my perfect female no longer exists. Oh, and my favorite hobby is annoying the shit out of people. Guess I’m just bred to want to get a rise out of folks—probably the whole resurrection thing.”

No’One’s hand crept up and held her robe together in a tight grip. “Why ever are you here?”

“If I told you now, you’d just fight it tooth and nail, but let’s just say I believe in full circles—I simply didn’t see the one we’re in until you came along.” He gave her a little bow. “Take care of yourself—and that beautiful dress.”

With that, he was gone, drifting away, taking the warmth and the light with him.

Slumping back against the counter, it took her a while to realize her hand hurt. Looking down, she observed it from a distance, seeing the white knuckles and the rigid flesh against the robe’s lapels as if it were someone else’s appendage.

It was always thus when she regarded any part of her body.

But at least she could command her flesh: Her brain ordered the hand attached to the arm that plugged into the torso to release and relax.

As it obeyed, she glanced back over to where the male had stood. The doors were closed. Except… he hadn’t shut them, had he?

Had he even been here?

She rushed over and looked out into the hall. In all directions… there was no one.

FIVE

After nearly two hundred years of having been mated, Tohr was pretty familiar with the way arguments between pigheaded fighters and hot-tempered females went. And how ridiculous was it to have a case of the nostalgias over the way John and Xhex were hairy-eyeballing each other.

God, he and his Wellsie had gone a few good rounds during their day.

Just one more thing to mourn.

Dragging his exhausted brain back on track, he stepped in between the pair, figuring the situation needed a reality injection. If it had been any other two, he wouldn’t have wasted his breath. Romance was not his business—whether it was going well or badly—but this was John. This was… the son he’d once hoped to have.

“Time to go back to the compound,” he said. “You both need treatment.”

“Stay out of this—”

Stay out of this—

Tohr reached over and clamped a hold on the nape of John Matthew’s neck, squeezing those tendons until the male was forced to look at him. “Don’t be an asshole about this.”

Oh, sure, it was okay for you to be an asshole—

“You got it, kid. That’s the privilege of age. Now shut up and get in the fucking car.”

John frowned as if he’d just noticed Butch had rolled up in the Escalade.

“And you,” Tohr said in a softer tone. “Do everyone a favor and get that shoulder dealt with. Afterward, you can call him a fuck-twit, an ass-hat, and any other thing that strikes you—but right now, that injury of yours is reknitting in three or four different bad ways. You need to see our surgeons fast, and as you are a reasonable female, I know you see the merits of what I’m saying—”

Tohr took his forefinger and shoved it in John’s face. “Shut. Up. And no, she’s going to get herself back to the compound. Aren’t you, Xhex. She’s not getting in that SUV with you.”

John’s hands started going, but they stopped when Xhex said, “Okay. I’ll head north now.”

“Good. Come on, son.” Tohr shoved John in the direction of the SUV, prepared to pick him up by the short hairs if he had to. “Time to have a little ride.”

Man, John was so pissed off, you could have fried an egg on his forehead.

Tough. Shit. Tohr whipped open the passenger-side door and packed the fighter into the front seat like he would have an overnight duffel, or a set of golf clubs, or maybe a bag of groceries.

“Can you do the seat belt yourself like a big boy—or should I work it for you?”

John’s lip curled up, his fangs making a reveal.

Tohr just shook his head and propped an arm on the SUV’s black body paint. Man, he was fucking tired. “Listen to me—as a male who’s been in your boots with this kind of thing a million times, you two have to have some space right now. Separate corners, a little calm-down—then you can talk shit through and…” His voice got gruff. “Well, makeup sex is fantastic, if memory serves.”

John Matthew’s mouth formed a couple variations on fuck. Then he slammed his head back against the rest. Twice.

Mental note: Have Fritz check for structural damage to the seat.

“Trust me, son. The pair of you are going to do this from time to time, and you might as well start to deal with it rationally now. Took me a good fifty years of making shit worse till I figured out a better way to handle arguments. Learn from my mistakes.”

John’s head cranked over, and he started to mouth, I love her so much. I’d die if anything happened to h—

When he stopped short, Tohr took a deep breath through the pain in his chest. “I know. Trust me… I know.”

Shutting the door with a clap, he went around to Butch’s side. When the window was put down, he said quietly, “Drive slow and take the long route. Let’s try to have her in and out of surgery before he gets there. Last thing we need is him riding Manny’s ass in the OR.”

The cop nodded. “Hey, you want a ride back? You don’t look so hot.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure you know what those two words mean?”

“Yup. Later.”

When he turned away, he saw that Xhex was gone, and knew there was a good probability she had done what she’d said she was going to. Even though she was as pissed off as John, it was doubtful she’d be stupid about her health, or their future.

Females, after all, were not just the fairer sex, but the fairly reasonable one. Which was the only reason the race had survived this long.

As the Escalade eased off at a snail’s pace, Tohr anticipated all the fun Butch was going to have on the way home. Hard not to feel sorry for the poor bastard.

Annnnnnd then he faced off at his peanut galley. Looked like the cop from Boston wasn’t the only one about to get an earful, and sure enough, each one of the males lobbed a sentence back at him:

“Time to go back to the training center.”

“You need treatment.”

“You are a reasonable male, and I know you see the merits of what I’m saying.”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

Rhage summed up the regurgitation with two words: “Kettle. Black.”

Fucking hell. “Did you guys plan that out?”

“Yeah, and if you don’t fight us”—Hollywood bit down on his grape Tootsie Pop—“we’ll do it again—only with the dance moves this time.”

“Spare me.”

“Fine. Unless you agree to home it, we will rock the dance moves.” To prove the point, the moron linked his palms behind his head and started doing something obscene with his hips. Which was backed up by a series of, “Uh-huh, uh-huh, ohhhh, yeeeeeeeaaaah, who’s your daddy…”

The others looked at Rhage like he’d grown a horn in the middle of his forehead. Nothing unusual there. And Tohr knew that, in spite of this ridiculous diversion, if he didn’t cave, the lot of them would crawl so far up his ass, he’d be coughing up shitkickers.

Also nothing unusual.

Rhage wheeled around, shoved out his butt, and started slapping his moneymaker like it was bread dough.

The only advantage? Whatever shit he was spouting was muffled.

“For the love of the Virgin Scribe,” Z muttered, “put us out of this misery, and go the fuck home.”

Someone else chimed in, “You know, I never thought there were advantages to being blind.…”

“Or deaf.”

“Or mute,” somebody added.

Tohr looked around the periphery, hoping that something that smelled like three-day-old sandwich meat would jump out of the shadows.

No luck.

And next thing you knew, Rhage would break into the robot. Or the Cabbage Patch. Or go Twist and Shout on their asses.

His brothers would never forgive him.

An hour and a half…

It took one hour and thirty cocksucking minutes to get back home.

As far as John could figure, the only way the trip could have taken longer was if Butch had detoured through Connecticut. Or maybe Maryland.

When they finally pulled in front of the great stone mansion, he didn’t wait for the Escalade to get parked—or even slow down. He unlocked the door and leaped out while the SUV was still crusing. Landing in a flat-out run, he took the stone steps up to the front entrance in a single leap, and after ripping into the vestibule, shoved his face so tightly into the security camera, he almost broke the lens with his nose.

The massive bronze portal opened fairly quickly, but damned if he could have said who did the honors. And the incredible rainbow-colored foyer with its marble and malachite columns and its lofty painted ceiling made no impression at all. Neither did the mosaic tiles on the floor that he crossed at a dead run, or the calls of his name from who-the-fuck-knew.

Hitting the door that was tucked underneath the grand staircase, he plowed into the underground tunnel that connected to the training center, punching in pass codes so viciously it was a wonder he didn’t break the keypads. Entering through the back of the office’s supply closet, he vaulted around the desk, shot out through the glass door, and—

“She’s being operated on now,” V announced from fifty yards away.

The Brother was standing outside the main examination room’s doorway, a hand-rolled between his teeth, a lighter in his gloved hand.

“It’ll be another twenty minutes or so.”

As a shhhh-ch rose up, a little flame made an appearance, and V brought the heat to the tip of his cigarette. When he exhaled, the scent of Turkish tobacco wafted leisurely down the hall.

Rubbing his aching head, John felt like he’d been put in a metaphorical time-out.

“She’s going to be fine,” V said on a stream of smoke.

No reason to rush now, and not just because she was on the table. It was pretty damn obvious that V had been put out in the hall as a living, breathing doorstop: John wasn’t getting in that room until the Brother let him.

Probably smart. Given his mood, he’d have been perfectly capable of breaking the door down cartoon-style, leaving nothing but the outline of his body in the panel—and naturally, that was what you wanted in the middle of scalpel-palooza.

Robbed of a target, John dragged his sorry ass down to the Brother. They put you out here, didn’t they.

“Nah. Just a cigarette break.”

Yeah, right.

Settling against the wall next to the male, John was tempted to give the back of his head a workout against the concrete, but he didn’t want to risk making any noise.

It was too soon, he thought. Too soon for him to be locked out of yet another procedure of hers. Too soon for them to be fighting. Too soon for the tension and the anger.

Can I try one of those? he signed.

V cocked a brow, but didn’t try to talk sense into him. The Brother just pulled out a pouch and some cigarette papers. “You want to do the honors yourself?”

John shook his head. For one thing, although he’d watched V’s rolling procedure countless times, he’d never tried anything like it before. For another, he didn’t think his hands were steady enough.

V took care of things in the work of a moment, and as he gave the coffin nail over, he flicked his lighter.

They both leaned in. Just before John connected the cigarette to the flame, V said, “Word of advice. These have a kick, so don’t suck too hard—”

Holy hypoxia, Batman.

John’s lungs didn’t just reject the onslaught; they had a seizure over it. And as he coughed his bronchial tubes up, V took the offending item from him. Helpful—meant he could brace both palms on his thighs as he bent over and retched.

When the stars faded from his watering eyes, he looked over at V… and felt his balls shrivel up and hibernate in his lower gut. The Brother had taken John’s hand-rolled and added it to his own, drawing on both of them at the same time.

Great. Like he didn’t already feel like a pussy.

V held the pair out between his fore- and middle fingers. “Unless you want to give it another go?” When John shook his head, he got a nod of approval. “Good call. A second drag and your next stop’s the wastepaper basket—and not to toss your Kleenex, true.”

John let his ass slide down the wall until the linoleum floor came up and caught his tailbone. Where’s Tohr? He come home yet?

“Yup. I sent him to go eat. Told him he wasn’t allowed back here until he had a sworn affidavit that he’d sucked down a full meal with dessert.” V took another drag and talked out the fragrant smoke. “I nearly had to drag him up there myself. He’s there for you, for real.”

He nearly got himself killed tonight.

“Same could be said for all of us. It’s the nature of the job.”

You know with him it’s different.

A grunt was all he got in return.

As time passed, and V smoked like a big shot, John found himself wanting to ask the unaskable.

Teetering on the brink of propriety, desperation eventually threw him over the edge. Whistling softly so Vishous would look over, he used his hands carefully.

How does she die, V. As the Brother stiffened, John signed, I’ve heard you sometimes see these things. And if I knew it was old age, I could handle this stuff about her in the field so much better.

V shook his head, his dark brows going down over his diamond eyes, the tattoo at his temple shifting its shape. “You shouldn’t make any changes to your life based on my visions. They’re just a snapshot of a moment in time—which could be next week, next year, three centuries from now. It’s occurrence without context, not a when and where.”

With his throat closing up, John shot back, So she does die violently.

“I didn’t say that.”

What happens to her? Please.

V’s eyes shifted away so that he was staring across the concrete hallway. And in the silence, John was both terrified of, and starved for, whatever the Brother was seeing.

“Sorry, John. I made the mistake of telling someone this information once. It relieved him in the short term, it truly did, but… in the end, it was a curse. So, yeah, I know firsthand that opening this can of worms doesn’t get anyone anywhere.” He glanced over. “Funny, most people don’t want to know, true? And I think that’s good and the way it’s supposed to be. That’s why I can’t see my own death. Or Butch’s. Or Payne’s. Too close. Life’s meant to be lived blind—that’s how you don’t take shit for granted. The crap I see isn’t natural—it ain’t right, kid.”

John felt a great hum start up in his head. He knew the guy was talking sense, but he was tingling with the need to know. One look at V’s jaw, however, told him he was barking up the wrong tree if he pushed the issue.

Nothing was going to come back at him.

Except maybe a fist.

Still, it was horrible to stand on the lip of such knowledge, knowing that it was out there in the world, a book that should not, must not be read—that he nonetheless was dying to have in his palms.

It was just… his whole life was in there with Doc Jane and Manny. Everything he was, and would ever be, was on that slab of a table, out like a light, getting repaired because the enemy had hurt her.

As he closed his eyes, he saw the madness in Tohr’s face as the Brother attacked that lesser.

Yes, he thought, he now knew down to his marrow precisely how the male felt.

Hell on earth made you do some pretty fucked-up shit.

SIX

Upstairs in the formal dining room, the food that Tohr ate with the others was all texture, no taste. Likewise, the conversation percolating up around the table was just sound without relevance. And the people to his left and to his right were two-dimensional sketches, nothing more.

As he sat with his brothers and the shellans and guests of the mansion, everything was a distant, hazy blur.

Well, almost all of it.

There was only one thing in the vast room that made any impression on him.

Across the porcelain and the silver, on the far side of the bouquets of flowers and the curling candelabra, a robed figure sat motionless and self-contained in a chair precisely opposite his own. With that hood up in place, the only thing that showed of the female underneath was a pair of delicate hands that, from time to time, cut a piece of meat or forked up some rice.

She ate like a bird. Was silent as a shadow.

And why she was here, he hadn’t a clue.

He had buried her back in the Old Country. Underneath an apple tree, because he had hoped the fragrant blooms would ease her in her death.

God knew she had had nothing easy at the end of her life.

And yet now she was alive again, having arrived with Payne from the Other Side, proof positive that when it came to the Scribe Virgin and the granting of mercies, anything was possible.

“More lamb, sire?” a doggen asked at his elbow.

Tohr’s stomach was packed tighter than a suitcase, but he was still feeling loose in the joints and sloppy in the head. Considering that eating more was better than the ordeal of feeding, he nodded.

“Thanks, man.”

As his plate was refilled with meat, and he volunteered for more rice pilaf, he looked around at the others just to give himself something to do.

Wrath was at the head of the table, the king presiding over everything and everybody. Beth was supposed to be in the other armchair at the far end, but instead, and as usual, she was in her hellren’s lap. As was also typical, Wrath was more interested in paying honor to his female than feeding himself: Even though he was fully blind now, he fed his shellan from his plate, lifting his fork and holding it so that she leaned in and accepted what he provided.

The pride he so clearly had in her, the satisfaction he took from caring for her, the goddamn warmth between them transformed his harsh, aristocratic face into something almost tender. And from time to time he bared his long fangs, as if he were looking forward to getting her alone and sinking into her… in a variety of ways.

Not the kind of thing Tohr needed to see.

Swinging his head around, he caught Rehv and Ehlena sitting side by side, doing the lovey-dovey. And Phury and Cormia. And Z and Bella.

Rhage and Mary…

Frowning, he thought of how Hollywood’s female had been saved by the Scribe Virgin. She’d been on the lip edge of dead, only to be pulled back and given a long life.

Down in the clinic, Doc Jane was the same. Dead, but returned, with nothing but good years ahead of her and her hellren.

Tohr’s eyes locked on the robed figure across from him.

Anger boiled in his distended stomach, adding to the pressure: That fallen-from-grace aristocrat, now going by the name No’One, was fucking back as well, granted the gift of life anew by the goddamn mother of the race.

His Wellsie?

Dead and gone. Nothing but memory and ashes.

Forevermore.

As his temper started really buzzing, he wondered who you had to bribe or blow to get that kind of dispensation. His Wellsie had been a female of worth, just like these other three—why hadn’t she been spared. Why the fuck wasn’t he like those other males, looking forward to the rest of his years.

Why hadn’t he and his shellan been granted mercy when they needed it most.…

He was staring at her.

No… he was glaring at her.

Across the table, Tohrment, son of Hharm, was focused on No’One with hard, angry eyes, as if he resented not just her presence in this house, but the very breath in her lungs and the beat of her heart.

The expression did not favor his features. Indeed, he had aged so much since last she had seen him, even though vampires, especially those of strong lineage, appeared to be in their mid- to late twenties until just before they died. And that was not the only change in him. He was suffering from a persistent weight loss—no matter how much he ate at the table, he did not carry enough flesh on his bones, his face marked with hollowed cheekbones and a too-sharp jaw, his sunken eyes smudged with shadows above and below them.

His physical infirmity, whatever it was, hadn’t stopped him from fighting, however. He hadn’t changed before the meal, and his damp clothes were stained with red blood and black oil, visceral reminders of how all the males spent their nights.

He had washed his hands, however.

Where was his mate? she wondered. She had seen no evidence of a shellan—perhaps he had remained unattached all these years? Surely if he had a female, she would be here to support him.

Ducking her head further under her hood, she placed her fork and knife to the side of her plate. She had no more appetite for food.

Nor was she hungry for echoes from the past. The latter, however, was nothing she could politely refuse.…

Tohrment had been as young as she when they had spent all those months together in that fortified cabin in the Old Country, taking refuge against the cold of the winter, the wet of the spring, the heat of the summer, and the drafts of the autumn. They had had four seasons of watching her belly swell with life, a complete calendar cycle in which he and his mentor, Darius, had fed, sheltered, and cared for her.

It was not how her first pregnancy should have gone. It was not how a female of her background should have lived. It was not anything that the fate she had intended for herself would have e’er provided.

Arrogant of her to have assumed anything, however. And there had been, and still was, no going back. From the moment she had been captured and ripped away from her family, she had been forever altered sure as if acid had been splashed upon her face, or her body had been burned beyond recognition, or she had lost limbs or eyesight or hearing.

But that was not the worst of it. Bad enough that she had been tainted at all, but that it had been by a symphath? And that the stress had triggered her first needing?

She had spent those four long seasons under that thatched roof aware that there was a monster growing inside of her. Indeed, she would have lost her social station if it had been a vampire who had abducted her and cheated her family of the most valuable thing about her: her virginity. Previous to her abduction, as the daughter of the Council’s leahdyre, she had been a highly valuable commodity, the kind of thing that was sequestered and brought out for admiring at special occasions like a fine jewel.

In fact, her father had been making arrangements for her mating to someone who would have provided her with a lifestyle even higher than that to which she had been born.…

With terrible clarity, she recalled that she had been tending to her hair when the soft clicking sound from the French door had registered.

She had put the brush down on her makeup table.

And then the latch had been released by someone other than herself.…

In quiet moments since then, she sometimes imagined that she had gone down to her subterranean quarters with her family that night. She hadn’t been feeling well—the precursor, likely, to her needing period—and had stayed upstairs because there was more to distract her from her restlessness up above.

Yes… she pretended sometimes that she had followed them down into the basement and, once there, had finally told her father about the strange figure that often appeared outside of her bedroom on the terrace.

She would have saved herself.

Saved the warrior across from her this anger of his…

She had used Tohrment’s dagger. Right after the birth, she had snapped and taken the weapon from him. Unable to bear the reality of what she had brought into the world, incapable of drawing one more breath in the destiny she had been condemned to, she had turned the blade upon her own stomach.

The last thing she had heard before the light had claimed her was him screaming—

The screech of his chair getting shoved back made her jump, and everyone at the table went silent, all eating halting, all movement ceasing, all conversation cutting off as he prowled out of the room.

No’One lifted her napkin and blotted her mouth under her hood. Nobody looked over at her, as if they had all failed to notice his fixation on her. But from down at the far end, the angel with the blond-and-black hair was staring right at her.

Shifting her eyes from him, she saw Tohrment come out of the billiards room across the foyer. He had a bottle of some dark liquid in each hand, and his grim face was nothing short of a death mask.

Closing her lids, she reached deep, trying to find the strength she was going to need to approach the male who had just left so abruptly. She had come here to this side, to this house, to make amends with the daughter she had abandoned.

There was another who needed an apology, however.

And though words of contrition were the ultimate goal, she would begin with the dress, returning it to him as soon as she finished cleaning and pressing it with her own hands. Comparatively, it was such a small thing. But one had to start somewhere, and the gown was clearly a generational one from his bloodline, given to her daughter to wear, as she had no other family.

Even after all these years, he continued to take care of Xhexania.

He was a male of worth.

No’One was quieter about her departure, but the room fell silent once more as she rose from her seat. Keeping her head down, she left not through the archway, as he had, but through the butler’s door that led into the kitchen.

Limping past the ovens and counter spaces and busy, disapproving doggen, she took to the rear stairwell, the one that had simple whitewashed plaster walls and pine stairs—

“It was his shellan’s.”

The soft leather sole of her slipper shoe squeaked as she wheeled around. Down below, the angel stood at the bottom step.

“The dress,” he said. “That was the gown that Wellesandra wore on the night they were mated nearly two hundred years ago.”

“Oh, then I shall return it to his mate—”

“She’s dead.”

A cold shiver went down her spine. “Dead…”

“A lesser shot her in the face.” As No’One gasped, his white eyes didn’t blink. “She was pregnant.”

No’One threw her hand out for the rail as her body swayed.

“Sorry,” the angel said. “I don’t sugarcoat shit, and you need to know what you’re walking into if you’re going to give that back to him. Xhex should have told you—I’m surprised she didn’t.”

Indeed. Although it wasn’t as if they had spent much time together—and they had plenty of topics of their own to tiptoe around.

“I did not know,” she said eventually. “The seeing bowls on the Other Side… they never…” Except she hadn’t been thinking of Tohrment when she had gone to them; she’d been worried about and focused on Xhexania.

“Tragedy, like love, makes people blind,” he said, as if he could read her regrets.

“I’m not going to take it to him.” She shook her head. “I’ve done enough damage. Presenting him with his… mate’s gown…”

“Is a nice gesture. I think you should return it to him. Maybe it’ll help.”

“Do what,” she said numbly.

“Remind him that she’s gone.”

No’One frowned. “As if he has forgotten?”

“You’d be surprised, my fair one. The chain of memory needs to be broken—so I say bring the dress to him, and let him take it from you.”

No’One tried to imagine that exchange. “How cruel—no, if you’re so interested in torturing him, you can do it yourself.”

The angel cocked a brow. “It’s not torture. It’s reality. Time’s passing and he needs to move on, fast. Take the gown to him.”

“Why are you so interested in his affairs?”

“His destiny is my own.”

“How is that possible?”

“Trust me, I didn’t set it up like this.”

The angel stared at her as if daring her to find falsity in anything he had stated.

“Forgive me,” she said roughly. “But I have done enough harm to that fine male. I shan’t be a part of anything that hurts him.”

The angel rubbed his eyes as if he had a headache. “Goddamn it. He doesn’t need coddling. He needs a good hard boot in the ass—and if he doesn’t get one soon, he’s going to pray to be in the shithole he’s in now.”

“I do not understand any of this—”

“Hell is a place of many levels. And where he’s headed is going to make this stretch of agony seem like nothing but spikes under fingernails.”

No’One recoiled and then had to clear her throat. “A way with words you have not, angel.”

“Really. You don’t say.”

“I can’t… I can’t do what you wish me to.”

“Yes, you can. You have to.”

SEVEN

When Tohr had hit the billiards room bar, he hadn’t bothered to check which bottles he took. Up on the second-floor landing, however, he learned that the one in his right hand was Qhuinn’s Herradurra, and the one in his left was… Drambuie?

Okay, right, he might be desperate, but he still had taste buds, and that shit was nasty.

Striding down to the sitting room at the end of the hall, he swapped the latter for some good old-fashioned rum—maybe he’d pretend the tequila was Coke and put the two together.

In his room, he shut the door, cracked the seal on the Bacardi, and opened his gullet, sucking the hooch down. Pause for swallow and breath. Repeat. Annnnd repeat… and one more good one. The line of fire from his lips to his gut was kind of nice, like he’d deep-throated a lightning strike, and he kept the rhythm going, taking air when he had to as if he were doing the freestyle in a pool.

Half the bottle was gone in about ten minutes, and he was still standing just inside his room. Which was pretty stupid, he supposed.

Unlike getting drunk, which was pretty necessary.

He put all the booze down and fucked around with his shitkickers until he got them off. Leathers, socks, muscle shirt followed the trend. When he was naked, he walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and got in with both bottles in his hands.

The rum lasted through the shampoo and soap-up routine. When he started the rinse cycle, he opened the Herradurra and had at it.

It wasn’t until he got out that he began to feel the effects, the sharp edges of his mood recontouring and sprouting the peach fuzz of oblivion. Even as the tide came in to claim him, though, he kept up with the drinking as he went dripping wet into his room.

He wanted to go down to the clinic and see about Xhex and John, but he knew that she was going to make it, and they were going to have to sort stuff out on their own. Besides, his mood was toxic, and God knew, they’d had enough of that going around between the pair of them back in the alley.

No need to share the wealth.

He let the duvet dry his body. Well, that and the heat seeping gently through the vents in the ceiling. The Herradurra lasted a little longer than the rum—probably because his stomach had gone SRO between all the booze and the big dinner. When the tequila was done for, he put the bottle on the bedside stand and arranged his limbs comfortably—which wasn’t tough. At this point, he could have been packed into a FedEx box and felt okay about it.

Closing his eyes, the room started to go on an easy little spin, as if his bed was right over a drain and everything was slowly funneling out.

You know… considering how well this was rolling along, he was going to have to remember the safe out. The pain in his chest was nothing but a dim echo; his blood hunger was quelled; his emotions were placid as a marble countertop. Even when he slept, he didn’t get this kind of respite—

The knock on his door was so soft, he thought it was just the beat of his heart. But then it repeated. And repeated again.

“Goddamn, fucking hell…” He jacked his head off the pillow and hollered, “What.”

When there was no answer, he shot up to his feet—“Whoa. Yeah, okay… hello.”

Catching himself on the bed stand, he knocked the empty Herradurra on the floor. Wow. His center of gravity was now split between the pinkie toe of his left foot and the outer piece of his right ear. Which meant his body wanted to go in two directions at once.

Getting to the door was like ice-skating. On a Tilt-A-Whirl. With a helicopter as headgear.

And the knob was a moving target, although how that door was shifting from side to side in its frame without breaking was a mystery.

Yanking the thing wide, he barked, “What!”

There was nobody there. But what he saw sobered him up.

Across the hall, hanging from one of the brass sconces, was his Wellsie’s red waterfall of a mating dress.

He looked to the left and saw no one. Then he looked to the right and saw… No’One.

Down at the far end of the hall, the robed female was going as fast as her limp would allow her, her frail body shifting awkwardly under those folds of rough cloth.

He probably could have caught her. But, shit, he’d obviously scared the crap out of the female, and if he’d been unfit for conversation at the dinner table, he was now unfitter-er.

See? He was even making up words now.

Plus he was buck-ass naked.

Weaving his way out into the corridor, he stood in front of the gown. The thing had obviously been cleaned with care and prepared for storage, its sleeves stuffed with tissue paper, its hanger one of those jobs that had a padded insert for the bodice.

As he looked at the dress, the effects of the alcohol made it seem as if the skirting was caught in a breeze, the bloodred fabric waving to and fro, the weight catching the light and reflecting it back at him at various angles.

Except he was the one moving, wasn’t he.

Reaching up, he lifted the hanger from where it had been slung over the sconce, and carried the gown inside his room, shutting his door behind them both. Over at the bed, he laid the dress out on the side that Wellsie had always preferred—the one farthest from the door—and carefully arranged the sleeves and the skirting, making minute adjustments until it was in perfect position.

Then he willed the lights off.

Lying down, he curled on his side, putting his head on the pillow opposite the one that would have supported his Wellsie’s head.

With a shaking hand, he touched the satin of the filled-out bodice, feeling the whalebones set within the fabric, the structure of the dress built to enhance a female’s gentle, curving body.

It was not as good as her rib cage. Just as the satin was not as good as her body. And the sleeves weren’t as good as her arms.

“I miss you.…” He stroked the indentation of the gown where her waist would have been—should have been. “I miss you so much.”

To think she had once filled this dress out. Had lived inside of it for a brief time, nothing but a camera shot of one evening in both their lives.

Why couldn’t his memories bring her back? They felt strong enough, powerful enough, a summoning spell that should have had her magically reinflating the gown.

Except she was alive only in his mind. Ever with him, always out of reach.

That’s what death was, he realized. The great fictionalizer.

And just as he would have reread a passage in a book, he remembered their mating day, the way he had stood so nervously to one side of his brothers, fidgeting with his satin robe and his jeweled belt. His blooded sire, Hharm, had yet to come around, the reconciliation that had arrived at the end of his life still a century in the making. But Darius had been there, the male looking over at him every second or two, no doubt because he’d been worried Tohr was going to pass the fuck out.

Which had made two of them.

And then Wellsie had shown.…

Tohr slipped his palm down to the satin skirting. Closing his eyes, he imagined her warm, vital flesh filling out the gown once again, her breath expanding and contracting the confines of the bodice, her long, long legs holding the skirting up off the floor, her red hair curling down to the black lace of the sleeves.

In his vision, she was real and she was in his arms, looking up at him from under her lashes as they had danced the minuet with the others. They’d both been virgins that night. He’d been a fumbling idiot. She’d known exactly what to do. And that was pretty much the way things had continued throughout their mating.

Although he’d gotten pretty goddamn good at the sex, pretty fucking fast.

They had been yin and yang, and yet exactly the same: He’d been a sergeant with the Brotherhood, she’d been the general at home, and together, they’d had it all.…

Maybe that was why it had happened, he thought. He’d had too much luck and so had she, and the Scribe Virgin had had to level that score.

And now here he was, empty just like the dress, because what had filled both him and this gown was gone.

The tears that came out of his eyes were silent, the kind that seeped out and soaked the pillow, traveling over the bridge of his nose and falling free to drop one after another like rain from the lip of a roof.

His thumb went back and forth over the satin, as if he were rubbing her hip as he had when they’d been together, and he moved his leg over so that it was on top of the skirting.

It wasn’t the same, though. There was no body underneath, and the fabric smelled like lemons, not her skin. And he was, after all, alone in this room that was not theirs.

“God, I miss you,” he said in a voice that cracked. “Every night. Every day…”

From across the dark bedroom, Lassiter stood in the corner next to the highboy, feeling like crap while Tohr whispered to the dress.

Scrubbing his face, he wondered why… why in the hell, of all the ways he could have gotten free of the In Between, did it have to be this one.

The shit was starting to get to him.

Him. The angel who didn’t give a shit about other people, the one who should have been a claims adjuster or a personal injury lawyer or anything on the earth where screwing others was an asset in his course of work.

He should never have been an angel. That required a skill set he didn’t have, and couldn’t fake.

Back when the Maker had approached him with an opportunity to redeem himself, he’d been too focused on the idea of getting free to think about the particulars of the assignment. All he’d heard was something along the lines of, “Go to earth, get this vampire back on track, set that shellan free,” yada, yada, yada.… After which he’d be released to go about his business instead of stuck in the land of neither-here-nor-there. Seemed like a good deal. And in the beginning, it was. Show up in the woods with a Big Mac, feed the sorry bastard, drag him back here… and then wait until Tohr was strong enough physically to start the process of moving on.

Good plan. Except then came the stall-out.

“Moving on” was more than just fighting the enemy, apparently.

He’d been losing hope, about to throw up his hands… when suddenly that female No’One appeared in the house—and for the first time, Tohr actually focused on something.

Which was when light dawned on Marblehead: “Moving on” was going to require another level of participation in the world.

Sure. Fine. Dandy. Get the guy laid, great. Then everyone won—most especially Lassiter himself. And, shit, the instant he’d seen No’One without that hood up, he’d known he was on the right track. She was astonishingly beautiful, the kind of female who made even a male who wasn’t interested in anything like that stand a little straighter and jack his slacks up. She had paper white skin, and blond hair that would have come down to her hips if it hadn’t been braided. With lips that were pink, and eyes that were a lovely gray, and cheeks that were the color of the inside of a strawberry, she was too bright to be real.

And clearly she was perfect for other reasons: She wanted to make amends, and Lassiter had been assuming that with any luck, nature would take its course and everything would fall into place… and she would fall into the Brother’s bed.

Sure. Fine. Dandy.

Except, whatever. This… display… across the way? Not sure, not fine, not dandy.

That kind of suffering was a canyon, a purgatory of its own for someone who had not died. And damned if the angel had any clue how to drag the Brother out of it.

Frankly, he was having enough trouble just playing witness.

And on that note, he hadn’t planned on respecting the guy. After all, he was on a mission, not here to get buddy-buddy with his key to freedom.

Trouble was, as the acrid scent of the male’s agony rose up and filled the room, it was impossible not to feel for him.

Man, he just couldn’t fucking take this.

Spiriting himself out into the corridor, he walked alone down the hall of statues to the head of the great staircase. Planting his ass on the top step, he listened to the sounds of the house. Down below, the doggen were cleaning up after Last Meal, their cheerful running commentary like chamber music in the background, all bippity-boppity, busy-busy. Behind him, in the study, the king and queen were… “working,” so to speak, Wrath’s bonding scent thick in the air, Beth’s hitched breathing very quiet. The rest of the house was relatively quiet, the other Brothers and shellans and guests retiring for sleep… or other things along the lines of what the royal couple were up to.

Lifting his eyes, he focused on the painted ceiling that was high above the mosaic floor of the foyer. Over the heads of the depicted warriors on their fearsome, grimacing steeds, the blue sky and white clouds were kind of ridiculous—after all, vampires couldn’t fight during the day. But, whatever, that was the beauty of representing reality instead of being in it: When you had the paintbrush in your hand, you were the god you wished ruled your life, capable of picking and choosing among fate’s catalog of wares and destiny’s deck of cards to your prolonged and sustained advantage.

Peering into the clouds, he waited for the figure he was looking for to appear, and soon it did.

Wellesandra was seated in a vast, desolate field, the endless gray plain studded with large boulders, the merciless wind blowing at her from all directions. She was not doing as well as she had been when he’d first seen her. Beneath the gray blanket that she clutched to herself and the young, she had grown paler, her red hair fading to a dull stain, her skin going pasty, her eyes no longer any discernible shade of sherry brown. And the babe in her arms, the tiny, swaddled bundle, didn’t move as much anymore.

This was the tragedy of the In Between. Unlike the Fade, it wasn’t meant to be forever. It was a way station to a final destination, and everyone’s was a little different. The only thing that was the same? If you stayed too long, you couldn’t get out. No eternal grace for you.

You just transitioned into a Dhund-like nothingness, with no chance of ever getting free of the void.

And these two were reaching the end of their rope.

“I’m doing the best I can,” he said to them. “Just hold on… fucking hell, just hold on.”

EIGHT

The first thing Xhex did when she checked back into consciousness was look for John in the recovery room.

He wasn’t in the chair across the way. Wasn’t on the floor, propped up in the corner. Wasn’t on the bed beside her.

She was alone.

Where the hell was he?

Oh, yeah, sure. He crawled all over her in the field, but then he left her here? Had he even come back for her operation?

With a groan, she considered rolling onto her side, but with all the IV lines in her arm and wires on her chest, she decided not to fight her plug-ins. Well, and then there was the happy fact that someone had drilled a large bore hole in her shoulder. A number of times.

Lying there with a snarl on her face, everything about the room annoyed her. The blow of the heat from the ceiling, the whirring sound of the machines behind her head, the sheets that felt like sandpaper, the rock-hard pillow and the too-soft mattress…

Where the fuck was John?

For the love of God, she may have made a mistake mating him. The loving him thing was what it was—no changing that, and she wouldn’t want to. But she should have known better than to make things official. Even though the traditional sex roles of vampires were changing, thanks in large part to Wrath loosening up the Old Ways, there was still a load of patriarchal shit surrounding shellans. You could be a friend, a girlfriend, a lover, a coworker, a car mechanic, for fuck’s sake, and expect your life to be your own.

But she feared that once your name was in the back of a male—and worse, a full-blooded warrior male—things changed. Expectations shifted.

Your mate started getting up in your face and thinking you couldn’t take care of yourself.

Where was John?

Fed up, she shoved herself off the pillows, took out her IV and clipped the end so that the saline and whatever else didn’t drip all over the floor. Next she silenced the heart monitor behind her, and then ripped the pads off her chest with her free hand.

She kept her right arm immobilized against her rib cage—she just needed to walk, not wave a flag.

At least she didn’t have a catheter.

Putting her feet on the linoleum, she stood up carefully and gave herself props for being such a good little patient. In the bathroom, she washed her face, brushed her teeth, used the loo.

When she came back out, she expected to see John in one of the two doorways.

Nope.

Going around the end of the bed, she took things slowly, because her body was logy from the drugs, the operation, and the fact that she needed to feed—although shit knew, scoring John’s vein was the last thing she was interested in. The longer he stayed away, the more she didn’t want to see his hairy ass.

Goddamn it.

Over at the closet, she opened the paneled doors, ditched her johnny, and changed into some scrubs—which, of course, were not her size, but male-sized. And wasn’t that a metaphor. As she struggled to dress with one hand, she cursed John, the Brotherhood, the role of shellans, females in general… and especially the shirt and pants, as she struggled to one-handedly roll up the bottoms that pooled around her feet.

As she marched for the door, she studiously ignored the fact that she was looking for her mate, and instead focused on the songs going through her head, little a cappella versions of such happy Top 40 hits as “What Gave Him the Right to Call Her Out on the Field,” “How in the Hell Could He Have Left Her Down Here Alone,” and the ever-popular standby “All Males are Morons.”

Doo-dah, doo-dah.

Tearing open the door, she—

Across the corridor, John was sitting on the hard floor, knees peaked like tent poles, arms crossed around his chest. His eyes met hers the instant she made an appearance—not because he looked her way, but because he had been focused on the space she would fill long before she had actually come out.

The ranting in her brain silenced: He looked like he had been through hell and had carried the flames of the devil’s living room back in his bare hands.

Unwrapping his arms, he signed, I thought you might like your privacy.

Well, shit. There he went, ruining her bad temper.

Shuffling over, she eased herself down beside him. He didn’t help her, and she knew he was doing that on purpose—as a way to honor her independence.

“Guess this was our first fight,” she said.

He nodded. I hated it. The whole thing. And I’m sorry—I just… I can’t explain what came over me, but when I saw you injured, I snapped.

Her exhale was long and slow. “You were okay with me fighting. Right before we were mated, you said you were cool with it.”

I know. And I still am.

“You sure about that.”

After a moment, he nodded again. I love you.

“Me, too. I mean, you. You know.”

But he hadn’t really answered her, had he. And she didn’t have the energy to follow up any further. The pair of them just sat on that floor in silence until eventually she reached out and took his hand.

“I need to feed,” she said roughly. “Will you…”

His eyes shot to hers and his head bobbed. Always, he mouthed.

She got to her feet without his aid and extended her free hand to him. When he took her palm, she summoned her strength and pulled him up. Then she led him into the recovery room, and locked the doors with her mind as he sat down on the bed.

He was rubbing his palms on his leathers as if he were nervous, and before she could go over to him, he jumped up. I need to shower. I can’t get close to you like this—I’m covered in blood.

God, she hadn’t even noticed he was still in his fighting clothes. “Okay.”

They traded places, she heading for the edge of the mattress, he going for the bathroom to turn on the hot water. He left the door open… so as he stripped off his muscle shirt, she watched his shoulders bunch and twist.

Her name, Xhexania, was not just tattooed, but carved in beautiful symbols across his back.

As he bent down to draw off his leathers, his ass made a stupendous appearance, his heavy thighs flexing as he shucked one leg and then the other. When he got in the shower, he went out of eyeshot, but he returned soon thereafter.

He was not aroused, she realized.

First time for that. Especially as she was about to feed.

John wrapped a towel around his hips and tucked the end in at his waist. As he turned to her, his grave eyes made her sad. Would you like me to put on a robe?

What the hell had happened to them? she thought. And for fuck’s sake, they had been through too much just to get to what should be the good stuff only to screw it up.

“No.” She shook her head and wiped her eyes. “Please… no…”

As he came forward, he kept that towel right where it was.

When he got in front of her, he sank down onto his knees and put up his wrist. Take from me. Please let me take care of you.

Xhex leaned in and clasped his hand. Passing her thumb back and forth over his vein, she felt the connection rise between them once again, that link that had been sliced through in the alley reknitting, an injury healing.

Reaching out, she clasped the back of his neck and brought his mouth to hers. Kissing him slowly, thoroughly, she spread her legs, making room for him as he eased forward, his hips finding the place that was his and his alone.

When the towel hit the floor, her hand went to his sex—and found that it had hardened.

Just as she wanted it to.

Stroking him, she curled her upper lip, exposing her fangs. Then, tilting her head to the side, she ran one razor-sharp tip up his neck.

His huge body shuddered—so she repeated the motion, this time with her tongue. “Come up on the bed with me.”

John wasted no time, filling the space she vacated as she pushed herself back to make room for him.

Lot of eye contact. As if they were both reacquainting themselves with each other.

Taking his hand, she put it on her hip as she rolled into him, and as their bodies made contact, his grip tightened, his bonding scent flaring.

She’d intended to keep things slow and low-key. But their flesh had a different plan. Need grabbed the reins and took over, and she struck his throat with a powerful lunge, taking what she had to have to survive and be at her strongest—and also marking him in her own way. In response, his body jacked against her own, his erection wanting inside of her.

While she took great drags on his vein, she struggled to get her scrubs off—but he took care of that for her, gripping the waist and yanking the pants so hard the fabric split on a clean, screaming rip. And then his hand was right where she wanted it to be, moving against her core, slipping and sliding, teasing and then entering her. Working herself against his long, penetrating fingers, she found a rhythm that was guaranteed to get them both off, her moans competing in her throat with the blood she was downing at an alarming rate.

After her first orgasm, she shifted around—with his help—and straddled his hips. She needed to stay relatively still to keep locked on his throat, but he took care of the motion side of things, pumping up against her, closing in and retreating, creating that friction they both wanted.

When she came a second time, she had to retract her mouth from his flesh and call out his name. And as he pulsed deep within her, she stopped moving and absorbed the sensation of the kicking and jerking, so familiar, and yet so fresh.

Jesus… what an expression he had… his eyes squeezed shut, his teeth bared, the muscles in his neck straining, all while a streak of delicious red left the puncture marks she had yet to lick closed.

When his lids finally opened, she stared hard at the blissed-out haze in those blue eyes of his. His love for her wasn’t just emotional; there was an undeniable physical component to it. That was the way bonded males worked.

Maybe he couldn’t have stopped himself in that alley, she thought. Maybe that was the beast inside the civilized shell, the animal part of vampires that separated the species from those watered-down humans.

Dipping low, she licked at his neck, lapping the wounds shut, savoring the taste that clung to the inside of her mouth and the expressway of her throat. Already she could feel the power coursing out from her gut, and this was just the beginning. As her body absorbed what he had given her, she was just going to feel stronger and stronger.

“I love you,” she said.

With that, she drew him up off the pillows so she was sitting in his lap, his arousal pushing even deeper inside her core. Palming the back of his neck with her free hand, she brought him to her vein and held him in place.

He didn’t need any more urging than that—and the pain that came with his strike was a sweet sting that carried her right back over the edge of release, her sex milking him into another orgasm, working against his shaft, squeezing him, pulling at him.

John’s arms locked around her, and the sight of them out of the corner of her eye made her frown. They were huge, bulging limbs that, in spite of how strong she was, could lift more, strike harder, punch faster. They were bigger than her thighs, thicker than her waist.

Their bodies were not, in fact, created equal, were they. He was always going to be more powerful than her.

A reality, sure. But how much someone could bench-press was not the determining factor when it came to competence in the field; nor was it the only way to judge a fighter. She was just as accurate a shooter, just as good with a dagger, and equally furious and tenacious when faced with prey.

She simply had to make him see that.

Biology was one thing. But even males had a brain.

When the sex was finally over, John lay beside his mate, utterly sated and sleepy. It would probably be a good idea to scrounge up some food, but he didn’t have the energy or inclination.

He didn’t want to leave her. At this moment. Ten minutes from now. Tomorrow, next week, next month…

As she curled into him, he snagged a blanket from the side table and draped it over the two of them, even though the combination of their body heat was keeping them pretty damn toasty.

He was well aware of when she fell asleep—her breathing changed and her leg twitched from time to time.

He wondered if she was kicking him in the ass in her dreams.

He had shit to work on; that was for sure.

And no one to go to talk about it—it wasn’t like he could ask Tohr for anything more than the advice he’d gotten on the fly tonight. And everybody else’s relationships were perfect. All he ever saw at the dining table were happy, smiling couples—hardly the sounding board he was looking for.

He could just picture the response: You’re having problems? Really? Huh, that’s weird… maybe you could call in to the radio or some shit?

The only thing that would change would be whether that was delivered by someone with a goatee, a pair of wraparounds, a mink duster, a Tootsie Roll in his piehole.…

He had this moment of peace, though. And he and Xhex could build on it.

They were going to have to.

You were okay with me fighting. Right before we were mated, you said you were cool with it.

And he really had been. But that was before he’d seen her cut right in front of him.

The thing was… and as much as it pained him to admit this… the last thing he wanted to be was the Brother he admired the most. Now that he had Xhex properly, the idea of losing her and stepping into Tohr’s boots was the single most terrifying thing he’d ever faced.

He had no idea how the Brother was getting out of bed every night. And frankly, if he hadn’t already forgiven the guy for taking off and disappearing right afterward, he would have now.

He thought of that moment when Wrath and the Brotherhood had come to them in a group. He and Tohr had been in the office here at the training center, with the Brother calling home time and time again, hoping, praying for something other than voice mail.…

In the corridor outside the office, there were fissures in the massive concrete walls—in spite of the fact that the damn things were eighteen-inch-thick concrete: Tohr’s release of energy from his anger and pain had been so great he had literally exploded himself to God only knew where, shaking the subterranean foundation until it cracked.

John still didn’t know where he’d gone. But Lassiter had brought him back in bad shape.

He remained in bad shape.

Selfish though it was, John didn’t want that for himself. Tohr was half the male he had once been—and not just because he’d lost weight—and though no one would have shown pity to the guy’s face, each and every one of the fighters felt it behind closed doors.

Hard to know how much longer the Brother was going to last out there with the enemy. He was refusing to feed, so he was weakening, yet every night he went into the field, his need for revenge getting sharper and more consuming.

He was going to get himself killed. End of.

It was like triangulating the impact of a car into an oak tree: a simple matter of geometry. You just drew out the angles and trajectories and boom! There was Tohr, dead on the pavement.

Although, shit, he’d probably take his last breath with a smile, knowing he was finally going to be with his shellan.

Maybe that was why John was as stressed about the Xhex thing as he was. He was close to other people in the house, to his half sister, Beth, to Qhuinn and Blay, to the other Brothers. But Tohr and Xhex were his go-to people—and the idea of losing them both?

Fuuuuuck.

Thinking about Xhex in the field, he knew that if she was out there in those alleys, fighting the enemy, she was going to get hurt again. They all did from time to time. Most of the injuries were near misses, but you never knew when that line was going to be crossed, when a simple hand-to-hand engagement would get away from you and you’d find yourself surrounded.

It wasn’t that he doubted her or her capabilities—in spite of that potshot that had come out of his mouth tonight. It was the odds he didn’t like. Soon enough, if you rolled the dice over and over again, you were going to come up snake eyes. And in the larger scheme of things, her life was more important than one more fighter out in the field.

He should have thought about this a little more before going all, Yeah, sure, I’m tight with you fighting.…

“What are you thinking about?” she asked in the darkness.

As if what was banging through his brain had woken her up.

Rearranging himself, he put his head next to hers and shook it back and forth. But he was lying. And she probably knew it.

NINE

The following evening, Qhuinn stood in the far corner of Wrath’s study, wedged into the juncture of two pale blue walls. The room was huge, a good forty feet long and forty feet across, and it had a ceiling lofty enough to give you a nosebleed. But space was getting tight.

Then again, there were a dozen or so big people packed in around the prissy French furniture.

Qhuinn knew from the French shit. His dead-and-gone mother had liked the style, and back before he’d been disavowed from his family, he’d been yammered at ad nauseam about not sitting on her Louis-the-somethingth crap.

At least that was one area where he hadn’t been discriminated against in his own house—she’d wanted only her and his sister to park it in those delicate seats. He and his brother had not been permitted. Ever. And his father had been tolerated with a grimace, likely only because he’d paid for the stuff a couple hundred years before.

Whatever.

At least Wrath’s command central made sense. The king’s chair was as big as a car and probably weighed as much as one, its rugged yet elegant carvings marking it as the throne of the race. And the huge desk in front of him wasn’t exactly fit for a girl, either.

Tonight, and as usual, Wrath looked like the killer he was: silent, intense, deadly. Your basic anti–Avon lady. Beside him, Beth, his queen and shellan, was composed and serious. And on the other side, George, his Seeing Eye dog, was looking… well, kinda postcard-y. But then golden retrievers were like that: picturesque, pretty, and pettable.

More Donny Osmond than dark overlord.

Then again, Wrath more than made up for that one.

Abruptly, Qhuinn dropped his mismatched eyes to the Aubusson rug. He did not need to see who was standing on the far side of the queen.

Ah, hell.

His peripheral vision was working far too well tonight.

His slut of a cousin, his cocksucking, suit-wearing, Montblanc-up-the-ass cousin Saxton the Magnificent, was standing next to the queen, looking like a combination of Cary Grant and some model in a goddamn cologne ad.

Not that Qhuinn was bitter.

Because the guy was sharing Blay’s bed.

Nah.

Nope. Not at all.

The cocksucker—

With a wince, he thought maybe he should switch that insult to something a little farther away from what the two of them…

God, he couldn’t even go there. Not if he wanted to breathe.

Blay was also in the room, but the guy was staying away from his lover. He always did. Whether it was in these meetings, or outside of them, they were never closer than three feet apart.

Which was the only saving grace to living in the same house as the pair of them. Nobody ever saw them lip-locked or even holding hands.

Although… it wasn’t as if Qhuinn didn’t lie awake during the day anyway, torturing himself with all kinds of Kama Sutra shit—

The door of the study opened and Tohrment came dragging in. Man, he looked as if he’d been rolled out of a moving car on the highway, his eyes like piss holes in the snow, his body moving stiffly as he went over to stand next to John and Xhex.

At the arrival, Wrath’s voice cut through the convo, shutting everyone up. “Now that we’re all here, I’m going to can the bullshit and turn this over to Rehvenge. I got nothing good to say about any of this, so he’ll be more efficient at briefing you.”

As the Brothers got to muttering, the massive, Mohawked motherfucker plugged his cane into the floor and got to his feet. As usual, the half-breed was dressed in a black pin-striped suit—God, Qhuinn was starting to despise anything that had lapels—and a mink duster to keep him warm. With his symphath tendencies kept in control, thanks to regular hits of dopamine, his eyes were violet, and mostly un-evil.

Mostly. He really wasn’t someone you wanted as an enemy, and not just because, like Wrath, he was the leader of his people: His day job was being king of the symphath colony up north. Nights he spent here with his shellan, Ehlena, living la vida vampire. And never the twain shall meet.

It went without saying that he was a highly valuable asset to the Brotherhood.

“A number of days ago, a letter was sent out to every head of the remaining bloodlines.” He reached into the mink and took out a folded sheet of what looked to be old-fashioned parchment. “Snail mail. Handwritten. In the Old Language. Mine took a while to reach me because it went to the Great Camp up north first. No, I have no idea how they got the address, and yes, I have confirmed that everybody got one.”

Balancing his cane against the delicate sofa he’d been sitting on, he opened the parchment with his fingertips, like he didn’t enjoy the feel of the thing. Then in a low, deep voice, he read each sentence in the ancient language it had been composed in.

My old, dear friend,

I am writing to advise you of my arrival in the city of Caldwell with my soldiers. Although we have long tallied in the Old Country, the dire events of the previous few years in this jurisdiction have made it impossible for us to remain, in all good conscience, where we have previously established our domicile.

As you perhaps have heard from relations overseas, our strong efforts have eradicated the Lessening Society in the motherlands, making it safe for our fair race to flourish in peace and security there. Clearly, it is time I bring this stout arm of protection to bear on this side of the ocean—the race here in these parts has sustained untenable losses, ones that mayhap could have been avoided if we had been here sooner.

I ask for nothing in return for our service to the race, although I would appreciate the opportunity to meet with you and the Council—if only to express my sincerest condolences at all you have borne since the raids. It is a shame that things have come to this—the commentary is sad upon certain segments of our society.

With kindest regard,

Xcor

When Rehv was done, he folded the paper up and disappeared it. No one said a thing.

“That was my reaction, too,” he muttered dryly.

This opened the floodgates, everybody talking at once, the curses flowing rich and heavy.

Wrath made a fist and banged on his desk until the lamp jumped, and George went into hiding under his master’s throne. When order was finally restored, it was like a stallion brought under control with a bit; a tenuous respite, more like a pause in the bucking and rearing than a true settle-down.

“I understand the bastard was out last night,” Wrath said.

Tohrment spoke up. “We engaged with Xcor, yes.”

“So this is not a fake.”

“No, but it was written by someone else. He’s illiterate—”

“I’ll teach the fucker to read,” V muttered. “By cramming the Library of Congress up his ass.”

As grunts of approval threatened to turn into more outbursts, Wrath pounded on his desk again. “What do we know about his crew?”

Tohr shrugged. “Assuming he’s kept the same ones on, they’re a total of five. Three cousins. That porn star Zypher—”

Rhage harrumphed at that. Clearly, even though he was now very happily mated, he felt like the race had one, and only one, sex legend—and it was him.

“And Throe was with him in that alley,” Tohr smoothed over. “Look, I’m not going to lie—it’s clear that Xcor’s making a play against…”

When he didn’t finish the statement, Wrath nodded. “Me.”

“Which would mean us—”

“Us—”

“Us—”

More voices than you could count uttered that one word, the single syllable coming from every corner of the room, every seat cushion, every flat plane of wall someone was up against. And that was the thing. Unlike Wrath’s father, this king had been a fighter and a Brother first—so the bonds that had been formed were not out of some artifact of prescribed duty, but the fact that Wrath had stood beside them all in the field and saved their asses personally at one time or another.

The king smiled a little. “I appreciate the support.”

“He needs to die.” When everybody looked at Rehvenge, the guy shrugged. “Plain and simple. Let’s not bullshit around with protocol and meetings. Let’s just take him out.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little bloodthirsty, sin-eater?” Wrath drawled.

“From one king to another, know that I’m giving you the middle finger right now.” And he was, with a smile. “Symphaths are known for efficiency.”

“Yeah, and I can feel where you’re coming from. Unfortunately, the law provides that you have to make an attempt on my life before I can bury you.”

“That’s where this is headed.”

“Agreed, but our hands are tied. My ordering the assassination of what is otherwise an innocent male is not going to help us in the eyes of the glymera.”

“Why do you need to be associated with the death?”

“And if that bastard’s innocent,” Rhage spoke up, “I’m the fucking Easter bunny.”

“Oh, good,” someone quipped. “I’m calling you Hop-along Hollywood from now on.”

“Beasty Bo Peep,” somebody else threw out.

“We could put you in a Cadbury ad and finally make some money—”

“People,” Rhage barked, “the point is that he is not innocent and I’m not the Easter bunny—”

“Where’s your basket?”

“Can I play with your eggs?”

“Hop it out, big guy—”

“Will you guys fuck off? Seriously!”

As various cottontail comments were lobbed like Jell-O at a food fight, Wrath had to pound the desk another time or two. It was obvious where the humor was coming from: The stress was so high, if they didn’t blow off a little steam, shit was going to get grim fast. It didn’t mean the Brotherhood wasn’t focused; if anything, they all felt like Qhuinn did—socked in the gut.

Wrath was the fabric of life, the basis for everything, the living, breathing structure of the race. After the brutal raids by the Lessening Society, what was left of the aristocracy had fled Caldwell to their safe homes out of town. The last thing the vampires needed was further fragmentation, especially in the form of a violent overthrow of the rightful ruler.

And Rehv was correct: That was where this was going. Hell, even Qhuinn could see the path: Step one, create doubt in the minds of the glymera about the Brotherhood’s ability to protect the race. Step two, fill the “void” in the field with those soldiers of Xcor’s. Step three, create allies on the Council and stir up anger and lack of confidence against the king. Step four, dethrone Wrath and weather the storm. Step five, emerge as the new leader.

When order in the study was finally reestablished, Wrath looked downright nasty. “Next one of you mouthy assholes makes me pound my desk again, I’m throwing you the fuck out.” On that note, he reached down, picked up the cowering ninety-pound retriever, and settled George in his lap. “You’re freaking out my dog and it’s pissing me off.”

As the animal put his big boxy head in the crook of the king’s arm, Wrath stroked all that silky, blond fur. It was absolutely incongruous, the tremendous, cruel-looking vampire calming that handsome, gentle dog, but the two had a symbiotic relationship, trust and love thick as blood on both sides.

“Now, if you’re ready to be reasonable,” the king said, “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. Rehv is going to stall the guy for as long as he can.”

“I still think we should put a knife in his left eye,” Rehv muttered, “but in the alternative, we’ve got to hold him in place. He wants to see and be seen, and as leahdyre of the Council, I can stonewall him up to a point. His voice in the ears of the glymera is not what we need.”

“In the meantime,” Wrath announced, “I’m going to go out and meet personally with the heads of the families, on their turf.”

At this, there was an explosion in the room, irrespective of his warning: People jumped out of their seats, throwing up their dagger hands.

Bad idea, Qhuinn thought, agreeing with the others.

Wrath let them go for a minute, like he’d expected this. Then he resumed control of the meeting. “I can’t expect support if I don’t earn it—and I haven’t personally seen some of these people in decades, if not centuries. My father met with folks every month, if not every week, to resolve disputes.”

“You’re the king!” someone bit out. “You don’t need to do shit—”

“You see that letter? It’s the new world order—if I don’t respond proactively, I’m undermining myself. Look, my brothers, if you were out in the field, about to face the enemy, would you fool yourself about the landscape? Would you lie to yourself about the layout of the streets, the buildings, the cars, or whether it was hot or cold, raining or dry? No. So why should I bullshit myself that tradition is something I can take cover behind in a shoot-out? Back in my father’s time… that shit was a bulletproof vest. Now? It’s a sheet of paper, people. You gotta know that.”

There was a long period of silence, and then everyone looked at Tohr. Like they were used to turning to him when shit got sticky.

“He’s right,” the Brother said gruffly. Then he focused on Wrath. “But you gotta know you’re not doing this alone. You need to have two or three of us with you. And the meet-and-greets have to be staggered over a period of months—cram them in too tight and you look desperate, but more to the point, I don’t want anyone getting organized to do a hit on you. Sites must be prescreened by us, and…” At this, he paused to glance around. “You need to be aware that we’re going to be trigger-happy. We will shoot to kill when your life’s on the line—whether it’s a female or a male or a doggen or the head of a family. We will not ask permission, or merely wound. If you can live with those terms, we will let you do this.”

Nobody else could have laid down the rules like that and walked without a limp afterward: The king gave out orders to the Brotherhood, not the other way around. But this was the new world, as Wrath had said.

The male in question ground his molars for a while. Then grunted. “Agreed.”

As a collective exhale hit the airwaves, Qhuinn found himself looking over at Blay. Aw, hell, talk about a suck zone—this was why he avoided the guy like the plague. Just one glance and he was locked on, all kinds of reactions rolling through him, until the room spun a little—

For no good reason, Blay’s eyes flipped up and met his.

It was like getting goosed in the ass with a live wire, his body spasming to the point where he had to hide the reaction by coughing while he glanced away.

About as smooth as a crater. Yup. Fantastic.

“… and in the meantime,” Wrath was saying, “I want to find out where these soldiers are staying.”

“I can take care of that,” Xhex spoke up. “Especially if I hit them in the daytime.”

All heads turned in her direction. Beside her, John stiffened from head to foot, and Qhuinn cursed under his breath.

Talk about your showdowns… except hadn’t the pair of them just had one?

Man, sometimes he was really glad he didn’t do relationships.

Not again, John thought to himself. For fuck’s sake, they’d just gotten back on speaking terms, and now this?

If he’d thought fighting side by side with Xhex was trouble, the idea of her trying to infiltrate the Band of Bastards on their home turf put him on the edge of a seizure.

As he let his head fall back against the wall, he realized that everyone and their dog was staring at him. Literally—even George’s brown eyes were trained in his direction.

“Are you kidding me,” Xhex said. “Are you frickin’ kidding me.”

Even after she spoke, nobody looked at her. It was all about John: Clearly, as he was her hellren, they were seeking his approval—or not—about what she’d put out there.

And John couldn’t seem to move, stuck in the cold quagmire between what she wanted and where he didn’t want them to end up.

Wrath cleared his throat. “Well, that’s a kind offer—”

“Kind offer?” she spat. “Like I’m inviting you to dinner?”

Say something, he told himself. Put your flapping hands up and tell her… What? That he was on board with her going to find six males with no consciences? After what Lash had done to her? What if she was captured and…

Oh, Jesus, he was cracking up over here. Yes, she was tough and strong and capable. But she was as mortal as anybody else. And without Xhex, he wouldn’t want to be on the planet at all.

Rehvenge snagged his cane and pushed himself up. “Let’s you and I talk—”

“Excuse me?” Xhex bit out. “ ‘Talk’? Like I’m the one who needs a mental readjustment? No offense, but bite me, Rehv. The bunch of you need me to do what I can to help.”

As all the other males in the room started looking at their shitkickers and loafers, the symphath king shook his head. “Things are different now.”

“How.”

“Come on, Xhex—”

“Are you people insane? Just because my name’s in his back, I’m suddenly a prisoner or some shit?”

“Xhex—”

“Oh, no, nope, you can fuck off with that be-reasonable tone.” She glared at the males, and then focused on Beth and Payne. “I don’t know how you two stand it—I really don’t.”

John was trying to think of what he could say to derail the collision, but what a waste of time. Two trains had already made head-on contact and there was twisted metal and steaming engine parts everywhere.

Especially as Xhex marched for the door like she was prepared to claw it apart just to prove a point.

When he went to follow her, she pegged him with a hard eye. “If you’re coming after me for any other reason than to let me go after Xcor, you need to stop right where you are. Because you belong with this anachronistic group of misogynists. Not at my side.”

Lifting his hands, he signed, It is not wrong to want to keep you safe.

“This is not about safety—it’s about control.”

Bullshit! You were hurt less than twenty-four hours ago—

“Fine. I have an idea. I want to keep you safe—so how about you stop fighting.” She glared over her shoulder at Wrath. “You gonna back me up, my lord? How about the rest of you fools? Let’s put the skirt and the panty hose on John, shall we? Come on, back my ass up. No? You don’t think that would be ‘fair’?”

John’s temper flared, and he just… He didn’t mean to do what he did. It just happened.

He stomped his boot, creating a thunderous noise, and pointed… directly at Tohr.

Awkward. Horrid. Silence.

Kind of like he and Xhex had not only dragged their dirty laundry out in front of everyone, but he’d managed to drape their sweat socks and stained shirts all over Tohr’s head.

In response? The Brother just crossed his arms over his chest and nodded, once.

Xhex shook her head. “I gotta get out of here. I gotta clear my head. John, if you know what’s good for you, you will not follow me.”

And just like that, she was gone.

In the aftermath, John rubbed his face, pushing his palms in so hard he felt like he was rearranging his features.

“How ’bout everybody head off for the night,” Wrath said softly. “I want to talk to John. Tohr, you hang.”

No need to ask twice. The Brotherhood and the others left like someone was out in the courtyard stealing their cars.

Beth stayed behind. So did George.

As the doors shut, John looked at Tohr. I’m so sorry—

“Nah, son.” The male stepped forward. “I don’t want where I’m at for you, either.”

The Brother put his arms around John, and John went with it, collapsing into the once massive body… that nonetheless managed to hold him up.

Tohr’s voice was steady in his ear: “It’s okay. I got you. It’s all right.…”

John put his head to the side and stared at the door his shellan had walked out of. He wanted to go after her with every fiber of his being—but those fibers were also what were ripping them apart. In his mind, he understood everything she was saying, but his heart and his body were ruled by something separate from all that, something bigger and more primordial. And it was overriding everything.

It was wrong. Disrespectful. Old-fashioned in a way that he never thought he could be. He didn’t think females should be sequestered, and he believed in his mate, and he wanted her…

To be safe.

Period.

“Give her some time,” Tohr murmured, “and we’ll go after her, okay? You and I will go together.”

“Good plan,” Wrath said, “because neither of you is going out in the field tonight.” The king held up his palms to cut off the arguing. “Really?”

That shut them both up.

“So are you okay?” the king asked Tohr.

The Brother’s smile wasn’t warm in the slightest. “I’m already in hell—shit’s not going to get any hotter just because he’s using me as an example of where he doesn’t want to be.”

“You sure about that.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“Easier said than done.” Wrath motioned his hand, like he didn’t want to go any further on all that. “We done?”

As Tohr nodded and turned for the door, John gave the First Family a bow and then went after the male.

He didn’t have to rush. Tohr was waiting for him out in the corridor. “Listen to me—it’s cool. I’m serious-”

I’m just… so sorry, John signed. About everything. And… shit, I miss Wellsie—I really miss her.

Tohr blinked for a moment. Then in a quiet voice, he said, “I know, son. I know you lost her, too.”

Do you think she would have liked Xhex?

“Yeah.” A shadow of a smile hit that harsh face. “She only met her once, and it was a while ago, but they were cool, and if there had been time… they’d have gotten along great. And man, on a night like tonight, we could have used the female backup.”

Too right, John signed, as he tried to imagine approaching Xhex.

At least he could guess where she would go: back to her own place on the Hudson River. That was her refuge, her private space. And when he showed up on her doorstep, he could only pray she didn’t throw him out on his ass.

But they had to resolve this somehow.

I think I’d better go alone, John signed. This is probably going to get ugly.

Make that uglier, he thought.

“Fair enough. Just know that I’m here if you need me.”

Wasn’t that always the way, John thought as they parted. Almost as if it had been centuries of their knowing each other, instead of merely a matter of years. Then again he guessed that was what happened when you crossed paths with someone you were really compatible with.

Felt like you’d been with them forever.

TEN

“I shall do it.”

As No’One spoke up, the group of doggen she had sneaked in behind turned like a flock of birds, all at once. In their modest staff room, there were males and females both among the assembled, each dressed properly for his or her role whether it was cook or cleaner, baker or butler. She had found them when she had gone for an idle stroll, and who was she not to take advantage of an opportunity.

The one who was in charge, Fritz Perlmutter, looked like he was about to faint. Then again, he had been her father’s doggen all those years ago, and had had particular struggles with her defining herself in a servile role. “My fine lady—”

“No’One. My name is No’One now. Please address me as that and that alone. And as I said, I shall take care of the washing down in the training center.”

Wherever that was.

Indeed, last night with that dress had been a benediction of sorts, the task busying her hands and giving her a focus that passed the hours with alacrity. It had once been the same on the Other Side, her manual labor the only thing that calmed her and imparted structure to her existence.

How she had missed having a purpose.

For truth, she had come here to serve Payne, but the female wanted none of that. She had come here to try to connect with her daughter, but the female was newly mated, with vital distractions. And she had come here in search of some kind of peace, only to be driven mad with inactivity since her arrival.

And that was prior to her near run-in with Tohrment early this morning.

At least he had taken the dress, though. It was gone from where she had hung it when he had answered her knock with such gruff—

Abruptly, she noted that the butler was looking at her expectantly, as if he had just said something that required a response.

“Please take me down there,” she said, “and show me the duties.”

Given the way his old, wrinkled face fell even further, she gathered that was not the reply he had been hoping for.

“Mistress—”

“No’One. And you, or one of your staff, can show me now.”

The assembled masses all looked worried, as if mayhap rumors of the sky falling had suddenly become reality.

“Thank you,” she said to the butler. “For your facilitation.”

Clearly recognizing that he was not going to win, the head doggen bowed low. “But of course I shall, mist— Ah, No— Er…”

When he couldn’t get out her proper name, as if the appropriate title of “mistress” was required to blaze the trail up his windpipe, she took pity on him.

“You are most helpful,” she murmured. “Now, lead on.”

After dismissing the others, he took her out of the staff room, through the kitchen, and into the foyer by virtue of yet another door that was new to her. As they proceeded, she recalled her previous, younger self, the haughty daughter of a bloodline of means who had refused to cut up her own meat, or brush her own hair, or dress herself. What a waste. At least now that she was no one and had nothing, she was clear on how to pass the hours meaningfully: work. Work was the key.

“We go through herein,” the butler pronounced as he held wide a hidden door beneath the grand staircase. “Allow me to provide you the codes.”

“Thank you,” she replied, memorizing them.

As she followed the doggen into the long, thin tube of an underground tunnel, she thought, yes, if she was going to stay on this side, she needed to busy herself with chores, even if it offended the doggen, the Brotherhood, the shellans.… Better that than the prison of her own thoughts.

They exited the tunnel by stepping through the back of a closet and passing into a squat room that had a desk and metal cabinets and a glass door.

The doggen cleared his throat. “This is the training center and medical facility. We have classrooms, a gym, locker room, weight room, physical therapy area, and a pool, as well as many other amenities. There are staff who take care of the deep cleaning of each section”—this was said sternly, as if he did not care that she was the guest of the king; she was not mucking about with his schedule—“but the doggen who took care of the laundry has gone upon bed rest, as she is mitte doggen and it is no longer safe for her to be on her feet. Please, we are this way.”

As he held open the glass portal, they went out into the corridor and headed to a double-doored room that was kitted up identically to the laundry she had used the night before in the main house. Over the next twenty minutes, she received a refresher on how to operate the machines, and then the butler reviewed with her a map of the facilities so she knew where to collect the bins and where to return what she had tended to.

And then, after a stiff silence, and stiffer adieu, she was blissfully alone.

Standing in the middle of the utility room, surrounded by washing machines and dryers and tables to fold upon, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Oh, the lovely solitude, and the fortunate weight of duty settling upon her shoulders. For the next six hours, she had nothing to think of but white towels and sheets: finding them, putting them in machines, folding them, returning them to their proper places.

There was no room for the past or her regrets here. Just the work.

Gripping a rolling bin, she wheeled the blue fabric receptacle out into the corridor and began making her rounds, beginning with the clinic and returning to the laundry when there was no more space left in her transport. After she got the first load into a deep-bellied washer, she went out again, passing into the locker room and finding a mountain of white. It took her two trips to get all those towels, and she made a pile of them in the center of the washer room, beside the drain in the gray concrete floor.

Her final stop took her to the very far left, all the way down the corridor to the pool. As she went along, the wheels on her cart made a little whistling noise, and her feet shuffled unevenly, her grip on the bin’s lip giving her some added stability and helping her to go faster.

When she heard music coming from the swimming area, she slowed. Then stopped.

The strains of notes and voices made no sense as all members of the Brotherhood and their shellans were gone for the night. Unless someone had left the music on after they had finished their time in the water?

Pushing her way into a squat anteroom tiled with mosaics of athletic males, she got hit with a wall of warmth and humidity so heavy, it was as if she had stepped up against a velvet drape. And all around, there was a strange, chemical smell in the air, one that made her wonder what they treated the water with—on the Other Side, everything had stayed permanently fresh and clean, but she knew that was not the case on earth.

Leaving the bin to wait in the lobby, she walked forward toward a vast, cavelike space. Reaching out, she touched the warm tiles on the wall, running her fingers over the blue skies and rolling green fields, but skipping any of the loinclothed males, with their archery bows, and their fencing staffs, and their running poses.

She loved the water. The floating buoyancy, the easing of the aches in her bad leg, the sense of brief freedom—

“Oh… my…” she gasped as she turned the corner.

The pool was four times the size of the largest bath on the Other Side, and its water was a shimmering pale blue—likely because of the tiles that skinned its deep belly. Black lines ran lengthwise, denoting lanes, and there were numbers going down the stone lip, clearly marking depth. Up above, the ceiling was domed and covered in more mosaics, and there were benches against the walls, providing places to sit. Echoing around, the music was louder, but not overly so, and the mournful tune possessed a pleasing resonance.

Given that she was alone, she couldn’t resist going over and testing the temperature with her bare foot.

Tempting. So very tempting.

But instead of giving in, she refocused on her duties, going back to her bin, rolling it over to a large wicker basket, and then transferring her body weight in damp terry cloth.

When she turned to go, she paused and stared at the water again.

There was no way the first round of sheeting had finished its washing cycle. It had at least forty-five minutes left according to what the machine had reported.

She checked the clock that was mounted on the wall.

Perhaps just a few minutes in the pool, she decided. She could use the relief from the aching in her lower body, and there was nothing she could do relative to her job for the next little bit.

Grabbing one of the fresh, folded towels, she double-checked the anteroom. Went farther down and looked out into the corridor.

Nobody was about. And now was the time to do this—the staff would be concentrating on cleaning the second floor of the mansion, as they had to get that work done between First and Last Meals. And there was no one getting treated at the clinic, at least for the moment.

She had to make this fast.

Limping back to the shallow end, she unfastened her robe and drew off the hood, stripping down to her undersheath. After a brief hesitation, she removed the sheer liner as well—she would have to remember to bring a second with her if she wanted to do this again. Better to remain modest.

As she folded her things, she deliberately stared at her twisted calf, tracing the roping scars that formed an ugly relief map of mountains and valleys in her flesh. Once, the lower leg had worked perfectly and been as lovely as many an artist could have drawn. Now it was a symbol of who and what she was, a reminder of a fall from grace that had made her a lesser person… and, over time, a better one.

Fortunately, there was a chrome handrail by the steps, and she gripped it for balance as she slowly entered the warm water. Upon the descent, she recalled her braid and wound the heavy length around and around the top of her head, tucking in the loose end so that the beehive held in place.

And then… she glided.

Closing her eyes in bliss, she gave herself over to weightlessness, the water a temperate breeze wafting across her flesh, her body held kindly in the pool’s peaceable palms. As she stroked out into the center, she threw away her resolve not to get her hair wet, and rolled over onto her back, sweeping her hands in circles to keep herself afloat.

For a brief time, she allowed herself to feel something, opening the door to her senses.

And it was… good.

Left behind at the mansion for the night, Tohr was off-roster, stuck inside and hungover: a bad-mood trifecta if he’d ever seen one.

The good news was that with most people gone or going about their business, he didn’t have to inflict the toxicity on anybody else.

On that note, he headed for the training center, dressed in nothing but his swimming trunks. Having heard that most hangovers were caused by dehydration, he’d decided not only to go to the pool and submerge himself… but to bring some liquid refreshment with him. And how was that for healthy.

What had he grabbed? Oh, good, vodka—he liked that straight up, and hey, it looked like water.

Pausing in the tunnel, he took a swig of V’s Goose, and swallowed—

Fuck. The sound of John’s shitkicker hitting the floor, like some godforsaken bell tolling, was something he was never going to forget. Just like the kid’s finger pointing at him.

Time for another swallow… and hey, how about one more.

As he resumed his trek toward what was probably going to be a drowning party, he recognized that he was a walking cliché: He’d seen his brothers in this shape from time to time, weaving around with a sour, fuzzy head, a bad attitude, and a bottle of knockout juice grafted to their palms. Back before Wellsie had been taken from him, he’d never really understood the whys.

Now? Duh.

You did what you had to do to get yourself through the hours. And the nights when you couldn’t go out and fight were the worst—unless, of course, you were facing off against all the day’s bright, glowing no-go. That was even more wretched.

As he came out of the office and zeroed in on the pool, he was glad he didn’t have to fake the expression on his face, or watch his language, or chill his temper.

Pushing open the door to the anteroom, his blood pressure lowered as that warm, welcoming wave of humidity came over him. The music helped, too: From out of the sound system, U2 was filling the air, old-school The Joshua Tree echoing around.

His first clue that something was off was the pile of rags at the shallow end. And maybe if he hadn’t been hitting the liquor, he might have put two and two together before he—

Floating in the center of the pool, a female was faceup on the top of the water, her naked breasts glistening, her nipples tight in the warm air, her head back.

“Fuck.”

Hard to know what made the bigger noise: his f-bomb or the Goose bottle hitting the tile floor… or the splash out in the middle as No’One jacked up and spluttered, covering herself while she tried to keep her head above water.

Tohr spun around and put his hands over his eyes—

On the pivot, broken glass sliced into the ball of his bare foot, the pain pitching him off balance—not that he needed any help with that, thanks to his having sucked face with the vodka. Throwing out a hand, he went to catch himself on the tile floor—and ended up slicing open his right palm as well.

“Fucking hell,” he shouted, shoving himself free of the shards.

As he rolled onto his back, No’One scampered out of the water and dragged her robe around her naked flesh, that long braid swinging free as she jerked the hood into place.

With another curse, Tohr brought his palm up to check the injury. Great. Right in the center of his dagger hand, two inches long, and the bitch was a couple of millimeters deep.

God only knew what he’d done to his foot.

“I didn’t know you were here,” he said without looking up or over at her. “I’m sorry.”

From out of the corner of his eye, he got a visual of No’One approaching, her bare feet making appearances under the hem of her robe.

“Don’t come any closer,” he barked. “There’s glass all over the place.”

“I shall be right back.”

“Fine,” he muttered, as he brought up his foot for a look-see.

Fantastic—longer. Deeper. Bleeding more. And there was still bottle in it.

With a growl, he took hold of the little glass triangle and pulled the thing out. His blood on the shard was red as a blush, and he turned the piece from side to side, watching the light play through it.

“Thinking of taking up surgery?”

Tohr glanced over at Manny Manello, MD, human surgeon, mated hellren of V’s twin. The guy had come with a first-aid kit, as well as his signature I-run-the-world attitude.

What was it with surgeons? They were almost as bad as warriors. Or kings.

The human crouched down beside him. “You’re leaking.”

“No shit.”

Just as he was wondering where No’One was, the female came in with a broom, a rolling trash bin, and a dustpan. Without looking at him or the human, she began sweeping carefully.

At least she’d put shoes on.

Jesus Christ… she had been really fucking naked.

As Manello poked and prodded at the injured hand, and then started numbing and stitching, Tohr watched the female out of the corner of his eye—no direct viewing. Especially not after—

Jesus… like, really fucking naked—

Okay, time to stop thinking about that.

Focusing on her limp, he noticed that it was pretty damn pronounced, and wondered if she’d hurt herself in that great rush to get out of the pool and get clothed.

He’d seen her frantic before. But only once…

It had been the night they’d gotten her away from that symphath.

He’d killed the bastard. Shot her captor right through the head, dropping him like a stone. Then he and Darius had packed her into a carriage and headed back for her family’s house. The plan had been to return her to them. Take her to her blood. Give her to those who by all rights should have helped her heal.

Except when they’d gotten close to that stately mansion, she’d bolted out of the carriage even though the horses had been going at a clip. And he’d never forget the sight of her in that white nightgown, streaking across a field, running like she was being chased even though the capture part was over.

She’d known she was pregnant. That was why she’d taken off.

She’d had the limp then, too.

That had been her only attempt to escape. Well, until the one after the birth, the one that had worked.

God… he’d been nervous around her during the months they’d stayed together at Darius’s. He’d had zero experience with females of any worth: Yeah, sure, he’d grown up around them while he’d been with his mother, but that had been as a child, as a pretrans. The instant he’d gone through his transition, he’d been ripped out of his home and thrown into the sink-or-swim pit of the Bloodletter’s training camp—where he had been too busy trying to stay alive to worry about the whores.

He hadn’t even met Wellsie in person at that point. His promise to her had been an obligation his mother had assumed for him when he’d been twenty-five, before she’d even been born—

With a jerk, he hissed, and Manello looked up from his needle and thread. “Sorry. You want more lidocaine?”

“I’m fine.”

No’One’s hood shifted position sharply as she glanced over. After a moment, she resumed her broom work.

Maybe it was the alcohol kicking in, but he suddenly didn’t give a shit about pretenses. He let himself openly stare at the female as the good doctor finished up on the palm.

“You know, I’m going to have to get you a crutch,” Manello muttered.

“If you tell me what you need,” No’One said softly, “I shall bring it here for you.”

“Perfect. Go to the equipment room at the far end of the gym. In the PT suite, you’ll find the…”

As the guy gave her instructions, No’One nodded, that hood of hers moving up and down. For some reason, Tohr tried to picture her face, but it was hazy. He hadn’t seen her properly in centuries—that brief flash just now didn’t count, because it had been from a distance. And when she’d done the reveal to Xhex and him before the mating ceremony, he’d been too rocked to pay full attention.

But she was blond; he knew that. And she’d always liked the shadows—or at least, she had in Darius’s cabin. She hadn’t wanted to be looked at then, either.

“Okay, doing good,” Manello said as he inspected his repair job. “Let’s wrap this and move on to the next.”

No’One returned just as the surgeon was taping the tail end of the gauze in place.

“You can watch if you like.”

Tohr frowned until he realized that Manello was addressing No’One. The female was hanging back, and sure as if that hood of hers was a face with expressions, he could tell she was worried.

“Just a warning, though.” Manello moved downward. “This is worse than the hand—but the palm is more important, because that’s what he fights with.”

As No’One hesitated, Tohr shrugged. “You can see anything you like, assuming your stomach’s up for it.”

She went around and stood behind the doctor, crossing her arms into the sleeves of her robe so that she looked like some kind of religious statue. Except she was very much alive: When he winced as the needle went in with the anesthetic, she seemed to burrow into herself.

Like his being in pain affected her.

Tohr shifted his eyes away for the duration.

“All right, you’re done,” Manello said sometime later. “And before you ask, I’ll give you a ‘yeah, probably.’ Given how fast you guys heal, you should be good to go tomorrow night. For fuck’s sake, you’re like cars—take a beating, go into the body shop, next thing you know, back out on the road. Humans take so damn long to get over things.”

Uh-huh, right. Tohr wasn’t quite ready to put himself in Dodge Ram territory. The exhaustion he was lugging around with him meant he needed to feed—and that these relatively minor injuries could take a while to repair themselves.

Aside from that one session from Selena, he hadn’t taken a vein since—

Nope. Not going there. No need to open that door.

“No walking on this foot,” the surgeon ordered on as he snapped off his gloves. “At least until dawn. And no swimming.”

“No problem.” Especially on the latter. After what he’d just seen floating in the middle of the goddamn thing, he might never go in the pool again. Any pool, for that matter.

The only thing that saved his having walked in on her from being a complete mess was the fact that there had been nothing sexual on his side. Yeah, he’d been shocked, but that didn’t mean he wanted to… you know, bang her or some shit.

“One question,” the doctor said as he rose up and held out his hand.

Tohr accepted the palm and was a little surprised to find himself pulled solidly to his feet.

“What.”

“How did it happen?”

Tohr glanced over at No’One—who looked away so quickly, she turned her whole body in the opposite direction.

“Bottle slipped out of my hand,” Tohr muttered.

“Ah, well—accidents happen.” The yeah-sure tone suggested the guy didn’t believe the fudge for a second. “Call me if you need me. I’m down in the clinic for the rest of the night.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Yup.”

And then… he and No’One were alone together.

ELEVEN

As No’One watched the healer go, she found herself wanting to take a step back from Tohrment. It seemed as if, in the absence of any other parties, he had suddenly gotten closer. And much, much larger.

In the silence that transpired, she had the sense that they should be speaking, but her mind was clouded. Mortified did not begin to cover it, and she had some instinct that if she could just explain herself, mayhap she could make that feeling go away.

In the meantime, too much of his physical form registered for comfort. He was so tall—inches and inches, a whole foot taller than she was. And his body was not reedy as hers was: Although he was thinner than she remembered from before, and a great deal lighter than his Brothers, he was still broader and more muscled than any male member of the glymera ever had been.…

Where was her tongue? she thought.

And yet even as she wondered that, all she could do was measure the brutal width of his shoulders, and the massive contours of his heavy chest, and those long, viciously muscled arms. It was not because she considered him comely, however. She was abruptly frightened of all that physical power—

Tohrment was the one who took a step back, his face registering disgust. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Shaking herself, she recalled that this was the male who had gotten her free. Not someone who had ever hurt her. Or would. “I am sorry—”

“Listen up, and I want to make this clear. I’m not interested in anything from you. I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing—”

“Game?”

His powerful arm shot out as he pointed to the pool. “Lying in wait for me to come down here—”

No’One recoiled. “What? I was not waiting for you or anyone else—”

“Bullshit—”

“I checked first to make sure I was alone—”

“You were naked, floating there like some kind of whore—”

“Whore?”

Their raised voices ricocheted around like bullets, crossing paths as they interrupted each other.

Tohrment jutted himself forward on his hips. “Why did you come here?”

“I work as a laundress—”

“Not the training center—this goddamn compound.”

“I wanted to see my daughter—”

“Then why haven’t you spent any time with her?”

“She is newly mated! I have tried to make myself available—”

“Yeah, I know. Just not to her.”

The disrespect in that deep voice made her want to shrink away, but his unfairness gave her a backbone. “I had no way of knowing that you were going to enter herein. I thought all were gone for the night—”

Tohrment closed the distance between them. “I’m going to say this only once. There’s nothing here for you. The mated males in this house are bound to their shellans, Qhuinn’s not interested, and neither am I. If you’ve come looking for a hellren or a lover, you’re out of luck—”

“I want no male!” Her shouting shut him up, but that wasn’t nearly enough. “I shall say this only once—I would kill myself afore I ever accept another male into my body. I know why you hate me, and I respect your reasons, but I do not want you or any other of your persuasion. Ever.”

“Then how about you start by keeping your goddamn clothes on.”

She would have slapped him if she could have reached that high. Her palm even started to tingle.

But she did not jump up to wipe the terrible expression off his face with force. Lifting her chin, she said with as much dignity as she could, “In the event you have forgotten what the last male did to me, I can assure you I have not. Whether you choose to believe me or prefer a delusion, that is not my doing—or my concern.”

As she limped past him, she wished for once that her leg was what it had been before: Pride was far better served by an even gait.

Just as she got to the anteroom, she looked back at him. He had not turned about, so she addressed his shoulders… and the name of his shellan, which was carved in his very skin. “I shall never go near that water again. Clothed or unclothed.”

As she wobbled to the door, she was shaking from head to foot, and it wasn’t until she felt the cold slap of the air out in the corridor that she realized she had left the rolling trash bin, the sweeper, and her sheath behind.

She was not going back for them, that was for certain.

In the laundry room, she closed herself in and leaned against the wall by the doors.

Abruptly, she felt like she was suffocating, and ripped the hood from her head. Indeed, her body was hot, and not because of the heavy layer she wore. An internal burn had taken root and used her gut for kindling, the heated smoke from that fire filling her lungs, crowding out the oxygen.

It was impossible to reconcile the male she had known in the Old Country with the one she saw now. The former had been awkward, but never, ever disrespectful, a kind, gentle soul who somehow excelled at his brutal endeavors in the war—whilst retaining his compassion.

This current iteration was but a bitter shell.

And to think she’d assumed preparing that dress would be of any benefit?

She’d have better luck moving the mansion with her mind.

In the wake of No’One’s pissed-off departure, Tohr decided that short of the fact John Matthew hadn’t managed to cut himself on the hand and foot thus far tonight, it looked like Tohr and the kid had a lot in common: Courtesy of their tempers, both were now dressed in the Captain Asshole costume—which included, for no extra charge, the cape of disgrace, the booties of shame, and keys to the Fuck Up mobile.

Christ, what had come out of his mouth?

In the event you have forgotten what the last male did to me, I can assure you I have not.

With a groan, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Why in the world would he think, for even a second, that female would have any sexual interest in a male?

“Because you assumed she was attracted to you and it freaked you out.”

Tohr closed his eyes. “Not now, Lassiter.”

Naturally, the fallen angel paid no attention to the verbal POLICE LINE—DO NOT CROSS tape. The blond-and-black idiot walked over and sat down on one of the benches, putting his elbows on the knees of his leathers, his odd white eyes steady and grave.

“It’s time you and I had a little talk.”

“About my social skills?” Tohr shook his head. “No offense, but I’d rather take advice from Rhage—and that’s saying something.”

“Have you ever heard of the In Between.”

Tohr awkwardly pivoted around on his good foot. “I’m not interested in a class on fractions. Thanks.”

“It’s a very real place.”

“So is Cleveland. Detroit. Beautiful downtown Burbank.” He’d been a Laugh-In fan in the sixties. So sue him. “But I don’t need to know about them, either.”

“It’s where Wellsie is.”

Tohr’s heart stopped in his chest. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“She is not in the Fade.”

Okay. Right. He probably should follow that one up with, “What the fuck are you talking about?” Instead, all he could do was stare at the guy.

“She’s not where you think she is,” the angel murmured.

Through a dry mouth, he managed, “You’re saying she’s in hell? Because that’s the only other option.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Tohr took a deep breath. “My shellan was a female of worth, and she’s in the Fade—there’s no reason to think she’d be in Dhund. As for myself, I’m through with jumping down people’s throats tonight. So I’m going to walk out that door over there”—he pointed in the direction of the anteroom just to be helpful—“and you’re going to let me go. Because I’m not in the mood for this.”

Turning away, he started hobbling, using that single crutch No’One had brought in.

“You’re pretty goddamn sure of something you don’t know shit about.”

Tohr stopped. Closed his eyes again. Sent up a prayer for an emotion, any emotion, other than the urge to kill.

No luck.

He glanced over his shoulder. “You’re an angel, right. So you’re supposed to be compassionate. I just accused a female who was raped until impregnated of being a whore. Do you honestly think I can handle being circle jerked about my shellan right now?”

“There are three places in the afterlife. The Fade, where loved ones are reunited. Dhund, where the unjust go. And the In Between—”

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“—which is where souls get stuck. It’s not like the other two—”

“Do you care?”

“—because the In Between is different for everybody. Right now, your shellan and your young are stuck because of you. That’s why I’ve come—I’m here to help you, help them get where they belong.”

Man, this was a fine time to have a fucked-up foot, Tohr thought, because he suddenly had no sense of balance whatsoever. Either that or the training center was spinning on the axis of the house.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered.

“You’ve got to move on, my man. Stop holding on to her so she can go—”

“There is no purgatory, if that’s what you’re suggesting—”

“Where the fuck do you think I came from?”

Tohr cocked a brow. “You really want me to answer that.”

“Not funny. And I’m serious.”

“No, you’re lying—”

“You ever wonder how I found you in those woods? Why I’ve stuck around? Have you asked yourself for a moment why I’m wasting time on you? Your shellan and your son are trapped and I was sent here to get them free.”

“Son?” Tohr breathed.

“Yeah, she was carrying a little boy.”

Tohr’s legs went out from underneath him at that point—fortunately, the angel jumped forward and caught him before he broke something.

“Come here.” Lassiter maneuvered him over toward the bench. “Park it and put your head between your knees—your color’s gone to hell.”

For once, Tohr didn’t put up a fight; he let his ass go down and allowed himself to get pretzeled by the angel. As he opened his mouth and tried to breathe, he noticed for no good reason that the tiles on the floor weren’t a solid aqua blue, but had multicolored specks in them of white and gray and navy.

As a big hand started making circles on his back, he was strangely comforted.

“A son…” Tohr lifted his head a little and swept his palm down his face. “I wanted a son.”

“So did she.”

He looked over sharply. “She never told me that.”

“She kept quiet because she didn’t want you to get all fat-chested about having two males in the house.”

Tohr laughed. Or maybe it was a sob. “She would so do that.”

“Yeah.”

“So you’ve seen her.”

“Yeah. She’s not doing well, Tohr.”

Abruptly, he felt like… “I’m going to be sick.” Which was better than crying. “Purgatory?”

“The In Between. And there’s a reason that no one knows about it. If you get out, you’re in the Fade—or Dhund, and your experience of where you were is forgotten, a bad memory that fades. And if your window closes, you’re stuck there forever, so it’s not like you’re filing any reports on the landscape.”

“I don’t understand—she lived a good life. She was a female of worth who was taken early. Why wouldn’t she go into the Fade?”

“Did you hear what I said? Because of you.”

“Me?” He threw his hands up. “What the fuck did I do wrong? I’m living and breathing—I didn’t off myself and I’m not going to—”

“You haven’t let her go. Don’t deny it. Come on, look what you just did to No’One. You walked in on her naked, through no fault of her own, and you tore her head off because you thought she was hitting you with a case of the hot-and-bothereds.”

“And it’s somehow wrong that I don’t want to be ogled?” Tohr frowned. “Besides, how the hell do you know what just happened.”

“You don’t honestly think you’re ever alone anymore, do you? And the problem isn’t No’One. It’s you—you don’t want to be attracted to her.”

“I wasn’t attracted to her. I’m not.”

“But it’s okay if you are. That’s the point—”

Tohr reached over, grabbed the front of the angel’s shirt, and yanked their heads together. “I got two things to say to you. I don’t believe a thing you’re telling me, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut the fuck up about my mate.”

As Tohr shoved free and got to his feet, Lassiter cursed. “You don’t have forever with this, buddy.”

“Stay the hell out of my room.”

“Are you willing to bet her eternity on your anger? Are you really that arrogant?”

Tohr glared over his shoulder… except the son of a bitch was gone: There was nothing but air on the bench where the angel had been. And it was hard to argue with that.

“Whatever. Fucking whack-job.”

TWELVE

When Xhex walked into the Iron Mask, she felt like she was stepping back in time. For years, she had worked in clubs like this, weeding through desperate people like this, keeping her eyes peeled for trouble… like this little knot of tension that had formed up ahead.

Directly in front of her, two guys were squaring off, a pair of Goth bulls all but pawing at the ground with their New Rocks. Just to the side, a chick with black-and-white hair, glittery cleavage, and a dumb-ass getup involving buckled straps of black leather was looking pretty damn satisfied with herself.

Xhex wanted to slap her upside the head and send her packing just for that attitude alone.

The real problem, however, was not this bonehead with the breasticles, but the two pieces of meat who were about to go Dana White on each other. The concern was not so much what they did to each other’s noses or jawlines; it was the other two hundred people who were basically behaving. Male bodies flying backward in twelve different directions could knock a lot of bystanders on their asses, and who needed that?

She was about to step in when she reminded herself that this wasn’t her job anymore. She was no longer responsible for these asshats and their libidos and their jealousies, their drug dealing and doing, their sexual exploits—

Annnnnnd here was Trez “Latimer,” taking care of it anyway.

The humans in the crowd saw the Moor as simply one of them, just bigger and more aggressive. She knew the truth, however. That Shadow was far more dangerous than any of the Homo sapiens could have guessed. If he’d wanted to, he could have ripped their throats out in the blink of an eye… then thrown the carcasses on a spit over a fire, basted them for a couple of hours, and had them for dinner with an ear of corn and a bag of chips.

Shadows had a unique way of disposing of their enemies.

Tums, anyone?

As Trez’s bulk made an impression, the dynamic onstage changed instantly: Dipshit chippie took one look at him and appeared to forget the names of the two guys she’d whipped up into a tizzy. Meanwhile, the pair of boozing bozos cooled off a little, stepping back and reevaluating their situation.

Good plan—they were one second away from having it forcibly reevaluated for them.

Trez’s eyes met Xhex’s for a heartbeat, and then he focused on his three patrons. As the female tried to sidle up to him, flashing her eyes and her breast tissue, she made all the impression of a strip steak to a vegetarian: Trez was vaguely disgusted.

Over the din of the music, Xhex only caught a few words here and there, but she could have guessed the script well enough: Don’t be an ass. Take it outside. First and only warning before you’re persona non grata.

At the end of it, Trez practically had to peel the harpy off him with a crowbar—somehow, she’d grafted herself onto his arm.

Shaking her off with a, “You can’t be serious,” he stepped up. “Hey.”

That slow, sexy smile of his was the problem, of course. And the deep voice didn’t help. Or that body.

“Hey.” She had to smile back. “Female problems again?”

“Always.” He glanced around. “Where’s ya man?”

“Not here.”

“Ahhhhh.” Pause. “How you?”

“I don’t know, Trez. I don’t know why I’m here. I just…”

Reaching out, he put a heavy arm around her shoulders and drew her up against him. God, he smelled the same, a combination of Gucci Pour Homme and something that was altogether him.

“Come on, girlie,” he murmured. “Back to my office.”

“Don’t call me ‘girlie.’ ”

“Okay. How ’bout ‘buttercup.’ ”

She snaked an arm around his waist and leaned her head on his pec as they started walking together. “You like your balls where they are?”

“Yeah. I don’t like the way you’re lookin’, though. I prefer you feisty and pissed off.”

“Me, too, Trez. Me too…”

“So we’re good on the ‘buttercup’? Or do I have to get even tougher with you? I’ll pull out ‘pookie’ if I have to.”

In the way back of the club, next to the locker room where the “dancers” changed in and out of their street clothes, Trez’s office had a door on it like a meat locker. Inside, there was a black leather couch, a big metal desk, and a lead-lined blanket chest that was bolted to the floor. That was it. Well, aside from the purchase orders, receipts, phone messages, laptops.…

It felt like a million years since she’d been around all this.

“Guess iAm hasn’t been here yet,” she said, nodding to the mess on the desk. Trez’s twin would never have stood for it.

“He’s over at Sal’s cooking until midnight.”

“Same schedule, then.”

“If it ain’t broke…”

As they settled in, he in his thronelike chair, she on the couch, her chest hurt.

“Talk to me,” he said, his dark face serious.

Propping her head on her hand and crossing her leg ankle to knee, she fiddled with the laces on her shitkicker. “What if I told you I wanted my old job back?”

In her peripheral vision, she watched him recoil a little. “I thought you were fighting with the Brothers.”

“So did I.”

“Wrath not exactly comfortable with a female in the field?”

“John isn’t.” As Trez cursed, she exhaled hard. “And as I’m his shellan, what he says goes.”

“He actually looked you in the eye and—”

“Oh, he did more than that.” When a threatening growl percolated through the air, she waved her hand. “No, nothing violent. The argument—arguments weren’t a party, though.”

Trez sat back. Drummed his fingers on the clutter in front of him. Stared at her. “Of course you can come back—you know me. I’m not bound by any vampiric notion of propriety—and ours is a matriarchal society, so I’ve never understood the misogyny of the Old Ways. Am worried about you and John, however.”

“We’ll work it out.” How? She hadn’t a clue. But she wasn’t giving her fear that they wouldn’t be able to any more credibility by putting it into words. “I just can’t sit in that house doing nothing, and I don’t want to even lay eyes on the bunch of them. Shit, Trez, I should have known this mating thing was a bad idea. I’m not cut out for it.”

“Sounds like you’re not the one creating the problem. Although I do get where he’s coming from. If anything happened to iAm, I’d go fucking mental—so it’s not a good idea for he and I to fight side by side.”

“You do anyway.”

“Yeah, but we’re stupid. And it’s not like we go out looking for hand-to-hand every night—we got office jobs that keep us busy, and it’s only if something finds us that we take care of it.” He opened a desk drawer and threw her a set of keys. “There’s one last empty office down the hall. If that detective from CPD homicide comes around again about Chrissy and that dead boyfriend of hers, we’ll deal with it if we have to. Meanwhile, I’ll put you back on the payroll. Timing’s good—I could use some help organizing the bouncers. But—and I mean this—there’s no long-term obligation. You can leave whenever you want.”

“Thanks, Trez.”

The two of them stared across his desk.

“It’s going to be okay,” the Shadow said.

“You sure about that.”

“Positive.”

About a block and a half away from the Iron Mask, Xcor stood in the lee of a tattoo parlor, the red, yellow, and blue glow from its neon sign getting in his eyes and on his nerves.

Throe and Zypher had gone into the establishment about ten minutes ago.

But not for ink.

By all that was holy, Xcor would have preferred for his soldiers to be anywhere else on a mission for anything else. Unfortunately, one couldn’t negotiate with the need for blood—and they had yet to find a reliable source for it. Human females would do in the pinch they were in, but the strength didn’t last nearly as long, and that meant the hunt for victims was nearly as frequent as that for food.

Indeed, they had been here only a week, and he could feel the lagging effect on his flesh already—back in the Old Country, they had had proper vampire females that they had paid to be of service. Here, they currently didn’t have that luxury, and he feared it would be a while before they did.

Although if he became king, the problem would be solved.

As he waited, he shifted his weight back and forth on his boots, his leather coat making a subtle creaking noise. On his back, concealed in her holster but ready for use, his scythe was as impatient as he was.

Sometimes he could swear the thing talked to him: For instance, from time to time, a human would pass by the opening of the alley he was in; maybe it was a loner striding quickly, or a woman lollygagging as she tried to light a cigarette in the wind, or a small group of revelers. Whatever the variant, his eyes tracked them as prey, noting the way their bodies moved and where they might be hiding any weapons and how many bounding leaps it would take to put himself in their paths.

And all the while his scythe whispered to him, urging him to take action.

Back in the Bloodletter’s time, humans had been fewer and less robust, good for both target practice and as a source of sustenance—which was how that race of tailless rats had ended up with so many vampire myths. Now, however, the rodents had taken over the palace of the earth, becoming a threat.

Such a shame he couldn’t go to work on Caldwell properly. Take it over not just from the great Blind King and the Brotherhood, but the Homo sapiens, too.

His scythe was ready; that was for certain. She all but tingled on his back, begging to be used in that voice that was sexier than anything his ears had actually heard from a female.

Throe emerged from the shop and came into the alley. Immediately, Xcor’s fangs elongated, his cock getting hard not because he was interested in sex, but because that was just what his body did.

“Zypher’s finishing up with them right now,” his lieutenant said.

“Good.”

As a metal door opened down the way, both of them ducked their hands into their leather dusters and gripped guns. But it was just Zypher… with a triumvirate of ladies, all of whom were about as attractive as garbage next to a dinner plate.

Beggars, choosers and all that, however. Besides, each had the foremost requirement: a neck.

On the approach, Zypher was grinning, but being careful not to flash his fangs. In his accent, he drawled, “This is Carla, Beth, and Linda—”

“Lindsay,” the one on the far end called out.

“Lindsay,” he corrected, reaching over and pulling her in closer. “Girls, you met my friend—and this is my boss.”

The soldier didn’t bother with names—why waste the breath? Yet regardless of the improper introduction, they seemed excited: Carla, Beth, and Lin-whatever-the-fuck smiled at Throe, all green-light in the eye… until they looked at Xcor

Even though he was mostly in the shadows, a security light had been motion-activated above the door they’d come out of, and clearly they didn’t like what they saw. Two of them dropped their eyes to the ground. The other just got busy fiddling with Zypher’s leather jacket.

The intrinsic rejection was not an unheard-of reaction. In fact, no female had ever looked upon him with approval or attraction.

Fortunately, he couldn’t care less.

Before the silence could get awkward, Zypher said, “Anyhow, these lovely ladies are about to go to work—”

“At the Iron Mask,” Lin-whatever spoke up.

“—but they’ve agreed to meet us out here at three o’clock.”

“When we get off,” one of them tacked on.

As the trio fell into a set of annoying, naughty giggles, Xcor was no more interested in them than they were in him. Indeed, his ambitions were far loftier than the likes of Zypher’s. Sex, like taking blood, was an inconvenient biological function, and he was far too smart to ever fall for that romance bullshit.

If one was determined to go that route, castration was easier, less painful, and just as permanent.

“So, do we have a date?” Zypher said to the woman.

The one who’d all but crawled into his clothes whispered something that brought his head down. As his brows tightened, it wasn’t hard to figure out what the gist was, and the woman didn’t look too unhappy about his answer.

She purred.

Then again, that was what unspayed alley cats did, Xcor supposed.

“It’s a date,” the vampire said, glancing at Throe. “I have promised that we shall take care of these three very nicely.”

“I’ve got what we need.”

“Fine. Good.” He swatted the ass of one, then another. The third, the woman trying to get into his coat, he tilted back and kissed hard.

More giggling. More coy looks that were not entirely about the fact that these were prostitutes on the way to getting paid.

Just as they were leaving, each one of the women looked back at Xcor, their expressions suggesting he was like a disease they were soon to be exposed to. He wondered who was going to get the short end of the stick when they all reconvened—because sure as the day was long and the nights always too short, he was going to have one of them.

It simply cost extra in these kinds of situations.

“Fine specimens of virtue,” Xcor said dryly when he was alone with his soldiers.

Zypher shrugged. “They are what they are. And they’ll be good enough.”

“I am endeavoring to find us proper females,” Throe said. “It is not easy, however.”

“Mayhap you need to work harder.” Xcor looked up to the sky. “Now let us get to work. Time is wasting.”

THIRTEEN

Whore? Whore?

As No’One cast herself unto the Other Side and reentered the Sanctuary she had spent centuries in, she could get neither that word nor her anger out of her head.

Down below, in the training center, clean laundry had never been folded so viciously, and when she had finished her duties, staying in the mansion for the daylight hours had not been possible.

This was her only other destination.

And it was about time to come here to refresh herself anyway.

Standing in the field of colorful flowers, she took deep breaths… and prayed that she would be left alone. The Chosen were a kindly lot of sacred females and they deserved better than what she had to offer even a casual passerby—fortunately, they were mostly over on the Far Side now with the Primale.

Hitching up her robing, she started to walk, marching through the perpetually blooming tulips with their fat hats in vibrant, jewel-like hues. She kept going until her bad leg started to protest. And then still she continued to promenade.

The Scribe Virgin’s precious territory was bound on all four sides by a thick forest, and peppered with classically styled buildings and temples. No’One knew every roof, every wall, every path, every pool—and now in her fury, she made a broad circle about it all.

Anger animated her, driving her forward toward… nothing and nobody. And yet nonetheless she surged on.

How could he who had seen her suffer ever call her that? She had been a virgin violently robbed of the gift she had intended to give whomever she would have mated.

Whore!

Indeed, Tohrment was not the male she had once known—and as the thought occurred, she reflected that in this they were the same. She, too, had shed an earlier incarnation of herself, but unlike him, her current persona was an improvement.

After a while, her leg ached so much she had to slow down… and then stop. The pain was a great clarifier, making the environment she was actually in supersede the one she had left down below but kept with her.

She was standing afore the Temple of the Sequestered Scribes.

It was unoccupied. As had all the other buildings been.

As she looked around, the true depth of the quiet sank in. The landscape was utterly unoccupied. It was as if, in a rake of irony, the vibrant color that had finally come hereto had not just replaced the pervasive white, but chased away all the life.

Recalling the past, when there had been so much to tend to, she realized that in truth, she had gone to the Other Side not just to seek her daughter, but to find another place where she could busy herself to exhaustion so that she did not think overly much.

Here she had nothing to do.

Dearest Virgin Scribe, she was going to go mad.

Abruptly, an image of Tohrment, son of Hharm’s naked shoulders filled her mind until she was blinded by it.

WELLESANDRA

The name was carved on the breadth of his musculature in the Old Language, the marking of a true union of bodies and souls.

After having something like that ripped away by fate, he was no doubt as ruined as she herself was. And she had been angry at first, too. When she had arrived here after her death and was shown her duties by the Directrix, her numbness had melted away, revealing a fire of rage. There had been nothing to lash out at except for herself, however—and she had done that for decades.

At least until she had come to realize the “why” of her fate, the purpose behind her tragedy, the cause of her salvation.

She had been given a second chance so that she could be born anew into a role of service and humility, and learn the error of her previous ways.

Pushing the temple’s door wide, she limped into the lofty room, where the rows of desks and rolls of parchment and flares of feather quills were. At each station, in the center of the workspace, was a round crystal bowl filled three-quarters of the way with water so pure that it was nearly invisible.

Indeed, Tohrment was suffering as she had, perhaps just starting the journey she felt as though she had completed over too many years to count. And though her anger was an easy emotion to feel in the face of his unjust accusation, understanding and compassion were the harder, more valuable stances to take…

She had learned this from the example the Chosen set.

Although understanding required knowledge, she thought, staring at one of the bowls.

As she stepped forward, she was uneasy with the quest she was about to initiate, and she chose a station far, far in the back, away from both the doors and the cathedral-size leaded windows.

Sitting down, she found no dust on the surface of the desk, nor minute debris within or upon the water, nor dried-up ink in the bottle—in spite of the fact that it had been a long while since the room had been filled with females seeking out the events of the race down below and recording the history that appeared unto their kindly eyes.

No’One picked up the bowl, holding it with her palms, not her fingers. With barely perceptible movement, she began to circle the water, picturing Tohrment’s back as clearly as she was able.

Soon enough, a story began to unfold, told in moving pictures that were trussed in living color, and animated by love.

She had never before thought to search him and his life out in the bowls. The few times she had come here, it had been to check on her family’s fortunes and the course of her daughter’s life. Now, though, she knew it had been too painful for her to look into the pair of warriors who had given her shelter and protected her.

In her final, most cowardly act, she had betrayed them both.

On the surface of the water, she saw Tohrment with a red-haired female of grand stature—they were waltzing, she in that red gown, he robeless and showing off the fresh scarification that spelled out her name in the Old Language. He was so happy, incandescently so, his love and bonding making him shine like the North Star.

There were other scenes that followed, drifting down through the years, from when it had been all new between them to the comfort that came with familiarity, from small abodes to larger ones, from good times where they laughed together to hard times when they argued.

It was the very best that life had to offer anyone: a person to love and be loved by, with whom you carved meaning in the oak trunk of time’s perennial passing.

And then another scene.

The female was in a kitchen, a lovely, gleaming kitchen, standing before a stove. There was a pan on the heat, some meat cooking therein, and she had a spatula in her hand. She wasn’t looking downward, however. She was staring into the space afore her, her eyes unfocused as smoke began to curl up.

Tohrment appeared across the way, rushing into the doorway. He called out her name and grabbed a small towel, going over to a fixture on the ceiling and whisking the cloth back and forth with vigor as he winced as though his ears hurt.

Over at the stove, Wellesandra jumped to attention and shoved the burning pan from the red-hot coil. She began speaking, and though there was no sound associated with the pictures, it was clear she was making apologies.

After all was settled and calmed and no longer afire, Tohrment leaned back against the counter, crossed his arms over his chest, and spoke for a bit. Then he went silent.

It was a long while before Wellesandra answered. In the previous pictures of their life, she had always appeared to be strong and direct… now her expression was hesitant.

When she finished her reply, her lips pursed together and her eyes locked on her mate.

Tohrment’s arms gradually unfolded until they hung limp by his sides, and his mouth grew lax as well, his jaw unlatching to fall open. His eyes blinked repeatedly, open and shut, open and shut, open and shut.…

When he finally moved, it was with the grace of someone who had broken every bone in his body: He lurched across the distance that separated them and fell to his knees before his shellan. Reaching up with shaking hands, he touched her lower belly as tears watered his eyes.

He didn’t say a word. Just gathered his mate to him, his big, strong arms enveloping her waist, his wet cheek coming to rest on her womb.

Above him, Wellesandra started to smile… beam, really.

Down below her happiness, however, Tohr’s face was cast in lines of terror. As if he knew, even then, that the pregnancy she rejoiced in was doom for all three of them—

“I thought I’d find you on this side.”

No’One whipped around, the water in the bowl splashing out onto her robe, the image ruined.

Tohrment stood in the doorway sure as if her invasion of his privacy had called him forth to protect what was rightly his. His temper had dissipated, but even in the absence of anger, his gaunt face was nothing close to what she had just seen of him.

“I’ve come to apologize,” he said.

She carefully put the bowl back, watching as the choppy surface of the water calmed down and the level slowly rose to what it had been, replenished from an unknown, unseeable reservoir.

“I figured I’d wait until I sobered up a little—”

“I’ve been watching you,” she said. “In the bowl. With your shellan.”

That shut him up.

Getting to her feet, No’One smoothed her robe even though it fell as it always did, in straight, shapeless folds of cloth. “I understand why you are in a foul way and quick to temper. It is in the nature of a wounded animal to strike out at even a friendly hand.”

When she looked up, he was frowning so deeply, his brows were a single line. Not exactly an opening for conversation. But it was time to clear the air between them, and as with the debridement of a festering wound, one could expect it to hurt.

The infection must be wrestled from the flesh, however.

“How long ago did she die?”

“Killed,” he said after a moment. “She was killed.”

“How long.”

“Fifteen months, twenty-six days, seven hours. I’d have to check a watch for the minutes.”

No’One walked over to the windows and looked out over the bright green grass. “How did you find out she had been taken from you?”

“My king. My brothers. They came to me… and they told me she had been shot.”

“What happened after that?”

“I screamed. I took myself somewhere, anywhere else. I cried for weeks in the wilderness alone.”

“You didn’t perform a Fade ceremony?”

“I didn’t come back for nearly a year.” He cursed and scrubbed his face. “I can’t believe you’re asking me this shit, and I can’t believe I’m answering.”

She shrugged. “It is because you were cruel to me at the pool. You feel guilty, and I feel like you owe me something. The latter makes me bold and the former loosens your lips.”

He opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again. “You’re very smart.”

“Not really. It is obvious.”

“What did you see in the bowls?”

“Are you sure you wish me to say?”

“All of it plays in my head on an endless loop. Not gonna be a news flash, whatever it is.”

“She told you she was pregnant in your kitchen. You fell to the floor before her—she was happy, you were not.”

As he blanched, she wished she’d shared one of the other scenes.

And then he surprised her. “It’s weird… but I knew it was bad news. Too much good fortune. She wanted one so badly. Every ten years we fought about it when she had her needing. Finally, it got to the point where she was going to leave me if I didn’t agree to let her try. It was like choosing between taking a bullet or a blade—either way, I knew… somehow I was going to lose her.”

Using the crutch, he hobbled over to a chair, pulled it out, and sat down. As he awkwardly maneuvered his injured foot around, she realized they had yet another thing in common.

She approached him slowly and unevenly and sat at the desk beside him. “I am so sorry.” When he seemed a bit surprised, she shrugged once again. “How can I not offer condolences in the face of your loss? In truth, after seeing you both together, I don’t think I shall ever forget how much you loved her.”

After a moment, he murmured hoarsely, “That makes two of us.”

As they fell silent, Tohr stared at the small, hooded figure sitting so still next to him. They were separated by about four feet, each parked at one of the scribing desks. But they seemed closer than that.

“Take your hood off for me.” As No’One hesitated, he tacked on, “You saw the best of my life. I want to see your eyes.”

Her pale hands lifted, and they shook ever so slightly as she removed what covered her face.

She didn’t look at him. Likely couldn’t.

With dispassionate focus, he measured the spectacular angles of her features. “Why do you wear that all the time.”

She took a deep breath, the robe rising and falling such that he was forced to remember she was probably still naked under it.

“Tell me,” he demanded.

As she squared her shoulders, he thought that anyone who believed this female was weak had another think coming.

“This face”—she motioned around her perfectly angled jaw and her rosy, high cheeks—“is not who I am. If people see it, they treat me with a deference that is inappropriate. Even the Chosen did so. I cover it up because if I don’t, then I am propagating a lie, and even if it grinds upon only me, that is enough.”

“You have quite a way of putting things.”

“Is the explanation not sufficient.”

“It is.” When she went to raise the thing up again, he reached out and put his hand on her arm. “If I promise to forget what you look like, will you keep it down? I can’t judge your mood as well when you’re hiding—and in case you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly talking about the weather here.”

She kept her hand on one half of the hood, as if she couldn’t let go. And then she locked her eyes on him—so directly he recoiled.

It was the first time she’d really looked at him, he realized. Ever.

Speaking with likewise candor, she said, “Just so that you and I are utterly clear with each other, I have no interest in any male. I am sexually repulsed by your kind, and that includes yourself.”

He cleared his throat. Pulled at his muscle shirt. Shifted in the chair.

Then he took a slow, relieved breath.

No’One continued, “If I have offended you—”

“No, not at all. I know it’s not personal.”

“It truly is not.”

“To be honest, it makes things… easier. Because I feel the same way.”

At this, she actually smiled a little. “Two peas in a pod are we, indeed.”

They were quiet for a time. Until he said abruptly, “I’m still in love with my shellan.”

“Why wouldn’t you be. She was lovely.”

He felt himself smile for the first time in… so long. “It wasn’t just her looks. It was everything about her.”

“I could tell by the way you stared at her. You were enthralled.”

He picked up one of the quills and checked out the fine, sharp cut of its tip. “God… I was nervous that night we were mated. I wanted her so badly—and I couldn’t believe she was going to be mine.”

“Was it arranged?”

“Yeah, by my mahmen. My father didn’t care about that kind of thing—or for me, for that matter. But my mother took care of things the best she could—and she was smart. She knew if I got a good female, I’d be set for life. Or at least… that was the plan.”

“Is your mahmen alive?”

“No, and I’m glad she isn’t. She wouldn’t have… liked any of this.”

“And your father?”

“He’s dead, too. He disowned me until he got close to the grave. About six months before he died, he called me to him—and I wouldn’t have gone but for Wellsie. She made me, and she was right. He formally reclaimed me on his deathbed. I’m not sure why it was so important to him, but there you go.”

“What about Darius? I have not seen him around—”

“He was killed by the enemy. Just before Wellsie was.” As she gasped and put her hand to her mouth, he nodded. “It’s been hell, really.”

“You are all alone,” she said in a small voice.

“I have my brothers.”

“Do you let them in.”

With a short laugh, he shook his head. “You are hell’s bells with the rhetoricals, you know that?”

“I am sorry, I—”

“No, don’t apologize.” He put the quill back in its holder. “I like talking to you.”

As he heard the surprise in his own voice, he laughed harshly. “Man, I’m just making all kinds of charm points with you tonight, aren’t I.” Slapping his thighs to end their conversation, he got to his feet with the help of the crutch. “Listen, I also came here to do a little research. Do you know where the library is? Damned if I can find it.”

“Yes, of course.” As she stood, she swept that hood up over her head again. “I shall take you there.”

While she went past him, he frowned. “You’re limping worse than usual. Did you get hurt?”

“No. When I move around too much, it aches.”

“We could take care of that down below—Manello is—”

“Thank you, but no.”

Tohr threw out a hand and stopped her before she went out the door. “The hood. Leave it down, please.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “There’s no one here but us. You’re safe.”

FOURTEEN

As John Matthew stood on the shores of the Hudson River about fifteen minutes north of downtown Caldwell, he felt like he was a thousand miles away from everyone.

At his back, he had the prevailing breeze as well as a small hunting cabin that, if you didn’t know what it was, you’d write off as something not worth the effort to knock over. The place was a fortress, however, with steel-reinforced walls, an impenetrable roof, bulletproof windows… and enough firepower in its garage to make half the population of the city see God up close and personal.

He had assumed Xhex would come here. Been so convinced, he hadn’t bothered to track her.

But she wasn’t—

A flare of headlights off to the right brought his head around. A car was coming down the lane, slowly approaching the cabin.

John frowned as he got an earful of the engine: low, deep, a mean growl.

That was no Hyundai or Honda. Couldn’t be a Harley, too smooth.

Whatever the hell it was meandered by and kept going, all the way to the tip of the point where that big-ass house had been put up. A few moments later, lights began to go on inside the mansion, illumination pouring out of its curved porches and stacked, three-story straightaways.

Damn thing looked like a spaceship about to take off.

Not his biz. And it was time to go, anyway.

With a mute curse, he scattered his molecules and zeroed in on the armpit of Caldie, that stretch of bars, strip clubs, and tattoo places down around Trade Street.

The Iron Mask had been Rehvenge’s second club, a dance/sex/drug facility created to cater to a Goth demographic unserviced by his first establishment, ZeroSum—which had had more of a Eurotrash kind of vibe.

There was a line to get in—always was—but the two bouncers, Big Rob and Silent Tom, recognized him and let him in ahead of everyone else.

Velvet drapes, deep-seated couches, black lights… women in black leather with white makeup and hair extensions down to their asses… men clustered in groups, strategizing on how to get laid… moody music with lyrics that made you think fondly of eating a bullet.

But maybe that was just his mood.

And she was here. He could sense his blood in Xhex, and he headed through the crowd, zeroing in on the signal.

As he got to the unmarked door that led into the staff-only part of the club, Trez stepped out of the shadows. Natch.

“What’s doing,” the Shadow said, offering his palm.

The two clapped a grip, knocked shoulders, and slapped each other’s backs.

“You here to talk to her?” When John nodded, the guy opened the door. “I gave her the office beside the locker room next to me. Go on back—she’s just checking her staff reports—”

The Shadow stopped abruptly, but he’d said enough.

Jesus Christ…

“Ah, yeah, she’s back there,” the guy muttered, like he was sooo staying out of this one.

John ducked in and strode down the corridor. When he got to a closed door, he didn’t see a sign with her name on it, but wondered how long that would last.

And he knocked, even though she had to know he was here.

When she called out, he pushed in—

Xhex was in the far corner, bent over and pulling at something on the floor. As she looked up with a glare, she froze; which told him that, in fact, she hadn’t noticed he’d arrived.

Great. She was so into her new old job, she’d forgotten about him already.

“Ah… hey.” Glancing back down, she resumed what she was doing, yanking at—

An extension cord whipped out from underneath the file cabinet, the sharp-toothed end going flying.

Before it ripped around and caught her a good one, he leaped forward, snatched a hold on the thing, and took the hit himself, the sting of pain lighting off on his rib cage.

“Thanks,” she said as he handed it over and stepped away. “It was jammed back there.”

So… you’re going to work here now?

“Yeah. I am. I don’t think that other option is realistic. And”—her eyes got hard—“if you try to tell me I can’t—”

God, Xhex, this is not what we are. He motioned back and forth over the desk that separated them. This is not us.

“Actually, I guess it is, because we’re here, aren’t we.”

I don’t want to stop you from fighting—

“But you have. Let’s not pretend otherwise.” Xhex sat down in the office chair and leaned back, a squeak rising up. “Now that you and I are mated, the Brothers, even your king, take their cues from you—no, wait, I’m not finished.” She closed her eyes as if exhausted. “Just let me talk this out. I know they respect me, but they respect a mated male’s prerogative over his shellan more. It’s not specific to the Brotherhood—it’s the very fabric of vampire society, and no doubt it’s because a bonded male is a dangerous animal. You can’t change that, and I can’t live like that, so yeah, this is where we are.”

I can talk to them, make them—

“They’re not the root problem.”

John felt a sudden urge to punch a wall. I can change.

Abruptly her shoulders dropped, and her eyes, those gunmetal gray eyes, grew stark. “I don’t think you can, John. And neither can I. I’m not going to sit home and wait for you to come back at dawn every night.”

I’m not asking you to do that.

“Good, because I’m not going back to the mansion.” As John felt the blood drain out of his head, she cleared her throat. “You know, that whole bonding thing… I know you can’t help it. I was pissed off when I left, but I’ve been thinking it over ever since then, and— Shit, I know if you could feel different, be different, you would. The reality is, though, we could spend another miserable couple of months figuring that out, and learn to hate each other in the process—and I don’t want that. You don’t want that.”

So you’re done with me, he signed. Is that it?

“No! I don’t know— I mean, fuck.” She threw her hands up. “What else am I going to do? I’m so frustrated with you, with me, with everything—I’m not sure I’m even talking any sense.”

John frowned, finding himself in the same tough spot she was in. Where was the middle road?

There is more to us than this, he signed.

“I want to believe that,” she said sadly. “I really do.”

On impulse, he walked around the desk and stood over her. Gripping the armrest, he turned the chair toward him and put out both his palms, offering them to her.

There was no demand. No aggression. She would choose or not choose.

After a moment, Xhex placed her hands in his, and when he pulled her up, she didn’t fight him.

Slipping his arms around her, he brought her close—and then moving with power, he bent her off balance, holding her in his powerful arms, keeping her from the floor.

With eyes boring into hers, he brought their lips together once, briefly. When she didn’t slap him, kick him in the nuts, or bite him, he dropped his head and took her mouth properly, plying her to open for him.

When she did, he melded her body to his and kissed the ever-living shit out of her. One of his hands ended up on her ass, squeezing; the other got clamped on the back of her neck. As a groan came up her throat, he knew he’d proved his point.

Although he had no immediate solution to the bonded-male situation, he knew this connection between them was a for-sure, in a world that had suddenly seemed filled with maybe-not.

He stopped the kiss. He put her back down where she had been sitting. He went to the door.

Text me when you want to see me again, he signed. I’m giving you your space, but know this: I will wait forever for you.

Good thing for the chair, Xhex thought as the door closed behind John.

Yeah, wow. Whatever her head was cramped up with, her body was as fluid and easy as warm air.

She still wanted him. And he’d made his point. They did fit together—at least like that.

Holy hell, did they fit together.

Shit, what to do now?

Well, one idea… would be to text him to come back, lock them in together, and break in her new office improperly.

She even reached for her phone.

In the end, however, she texted something altogether different.

We’ll figure this out. Promise.

Putting the phone down, she knew it was up to her and John to find their own future—work it out of the unforgiving, rocky shoals of passing time in a way that fit what they both needed.

She’d assumed that would be fighting side by side with him and the Brotherhood, and so had he.

Maybe that was still the way. Maybe it wasn’t.

As she looked around her office, she wasn’t sure how long she would be here—

The knock that interrupted her was a single strong one.

“Yeah,” she called out.

Big Rob and Silent Tom walked in, looking as they always did—like they were about to drop some hotshot on his head for behaving badly. And as much as she was still focused on John, it was good to have some business-as-usual up in her face. She had spent a lot of nights making sure a club ran smoothly.

This she could do.

“Talk to me,” she said.

Naturally, Big Rob did the obliging. “There’s a new player in town.”

“In what line of business?”

The guy tapped the side of his nose.

Drugs. Wonderful—but hardly a surprise. Rehv had been the kingpin for a decade, and now that he’d departed the scene? Opportunity, like nature, hated a vacuum—and money was a great motivator.

Frickin’ great. The underworld of Caldwell was already a three-legged table from hell; more instability they did not need.

“Who is it?”

“No one knows. He’s come out of, like, nowhere, and just bought half a million in powder from Benloise, in cash.”

She frowned. It wasn’t like she doubted her bouncer’s sources, but that was a lot of product. “Doesn’t mean it’s going to be sold in Caldwell.”

“We just picked up this from a disorderly in the men’s bathroom.”

Big Tom tossed a cellophane packet on the desk. The thing was your standard-issue quarter-ounce serve-up, except for one little detail. It was stamped with a red ink seal.

Fuck…

“I got no idea what that writing thingy is.”

Of course he didn’t. It was a character in the Old Language, one that didn’t have an equivalent in English. Typically it was stamped on official documents, and it represented death.

The question was… who was trying to take Rehv’s place—who happened to be of the race?

“The guy you got this from, did you let him go?” she asked.

“He’s waiting for you in my office.”

Xhex got up and came around the desk. Nailing Big Tom in the arm with a quick punch, she said, “I always did like you.”

FIFTEEN

Up in the Sanctuary, No’One led Tohrment to the library, and expected to leave him to his investigations, whatever they might be. When they arrived at their destination, however, he opened the door for her, and beckoned her forward.

Of course, she stepped over the threshold.

The temple of books was long and thin and tall, built rather on the dimensions of a folio standing on its end. All around, leather-bound volumes, filled with the careful strokes of generations of the Chosen, were set in white marble cases in chronological order, the stories therein nonfictional accounts of lives lived far down below, and witnessed upon water’s transparent screen.

Tohrment stood for a moment, his crutch keeping him stable as he cocked his bandaged foot up.

“What are you looking for?” she asked as she glanced at the nearest shelves. The sight of the volumes made her wonder about the future of keeping the past. With the Chosen exploring the real world, they were not recording as much, if at all. This long tradition could well be lost.

“The afterlife,” Tohrment replied. “Any idea if there’s a section on that?”

“I believe the chronicles are arranged by year, not subject.”

“You ever hear of the In Between?”

“Of what?

He laughed with a hard edge as he hobbled forward and began inspecting the stacks. “Exactly. We got the Fade. We got Dhund. Two opposite ends that I assumed were the only choices when you die. I’m looking for any evidence that there’s another option. Damn it… yup—these are chronological, not by subject. Is it different elsewhere?”

“Not that I’m aware.”

“Any index system?”

“Only by decade, I believe? I am not an expert, however.”

“Shit, it could take years to go through all this.”

“Perhaps you should speak with one of the Chosen? I know that Selena was a scribe—”

“No one needs to know about this. It’s about my Wellsie.”

The irony of that phrasing seemed lost upon him. “Wait… there is another room.”

Leading him down the center aisle, she then took him left, into what was essentially a vault. “This is the most sacred place—where the lives of the Brotherhood are kept.”

The heavy doors resisted the invasion, at least when she tried to open them. Before Tohrment’s strength, however, they yielded to reveal a tight, tall room.

“So she kept us locked away,” he said dryly as he inspected the names on the spines. “Look at these.…”

He drew out one of the volumes and cracked the spine. “Ah, Throe—father of the current Throe. Wonder what the old man would think of who his son’s in bed with.”

As he replaced the volume, she made no bones about staring at him, his brows tight in concentration, his strong yet refined fingers handling the books with care, his body leaning into the shelving.

His dark hair was thick and glossy, and cut very short. And that white stripe in front seemed shockingly out of place—until she thought of his tired, haunted eyes.

Oh, those eyes of his. Blue as the sapphires in the Treasury—and just as precious, she supposed.

He was very handsome, she realized.

Funny, the fact that he was in love with someone else made it possible for her to even assess him on that level: With him feeling as he did for his shellan, he was… safe. To the point where she no longer felt awkward that he had seen her unclothed. He would never regard her with anything sexual. That would be a violation of his love for Wellesandra.

“Is there anything else in here?” he said, bending low while balancing on the crutch. “I just see… biographies of Brothers…”

“Here, allow me to help.”

Together they went through it all, and found no reference volumes pertaining to heaven or hell. Just Brother after Brother after Brother…

“Nothing,” he muttered. “What the fuck is a library good for if you can’t find anything in it?”

“Perhaps…” Gripping the lip of a shelf, she awkwardly bent downward, tracking the names. Finally, she found what she was looking for. “We could search your own.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he appeared to gird himself. “She’d be in there, wouldn’t she.”

“She was a part of your life, and you are the subject.”

“Pull it.”

There were several devoted to him, and No’One slid the most current one out. Cracking the spine, she flipped past the lineage declaration in the front, and scanned through the various pages that were focused on his prowess in the field. When she got to what had been written last, she frowned.

“What does it say.”

In the Old Language, she read aloud the date and then the notation: “ ‘Upon this eve, he did lose his mated shellan, Wellesandra, who was with young, from the earth. Subsequently, he extricated himself from the communal society of the Black Dagger Brotherhood.’ ”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

She turned the book around so he could read for himself, but he slashed his hand through the air. “Jesus Christ, I get ruined, and that’s all they wrote.”

“Perhaps they were being respectful of your grief.” She put the book away. “Surely that is best kept private.”

He didn’t say anything further, just stood there, pitched against the crutch that kept him up on his feet, his angry eyes locked on the floor.

“Talk to me,” she said softly.

“Fucking hell.” As he rubbed his eyes, the exhaustion radiated out of him. “The only peace I have in this whole nightmare is that my Wellsie’s in the Fade with my son. That’s the one thing I can live with. When I get crazy, I tell myself she is safe, and better I go through the grief than her—better that I’m the one doing the missing down here on earth. ’Cuz, hey, the Fade is supposed to be all peace and love, right? Except then that angel comes along and starts talking about some kind of In Between—and now, suddenly, my single solace is… poof! And to top it off? I have never heard of the place and I can’t verify it—”

“I have an idea. Come with me.” When he just stared at her, she wasn’t about to take no for an answer. “Come.”

Tugging on his arm, she drew him out of the vault and back into the main part of the library. Then she went deep into the stacks, ticking down the dates of the volumes, locating the most recent ones.

“What was the day when she…” When Tohrment gave her the month and day again, she pulled out the appropriate volume.

Leafing through, she felt his looming presence above her—and was not threatened. “Here—here she is.”

“Oh… God. What.”

“It just says… yes, the same as it was noted in your volume. She was lost from the earth… wait a moment.”

Going backward, then forward, she traced the histories of the other females and males who had died on that date: So-and-so passed unto to the Fade… unto the Fade… unto the Fade.…

When No’One looked up at him again, she felt a moment of true fear. “In fact, it does not say she is there. The Fade, that is.”

“What do you mean—”

“It just says that she is lost. It does not say that she is in the Fade.”

Deep in the cold, gritty heart of Caldwell, Xcor tracked a single lesser.

Traveling over a park’s dead, scratchy grass, he moved silently behind the undead, scythe in hand, body poised for striking. This was a stray, one who had broken from the pack that he and his band of bastards had attacked earlier.

The thing was obviously injured, its black blood leaving a trail that was, as it turned out, eminently obvious.

He and his soldiers had killed all its colleagues back in the alleys; then they had taken some souvenirs upon Xcor’s command, and he had split off to find this lonesome deserter. Throe and Zypher, meanwhile, had gone back to the tattoo shop to organize the females for feeding, and the cousins had returned to base camp to tend their battle wounds.

Mayhap, if the women were dispatched with suitable alacrity, they could find another squadron of the enemy before dawn—although squadron was the wrong word. Too professional. These current recruits were nothing like the ones in the Old Country back in the heyday of the war there; fresh from their inductions, these hadn’t even paled out, and they didn’t seem to be well organized or capable of working together during an engagement. Further, their weapons were largely of the street variety: box cutters, switchblades, bats—if they had guns, the pistols were mismatched and often ill shot.

It was a cobbled-together army the strength of which appeared to be mainly in numbers. And the Brotherhood could not beat them? Such a disgrace.

Refocusing on his prey, Xcor began to close the distance.

Time to finish this work. Get fed. Go back out.

The commons they had entered was down by the river, and rather too well lit for Xcor’s tastes. Too out-upon-the-open as well: Dotted with picnic tables and round fifty-five-gallon drums for trash disposal, it didn’t offer much in the way of shelter from prying eyes, but at least the night was cold enough to drive the humans with any credibility indoors. There would always be transients around, of course. Fortunately, they tended to stay in their own worlds, and if they didn’t, no one would pay them any mind.

Up ahead, the lesser was on a concrete pathway that, instead of leading him to safety, was just going to deliver him to his demise—and he was ready for his final act. He was beginning to list from side to side, one arm throwing out uselessly for balance that would remain elusive, the other locked on its midsection. At this rate, it was going to drop to the ground soon, and where was the fun in that—

A sob broke through the muted sounds of the night.

And then another.

It was crying. The goddamn thing was crying like a female.

Xcor’s wave of anger rose so fast, he nearly choked. Abruptly, he resheathed his scythe and took out his steel dagger.

Once a matter of business, now this was personal.

At his will, the sidewalk’s lights on their long-necked poles started to go out one by one both in front of and behind the slayer, the darkness closing in until finally, through even his weakness and pain, he noticed that his time had come.

“Oh, fuck… no…” The thing spun around in the illumination of the last lamp. “Christ, no…”

His face was stark white, as if he had stage makeup on, but it was not because he had been a slayer long enough to turn pale. Young, only eighteen or twenty, he had tattoos around his neck and down his arms, and if memory served, he’d been fairly competent with a knife—although it had been obvious during hand-to-hand that that was more instinct than training.

Clearly he’d been an aggressor in his previous incarnation; his initial show of force had proven that he was used to opponents who backed down after a first strike. The time for his strength and ego had passed, however, and these pathetic tears proved what he was at his core.

As the final light, the one that was over him, went out, he screamed.

Xcor attacked with brutal force, launching his great weight into the air and latching onto the thing as he shoved it backward to the grass.

Clapping a palm on its face, he buried the knife in the shoulder and pulled away, ripping through tendon and muscle, shearing across bone. Hot breath exploded up as the lesser screamed again—proving anew that even the undead had pain receptors.

Xcor leaned down and put his mouth to the male’s ear. “Cry for me. Cry away… cry hard until you can’t breathe.”

The bastard took the direction and ran with it, weeping openly with great hoarse grabs of air and quaking exhalations. Reigning above the show, Xcor absorbed the weakness through his pores, pulling it in, holding it tight in his own lungs.

The hatred he felt went beyond the war, beyond this night and this moment. Soul deep, and marrow blistering, his disgust made him want to draw and quarter the former human.

But there was a more fitting end to this.

Flipping the thing over onto its stomach, he shoved both of his knees in between its tight thighs, and spread its legs as if it were a female about to get fucked. Rearing up over its prone body, he pushed its face into the grass.

And then he went to work.

No more raising the knife high and stabbing downward. Now was the time for precision and careful follow-through with his dagger.

As the lesser struggled pitifully, Xcor cut through the collar of its sleeveless shirt, then put his blade between his teeth and ripped the cloth in two, exposing the thing’s shoulders and back. A tattoo of some kind of urban scene was done with respectable competence, the ink shown off to great effect by the skin’s smooth surface—at least where black, oily blood didn’t cloud the picture.

Weeping and harsh gasping caused the image to distort and resume its shape, distort and resume, as if it were a moving picture poorly screened.

“Such a pity to ruin this piece,” Xcor drawled. “It must have taken a long time to get done. Must have hurt as well.”

Xcor put the blade’s razor point to the nape of the thing’s neck. Piercing the skin, he went ever deeper, until he was stopped by bone.

More crying.

He put his mouth to the fucker’s ear again. “I’m just revealing what everyone can see.”

With a sure and steady stroke, he drew the knife downward, tracing the orderly stacks of vertebra whilst his prey squealed like a pig. And then he shifted his knees to the back of the slayer’s legs, planted a palm on the thick of its shoulder… and reached in to lock a grip on the top of the spine.

What transpired as he threw all his strength upon his goal was nothing that a human could live through. The lesser, however, remained animated, even though afterward, respiration was no longer possible for him, and he would not be able to stand ever again: his core infrastructure, that which had defined his posture and his mobility, his height and girth, was now hanging from Xcor’s hand.

The slayer was still crying, tears seeping from its eyes.

Xcor sat back, and breathed heavily from the exertion. It would be a fine thing to leave this weakling here in its current state, its destiny to be a spineless waste forever, and he took a moment to enjoy the suffering and imprint this vision of punishment in his mind.

Remembering back through the years, he recalled being in a similar position. Reduced to raw emotion, down on the ground, naked and degraded.

You are as worthless as your face. Get out.

The Bloodletter had been coldly dismissive, his subordinates efficient and pitiless: Xcor’s arms and legs had been gripped and he had been carried to the mouth of the war camp’s cave—whereupon he had been tossed out as if they were removing horse excrement.

Alone and in the cold white snow of winter, Xcor had lain where he had landed much as this slayer was, incapacitated, at the mercy of others. He had been faceup, however.

Indeed, that hadn’t been the first time he’d been cast out. Starting with the female who had birthed him; then going through to the last orphanage he had stayed in, he’d had a long history of being denied. The war camp had been his final chance to find any community, and he had refused to be expelled from its confines.

He’d had to earn his way back in by bearing pain. And even the Bloodletter had been impressed at what he’d proven he could withstand.

Tears were for the young and females and castrated males. Too bad the lesson was wasted on this piece of—

“You’ve been busy.”

Xcor looked up. Throe had come out of nowhere, no doubt materializing to the scene.

“Are the women ready,” Xcor demanded gruffly.

“It’s time.”

Xcor endeavored to gather his strength. He had to take care of this mess—there was no leaving a twitching corpse behind for humans to find and extrapolate over until their heads exploded.

“There is a lavatory o’er there.” Throe pointed across the lawn. “Finish this and let us wash you.”

“As if I am a babe?” Xcor glared at his lieutenant. “I think not. You go back to the whores. I shall be there shortly.”

“You can’t bring your trophies.”

“And where would you suggest I leave them.” His tone suggested “up your ass” was an option, at least from his point of view. “Go.”

Throe disapproved, and disagreed, but nonetheless—and per protocol—he nodded and spirited away.

Left on his own, Xcor spared the desecrated carcass one last look. “Oh, get over yourself.”

The urge to further punish the weakness gave him the energy to stab the thing through the chest. The instant the steel tip penetrated, there was a pop, a flare… and then nothing but a stain on the grass where the lesser had lain.

Dragging himself to his feet, he took the spine of his prey and put it in his shoulder satchel with his other trophies.

It did not fit, one end protruding out the cinched top.

Throe had a point about the grisly bag of keepsakes. Damn it.

Dematerializing to the top of the bathroom shed, he left his trophies under the contours of the ventilation system and willed himself inside, where the sinks and the toilets were. He was quite sure the place smelled of fake air freshener, but nothing was able to penetrate the cloying, spoiled-meat stink of his prey.

Motion-activated lights came on as he moved around, creating a fluorescent haze. The basins were stainless steel and rudimentary, but the water ran cold and clean, and, leaning down, he cupped his hands and splashed his face once. Twice. Again.

So dumb to waste time on this tidy-up, he thought. Those prostitutes would remember nothing. And it wasn’t as if washing would improve the comeliness of his features.

On the other hand, best not to scare them into flight: Dragging them back was such a bore.

As he lifted his head, he saw himself in the crude metal sheets that were supposed to be mirrors. Even though the reflection was dull, he noted his ugliness and thought of Throe just now. In spite of the fact that the soldier had been out fighting all night, his handsome visage had appeared fresh as a daisy, his well-bred looks overshadowing the reality that he had slayer blood on his clothes and had been scraped and bruised.

Xcor, however, could have taken rest for two weeks straight, eaten a large meal, and fed from a fucking Chosen, and he would still appear as repulsive.

He rinsed his face one more time. Then looked around for something to use as a wipe-off. All there appeared to be were machines bolted into the wall for drying one’s hands with hot air.

His leather duster was filthy. The loose black shirt underneath was the same.

He left the facility with cold water dripping from his chin, reappearing up top on the roof. His bag was not secure enough here, and he was going to have to leave his scythe and his coat somewhere very safe.

As exhaustion dogged him, he thought… such a bloody fucking nuisance, all this.

SIXTEEN

Up high above the chaos of Caldwell, in the silent marble library of the Chosen, Tohr had a scream in his head that was so loud, it was a wonder that No’One didn’t cover her ears from the din.

He threw his hand out. “Give me that.”

Taking the volume from her, he forced his eyes to focus on the characters of the Old Language that had been so carefully constructed.

Wellesandra, mated of the Black Dagger Brother Tohrment, son of Hharm, blooded daughter of Relix, passed from the earth on this night, taking with her her unbirthed young, a son of some forty weeks.

Reading the short passage, he felt as if the whole event had happened a mere moment ago, his body submerging in that old, familiar river of grief.

He had to go over the symbols a couple of times before he could concentrate not only on what was there, but what wasn’t.

No mention of the Fade.

Sifting through other paragraphs, he sought the notations of other passings. There were a number.…

Passed from the earth unto the Fade. Passed from the earth unto the Fade. Passed from the—he flipped the page—earth unto the Fade.

“Oh, God…”

As a screeching noise echoed around, he did not lift his eyes. But abruptly, No’One started pulling on his arm.

“Sit, please sit.” She yanked hard. “Please.”

He let himself go, and the stool that she had dragged over caught his weight.

“Is there any chance,” he said in a guttural voice, “that they simply forgot to put it in?”

There was no need for No’One, or anybody else, to answer that question. The sequestered Chosen had had a sacred job, something they did not fuck up. And that kind of “oopsie” would be a big one.

Lassiter’s voice knocked on his inside door: That’s why I’ve come—I’m here to help you, help her.

“I have to go back to the mansion,” he mumbled.

Next move was to get to his feet, but that didn’t go well. Between a sudden weakness in his body and that fucking foot, he slammed into one of the stacks, the contour of his shoulder pushing a wave into the books whose spines were so carefully arranged. Annnnnnnd then it was a case of the floor tipping in the opposite direction, pitching him into free air.

Something small and soft got in the way of his falling.…

It was a body. A diminutive female body with hips and breasts that suddenly, shockingly imprinted on him even through the freak-out.

Instantly, the vision of No’One in that pool, her naked form glistening and wet, exploded like a land mine in his brain, the detonation so great that it blasted its way through everything that had been driving him.

It happened so fast: the contact, the memory… and the arousal.

Underneath the fly of his leathers, his cock punched out to its full length. Without apology.

“Let me help you back into the chair,” he heard her say from a vast distance.

“Don’t touch me.” He pushed her off. Stumbled away. “Don’t get anywhere near me. I’m… losing it.…”

Floundering his way down the stacks, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t… stand himself.…

As soon as he was free from the library, he raced away from the Sanctuary, returning his faithless body to his bedroom at the mansion.

He was still erect when he got there.

Duh.

Staring down at his button fly, he tried to find another explanation. Maybe he’d thrown a clot? A cock clot… or maybe… shit…

There was no way he could be attracted to another female.

He was a bonded male, goddamn it.

“Lassiter,” he looked around. “Lassiter!”

Where the fuck was that angel?

“Lassiter!” he bellowed.

When there was no reply, no burst-through-the-door, he was stuck alone… with his hard-on.

Rage curled his right hand into a fist.

With a vicious swing, he punched himself where it counted, nailing himself in the cojones—

“Fuck!”

It was like getting hit with a wrecking ball, and his skyscraper went down, the pain buckling him so fast he ate carpet.

As he retched and tried to push himself up on his knees, all the while wondering if he hadn’t done some serious internal damage, a dry voice filtered in through the ow-ow-ows.

“Shit, that musta hurt.” The angel’s face entered his line of watery vision. “On the plus side, you could probably sing Alvin’s part on a Christmas CD.”

“What…” Hard to talk. But then it was hard to breathe. And every time he coughed, he wondered if his balls were coming up his throat. “Tell me… the In Between…”

“You want to wait until you’re not hypoxic?”

Tohr snapped out a hand and gripped the angel’s biceps. “Tell me, motherfucker.”

It was a universal truth among males that anytime you saw a guy get it in the nuts, you experienced a shot of phantom pain in your own croquet set.

As Lassiter crouched beside the Brother’s pretzel of a body, he was feeling a little nauseous himself, and he took a moment to cup what hung between his legs—just to reassure the boys downstairs that however much of an iconoclast he was, some things were sacred.

“Tell me!”

Impressive that the guy could still summon the energy to yell. And, yeah, there was no maybe-later-after-you-recover option with a son of a bitch who could punch himself like that.

No reason to pad shit, either. Natch.

“The In Between is not really the jurisdiction of the Scribe Virgin or the Omega. It’s the Maker’s territory—and before you ask, that would be the creator of all things. Your Scribe Virgin, the Omega, all of it. There’s a couple ways of ending up there, but mostly it’s because you won’t let go or because someone won’t let go of you.”

When Tohr was silent, Lassiter recognized the signs of brain-fry and took pity on the poor son of a bitch.

Placing a hand on the Brother’s shoulder, he said gently, “Breathe with me. Come on, we’ll do it together. Let’s just breathe shit out for a minute.…”

They stayed there for the longest time, Tohr bowed around the front of his hips, Lassiter feeling like a plank.

In his long life, he had seen suffering in all its forms. Disease. Dismemberment. Disenchantment on epic scales.

Staring at his outstretched hand, he realized he had become detached from it all. Hardened by overexposure and personal experience. Separated from any compassion.

Man, he was the wrong angel for the job.

Helluva situation the pair of them were in.

Tohr’s eyes lifted, and they were so dilated, if Lassiter hadn’t known they were blue, he would have said they were black.

“What can I do…?” the Brother moaned.

Oh, man, he couldn’t stand it.

Abruptly, he got up and went to the window. Outside, the landscape was discreetly lit, the gardens far from resplendent in their nascent state. Indeed, spring was a cold, cruel incubator, summer’s wallowing warmth months off.

A lifetime away.

“Help me help her,” Tohr said hoarsely. “That’s what you told me.”

In the silence that followed, he had nothing. No voice. No thoughts, even. And this was in spite of the fact that unless he pulled something out of his ass, he was headed back to a hell custom-made for him, with no hope of escape. And Wellsie and that young were stuck in theirs. And Tohr was stuck in his.

He’d been so arrogant.

It had never dawned on him this wasn’t going to work. When he’d been approached, he’d been flippant, confident, and ready for the aftermath—which had been all about freedom for himself.

A struggle had never occurred to him. The concept of failure had not been anywhere near his radar screen.

And he’d never expected to give two shits about what happened to Wellsie and Tohr.

“You said you were here to help me, help her.” When there was no reply, Tohr’s voice lowered. “Lassiter, I’m on my knees here.”

“That’s because your balls are in your diaphragm.”

“You told me—”

“You don’t believe me, remember.”

“I saw. In the books on the Far Side. She is not in the Fade.”

Lassiter stared out at the gardens and marveled at how close to life they were—in spite of how shriveled and decrepit they appeared, they were about to burst forth and sing for spring.

“She is not in the Fade!”

Something grabbed him, spinning him around and slamming him ass-first into the wall so hard, if he’d had his wings on, they would have been snapped off.

“She is not there!”

Tohr’s face was twisted into a facsimile of its features, and as a hand clamped on his throat, Lassiter had a moment of clarity. The Brother could kill him, right here, right now.

Maybe that was how he ended up in the In Between again. Couple of head shots, then maybe a snapped neck, and poof! You failed. Hello, infinite nothingness.

Funny, he’d never even considered going back. Probably should have.

“You’d better open your fucking mouth, angel,” Tohr growled.

Lassiter traced that face again, measured the power in that body, took the temperature of the rage. “You love her too much.”

“She is my shellan—”

“Was. Goddamn you, was.”

There was a heartbeat of silence. Then a crack, and a light show, and a lot of pain. As well as a little wobble of the knees—not that he’d have admitted that.

The bastard had coldcocked him.

Lassiter shoved the guy off him, spit blood out on the carpet, and thought about hitting back. Fuck the fighting, though. If the Maker was going to reclaim him, then the Be All and End All was going to have to come get him; Tohr was not going to be airmailing him in.

Time to get the hell out of this room.

As he headed for the door, the muttered cursing from behind him was easily ignored. Especially given that he was wondering whether one of his eyes was hanging by its optic nerve.

“Lassiter. Fuck, Lassiter—I’m sorry.”

The angel wheeled around. “You want to know what the problem is?” He pointed right into the guy’s puss. “You are the problem. I’m sorry you lost your female. Sorry you’re still suicidal. Sorry that you have nothing to get out of bed for—or get into bed for. I’m sorry that you’ve got a boil on your ass and a toothache and goddamn fucking swimmer’s ear. You are alive. She is not. And your hanging on to the past is putting you both in an In Between.”

Catching his flow, he marched up to the cocksucker. “You want the fine print? Well, here it goddamn is. She is fading out—not heading for the Fade. And you are the reason it’s happening. This”—he motioned around the male’s stringy body and his bandaged foot and hand—“is why she’s there. And the longer you hold on to her, and your old life, and everything you lost, the less of a chance she has of getting free. You are in charge here, not her, not me—so how about you punch yourself again next time, asshole.”

Tohr dragged a shaking hand down his face, like he was trying to sand off his features. And then he clasped the front of his muscle shirt—right over his heart. “I can’t just stop… because her body did.”

“But you’re acting like it happened yesterday, and I’ve got no sense this is going to change.” Lassiter went over to the bed where the mating gown was laid out. Fisting the satin, he dragged the thing off by the thick skirt and shook it. “This is not her. Your anger is not her. Your dreams, your fucking pain… none of it is her. She is gone.”

“I know that,” Tohr shot back. “Do you think I don’t know that?”

Lassiter shoved the gown forward, the satin falling like a rain of blood. “Then say it!”

Silence.

“Say it, Tohr. Let me hear it.”

“She is…”

“Say it.”

“She is…”

When nothing came back at him, he shook his head and tossed the gown on the bed. Muttering under his breath, he went for the door again. “This is going nowhere. Unfortunately, the same is true for her.”

SEVENTEEN

As dawn grew near, Xhex wrapped up her first night back in her old boots. The pace of the hours had been good, the Ping-Pong nature of dealing with a fuckload of people in an enclosed space with alcohol in the mix making the time pass fast enough. It was also good to be Alex Hess, head of security, once again—her own female, even if the name she used among the humans was fake.

And it was frickin’ fantastic not having the Brotherhood breathing down her back.

What was not so hot was the fact that everything felt flat, like life had been bulldozed in preparation for the paving trucks to come.

She’d never heard of females doing the bonding thing. But as usual, that didn’t mean she wasn’t an outlier. And bottom line, without John by her side, everything seemed to be just a big, resounding meh.

A quick check of her watch told her there was one hour left of true darkness. Man, she wished she’d come in on her bike so she could can the headlight and roll through the shadows at ridiculous speeds. The Ducati was locked up tight in her garage, however.

She wondered if there was a rule against shellans riding.

Probably not… As long as she was sidesaddle, dressed in armor plating, and had a helmet made of reinforced, skid-resistant Kevlar, they’d probably let her go a few circles around the fountain in front of the house.

Vroom-vroom. Fucking wheeeeeeee.

Leaving her office, she locked the thing up with her mind so she didn’t have to worry about keys—

“Hey, Trez,” she said as her boss emerged from the ladies’ locker room. “I was just coming to look for you.”

The Shadow was tucking his crisp white shirt into his black slacks, and looking a little more relaxed than usual. A second later, one of the working girls came out from behind the door with a glow on her like she’d been hand-polished.

Which was probably not far from the truth.

At least her clueless expression told Xhex that Trez was keeping things on the DL. But still… you shouldn’t feed where you worked. Complications could arise.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” the woman said with a loopy smile. “I’m late. Meeting friends.”

After the girl went out the back, Xhex looked at Trez. “You should use other sources.”

“It’s convenient and I’m careful.”

“Not safe. Besides, you could scramble her mind.”

“I never use the same one twice.” Trez put an arm around her. “But enough about me. You off?”

“Yeah.”

Together, they ambled down to the door the woman had used. God… it was old times all over again, as if nothing had happened since the last time they’d closed up together. And yet Lash had happened. John had happened. The mating had—

“I’m not going to insult you by offering to escort you home,” Trez murmured.

“So you like your legs right where they are, huh.”

“Yup. They fill out my pants just fine.” He did open the door for her, the cold air rushing in like it was trying to get away from itself. “What do you want me to tell him if he hits me up.”

“That I’m fine.”

“Good thing lying isn’t a problem for me.” When she went to argue, the Shadow just rolled his eyes. “Don’t waste your breath or my time. Go home and get some sleep. Maybe things will be better tomorrow.”

By manner of reply, she gave him a quick hug, and stepped into the darkness.

Instead of dematerializing north, she wandered along Trade Street. Everyone was in closing mode: the clubs were spitting out their last few patrons—who looked about as attractive as masticated gum; the tat shop was clicking off its neon sign; the Tex-Mex restaurant had already battened down its hatches.

Shit grew seedier as she kept going, everything getting gloomier and grungier until she arrived at the blocks-long stretch of abandoned buildings. With the downturn in the economy, businesses were drying up like roadkill, and lessees were fewer and farther between—

Xhex stopped. Sniffed the air. Looked to the left.

The unmistakable scent of male vampire wafted over from a deserted walk-up.

BBFO, or Before Brotherhood Freak-out, she would have pursued it—gone in, checked to see if any of them needed help, found out what the Brothers were doing.

Now she just kept going, walking onward with her head held high. They didn’t want her help—no, that probably wasn’t accurate. They’d seemed fine with her until John had had issues. It was more like they no longer felt comfortable with her—

Up ahead about two blocks, a massive figure stepped out into her path.

She halted. Took a deep breath. Felt a prickling in her eyes.

On the breeze drifting down to her, John’s unmistakable bonding scent was a dark spice that wiped out the stink of the city and the wretched sting of her unhappiness.

She started walking toward him. Fast. Faster…

Now she was running.

He met her halfway, falling into a jog as soon as he saw her pick up the pace, and they slammed into each other.

Hard to know whose mouth found whose, or whose arms were cinched tighter, or who was the desperate one.

But then, in this they were equals.

Breaking the kiss, she groaned, “My cabin.”

The second after he nodded, she was out of there and so was he… and they re-formed outside her place.

No waiting to go inside.

He fucked her standing up, against her door, in the cold.

It was all so fast and frantic, her ripping her leathers down until she got one leg free, him breaking the buttons on his fly. Then she was spread wide and locked on his hips and he was buried to the base in her core.

He pounded into her so hard that her head banged on the door like she was trying to break into her own house. And then he bit her on the side of the neck—but not to feed, to hold her in place. He felt so much bigger inside of her, stretching her to the point where he strained her capacity. She needed that. At this moment, on this night, she needed him raw and unchained and a little painful.

Hell, yeah, she did—and that was exactly what she got.

When he came, his hips locked against hers, his erection kicking up a storm deep within her, spurring her own orgasm.

And then they were in the cabin. On the floor. Her legs cranked apart, his mouth on her sex.

With his hands clamped on her thighs, and his still-erect cock sticking out of his open fly, he went down on her with a furious tongue, lashing at her, penetrating her, taking what he’d just had.

The pleasure was unbearable, a kind of agony that had her throwing back her head and contorting on the floor, her palms squeaking on the linoleum as she struggled unsuccessfully to keep herself from riding backward—

The orgasm plowed through her so violently that as she shouted his name, bright lights flickered across her vision. And he didn’t relent in the slightest. As the onslaught continued, she was pretty sure that at some point he bit her on the inner leg, at that juncture where the thick vein went down to feed the lower half of her. But there was too much sucking, too much releasing, too much… everything to know or care.

When John finally stopped and lifted his head, they were in the far corner, nearly into the living room. Oh, what a picture. Her mate’s face was flushed, his mouth glossy and puffy, his fangs so long he couldn’t close his jaw—and she was likewise wrung out, her breathing ragged, her sex throbbing with its own heartbeat.

He was still erect.

Too bad she barely had the energy to blink—because he deserved one heck of a payback.…

Except he seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. Rising up between her open legs, he gripped himself and began to stroke.

With a moan, she arched and rolled her hips. “Come all over me,” she said through gritted teeth.

John worked himself, his palm locked around his thick shaft, a clicking sound rising up as he pumped. His massive thighs split wide as he shoved his knees farther apart for balance, the muscles in his forearm standing out in harsh relief as he went harder and faster. And then he was barking something in a soundless way, his body going rigid as hot jets splashed all over her sex.

Just the thought of herself wet and messy was almost enough to make her come again. But the sight of him making it happen? Sent her right over the edge once more…

“She’s going to need an extra two hundred if she does him.”

Xcor stood off to the side during negotiations with the whores, making certain that he was in the shadows—especially now that Throe had reached the tricky part of his being accommodated. No reason for the reminder of what he looked like to drive the price even higher.

Only two of the three girls had shown up at this abandoned house down on Trade Street, but apparently number three was on her way—although courtesy of her being late, she had been handed the short straw: him.

Her friends were taking care of her, though—unless, of course, they intended to take a cut of the increase. After all, good whores, like good soldiers, tended to look out for themselves.

Abruptly, Zypher stepped into the woman who was doing the talking, clearly prepared to use his physical assets to conserve financial ones. As the vampire trailed a fingertip along the girl’s collarbone, she appeared to fall into a trance.

It was not mind games on Zypher’s part. Females of both races couldn’t help themselves around him.

The vampire dipped toward her ear and spoke softly. Then he licked up her throat. Behind him, Throe was as he always was, silent, watchful, patient. Waiting his turn.

Ever the gentlemale.

“Okay,” the woman said breathlessly. “Just fifty more—”

At that moment, the door opened wide.

Xcor and his soldiers put hands into their coats, finding their weapons, prepared to kill. But it was just the prostitute who was late.

“Hey, girl, heeeeeeeeeey,” she said to her friends.

Standing in the doorway with a floppy jacket pulled over her whore clothes, and the bad sense of balance of a drunk, she was obviously on something, her face suffused with the blissed-out expression of the newly drugged.

Good. She’d be easier to deal with.

Zypher clapped his hands. “Shall we get down to business.”

A giggle came from the one next to him. “I love your accent.”

“Then you can have me.”

“Wait, me, too!” A giggle from someone else. “I love it, too!”

“You’re going to take care of my fellow soldier—my friend. Who is going to pay you all now.”

Throe stepped forward with the cash, and as he doled it out into waiting palms, the whores seemed more focused on the two males as opposed to the money.

A professional role reversal that Xcor was willing to bet didn’t happen very often.

And then the pairing off occurred, with Throe and Zypher drawing their prey into separate corners, whilst he was left with the whore who was fuzzy.

“So are we going to do this?” she said with a practiced smile. Indeed, the fact that her eyes were softened by drugs made the expression almost real.

“Come to me.”

He held his hand out of the darkness.

“Oh, I like it.” She sidled over, exaggerating the shift of her hips. “You sound like… I don’t know what.”

When she put her palm against his, he pulled her to him—except then she jerked back.

“Oh—er… um… okay.”

Turning her face to the side, she rubbed her nose, and then pinched it as if she couldn’t stand the smell of him. Logical. It took more than a rinse with water to get lesser blood off someone. Naturally, Throe and Zypher had taken a moment to flash home and get cleaned up. He, however, had stayed to fight.

Dandies. Both of them. On the other hand, their women were not already looking for an escape.

“It’s okay, though,” she said with resignation. “But no kissing.”

“I was unaware I had suggested such a thing.”

“Just so we’re clear.”

As moans began to rise up, Xcor stared down at the human. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, looking stringy and pulled-through. Her makeup was heavy and smudged at the lip line and in the corner of one eye. Her perfume was sweat and—

Xcor frowned, as he caught an unwelcomed scent.

“Now, listen,” she said, “don’t give me that look. It’s my policy and you can—”

He let her ramble on as he reached out and lifted one side of the blond tangle, exposing her throat.… Nothing but smooth skin. And on the other side…

Ah, yes. There they were. Two puncture marks right on her jugular.

She had already been used tonight by one of his kind. And that explained the fogginess and the musk his nose was picking up on.

Xcor laid the hair back where it had been. Then he stepped away.

“I can’t believe you’re being so pissy,” she mouthed off. “Just because I won’t kiss you—I’m not giving the money back, you know. A deal’s a deal.”

Someone was having an orgasm, the sounds of pleasure so rich and lush that the symphony transformed, for however briefly, the abandoned walk-up into a proper boudoir.

“But of course you may keep the cash,” he murmured.

“You know what, fuck you, you can have it back.” She threw the wad at him. “You smell like a sewer and you’re ugly as sin.”

Whilst the bills bounced off his chest, he inclined his head briefly. “As you wish.”

“Fuck you.”

The alacrity with which she changed from bliss to bitch suggested this kind of mood swing was not uncommon to her. One more reason to keep things professional between oneself and the female sex—

As he bent down to pick up the money, she drew back her foot and tried to kick him in the head.

Not smart. With all his warrior training and years of combat experience, his body defended itself without his conscious mind giving any commands: The whore was caught by the ankle, yanked off balance, and slammed into the floor. And before he was aware of even moving, he had her spun onto her belly and had taken that fragile neck of hers in the thick crook of his arm.

Whereupon he was prepared to break it.

No more aggression from her. Now she whimpered and begged.

He immediately relented, jumping free of her, then helping her shuffle back against the wall. She was hyperventilating, her chest pumping up and down so hard she was liable to rupture her false breasts against the cups of her brassiere.

As he loomed over her, he thought of how the Bloodletter would have handled the situation. That male wouldn’t have let her get past the no-kissing proposition—he would have taken what he wanted on his terms, and to hell with how much it might have hurt her. Or whether it killed her.

“Look at me,” Xcor commanded.

When those wide, shell-shocked eyes lifted to his, he erased her memory of being here, putting her in a trance. Instantly her respiration calmed, her body resuming its loose, relaxed composure, her frantic, jerky hands stilling.

Gathering up the money, he put it in her lap. She deserved it for whatever bruises she was going to have in the morning.

Then with a groan, Xcor sank down and arranged himself against the wall next to her, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankles. He had to go pick up his satchel of goodies and his scythe at the skyscraper, but at the moment, he was too exhausted to move.

No feeding for him tonight, however. Even with the hypnosis.

If he took the vein of the woman next to him, he was liable to kill her: He was viciously hungry, and he didn’t know how heavily she had been tapped. For all he knew, her loopiness was low blood pressure.

Across the way, he watched his soldiers fucking, and he had to admit the rhythms of the bodies were erotic. Under different circumstances, he imagined Zypher would have merged the two pairings into one large tangle of arms and legs, breasts and hands, cocks and slick slits. Not here, though. The room was filthy, not secure and cold.

Easing his head back against the wall, Xcor closed his eyes and kept listening.

If he fell asleep, and his soldiers questioned whether he had fed, he would just use the other vampire’s aftermath to explain away their concern.

And there would be time to sink his teeth into another source later.

In truth, he hated feeding. Unlike the Bloodletter, he got no thrill from forcing himself upon women and females—and God knew, none of them had ever come willingly unto him.

He supposed he owed his life to prostitutes.

As someone else started to orgasm again, this time one of his soldiers—Throe, if he had to guess—he imagined himself with a different face, a handsome face, a comely face that summoned females rather than sent them screaming.

Mayhap he should be removing his own spine.

But that was the beauty of inner thoughts. No one had to know your weaknesses.

And once you’d finished dwelling on them, you could toss them into the mental trash bin they belonged in.

EIGHTEEN

Qhuinn had never been good at waiting. And that was when shit was going okay. Considering he’d just lied twice about where John Matthew was?

Not a happy camper.

As he loitered at the hidden door by the grand staircase—so he could duck into the tunnel if anyone came by—he had the best view of the foyer you could get. Which meant when the vestibule’s door opened, he got an eyeball full of his absolutely favorite couple: Blay and Saxton.

He should have known his luck wouldn’t have had it otherwise.

Blay held the way open, like the gentlemale he was, and as Saxton stepped through, the bastard tossed a lingering, half-lidded stare over his shoulder.

Man, that kind of “look” was worse than the pair of them sucking face in public.

No doubt they’d been out for a nice meal and then gone back to Saxton’s place for a little play of the sort that was hard to have here in the mansion. Total privacy was not something you could find on a bet around the compound—

As Blay removed his Burberry coat, his silk button-down pulled wide, and showed off a bite mark on his neck. And on his collarbone.

God only knew where else he had them.…

Abruptly, Saxton said something that made Blay blush, and the slightly shy, reserved laugh that followed made Qhuinn want to throw the fuck up.

Great, so the slut was a comedian, and Blay liked his jokes.

Fantastic.

Yup.

On that note, Saxton went up the stairs. Blay, on the other hand, came around the—

Shit. Qhuinn wheeled away and lunged for the door, hands scrambling to get the latch free.

“Hi.”

Qhuinn’s hands stilled. His body stilled. His heart… stilled.

That voice. That soft, deep voice he’d heard nearly all his life.

Straightening his spine, he fucked off the escape idea, turned around, and faced his former best friend like the male he was. “Hi. Have a good night?”

Shit, he wanted to take that one back. As if the guy hadn’t?

“Yes, and you?”

“Yeah. Good. John and I went out. He’s back now, and we’re going to go hit the weight room. He’s getting changed.”

Tough to know whether the lying or the burn in his chest was making him so chatty.

“No Last Meal for you?”

“Nah.”

Cue crickets in the background. The Jeopardy! theme. A nuclear bomb—not that Qhuinn would have noticed even a mushroom cloud at this point.

God, Blay’s eyes were so damned blue. And… holy crap, the two of them were actually alone. When was the last time that had happened?

Oh, yeah. Right after Blay had hooked up with his cousin for the first time.

“So you’ve taken out your piercings,” Blay said.

“Not all of them.”

“Why? I mean… they were always, like, you, you know?”

“Guess I don’t want to be defined that way anymore.”

As Blay’s brows popped, Qhuinn’s kind of wanted to do the same. He’d expected something else to come out of his piehole. Something like, “Meh.” Or, “Whatever.” Or, “I still got ’em where it counts, don’t you worry.”

After which he could honk his package, and snort like he had balls the size of his head.

No wonder Saxton seemed attractive.

“So, yeah…” he said. Then cleared his throat. “So how are things with… you guys?”

Cue second trip to the heavens for those red eyebrows. “I’m good—we’re… ah, good.”

“Good. Ah…”

After a moment, Blay glanced over his shoulder, toward the door into the butler’s pantry. Clearly, it was the beginning of a back-away.

Hey, as you leave, Qhuinn wanted to say, will you do me a favor? I think my left ventricle is on the floor, so don’t step on it as you pull out? Thanks. Great.

“Are you feeling okay?” Blay murmured.

“Yeah. I’m going to go work out with John.” He’d already said that. Fuck. This was a train wreck. “So there you go. Where you headed?”

“I’m going to go… get some food for Sax and myself.”

“No Last Meal for you guys, either. Guess we have that in common.” Someone bust out the pom-poms and cheer for the team. Yay. “So, yeah, enjoy yourself. Selves, I mean—”

Across the foyer, the vestibule door swung wide and John Matthew came in. “Son of a bitch,” Qhuinn muttered. “The bastard is finally back.”

“I thought you said he was—”

“I was covering. For us both.”

“You weren’t together? Wait, you get caught without being with him—”

“It was not my choice. Trust me.”

As Qhuinn beelined for Mr. Independent, Blay was right with him, and John took one look at the pair of them and his ahh-satisfied expression got ghost sure as if someone had booted him in the ass with a nine iron.

“We need to talk,” Qhuinn hissed.

John glanced around like he was looking for a bunker to jump into. Yeah, well, tough balls for him; the foyer was essentially empty of furniture, and the dumb bitch couldn’t jump far enough to reach the dining room.

Qhuinn, I was going to call—

Qhuinn grabbed the guy by the back of the neck and shoved him face-first into the land of pool and popcorn. Just past the threshold, John pushed free and went gunning for the bar. Picking up a bottle of Jack, he ripped the thing open.

“Do you think this is a fucking joke?” Qhuinn jabbed at the tattooed tear that was under his eye. “I’m supposed to be with you every second of the night and day, asshole. I’ve been lying for you for the last forty minutes—”

“It’s true. He has.”

As Blay spoke up from behind, it was a surprise. And kind of nice.

I went to see Xhex, okay. Right now, she’s my priority.

Qhuinn threw up his hands. “Great. So when V is stabbing my pink slip into my chest, you can still feel good about yourself. Thanks.”

“John, you can’t light-head stuff like this.” Blay went around and grabbed a glass, like he was afraid their buddy was going to suck the bottle down whole. “Give me that.”

He took the booze, poured a healthy dose, and…

Drank it himself.

“What,” he muttered as he got stared at. “Here, take it back if you want.”

John took a swig and then stared into space. After a moment, he shoved the Jack in Qhuinn’s direction.

Rolling his eyes, Qhuinn muttered, “At least this is the kind of apology I’ll accept.”

As he took the bottle, it dawned on him that it had been ages since the three of them had been together. Back before their transitions, they’d spent every night after training in Blay’s old room at the guy’s parents’ house, pissing away the hours playing video games and drinking beer and talking about the future.

And now that they were finally where they’d wanted to be? Everyone was going in a different direction.

Then again, John was right. The guy was properly mated now, so of course his focus was somewhere else. And Blay was having a rockin’ good time with Saxton the Slut.

Qhuinn was the only one pining for the GODs.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered to John. “Let’s just forget it—”

“No,” Blay cut in. “This is not okay. You cut the shit, John—you let him come with you. I don’t care if you’re going to be with Xhex or not. You owe this to him.”

Qhuinn stopped breathing, focusing everything he had on the male who had been his best friend and his never-been lover… and the ever-after that was never going to happen.

Even after all the things that had gone on between them, and all the fuckups on his end, which were legendary, Blay still had his back.

“I love you,” Qhuinn blurted into the silence.

John lifted up his hands and signed, I love you, too. And I’m really fucking sorry. This thing with Xhex and I has…

Blah, blah, blah. Or, Blah, blah, blah, as the case was with the ASL.

Qhuinn wasn’t hearing a thing. As John went on and on, explaining his sitch, Qhuinn was tempted to interrupt and cop to not just what he’d said, but who he’d said it to. Except all he could think of was Blay coming in with Sax, and that f-in’ blush.

It took everything he had in him to look at John and squeeze out, “We can work it out, all right? Just let me follow you—I won’t look, I promise.”

John was signing something. Qhuinn was nodding. Then Blay started pulling away, taking a step back and then another and then a third.

More conversation. Blay talking.

And then the male turned and strode out. To get food. To go up to Saxton.

A low whistle made him shake himself and focus on John.

“Yeah. Sure.”

John frowned. You want to have a parking ticket stapled to your forehead?

“What?”

Sorry, I had a feeling you weren’t tracking. Guess I was right.

Qhuinn shrugged. “Look at it this way, I don’t feel like coldcocking you anymore.”

Oh, good. Bonus. But Blay is right. I won’t do this again.

“Thanks, man.”

Drink?

“Yeah. Good idea. Great one.” He headed around the bar. “Matter of fact, I’ll get my own bottle.”

NINETEEN

“She’s dead.”

At the sound of the male voice, Lassiter looked over his shoulder. Across his bedroom, Tohr was standing in the doorway, holding himself up by the jambs.

Lassiter put down the fleece he’d been packing. The suitcase routine wasn’t because he could take any of his shit with him, but rather, because it seemed only fair to get his stuff in order for the summoning that was coming: After he got sucked back into the In Between, the staff was going to have to ditch the clothes he’d worn and the few things he’d collected.

The Brother entered and shut them in together.

“She’s dead.” He limped over and sat on the chaise lounge. “There, I said it.”

Lassiter lowered his ass down on the bed and stared at the guy. “And you think that’s enough.”

“What the fuck do you want from me?”

He had to laugh. “Please. If I were running this show, you’d have had her back down here months ago and I’d be long fucking gone.”

Tohr laughed a little in surprise.

“Aw, come on, my man,” Lassiter muttered. “I don’t want to screw you. You’re too flat chested, for one thing—I’m a boob man. And for another, you’re a good guy. You deserve better than this.”

Now Tohr looked downright shocked.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Lassiter got up and went back to the open drawers of the dresser. Pulling out a pair of leathers, he messed them up, and then folded them again.

Futzing around with his hands was supposed to help his brain focus. Didn’t work all that well, though. Maybe he should just slam his head into the wall.

“Going somewhere?” the Brother asked after a while.

“Yeah.”

“Giving up on me?”

“I told you. I don’t make the rules here. I’m going to get pulled out, and it’s going to be sooner rather than later.”

“Pulled out to where?”

“Where I was.” He shuddered, even though it was a pussy move. But an eternity of isolation was hell for a guy like him. “It’s not a trip I’m looking forward to making.”

“Would you be going where… Wellsie is?”

“I told you, everyone’s In Between is different.”

Tohr put his head in his hands. “I can’t just turn myself off. She was my life. How the hell do I—”

“You can start by not trying to castrate yourself with a fist when you get a hard-on for another female.”

When the Brother didn’t say anything, Lassiter had a feeling the guy had teared up. And yeah, wow, didn’t that make things awkward. God. Damn.

Lassiter shook his head. “I’m the wrong angel for this job, for real.”

“I never cheated on her.” Tohr inhaled sharply through his nose, the sniff entirely manly, as sniffles went. “Other males… even bonded ones, I mean, they look at females from time to time. Maybe they screw around a little on the side. Not me. She wasn’t perfect, but she was more than enough to keep me satisfied. Hell, when Wrath needed someone to keep an eye on Beth back before they were mated? He sent me. He knew I wouldn’t come on to her, not just out of respect for him, but because I wasn’t going to be interested in the slightest. I have literally never had an instant when I thought of anyone else.”

“You did tonight.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Well, at least he copped to it. “Which is why I’m about to take my one-way trip to Never-coming-back Land. And your shellan is staying where she is.”

Tohr rubbed the center of his chest like it hurt. “Are you sure I didn’t die and go to this In Between already? Because this sure as shit feels like what you’ve described. Suffering but not Dhund.”

“I don’t know. Maybe some people aren’t aware they’re in it—but my directive was clear as a bell, and it was all about you letting go so she could move on.”

Tohr dropped his hands like he was so done with the world. “I never thought there was going to be something worse than her dying. I couldn’t fathom any course of events that would hurt more.” He cursed. “I should have known that fate is sadistic as well as endlessly inventive. Imagine—my fucking some female gets the one I love into the Fade. Fabulous equation. Just frickin’ fantastic.”

That wasn’t the half of it, Lassiter thought. But why bring it up now.

“I have to know something,” the Brother said. “As an angel, do you believe that certain people are cursed from the start? That some lives are just doomed right out of the box?”

“I think…” Shit, he didn’t go this deep. This was not him. “I—ah, I think that life runs on a set of odds that are spread out over the heads of every living, breathing bastard on the planet. Chance is unfair by definition, and random.”

“So what about this Creator of yours? Doesn’t He play a role?”

“Ours,” he muttered. “And I don’t know. I don’t put much stock in anything.”

“An angel who’s an atheist?”

Lassiter laughed a little. “Maybe that’s why I keep getting into trouble.”

“Nah. That part’s because you can be a real asshole.”

They both chuckled. Then sat in silence.

“So what’s it going to take?” Tohr asked. “Honestly, what the hell is destiny going to want from me now?”

“The same as any endeavor. Blood, sweat, and tears.”

“That’s it,” Tohr said dryly. “And here I was thinking it could just be an arm or a leg.”

When Lassiter didn’t reply, the Brother shook his head. “Listen, you gotta stay. You have to help me.”

“It’s not working.”

“I’ll try harder. Please.”

After an eternity, Lassiter felt his head nod. “Okay. Fine. I will.”

Tohr exhaled long and slow, like he was relieved. Showed what he knew; they were all still in trouble.

“You know,” the Brother said, “I didn’t like you when I first met you. I’ve thought you were a jackass.”

“The feeling was mutual. Although not the jackass part—and it wasn’t personal. I don’t like anyone, and as I said, I don’t really believe in anything.”

“Even though you’re staying to help me?”

“I don’t know… I guess I just want what your shellan does.” He shrugged. “End of the day, the quick and the dead are the same. Everyone’s just looking for home. Plus… I don’t know, you’re not so bad.”

Tohr went back to his own room sometime later. When he got to his door, he found his crutch propped against the panels.

No’One had returned it to him. After he’d left it behind on the Other Side.

Picking the thing up, he went into his room… and half expected to find her naked on his bed, ready for some sex. Which was completely ridiculous—on too many levels to count.

Parking himself on the chaise lounge, he stared at the gown that Lassiter had handled so roughly. The fine satin was bunched up in waves, the disorder creating a wonderful, shimmering display over on the bed.

“My beloved is dead,” he said out loud.

As the sound of the words faded, something was suddenly, stupidly clear: Wellesandra, blooded daughter of Relix, was never filling out that bodice again. She was never going to put the skirting over her head and wriggle into the corset, or free the ends of her hair from the lace-ups in the back. She wasn’t going to look for matching shoes, or get pissed off because she sneezed right after she put her mascara on, or worry about whether she was going to spill on the skirting.

She was… dead.

How ironic. He’d been mourning her this whole time, and yet somehow missing the point that was most obvious. She was not coming back. Ever.

Getting up, he went across and gently gathered up the dress. The skirting refused to obey, slipping out of his hands and jumping back down to the floor—doing what it wanted and taking control of the situation.

Just as his Wellsie had always done.

When he had a moderate handle on everything, he carried the gown over to the closet, opened the double doors, and hung the glorious weight on the brass rod.

Crap. He was going to see it every time he went in here.

Pulling it free, he shifted it over to the other side, so it was in the darkness behind the two suits that he never wore and the ties that had been bought for him not by his mate, but by Fritz.

And then he closed the closet up tight.

Back at the bed, he lay down and shut his eyes.

Moving on didn’t have to involve sex, he told himself. It just didn’t. Accepting the death, letting her go to save her, that he could do without the benefit of… any kind of naked-female thing. After all, what was he going to do? Head out into the alleys, find a whore, and fuck her? That was a bodily function like breathing. Hard to see how that was going to help.

Lying still, he tried to picture doves being released from cages, and waters bursting from dams, and wind blowing through trees, and…

Fucking hell. It was like the insides of his eyelids were playing the goddamn Discovery Channel.

But then just as he was drifting off, the images changed, shifting to water, lazy blue-green water that had no current. Calm. Warm water. With humid air all around.…

He wasn’t sure exactly when he fell asleep, but the image turned into a dream that started with a pale arm, a lovely pale arm floating on the water, the lazy blue-green water that had no current. Calm. Warm—

It was his Wellsie in the pool. His beautiful Wellsie, her breasts peaked as she floated, her tight stomach and flaring hips and bare sex licked with wetness.

In the dream, he saw himself breaching the pool, walking down short steps, the water getting into his clothes—

Abruptly, he stopped and looked at his chest.

His daggers were strapped on. His guns under his arms. His ammo belt locked on his hips.

What the hell was he doing? This shit got wet and it was useless—

That wasn’t Wellsie.

Holy shit, that was not his shellan.…

With a shout, Tohr jacked upright, ripping free of the dream. Slapping his hands on his thighs, he expected to find wet leather. But no, none of it had been real.

His arousal was back, however. And a thought he refused to give credence to surfaced and stank in the back of his mind.

As he stared down at his sex and cursed, the strong length of it made him think of the countless times he’d used it for pleasure and fun… and procreation.

Now he just wanted it to go limp and stay that way.

Settling back against the pillows, sorrow settled on him like a physical weight as he recognized the truth that the angel had spoken. He had not, in fact, let his Wellsie go on any level.

He… was the problem.