Lover Reborn

FIFTY-THREE

As Lassiter sat at the base of the grand staircase, he stared upward at the painted ceiling some three floors above him. Within the depiction of warriors astride stallions, he searched the painted clouds and found the image he was looking for, but did not want to see.

Wellsie was ever farther back in the landscape, her form even more compact as she huddled into herself in that field of gray boulders.

In truth, he was losing hope. Soon she would be so far off into the distance that they wouldn’t be able to see her at all. And that was when it was over: she was done, he was done… Tohr was done.

He’d thought No’One was the answer. And, you know, back in the early fall, he had gotten psyched that all was resolved. The night after Tohr had finally bedded that female good and proper, she had arrived at the dining table without her hood or that awful robe on: She had been in a dress, a cornflower blue dress that was too big for her and lovely nonetheless, and her hair had been loose around her shoulders, a cascade of blond.

The pair of them had had an accord that came only after two people banged the crap out of each other for hours.

He’d repacked his clothes at that point. Hung around his room. Paced for hours, waiting to be summoned by the Maker.

When the sun had set again, he’d chalked it up to administrative delay. When the sun had risen once more, he’d started to get worried.

Then, he’d become resigned.

Now, he was in panic mode.…

Sitting on his ass, staring up at the figment of a dead female, he found himself wondering the same thing Tohr had so very often.

What more did the Creator want out of this?

“What are you looking for?”

As a deep voice interrupted him, he glanced across at the male in question. Tohrment had obviously come out from the hidden door underneath the staircase: He was dressed in black running shorts and a muscle shirt, and had sweat slicking his skin and dark hair.

Aside from the postworkout drips, the guy looked great. But that was what happened to ’em when they were well fed, well fucked, and unharmed.

The Brother lost some of that hale-and-hearty as their eyes met, however. Which suggested that he had the same worry just below his surface, lingering always, a chronic concern.

Tohr came over and sat down, toweling off his face. “Talk to me.”

“You getting any more dreams about her?” No reason to proper-name the “her.” Between the two of them, there was only one female who mattered.

“Last was a week ago.”

“How’d she look.” As if he didn’t already know. He was frickin’ staring at her right now.

“Farther away.” Tohr took the towel from around his neck and stretched it taut between his fists. “You sure that maybe she isn’t just fading into the Fade.”

“She look happy to you.”

“No.”

“That’s your answer.”

“I’m doing everything I can.”

Lassiter glanced over and nodded. “I know you are. I totally know you are.”

“So you’re worried, too.”

No reason to answer that one.

In silence, the pair of them sat hip-to-hip, arms dangling off their knees, the metaphorical brick wall they were standing in front of blocking any horizon.

“Can I be honest with you?” the Brother said.

“Might as well be.”

“I’m terrified. I don’t know what I’m missing here.” He rubbed the towel over his face again. “I don’t sleep much, and I can’t decide whether that’s because I’m scared of what I’ll see—or what I won’t see. I don’t know how she’s holding on.”

The short answer was that she wasn’t.

“I talk to her,” Tohr murmured. “When Autumn is asleep, I sit up in bed and stare into the dark. I tell her…”

When the guy’s voice cracked, Lassiter wanted to scream—and not because he thought Tohr was being a pussy. More like it hurt that badly to hear the agony in that voice.

Shit, sometime in the last year he must have developed a conscience or something.

“I tell her that I still love her, that I’ll always love her, but that I’ve done what I can to… well, not fill her void, because no one can do that. But at least try to live some kind of a life…”

As the male continued to speak in soft, sad tones, Lassiter was struck with a sudden terror that he’d led the guy wrong in some way, that he’d… shit, he didn’t know. Fucked this up, made a bad call, sent this poor, sorry bastard in a wrong direction.

He reviewed everything he knew about the situation, starting from the ground floor, building the logic tier by tier, reconstructing where they were.

He could find no faults, no missteps. They had both done the best they could.

In the end, it appeared that was the only solace he could take—and didn’t that just suck ass. The idea he might have even inadvertently harmed this male of worth was so much worse than his version of purgatory.

He should never have agreed to this.

“Fuck,” he breathed as he closed his aching eyes. They had come so far, but it was as if they were chasing a moving target. The faster they ran, the farther they traveled, the farther away the end seemed to become.

“I’ve just got to try harder,” Tohr said. “That’s the only answer. I don’t know what else I can do, but I’ve got to go deeper somehow.”

“Yeah.”

The Brother turned to him. “You’re still here, right?”

Lassiter shot him a look. “If you’re talking to me, that’s a yes.”

“Okay… that’s good.” The Brother punched up to his feet. “Then we’ve still got some time left.”

Woo-hoo. Fantastic. Like that was going to make any difference.

Outside her private cabin, Xhex stood alone on the shores of the Hudson, her boots planted in the white snow, her breath leaving her nose in puffs that drifted off over her shoulder. The sunset’s peach-and-pink glow rained down on the frozen landscape from behind her, the colors picked up by the sluggish waves in the center of the channel.

There wasn’t much open water left in the river—ice was building up from the shores and closing in, threatening to strangle the surface as the cold endured through the season.

Without any command from her, her symphath senses pierced the gloaming, invisible tentacles that probed the thin, frigid air. She did not expect to get any hits, but she was so used to being receptive after these last couple of months, she found that side of her wanting to stretch and extend outward, if only for exercise.

She had not found the Band of Bastards’ lair. Yet.

Right person for the job, huh. Frankly, the shit was getting embarrassing.

Then again, the reasons to handle everything carefully were too many to count: So much was riding on her getting a bead on them as quietly and unobtrusively as possible, and at least the king and the Brothers understood that.

John had likewise been endlessly supportive of her mission. Patient. Ready to discuss any angle or not bring it up at all when she was at the mansion—which had been on a regular basis as it turned out: Between seeing her mother, updating the Brotherhood and the king, or even hanging out a little, she was there two or three times a week.

Yet, when it came to John, things had never gone further than a polite meal.

Even though his eyes burned for her.

She knew what he was doing. He was keeping his word, holding back until she penetrated the B.o.B. so he could prove that he meant what he said. Except, as crass as it was… she wanted to be with him. And not as in separated-by-a-dinner-table “be with him.”

It was an improvement over the summer and fall for them, to be sure—and not nearly enough.

Refocusing, she continued to search the environs for no good reason until all around her, darkness descended fast, the light draining out of the sky in the way of late December—which was to say, the shit flushed out like it was on the run, pursued by the cold.

Over to her left, at the mansion on the peninsula, lights came on rather suddenly, as if Assail had shutters on the inside of all his glass: One moment the property was unlit; the next it was like a football stadium.

Ah, yes, the gentlemale Assail… not.

The guy’s hold on the drug scene in Caldwell was nearly secure, with no one of any significance left other than that big-fish supplier Benloise. What she couldn’t figure out was who the vampire’s troops were. He couldn’t be operating a business that involved by himself, and yet there was never anyone coming or going from his house other than him.

Then again, why would he want his associates in his private space?

A little later, a car eased down the lane, heading out. That Jaguar of his.

Man, bitch needed to invest in an armor-plated Range Rover. Or a Hummer like Qhuinn’s. The Jag was fast, and suited the motherfucker, but come on. Little traction in all this snow was never a bad idea.

The sports car slowed to a stop as it approached her, its exhaust curling around and glowing in the red tail lights like something a magician would call up onstage.

A window went down and a male voice said, “Enjoying the view?”

The temptation was to flip him off, but she kept her middle finger sheathed as she crunched through the drifts to him. At this point, Assail was not viewed as a “suspect,” per se—he had done nothing but help the Brotherhood get Wrath out of there when the assassination attempt had gone down. But still, the attack had occurred at his house, and she wondered about where Xcor was getting his financial resources: Assail had had money even before he’d decided to be a drug kingpin, and wars required cash.

Especially if you were trying to fight the king.

Focusing her symphath side on the male, she read his grid and saw a whole lot of… well, lust, for one thing. He wanted her, but she was willing to bet that was not specific to her.

Assail liked sex with chicks. Fine. Got it.

Beneath that testosterone surge, however, she found a hunger for power that was curious. It wasn’t about taking down the king, though. It was…

“Reading my mind?” he drawled.

If only he knew what he was talking to. “You’d be surprised what I can find out about people.”

“So you know I want you.”

“I would suggest you don’t go there. I’m mated.”

“So I’ve heard. But where’s your man.”

“Working.”

As he smiled, the lights of the dashboard picked up his features, highlighting them and making them even more handsome. But he wasn’t just a pretty boy: There was a lick of evil in those heated eyes of his.

Dangerous male. Even though he looked like he was nothing more than a coiffed member of the glymera.

“Well,” he murmured, “you know what they say. Too much time apart makes the heart grow—”

“Tell me something. You see Xcor around anywhere?”

That shut him up. And lowered his lids.

“I have no idea,” he said after a moment, “why you’d ask me that.”

“Oh, really.”

“Not a clue.”

“I know what happened at your house in the fall.”

There was a another pause. “I wouldn’t have thought that the Brotherhood mixed business with pleasure.” When she just stared at him, he shrugged. “Well, frankly, I can’t believe they’re still looking for him. Matter of fact, it’s a surprise that that bastard is still breathing.”

“So you’ve seen him lately.”

At that, his grid lit up in one specific sector—obstruction. He was hiding something from her.

She smiled coldly. “Haven’t you, Assail.”

“Listen, I’m going to give you some free advice. I know you’re all leather wearing and tough and a self-actualized female of the world, but you don’t want to have anything to do with that guy. Have you seen what he looks like? You’re mated to a pretty boy like John Matthew, you don’t need—”

“I’m not looking to fuck the bastard.”

Her deliberately crass language made him blink. “Indeed. And, ah, good for you. As for myself, I haven’t seen him. Not even that night he ambushed Wrath.”

Liar, she thought.

When Assail spoke next, his voice was very low. “Leave that male alone. You don’t want to get in his path—he’s got less mercy than I have.”

“So you think only the big boys should deal with him.”

“You got it, sweetheart.”

As he put the Jag in gear, she stepped back and crossed her arms over her chest. Too frickin’ typical. What was it about the cock and balls that made males think they had a lock on strength?

“I’ll see you around, neighbor,” she drawled.

“I’m serious about Xcor.”

“Oh, I can tell you are.”

He shook his head. “Fine. It’s your funeral.”

As he drove off, she thought, Wrong pronoun there, buddy. Wrong goddamn pronoun…

FIFTY-FOUR

Autumn was dead asleep when she was joined in the bed, but even in her deep, nearly painful repose, she knew whose hands came upon her skin, and traveled over her hip, and eased up her stomach. She knew exactly who cupped her breasts and rolled her over.

For sex.

Cool air hit her skin as the covers were folded aside, and on instinct she parted her legs, preparing to welcome the one male she would e’er take within her.

She was ready for Tohrment. Had seemed in recent weeks to always be ready for him.

Handy—as he would have said. As he was always ready for her.

Her great warrior found his way between her thighs, opening them further with his hips—no, those were now his hands, as if he had had one plan and then changed his mind—

His mouth found her, locking on, then licking.

With her eyes still closed and her mind in that fuzzy netherworld that was neither sleep nor awakening, the pleasure was so intense she bucked and thrashed against his tongue, giving herself over to him with everything she had as he sucked and teased and penetrated.…

Except there was no orgasm for her. No matter how much he pleasured her.

Try as she might to capture the release, she couldn’t fall off the edge, pleasure sharpening to the point of agony—and still she could find no climax, even as sweat beaded up her skin, and breath sawed in her throat.

Desperation made her grab his head and press him harder against her.

Except then he disappeared.

This was naught but a nightmare, she thought as she cried out at the denial. A torturous dream with erotic overtones—

Tohrment surged back at her, and this time it was his full body against her own. Tucking his arms behind her knees, he split her wide as he cranked her into a tight little ball underneath his great weight.

And then he entered, hard and fast.

Now she came. The instant he filled her with that long length of his, her body responded with a tremendous, cracking explosion, the orgasm so violent she bit her own lip with both fangs.

As blood flooded her mouth, he slowed his pounding to lap it up. But she didn’t want slow. Using his arms to push against with her legs, she found her own rhythm against his shaft, riding him, taking him… until she soon found herself again on the verge.

And going nowhere.

In the beginning, it had been so easy for her to get what she needed when they mated. Lately, though, it was harder and harder.…

As she strained against him, pumping herself faster and faster, her frustration made her wild.

She bit him.

In the shoulder.

Scored him. With her nails.

The combination should have had him stopping and demanding more civilized behavior. Instead, with his blood flowing onto her, he let out a roar so mighty there was a crash in the room, as if it had rattled something off the wall.

Then he orgasmed. And thank the sweet Virgin Scribe for his release. As he jabbed into her and his erection kicked violently, she finally caught that elusive ride herself, her body rocking with him, the headboard banging.

Someone was shouting.

Her.

There was another crash.

The lamp…?

When they finally stilled, she was soaking wet all over, throbbing between her legs, limp to the point of being boneless. One of the bedside lamps had indeed been knocked off its table, and as she looked across the way, she saw that the mirror over the bureau had cracked its glass.

Tohrment lifted his head and stared at her. In the light from the bathroom, she saw the damage to his shoulder.

“Oh… dearest…” She put a hand to her mouth in horror at the gaping wound. “I’m so sorry.”

He glanced at himself and frowned. “Are you kidding me?”

When he looked back at her, he was smiling with a male pride that made absolutely no sense at all.

“I have hurt you.” She wanted to cry. “I have—”

“Shh.” He brushed a damp strand away from her face. “I love it. I fucking love it. Scratch me. Dent me. Bite me—s’all good.”

“You are… nuts.” To use a colloquialism she’d picked up on.

“I’m not finished is what I am—” Except as he went to move in her, she winced.

Instantly, he froze. “Shit, that was pretty rough.”

“It was wonderful.”

Tohrment propped his great chest up on his arms and withdrew so slowly and carefully, she barely felt it. And yet she started cramping somewhere inside. Or maybe that was another orgasm? Hard to know, as her body was so o’errun with sensation.

Either way, the delicious wear and tear was a good thing. They were so familiar with each other now, so comfortable with mating, and the incredible intensity they achieved was a result of the lack of barriers, and the freedom… and the trust they shared.

“Let me run you a bath to clean you up in.”

“That’s okay.” She smiled at him. “I’m just going to relax here while you take a shower. Then I’ll do the same in a bit.”

In truth, she didn’t trust herself to be naked in the bathroom with him. She was liable to bite him on the other side of his shoulders—and as much as she appreciated his carte blanche with the teeth, she would far prefer not to use the leeway.

Tohrment slid out of the mess of covers and stood over her for a moment, eyes narrowed. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Promise.”

Eventually, he nodded and turned away—

“Your back!” He looked like he’d had cat claws in him, great streaks of red cutting down his torso and spine.

He glanced over his bitten shoulder and smiled with more pride. “It feels great. I’m going to think of you when I’m out tonight, every time they pull.”

As he disappeared into the bathroom, she shook her head to herself. Males were… well, nuts.

Closing her eyes, she cast the sheets from her skin and moved her arms and legs out from her body. The air was cool in the room, perhaps even cold, but in the aftermath, she was her own furnace, the remnants of passion practically steaming from her pores.

Whilst Tohrment showered, the flush gradually faded, however, as did the throbbing aftermath of the lovemaking. And then, finally, she found the peace she had been looking for, her body uncoiling, the lingering tension and ache easing.

With a stretch that felt all the better for her nakedness, she smiled at the ceiling. Never had she known such happiness—

From out of nowhere, that strange chill she had felt now and again since the fall came back upon her, a premonition she could sense but not define, a warning without context.

Cold now, she drew the covers around herself.

Alone in the bed, she felt stalked by destiny as surely as though she were in a forest at night, with wolves she could hear but not see padding around the trees…

Ready to pounce.

In the bathroom, Tohr dried himself off and leaned into the mirror. The bite mark on his shoulder was starting to heal already, his skin reknitting over the punctures, everything sealing up nicely. Too bad—he wanted the wounds to stick around for a while.

There was pride to be had in being marked like that.

Still, he decided to wear a Hanes T-shirt instead of a wifebeater under his jacket. No reason for his brothers to see it. That shit was private—between him and Autumn alone.

Goddamn… that female was incredible.

In spite of the stress he was under, in spite of that convo with Lassiter on the staircase, in spite of the fact that he’d started to touch her only because he’d felt like he should, in the end, and as usual, it had been all about the sex, the raw, pounding sex: Autumn was like a vortex that he spun around, the erotic hold she had on his body sucking him in and then spinning him out to the surface for air… before claiming him once again.

In this, he was sad to say, he had moved on.

It pained him to admit that, and sometimes as he lay there afterward, the pair of them recovering their breath and cooling their sweat, that old familiar ache sharpened to a dagger point behind his sternum.

He didn’t suppose he was ever going to lose that sensation.

And yet, every dawn, he sought her out and he took her… and he had every intention of doing the same in another twelve hours.

Coming out of the bath, he found her still on the bed. She had curled away toward the windows and was lying on her side with the sheets drawn around herself.

He saw her naked.

Utterly. Fucking. Naked.

The image made his body get instantly hard, his sex punching out from his hips. And as if she sensed his arousal, she moaned in an erotic purr and undulated. Reaching behind herself, she pulled back what covered her and moved her upper leg forward, exposing her glistening sex.

“Oh, hell,” he groaned.

His body went to her without thought or decision, tracking her with such a locked-on focus that he wouldn’t have even killed anyone who got in his way: He’d have just trampled them and waited to commit murder until he was finished taking care of business with her.

Getting up on the mattress, he took his cock in his hand and fit himself to her from behind, head to her core. He was careful as he entered her, just in case she was still sore, and then he waited, suspending himself above her to make sure she still wanted him again so soon.

When all she did was moan his name in satisfaction, he let his hips begin to pump.

Slick, smooth, hot…

He took her without apology and liked the freedom to do that. She remained slight of stature, but she was tougher than she looked, and in the last few months he had learned to let himself go, because he knew she liked it like that, too.

Shifting one of his hands to her hip, he changed the angle of her body so he could get in even deeper. And of course, there was another added bene to this position: He could see himself going in and out of her, watching the rim of his head make an appearance before going deep, only to return to the edge of her once more. She was pink and swollen, and he was hard and glossy thanks to her—

“Fuck,” he barked as he started to come again.

He rode her while he released, feeling her orgasm with him, that sex of hers fisting him. And he watched the show until his eyes cranked shut—which was fine, because he could still see her on the backs of his lids.

After he was done, he nearly collapsed on her, but caught himself just in time. Dropping his head, he found his mouth close to the top of her spine, and he took advantage of the proximity, brushing his lips on her skin.

Knowing he should give her a break, he forced himself to ease back and pull out. Except as he slipped free, he had to grit his teeth at the sight of how ready she still was for him.

Planting his hands on her perfect cheeks, he spread her for his tongue. Shit… the taste of her and him together, the feel of her smooth, perfectly hairless sex against his mouth…

When she began to grow restless, as if she were on the verge, but not getting quite enough, he licked three fingers and slid them up inside as he continue to lap at her. That did the trick. As she called out his name and she jerked backward against his face, he smiled and helped her through the pulses that racked her.

And then it was time to stop. Period.

For the last week or so, he’d been all over her—which was the reason he’d forced himself to go to the goddamn gym today. She was looking tired, and the reason? She insisted on working during the nights, and he hadn’t been able to leave her alone during the days—

Autumn shifted around so she was lying on her belly; then she put her knee out to the side and arched her back. For more.

“Jesus,” he groaned. “How’m I supposed to leave you?”

“Don’t,” she said.

No asking twice on that one. He took her from behind again, lifting her hips, gripping them, and tilting her pelvis so he could get in deep. He ended up with a forearm around her midsection and his weight balanced on his other hand, working her, pounding her until their bodies slapped together and the bed made that noise again. He came on a curse, his orgasm exploding out of him as if he hadn’t had sex in months.

And still he was hungry for her. Especially as she found her own release.

After things quieted, he curled them over onto the mattress, spooning her as he held her against him. Nuzzling his way under her hair to her neck, he worried about the way he was treating her in bed.

As if she knew he needed some reassurance, she reached behind and stroked his hair. “You feel wonderful.”

Maybe. But he felt bad for the demands he was putting on her body. “Let me run you a bath now?”

“Oh, that would be wonderful. Thank you.”

Heading back into the bathroom, he went over to the deep-bellied Jacuzzi, started the water running and then got the bath salts from the cupboard.

As he checked the temperature of the water and made a minute adjustment, he realized he liked taking care of her. Realized also that he’d found a lot of ways to do it. He looked for excuses to take her upstairs and feed her dinner in private. Bought her clothes off the Internet. Stopped by Walgreens and CVS to get her favorite magazines like Vanity Fair, Vogue and The New Yorker.

Always made sure there were Pepperidge Farm Milanos up here in case she got a craving.

And he wasn’t the only one looking after her and showing her new things.

Xhex came to the house to see her at least once or twice a week. Together, the pair of them would go out to the local movie theater and watch films. Or head into the better parts of town so Autumn could see the nice houses. Or hit the late-night shops and stores—where they bought things with Autumn’s own money that she earned working.

Bending down, he tested the water, tinkered with the temp again, and got her some towels.

On his side, it made him a little tetchy that she was out with the human crazies and the violent lessers and the untrustworthy winds of fate. But at the end of the day, Xhex was a straight-up killer, and he knew she would protect her mother if anyone so much as sneezed in their direction.

Besides, whenever mother and daughter went out, Autumn always returned with a smile on her face. Which in turn put a smile on his.

Christ, they’d both come so far since the spring. They were nearly two different people.

So what else was there?

Moving his hand through the churning water in the tub, he wondered with desperation what the fuck he was missing.…

FIFTY-FIVE

Two nights later, Xhex awoke with a strange conviction hounding her. Kind of like she’d swallowed her alarm clock during the day and the thing was going off in her belly.

Intuition. Anxiety. Dread.

No snooze button on that shit.

As she went and took a shower, she continued to be dogged by the sense that forces unseen and unknowable were coalescing, that the landscape was going to shift, that the chess pieces of various people were about to be moved by hands not their own, to places not part of their strategies.

The preoccupation stuck with her during the short trip into Caldwell proper; persisted as she got things started at the Iron Mask.

Unable to stand it any longer, she removed her cilices and went out into the city hours earlier than she usually did. And as she dematerialized from rooftop to rooftop searching out the Bastards, she had a feeling… tonight was the night.

But for what?

With that question weighing her down, she was especially careful to stay far from where the Brothers were fighting.

The fact that she had committed to giving them a wide berth was probably the biggest factor in her delay at finding that rifle. The Band of Bastards was out in the field every night, but as the skirmishes with the Lessening Society tended to happen only in the desolate parts of the city, it was hard to get close enough while retaining a distance from John and the Brotherhood.

Yeah, she had some grids that were new in her repertoire, but it was difficult to isolate who was Xcor—and even though that was academic, because she needed only one of those soldiers to slip up, get injured and have to be taken back to their lair in a car she could track, she wanted to know her larger target intimately.

Check out his secrets from the inside.

That she had gotten nowhere so far was driving her nuts. And the Brothers weren’t crazy for it, either, although for a different reason: They wanted to just take the other fighters out, but Wrath had KO’d that one: They needed the rifle first, so the king had declared that renegade group of traitors off-limits until he got the proof he needed. Logically speaking, the proclamation made sense—no good would come out of slaughtering them all and then trying to calm the glymera with an oh-but-they-shot-me kind of thing. But the night-after-night was tough going.

At least they had one thing in their favor: It was unlikely that rifle had been destroyed.

The B.o.B. would want to keep that shit as a trophy, no doubt.

It was time to end this, however. And maybe this premonition thing she was rocking meant that she was finally going to.

On that note, and under the theory that doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result was insane, she decided to stop looking for Xcor.

Nope, tonight, Assail was going to be the one she was after—and what do you know, she located his imprint in the theater district… inside the Benloise Art Gallery, natch.

A quick shift down to street level and she got an eyeball full of cocktail party going on at the facility.

As the artsy set was perfectly capable of wearing leather and considering it business attire, she slipped in—

Hot. Cramped. Lot of egocentric accents echoing around.

Jeez, in a place like this, you couldn’t tell the sexes apart—everyone had bird-wing hand gestures and nail polish on.

Two feet past the door she was promptly offered a flute of champagne—as if blowhards with delusions of being Warhol ran on Veuve Clicquot.

“No, thanks.”

As the waiter, a nice-looking guy in black, gave her a little nod and sauntered off, she almost pulled him back just for the company.

Yeah, wow, there were so many arched eyebrows and pointed noses up in the air, you had to wonder if these folks even approved of themselves. And a quick glance around at the “art” told her that she and her mother were going to have to come here—just so Autumn could get a sense of how truly hideous and overindulgent some kinds of self-expression could get.

Dumb-ass humans.

With grim determination, she parried her way through all the shoulders, turning this way and that while sidestepping around other waiters. She didn’t bother hiding her face. Rehv had handled all his deals by himself or with Trez and iAm, so no one here was going to recognize her.

And pretty quick, she identified the way to Benloise’s office. It was just so damn obvi: Two goons dressed like waiters, but not carrying trays, were standing on either side of a nearly seamless door cut into the cloth-covered walling.

Assail was up on the second floor. She could sense him clearly.…

But getting to him was a thing: It was tricky to try to dematerialize into spaces unknown. There was probably a staircase on the far side of what was being guarded, but she didn’t want to Swiss-cheese herself by re-forming in the middle of it.

Besides, she could always catch the guy on the exit. Chances were good he’d come in through the back, and would leave the same way: He was cagey, and his visit was not about the frickin’ art.

Good thing, too, as it was difficult to see Q-tips glued to a Tupperware bowl mounted on a toilet seat as anything other than trash.

Heading deeper into the building, she slipped through a staff-only door and found herself in a concrete-floored, concrete-walled warehouse space that smelled like chalk dust and crayons. Up above, caged fluorescent lights were set into the high, unhung ceiling, and exposed ductwork and electricals burrowed through joists like moles in a lawn. Desks were set back, and file cabinets were out to the sides, the center of the space remaining clear, as if large installations were regularly rolled in from the rear alleyway.

The double doors straight ahead were made of steel and had security alarm contacts on them—

“May I help you.”

Not an inquiry.

She turned around.

One of the bouncers had followed her inside, and he was standing with his feet spread and his blazer open like he had a gun in there.

Rolling her eyes, she waved a hand and put him in a temporary trance. Then, placing a thought in his mind that there was nothing unusual going on, she sent him back to his post—where he would relate to his big-ass buddy that, in fact, there was nothing unusual going on.

Not exactly rocket science with these Homo sapiens. But just to be on the safe side, she fritzed out the security cameras as she went toward the back doors. Shit. One look at the way the steel panels were wired and she decided not to push on through and risk an incident involving the police.

If she wanted to be in the alley, she was going to have to work for it.

With a curse, she headed back for the party. It took her a good ten minutes to weed her way through all the denizens of questionable taste and undeniable ego, and as soon as she was out in the night air, she dematerialized up to the roof and walked to the far side.

Assail’s car was parked down in the alley below, facing out.

And she wasn’t the only one looking at it.…

Holy… crap…

Xcor was in the shadows, waiting for the male as well.

Had to be him—whoever it was had a lockdown on his inner core to such a degree, there was little superstructure to be read: By habit or by trauma, or likely some of both, the three dimensions had shrunken in on each other until they formed such a gnarled, tight mass, it was impossible for her to get a bead on any emotion whatsoever.

Man, she’d seen imprints like this from time to time. They usually meant real trouble, as the individual was capable of anything.

For example, you’d need precisely this kind of knotted center to have the balls to make a run at the king.

This was her target. She knew it.

And now that she had locked into that mangled grid, she backed off, dematerializing to the roof of a tall building a block away. She didn’t want to spook the son of a bitch by getting too close, and from here, she still had an adequate sight line to the Jag.

Shit, if only her radar had greater reach: She could go maybe a mile with her symphath side, but that was pushing it, her instincts strong, just short-range. So if he dematerialized a great distance away? She was going to lose him.…

As she waited, she wondered once again about Xcor’s connection to Assail. Unfortunately for that aristocrat, if he was funding the insurrection, even indirectly, he was going to find himself in the crosshairs.

Not a good place to be.

About a half hour later, Assail emerged from the gallery’s ass and looked around.

He knew the other male was there… and he addressed some sort of comment to precisely where Xcor stood.

The cold breeze and ambient noise of the city killed the sound track of whatever exchange occurred between the pair, but she didn’t need dubbing to get the gist: Assail’s emotions shifted around until she had to approve of the dislike and mistrust he felt toward whoever he was talking to. The closed-up male, naturally, gave nothing away.

And then Assail took off. And so did the other grid.

She trailed the latter.

Like so many things in life, in retrospect, what happened to Autumn around eleven o’clock that evening made sense. The clues had been there for months, but as was rather often the case, when you were going about your life, you misinterpreted the guideposts, misread the compass needle’s position, mistook one thing for another.

Until you were at a destination that was nothing you would ever have chosen, and not something you could get away from.

She was down in the training center, taking out a pile of hot sheets from the dryer, when the storm hit.

Later, much later, a lifetime later, she would remember with clarity the feel of that soft heat against her torso, the warmth burrowing into her gut and making sweat break out on her forehead.

She would remember forever turning to the side and putting the fluffy white sheets on the counter.

Because when she stepped back, her needing hit for the second time in her life.

At first, it just felt as though she were still holding on to the sheets, the warmth remaining with her, along with a weight upon her belly sure as though she was as yet carrying the load.

As perspiration dripped down the side of her face, she glanced over at the thermostat on the wall, thinking that it was malfunctioning or set too high. But no, it read seventy degrees.

With a frown, she looked down at herself. Although she wore naught but a T-shirt and a pair of what they called “yoga” pants, it was as though she had on the parka she wore out with Xhex—

A curling cramp gripped her lower abdomen, fisting up around her womb, her legs wobbling until she had no choice but to allow herself to go down onto the floor. And this was a good thing, at least temporarily. The concrete was cold and she stretched out on it—until the next big crunch grabbed hold of her.

Pressing her hands into her pelvis, she balled up and strained, throwing her head back as she tried to escape whatever had o’ertaken her body.

And then it started.

Her sex, which had been throbbing a bit ever since Tohr and she had been together for those rough, intense matings before he’d left, gained its own proper heartbeat, the core of her begging for the only thing that would give it relief.

A male—

The sexual craving hit her so viciously, she couldn’t have stood if she’d had to, couldn’t have thought of aught else had she chosen to, couldn’t have spoken intelligible words had she wanted to.

This was so much worse than it had been with the symphath.

And this was her fault… this was all her fault…

She hadn’t been going over to the Sanctuary. It had been… Dearest Virgin Scribe, it had been months since she had tarried at the Far Side to regulate her cycle. Indeed, there had been no need to refresh herself for blood, because Tohr had been feeding her, and she hadn’t wanted to miss even a moment with him.

She should have known this was coming—

Gritting her teeth, she panted hard through another peak. Then, just as it relented and she was about to yell for help, the door was thrown wide.

Dr. Manello stopped short, his face a mask of confusion. “What the—”

He sagged against the doorjamb, and abruptly covered the front of his hips with his hands. “Are you okay—”

As the craving crescendoed again, she caught a fleeting image of him going loose where he stood, but then her lids clamped down and her jaw locked and she was momentarily lost.

From a distance, she heard him say, “Let me get Jane.”

Seeking more of the cold floor, Autumn rolled over onto her back, but as her knees wouldn’t unhinge, she didn’t have enough surface contact. Back to the side. Then over onto her stomach, even though her legs wanted to recurl against her chest.

Pushing down with her hands, she tried to take control of the sensation and manipulate her position, tried to find another arch or breath or stretch of the arms or thighs to bring relief.

There was none to be had. She was at the center of a lion’s den, great teeth of need biting into her, tearing at her flesh, racking her bones. This was the culmination of those hot flashes that she had mistaken for spikes of passion, and the bursts of chills that she had chalked up to premonitions, and the bouts of vague nausea that she had blamed on big meals. This was the exhaustion. The appetite. Probably the hot sex that she had been having of late with Tohrment.

As she moaned, she heard her name being said and thought someone was talking to her. But it wasn’t until the craving ebbed that she could open her eyes and see that yes, in fact, she was not alone.

Doc Jane was kneeling before her. “Autumn, can you hear me?”

“I…”

The healer’s pale hand brushed tangled strands of blond out of her face. “Autumn, I think this is your needing—would that be right?”

Autumn nodded until the wave of hormones resurged, robbing her of everything but the overwhelming need for sexual relief.

Which her body knew could only come from a male.

Her male. The one she loved.

Tohrment…

“Okay, okay, we’ll call him—”

Autumn threw out a hand and grabbed the other female’s arm. Forcing her eyes to work, she pegged the healer with a hard demand. “Do not call upon him. Do not put him in that position.”

It would kill him. To service her in her need? He’d never do that—sex was one thing, but he’d already lost a child—

“Autumn, honey… that’s his choice, don’t you think?”

“Don’t call him… don’t you dare call him.…”

FIFTY-SIX

Qhuinn hated nights off. Absolutely despised them.

As he sat back on his bed, staring at a TV that wasn’t on, it dawned on him he’d been watching nothing for close to an hour now. Still, getting the remote and picking a channel just seemed like a lot of fucking hassle for not much in return.

Damn it, there were only so many miles you could run down in the gym. Only so much surfing you could do on the Internet. A limited number of trips you could take up and down to the kitchen…

Yeah, and that last one was especially true, given Saxton was still using the library as his own personal office. That “supersecret king stuff” was taking him for frickin’ ever.

Either that or he was getting distracted a lot. By a certain redhead—

Okay, not going there. Nope.

Qhuinn glanced at his watch again. Eleven o’clock. “Fucking hell.”

Seven thirty tomorrow night was an eternity away.

Shifting his eyes to the flat wall across the way, he was willing to bet John Matthew was next door, locked in the same grind. Maybe they should head out and have a drink somewhere.

Then again, meh. Did he really want to go to the effort of getting dressed just to have a beer around a bunch of drunk, horny humans? At one point in time, it would have sexed him up. Now, the prospect of all that pathetic, alcohol-induced yearning depressed the shit out of him.

He didn’t want to be home. Didn’t want to be out.

Christ, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to be fighting, for that matter. The war just seemed like a slightly more interesting slice of empty.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, what was his problem—

His phone beeped beside him and he picked it up without any real interest. The text made no sense: All males stay in main house. Do not enter training facility. Thanx, Doc Jane.

Huh?

He got up, grabbed a robe, and went over to John’s. The knock was answered immediately by a whistle.

Putting his head in, he found his buddy in the same position he’d just been rocking—except the plasma screen was on. 1000 Ways to Die on Spike TV. Nice.

“Did you get that text?”

Which one?

“From Doc Jane.” Qhuinn tossed his cell over. “Any ideas?”

John read it and shrugged. Not a clue. But I’ve already worked out. You?

“Yeah.” He walked around the room. “Man, is it me or is time dragging.”

The whistle he got in reply was a big fat yup.

“You want to go out?” he asked with all the enthusiasm of someone suggesting a trip to a nail parlor.

Movement on the bed drew his eyes around: John was up on his feet and heading for his closet.

Across his back, deep in his skin, the name of his shellan was carved in the Old Language:

XHEXANIA

Poor bastard…

As the male pulled on a black button-down and covered his bare ass in leather, Qhuinn shrugged. Guess they were going for a beer.

“I’ll go get clothes and be right back.”

Stepping out into the hall, he frowned… and followed a compelling instinct down to the open landing that overlooked the foyer.

Leaning over the gold-leafed railing, he called out, “Layla?”

As the name echoed, the female emerged from the dining room. “Oh, hello.” Her smile was automatic and meaningless, the expressional equivalent of a blank wall. “How fare thee?”

He had to laugh. “You’re blowin’ me away with all that happy joy-joy.”

“I’m sorry.” She seemed to snap out of her distraction. “I don’t mean to be rude.”

“Don’t worry about it. What are you doing here?” He shook his head. “What I mean is, were you summoned?”

Had someone come home injured? Blay, for example…

“No, I have naught to do. I’m just waffling about as you would say.”

Come to think of it, ever since the fall, she had been doing that a lot, just hanging around in the periphery, loitering as if she were waiting for something.

She was different, he thought abruptly. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but lately she had changed: Grave. Less quick to smile. Serious.

To put it in human terms, he supposed she’d been a girl for as long as he’d known her. Now she was starting to look like a woman. No more wide-eyed wonder about everything this side of the divide had to offer. No more glowing enthusiasm. No more…

Shit, she looked a lot like he and John did. Worn out by the world.

“Hey, you want to come out with us?” he asked.

“Out? As in…”

“John and I are going to go have a drink. Maybe two. Maybe more. I think you should come with us. After all, misery loves company.”

She linked her arms over her chest. “Is it so obvious?”

“You’re still beautiful.”

Layla laughed. “You’re being charming.”

“Lady in distress, you know the drill. Come out with us—let’s just kill some time.”

She looked around. Then she picked up her skirting and ascended the stairs. When she got to the top, she stared at him. “Qhuinn… may I please ask you something?”

“Long as it’s not multiplication tables. I suck at math.”

She laughed a little, but quickly lost the levity. “Did you ever think life would be so… empty? Some nights, I feel as though I could choke on the void.”

Jesus, he thought. Yeah, he did.

“Come here,” he told her. As she stepped into him, he pulled her in close, tucking her against his chest and resting his chin on the top of her head. “You are such a good female, you know that?”

“You’re being charming again.”

“And you are still in distress.”

She relaxed in his arms. “You are very good to me.”

“Back at you.”

“It’s not you, you know. I’m not pining over you anymore.”

“I know.” He rubbed her back as a brother would. “So tell me you’re coming out—but be warned. I might just have to get you to tell me who you are missing.”

The way she pulled back and ducked his eyes told him, yup, there was a male involved, and nope, she wasn’t volunteering any information. “I shall need some clothes.”

“Let’s try the guest room. I think we’ll find ’em there.” He put an arm around her shoulders and led her down the hall. “And as for this Joe Shmoe of yours, I promise not to beat him—unless he breaks your heart. Then I might have to do some dental work on the bastard.”

Who the hell could it be? he wondered. Everyone in the house was hooked up.

Maybe it was someone she’d met up north at Phury’s great camp? But who would the guy be letting in?

Could it be one of the Shadows? Hmm… those bastards were males of worth, to be sure, the kind of thing that could definitely turn a female’s head.

Man, he wished it was something else, for her sake. Love was hard, even if good people were involved.

In the guest room, he found her some black jeans and a black fleece. He didn’t like the idea of her in some miniskirted nightmare—not just because it offended his delicate sensibilities, but he didn’t need the Primale doing any cosmetic dentistry on him.

When they came out, John was waiting in the hall, and if he was surprised to be joined by the Chosen, he didn’t show much of the reaction. Instead, he was kind to Layla, mouthing small talk with her as Qhuinn threw some proper clothes on.

About ten minutes later, the three of them dematerialized downtown—not to the bars, though: Neither he nor John was interested in escorting a Chosen into Screamer’s or the Iron Mask. Instead, they ended up in the theater district, at a dessert place that was open until one a.m. and served liquor along with chocolate thingies draped in whatever topped with blah-blah-blah on a bed of poached uh-huh, yeah. The tables were small, the chairs likewise, and they sat in front of the emergency exit in the back, hunkering down as the waitress continued to blabber about the specials, none of which were appealing.

The beer selection was mercifully short and to the point.

“Two black and tans for us,” he said. “And for the lady?”

As he glanced at Layla, she shook her head. “I can’t decide.”

“Get both of whatever appeals.”

“All right… I’ll take the crème brûlée and the moon pie. And a cappuccino, please.”

The waitress smiled as she wrote on her pad. “I love your accent.”

Layla inclined her head graciously. “Thank you.”

“I can’t place it—French and German? Or… Hungarian?”

“Those beers would be great now,” Qhuinn said firmly. “We’re thirsty.”

When the woman went off, he hairy-eyeballed the other diners, getting markers on their faces and scents, listening to the talk, wondering whether there was an attack coming. Across the way, John was doing the same. ’Cuz, yeah, it was so relaxing taking a Chosen out into the world.

“We’re not very good company,” he said to Layla after a while. “Sorry.”

“I’m not either.” She smiled at him and then John. “But I am enjoying being out of the house.”

The waitress came back with the order, and everyone eased away from the table as glasses and plates and the cup and saucer were arranged.

Qhuinn snagged his tall glass as soon as the coast was clear. “So tell us about him. We can be trusted.”

Across the table, John looked like someone had goosed him in the ass, especially as Layla blushed.

“Come on.” Qhuinn took a pull off the black and tan. “It’s obvious this is about a male, and John won’t say a thing.”

John looked over at her and signed; then flashed Qhuinn the bird.

“He says, duh, he’s a mute,” Qhuinn translated. “And if you don’t know what that final gesture was, I’m not going to be the one to tell you.”

Layla laughed and picked up her fork, cracking the hard top of the crème brûlée. “Well, I’ve been waiting to see him again, actually.”

“So that’s why you’re hanging around?”

“Is it bad of me?”

“God, no. You’re always welcome, you know that. Except who’s the lucky guy?”

Or dead one, depending…

Layla drew in a deep, bracing breath, and took two mouthfuls of her first dessert—like the thing was a V&T. “Promise you shan’t tell a soul?”

“Cross heart, hope to die, all that shit.”

“He’s… one of your soldiers.”

Qhuinn lowered his glass to the table. “I’m sorry?”

She lifted her cup and sipped from the rim. “Remember when that fighter came into the training center back in the autumn—he’d been with you against the lessers? He was injured badly and you were taking care of him?”

As John sat up straight in alarm, Qhuinn swallowed his own case of the fucking-hells and smiled smoothly. “Oh, yeah. We remember him.”

Throe. Second lieutenant of the Band of Bastards.

Holy shit, if she thought she was into him, they had a huge problem.

“Annnnnd,” he prompted, forcing his voice to stay level. Good thing he’d put the Guinness down—he was stressing enough to crush the glass.

Then again, he supposed shit could be worse. Throe wasn’t going to be able to get anywhere near her—

“He called me to him.”

Layla started to pick at her moon pie, and good goddamn thing: He and John had both bared their fangs.

Humans, he reminded himself. They were out in public with humans.… Now was not the time for the canine display. But fuck…

“How?” he hissed—only to dial back. “I mean, you don’t have a cell phone. How’d he reach you?”

“He summoned me.” As she waved her hand like that was no big deal, he told his inner caveman to pipe down, sonny. There would be time to sort the hows out later. “I went and there was another soldier—injured badly. Oh, God, he was beaten so badly.”

Tendrils of pure panic feathered across the back of his neck and pegged him in the chest, jacking his heart rate up. No… oh, shit… no—

“I don’t understand why males are so pigheaded. I told them to bring him into the clinic, but they said he just needed to feed. He was having trouble breathing, and…” Layla fixated on the moon pie as if it were a screen, as if she were remembering every single thing that had happened. “I fed him. I wanted to care for him further, but the other soldier seemed in a hurry to take him away. He was… powerful, so powerful, even though he was hurt. And as he looked at me—I felt as though he was touching me. It was like nothing I’ve ever known before.”

Qhuinn shot a stare over to John without moving his head. “What did he look like?”

Maybe it had been one of the others. Maybe it hadn’t been—

“It was hard to tell. His face had been wounded so badly—those lessers are vicious.” She reached up to her mouth. “His eyes were blue and his hair dark… his upper lip was twisted—”

As she kept talking, Qhuinn’s hearing took a little TO.

Reaching over, he put his hand on her arm, stopping her. “Baby girl, hold up. That first soldier called you out to where?”

“It was a meadow. A field in the farmland.”

As the final pint of blood drained out of his head, John started to mouth various curse words, and damn right with all that. The idea that Layla had been out in the night, alone and undefended, with not just Throe, but the heart of the beast?

Plus… holy hell, she had fed the enemy.

“What’s wrong?” he heard her ask. “Qhuinn…? John…? Whatever is the matter?”

FIFTY-SEVEN

Across town, in the meatpacking district, Tohr outted both his black daggers in preparation to strike. Z and Phury were a mere block over from him, but there was no reason to call them—and not because he was rocking the whole death-wish shit again.

These two lessers up ahead were suffering from a fantastic case of the meanders; they were just ambling along like they had nothing better to do than wear down the soles of their boots.

The Society was overrecruiting, he thought, mining too deep into the pool of miscreant antisocials. And then once they were inducted, the SOBs weren’t getting enough training or support—

Against his side, his phone vibrated as a text came through, but he ignored it as he broke into a jog. The snow cover helped muffle the sound of his shitkickers, and thanks to the cold air blowing into him, he had no scent to give himself away—not that these fools would have noticed either.

At the last moment, however, something tipped them off and they pivoted around.

He couldn’t have asked for a better response.

He nailed them both right in the neck, ripping through their carotids, opening second mouths below their chins. As their hands shot up, he tore through the space between them and wheeled about, ready to escort them onto the ground if necessary—

Oh, but no. The pussies were already falling to their knees.

Whistling through his teeth, he signaled to the others as he outted his phone to call Butch for cleanup—

He froze. The text that had come in was from Doc Jane: I need you to come home right now.

“Autumn…?” As his brothers came skidding around the corner, he looked up. “I gotta bounce.”

Phury frowned. “What’s happened?”

“I don’t know.”

He dematerialized on the spot, ghosting to the north. Had she hurt herself? Maybe down in the clinic working? Or… fucking hell. What if she’d been out in town with Xhex and someone had aggressed on her?

As he re-formed on the steps in front of the mansion, he all but broke down the doors of the vestibule. Good thing Fritz cut the need for a carpenter by answering the inner one quick.

Tohr blew by the butler at a dead run. He was damn sure the guy was talking at him, but there was no tracking that or any other conversation. Hitting the hidden door under the stairs, he fell into a pounding gallop as he shot through the underground tunnel.

His first clue as to what was wrong came as he burst out of the supply closet and into the office.

His body flipped out, the signals from his brain cut off by interference and a change of focus that made no sense: An erection, thick and long, punched at his leathers, his head swimming with a sudden, crushing need to get to Autumn and—

“Oh, fuck… no…” The ragged sound of his voice was cut off as a scream pealed out of some room down the corridor. High-pitched and horrid, it was that of a female in incredible pain.

His body responded instantly, trembling as an overriding need struck him. He had to get to Autumn—unless he serviced her, she was going to spend the next ten or twelve hours in hell. She needed a male—him—inside of her, taking care of her—

Tohr lunged for the glass door, arm outstretched, hand ready to shove the transparent, fragile barrier aside.

He caught himself just as he opened the way.

What the fuck was he doing? What the fuck was he doing?

Another scream echoed down to him, and he sagged as a wave of sexual instinct nearly brought him to his knees. As his higher reasoning browned out again, his thought patterns ground to a halt as all he could think about was mounting Autumn and easing her torment.

But as the hormones ebbed, his brain started cranking over again.

“No,” he barked. “No, no fucking way.”

Pushing himself away from the door, he scrambled backward until he hit the desk and grabbed onto the thing in preparation for the next onslaught.

Images of Wellsie’s needing, the one when they had conceived their young, flickered through his mind, the onslaught as unrelenting and undeniable as his body’s urges. His Wellsie had been in such pain, crippling pain.…

He’d come home just before dawn, hungry, tired, thinking he was going to enjoy a good meal and some bad TV before they fell asleep against each other… but as soon as he’d entered through their garage, he’d had the same response he was fighting now: an overwhelming urge to mate.

There was only one thing that caused that kind of reaction.

Six months before that, Wellsie had made him swear, on the very basis of their sanctified mating, that when she went into her next needing, he would not drug her. Man, they’d had a fight over that. He hadn’t wanted to lose her to the birthing bed; like a lot of bonded males, he would have rather they remain childless for the rest of their long lives together than for him to be left with nothing.

And what about you fighting? she’d yelled at him. You face your own goddamn birthing bed every night!

He couldn’t remember now what he’d said to her then. No doubt he’d tried to calm her down, but it hadn’t worked.

Something happens to you, she’d said, I’ve got nothing either. You think I don’t go through that crucible every fucking night?

What had he said to her? Fuck him, he didn’t know. But he could picture her face clear as day as she’d stared up at him.

I want a young, Tohr. I want a piece of you and me together. I want a reason to go on living if you don’t—because that’s what I’m going to have to do. I’m going to have to keep living.

Little had they known that he’d be the one left behind. That the young wouldn’t be why she died. That all the things they had fought over that night hadn’t been the right worries.

But life was like that. And as soon as he’d walked into their house, he’d wanted to call Havers, had even gone to the phone. But in the end, and as usual, he hadn’t been able to deny her.

And instead of bleeding after the needing had passed, she’d found herself pregnant. Incandescent had barely described her joy—

The next scream was so loud, it was a wonder it didn’t shatter the glass door.

Jane burst into the office. “Tohr! Listen, I need your help—”

As his hands clawed into the desk’s edge to keep himself in place, he shook his head like a crazy man. “I’m not doing it. I’m not servicing her—no fucking way. I’m not doing it, I’m not doing it, I’m not doing it—”

Babbling, he was fucking babbling. He didn’t even hear his own words as he started to lift up the desk and slam it down over and over again, until something hard and heavy got knocked onto the floor.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he dimly thought it was too fucking ironic that he was losing it in this room again.

He’d found out Wellsie was dead in here.

Jane held her hands up. “No, wait, I need your help—but not in that way—”

Another wave of instinct made him grit his teeth and have to bow his upper body as he cursed.

“She told me not to call you—”

Then why was he here? Oh, fucking hell, the urge— “Then why did you text me!”

“She won’t take any drugs.”

Tohr shook his head—only this time it was in an attempt to improve his hearing. “What?”

“She’s refusing the drugs. I can’t get her to consent, and I didn’t know who else to call. I can’t reach Xhex—and no one else is close to her. She’s suffering—”

“Drug her anyway—”

“She’s stronger than I am. I can’t even get her back on the bed without her lashing out. But that’s not the point—ethically, I can’t treat someone who doesn’t let me. I won’t do that. Maybe you can talk to her?”

At that point, Tohr’s eyes got with the program and actually focused on the female. Her white coat was torn, one lapel hanging loosely like a flap of white skin. Clearly she’d been roughed up.

Tohr thought of Wellsie in her needing. When he’d gotten down to their room, it had looked like the place had been ransacked. The bedside table and everything on it knocked over and broken. The clock radio on the floor. The pillows off the mattress, the sheets split.

He’d found his female on the far side, on the carpet, in a ball of agony. She’d been naked, but flushed and sweating even though it had been cold.

He’d never forget the way she had looked up at him and, through her tears, begged him for what he could give her.

Tohr had mounted her fully clothed.

“Tohr…? Tohr?”

“Have you quarantined the other males?” he mumbled.

“Yes. I even had to send Manny away. He was…”

“Yeah.” The guy was probably calling Payne in from the field. Either that or spending a lot of meaningful time with his left hand: Once a male got exposed, he was perma-hard for some time, even if he left the vicinity.

“I also told Ehlena—and she said she’s got to stay away. I guess sometimes one female’s cycle can affect the others? And nobody wants to be pregnant around here.”

Tohr put his hands on his hips and bowed his head, pulling his shit together. He told himself he was not some animal to take Autumn on whatever bed she was lying on. He was not.…

Shit, how much was he willing to trust that resolution? And what the hell was she thinking? Why the fuck wasn’t she taking the drugs?

Maybe this was a ploy. To get him to service her.

Could she be that calculating?

The next scream was heart-wrenching—and pissed him off. In its wake, he told himself to turn around to the supply cabinet and put the thing to good use—except he couldn’t leave Doc Jane. Sure enough, she’d make another attempt to help Autumn and get shanked again.

He looked over at the healer. “Let’s go down together—and I don’t care if she consents or not. You’re going to put her out of that misery even if I have to pin her to the fucking floor.”

Tohr took a couple of bracing breaths, jacked up his leathers.

Jane was talking to him, no doubt spouting all kinds of ethical-this and ethical-that, but he wasn’t hearing it.

That walk down the corridor took forever: With each step, his body’s needs tightened up, transforming him into a bomb of instinct. By the time he got to the door of the recovery room she was in, he was bent over, clutching himself at the groin even in front of Doc Jane. His cock was pounding, his hips straining—

He opened the door. “Fuuuuck…”

His bones nearly snapped in two as half of him went to lunge forward and the other half had to hold himself back by the steel jamb.

Autumn was on the bed, on her stomach, one knee up to her chest, her other leg extended out at a tortured angle. Her shift was twisted tight around her waist, and soaking wet from the sweat, her hair a knotted mess tangling around her upper body. And there were spots of blood near her mouth—she’d probably bitten through her lip.

“Tohrment…” Her broken voice rose up. “No… go ’way.…”

He lurched over to the bed and put his face in front of hers. “It’s time to stop this—”

“Go… ’way.…” Her bloodshot eyes met his without focusing as tears streamed down her spectacularly colored face, the hormones suffusing her skin with a peachy tint like she was an old-fashioned, hand-painted photograph. “Go—no—”

The grunt that cut off the word rose in volume to another scream.

“Get the drugs,” he snapped at the healer.

“She won’t take them—”

“Get them! You may need her consent, but I sure as shit don’t—”

“Talk to her first—”

“No!” Autumn hollered.

All hell broke loose at that point, everyone shouting at each other until the next wave came and shut him and Autumn up, the two of them once again bowing under the pressure.

Lassiter’s appearance registered in the heartbeat between the surge easing off and the next round of arguing: The angel stepped up to the bed and extended his palm.

Autumn calmed instantly, her eyes rolling back in her head, her limbs loosening. Tohr’s relief, such that he had any, was that at least her suffering had eased off. He was still gripped by the need, but she was no longer killing herself.

“What are you doing to her?” Doc Jane asked.

“Just a trance. And it’s not going to last.”

Still, that shit was impressive. Vampire minds were stronger than human ones, and the fact that the angel could pull this kind of reaction out of her in her condition suggested he had some special tricks up his sleeve.

Lassiter’s eyes met Tohr’s. “You sure?”

“About what,” he snapped. Fucking hell, he was on the verge of losing his mind here—

“Servicing her.”

Tohr laughed in a cold burst. “Not in the cards. Ever.”

To prove the point, he lunged to the right, where a tray of syringes was on standby, clearly intended for Autumn. Nabbing two, he punched them into his thighs and shot himself up with whatever was in them.

Lots of shouting at this point, but it didn’t last. The drug cocktail, whatever it was, took immediate effect and dropped him to the floor.

His last image before he passed the fuck out was of Autumn’s fuzzy eyes watching him go down.

FIFTY-EIGHT

As Qhuinn and John stared at her with studiously blank expressions, Layla straightened in the hard chair she was seated in.

Glancing around the restaurant, she saw only humans calmly enjoying little confections similar to what were on her plates—so it was hard to understand what was wrong.

“Is it something outside?” she whispered, leaning forward. Generally speaking, she found that humans were much the same as vampires—just trying to live their lives without interference. But these two males would know otherwise.

Qhuinn looked at her and smiled in a way that didn’t reach his eyes. “After you fed the male, what did you do? What did they?”

She frowned, wishing they’d tell her what was wrong. “Ah… well, I tried to talk them into bringing him back to the training center. I figured since his comrade had been treated there, he could be as well.”

“Do you believe that his injuries could have been fatal?”

“If I hadn’t gotten there in time? Yes, I do. But he was looking better when I left. His breathing was much improved.”

“Did you feed from him.”

Now the tone in Qhuinn’s voice was dire. To the point that, had the boundaries of their relationship not been well set, she might have thought he was jealous.

“No, I did not. You’re the only person I’ve done that with.”

The silence afterward told her more than the questions did. The problem was not the humans around them in the restaurant or outside on the streets.

“I don’t understand,” she said angrily. “He was in need and I took care of him. You of all people should not discriminate simply because he is a soldier and not of noble birth.”

“Did you tell anyone where you were going that night? What you did there?”

“The Primale gives us free rein. I have been feeding and caring for fighters for a long time—it is what I do. It is my purpose. I don’t understand—”

“Have you had any contact with them since then?”

“I was hoping… in truth, I had hoped either one or both would appear at the mansion in some official capacity so that I might see the wounded one again. But no, I haven’t seen them.” She pushed her plates away. “What is so wrong here?”

Qhuinn got to his feet and took out his money roll. Peeling off a couple of twenties, he tossed the bills onto the table. “We have to go back to the compound.”

“Why are you being—” She dropped her voice as a few people looked over. “Why are you being like this?”

“Come on.”

John Matthew stood up as well, his expression furious, his fists clenched, his jaw hard.

“Layla, come back with us. Now.”

To avoid a scene, she rose up and followed them out into the cold air. But she had no intention of taking orders and dematerializing like a good little girl. If the pair of them were going to behave like this, they were damn well going to tell her why.

Planting her feet in the snow, she glared at the two males. “What is wrong with you?”

Her tone of voice was one that even a year ago she would have been shocked to hear coming out of her own mouth. But she was not the same female she had once been.

When neither of them replied, she shook her head. “I’m not budging from this stretch of sidewalk until you talk to me.”

“We’re not doing this, Layla,” Qhuinn bit out. “I have to—”

“Unless you tell me what is going on here, the next time either of those soldiers contacts me, you’d better believe I’m going to see them—”

“Then you’d be a traitor, too.”

Layla blinked. “I’m sorry—traitor?”

Qhuinn glanced over at John. When the male shrugged and threw up both his palms, there was a long stream of curses.

And then the earth fell out from beneath her feet: “I believe the male you fed is a soldier named Xcor. He is the leader of a rogue squadron of fighters colloquially called the Band of Bastards. And back in the fall, about the time you fed him, he made an attempt on Wrath’s life.”

“I’m… I’m sorry. What…” As she weaved on loose legs, John stepped in and held her up. “But how can you be sure…”

“I was the one who put those bruises on his face, Layla. I beat the shit out of him—so that Wrath could get home safely and have his gunshot wound treated. That’s our enemy, Layla—sure as the Lessening Society is.”

“The other—” She had to clear her throat. “The other soldier, though, the one who took me to him. He was in the training center. Phury brought me to feed him—with Vishous. They told me he was a soldier of worth.”

“They said that? Or allowed you to believe that.”

“But… if he was the enemy, why harbor him?”

“That’s Throe, Xcor’s second in command. He’d been left for dead by his boss—and we were going to be goddamned if he was dying on our watch.”

John took out his cell phone with his free hand and texted quickly, but Layla wasn’t tracking anything. Her lungs were burning, her head swimming, her gut twisting.

“Layla?”

Someone was calling out to her, but the panic that claimed her was the only thing she could connect with. As her heart hammered, and her mouth opened wide for air, a blackness descended upon her—

“Fucking hell, Layla!”

Working the rooftops of Caldwell, Xhex kept on Xcor at a distance, tracking him from alley to alley and district to district as he went up against slayers. From what little she saw, the male was an incredibly efficient fighter, that scythe of his doing some serious fucking work.

Damn shame he was a megalomaniac with delusions of the thronal variety.

At all times, she stayed a minimum of a block away. There was no reason to press her luck and run the risk of his tweaking to the fact that he was being followed. She had a feeling he knew, though. If the way he handled the enemy was any indication, he’d be smart enough to assume that Wrath and the Brotherhood would send emissaries out after him, and it wasn’t like he was in hiding. He was an individual with a pattern within a limited geographic space: He fought in Caldwell. Every fucking night.

Hello.

As snowflakes began to swirl in the air, the male in question moved position, falling into a jog with his right-hand man, Throe, by his side. Staying on them, she dematerialized to another building. And another. And a third. Where were they going? she thought, as they left the fighting sector.…

Half a mile or so later, Xcor paused down at street level, clearly trying to decide between left and right. As Throe came up next to him, angry words were exchanged. Maybe because Throe recognized they were headed in the wrong direction?

While they argued, she glanced at the sky. Checked her watch. Shit. Xcor was going to dematerialize at the end of the night, and that was how she was going to lose him. With her instincts roaming only so far, he was going to get out of range fast when he ghosted away.

But at least she had his grid now. And sooner or later, either he or one of his soldiers was going to get injured and have to be driven out of the city. It was inevitable—and that was how she was going to get them: a scattering of molecules she couldn’t track. But a car, a van, a truck, an SUV—that was her way in. And shit knew they were months overdue for a goddamn injury.

Abruptly, Xcor went on the move again, heading around the building she was up on top of, calling her back into action. With grim intensity, she crunched through the crusted snow of the rooftop, circling with him, jogging by HVAC vents and other mechanicals. When she got to the other side, she—

John Matthew.

Shit, her John was not far. What the hell—

He’d told her he was staying home tonight because he was off rotation.

Who was he out with? Qhuinn had given up his man-whore ways… wrong part of the city for that, anyway. This was the theater district.

Dematerializing to the lip of the building, she looked down. Across the street, at the head of an alleyway, John was standing in the shadows, with Qhuinn and… Layla. Who was up off the ground in the former’s arms, looking like she’d passed out?

Shiiiiit. Lot of drama down there. Big drama—the kind that was threatening to fritz out the Chosen’s emotional grid altogether.

Scattering her molecules, Xhex re-formed in front of John, startling the bunch of them. “Is she okay?”

We’re waiting for Butch, John signed.

“Is he on his way?”

He’s tied up across town on cleanup. But we need him now.

Clearly. Whatever had happened here was deep.

“You can put me down now,” Layla said gruffly.

Qhuinn just shook his head and kept holding her up off the snow.

“Look, iAm’s not far.” Xhex took out her cell and flashed it. “Will you let me call him?”

“Yeah, that’d be good,” Qhuinn replied.

As she hit up the Shadow, she stared at John while the phone rang. “Hey, iAm, how’s you? Yup. Uh-huh—how’d you know? Yeah, I need a set of wheels in the theater district, stat.… You are so the man, iAm.” She ended the call. “Done. ETA is less than five minutes.”

Thank you, John signed.

“What is it?” Qhuinn said as Layla started to stiffen.

Xhex narrowed her eyes on the Chosen’s face as the female’s grid lit up… with arousal. And shame. And pain.

“He’s here,” the Chosen whispered. “He’s not far at all.”

John and Qhuinn instantly went for their weapons—which was a good trick on the latter’s part, given that he still had Layla up in his arms.

Who the hell was she talking about—

“Xcor,” Xhex breathed as she looked in the same direction the Chosen was focusing on. And then connecting the dots, she thought out loud, “Jesus Christ… Xcor?”

iAm picked that moment to pull up in a BMW X5, and a split second later, he was out and holding the door open.

Qhuinn lunged for the SUV, and Layla didn’t put up any fight as she was shoved in there like an invalid.

“Take the vehicle,” iAm told the males. “Use it as your own.”

After an abrupt thank-you from Qhuinn, there was a brief moment of now-what as John looked at Xhex.

Bracing herself for some male chest thumping, she wanted to curse—

We’ll take her back, John signed. You stay here and do what you have to.

Just like that they hopped into iAm’s SUV and off they went.

“Do you need help?” iAm asked.

“Thanks, but nope,” she murmured as she watched the red brakes flare and then disappear around the far corner. “I got this.”

FIFTY-NINE

Xcor had sensed the Chosen female from blocks away. Drawn to her, he had changed direction and headed toward her—until Throe had gotten in the way and argued with him.

Which had been, in a manner of speaking, a good thing. It meant that the male was staying true to his vow to never see her again.

Xcor, on the other hand, had made no such promise—so he had pressed onward, leaving his soldier in the dust. Fates, but he had spent so many days staring up at the cobwebbed beams above his bunk, wondering where she was, what she was doing. How she was doing.

If the Brotherhood ever found out who she had been of aid to in that field, they would be furious—and Wrath, the Blind King, had long been known to live up to his name. Lo, how Xcor still regretted that his second lieutenant had brought her into this mess. She was guileless, an innocent seeking only to help, and they had made a traitor out of her.

She deserved better.

Indeed, it felt insane to pray for his target’s mercy in her case. But he did. He prayed that Wrath would spare her if the truth ever came out…

Closing in on her, he’d dared not get too close… and he found her in the lee of a little café, draped in shadows that, no matter how hard his eyes strained, he could not penetrate.

She was not alone; she was guarded by soldiers—two of them male, one of them female.

Would she sense him? he wondered, his heart beating sure as if he were being chased. Would she tell them he was nearby—

A black vehicle came tearing up to the group, and what got out was something he’d only heard whispers about: Was that a Shadow? An actual living, breathing Shadow?

The Brotherhood had worthy allies, that was for sure—

With speed, his Chosen was carried to the car in the arms of the soldier he had fought with that night at Assail’s.

Xcor bared his fangs, but kept the growl to himself. That another male was touching her made him violent to his core. That she might be injured in some way? Made him terrified to the point of tremors.

In the last moment, just before she disappeared into the backseat, she looked his way.

The moment of connection slowed time down until everything from the snowflakes that were falling to the blink of the neon sign beside her to the speed with which she was dispatched out of sight went into single frames, the photographs taken by his mind one by one.

She was not in a white robe, but rather human clothes that he did not favor. Her hair was still pulled up high above her neck, however, accentuating the spectacular features of her face. And as he breathed in, his sinuses hummed from both the cold and her delicate scent.

It was everything he remembered about her. Except now she was clearly in distress, her skin too pale, her eyes too wide, her hand shaking as she raised it to her throat as if to protect herself.

His fighting palm actually reached forward for her, as if there was something he could do to relieve her suffering, as if he could help her in some way.

It was a gesture that would have to remain forever in the shadows. She knew he was here, and that was probably why they were taking her away.

And she was scared of him now. Likely because she knew he was her enemy.

The two males packed in with her, the taller one getting behind the wheel, the one he’d fought slipping in beside her in the back.

Without his being aware of it, his palm sneaked inside his jacket, and found his gun. The temptation to flash into the path of that vehicle, kill the two males, and take what he wanted was so great, he actually shifted his position down the street.

But he could not do that to her. He was not his fath—he was not the Bloodletter. He would not torture her conscience for the rest of her days with such violence—because surely she would extrapolate and blame herself for the deaths.

No, if he ever had her, it would be because she came unto him of her free will. Which was an impossibility, of course.

And so…he let her go. He stepped not into the path of the motorcar to put a bullet through the forehead of the driver. He did not then rush forth, shoot the one in the backseat, and turn about to kill the female soldier who was, as of this moment, directly behind him by about half a block. He did not infiltrate the vehicle, lock the Chosen in and drive her off to somewhere warm and safe.

Whereupon he would take those dreadful human dressings from her skin… and replace them with his naked body.

Dropping his head, he closed his eyes and recalibrated his thoughts, reining them in, steering them away from the fantasy. Indeed, he would not even use her as a way to find the Brothers: that would be signing her death warrant sure as if he could actually write his own name.

No, he would not use her as a tool in this war. He had already compromised her too much.

Pivoting in the snow, he faced the direction of the one who was behind him. That the soldiers had left with the Chosen instead of fighting with him was logical. A female such as she was a highly valuable commodity, and they’d likely called in many reinforcements for the trip to wherever they were going.

Interesting that the one they had picked to stay behind was of the fairer sex. They must have assumed he’d give chase.

“I sense you clear as day, female,” he called out.

To her credit, she stepped into the light of a doorway down the alley. With short hair and a tight, powerful build that was encased in leather, she was definitely a female fighter.

Well, wasn’t this a night for surprises: If she was associated with the Brotherhood, he had to assume she was dangerous so this could be fun.

And yet, as she confronted him, she took out no weapons. She was prepared, though—indeed, her stance told him she was ready to do what she must. But she was not on the offensive.

Xcor narrowed his eyes. “Too ladylike to fight?”

“You are not mine to take.”

“So whose am I.” When she didn’t reply, he knew there was a game afoot. The question was, what kind. “Nothing to say, female?”

He took a step toward her. And another. Just to test where the boundaries were. Sure enough, she didn’t retreat, but instead slowly unzipped the front of her jacket as if she were ready to get at her guns.

Standing in that pool of light, with the snow falling around her and her boots planted on the white, fluffy ground, her black figure cut quite a picture. He wasn’t attracted to her, however—mayhap it would be easier if he was. Someone with her intrinsic harshness might fare better in the face of his… face, as it were.

“You appear rather aggressive, female.”

“If you force me to kill you, I will.”

“Ah. Well, I shall keep that mind. Tell me, do you tarry here for the pleasure of my company?”

“I doubt there’d be much pleasure in it.”

“Right you are. I am not known for my social graces.”

She was tracking him, he thought. That was the reason she was here. In fact, he had had the sense since the earlier part of the night that there had been a shadow on him.

“I’m afraid I shall have to be going,” he drawled. “I have a feeling our paths shall cross again, however.”

“You can bet your life on it.”

He inclined his head toward her… and promptly disappeared himself far away. Whatever her tracking skills were, she couldn’t follow molecules. No one was that good.

Not even his Chosen could do that—and thank the Fates for it. For truth, the thought had long lingered in his mind that she might find him if she wished, her blood in him a beacon she could follow for quite some time.

But she hadn’t done so, and she wouldn’t. She was not of the war—

His phone went off just as he came back into his physical form on the shores of the Hudson far from downtown. Taking the black device out, he looked at the screen. The picture of an old-fashioned dandy was showing beside writing and numerals he could not decipher—which indicated his contact within the glymera was reaching out to him.

He hit the button with green lettering on it. “How lovely to hear from you, Elan,” he murmured. “How ever are you doing this fine eve. They are? Indeed. Yes. I shall get back to you on a location—but tell them aye. We shall meet with them posthaste.”

Perfect, he thought as he hit the red button. The splintering faction of the glymera wanted to meet in person. Things were finally starting to move.

About time.

Staring out over the river, he let his aggression flow, but the surge didn’t last. Inevitably, his thoughts returned to his Chosen and that horrid expression on her face.

She knew who he was now.

And as all females did, she viewed him as a monster.

Riding in the back of iAm’s SUV, Qhuinn kept a lookout on all sides of the vehicle in case they were being trailed. He’d also called in V and Rhage to flank the BMW on a just-in-case.

Not that he’d told them it was the Bastards he was worried about. They had assumed it was lessers, and he’d let them go with that one.

And John wasn’t driving back to the compound—no reason to get anywhere near home base. Instead, they were going to head out into the ’burbs and go in circles, staying in the human-heavy neighborhoods until Layla had time enough to recover and dematerialize back to the mansion.

On that note, he glanced over at her. She was staring out the window beside her, her chest rising and falling way too fast.

But, yeah, finding out you’d helped the enemy—probably saved his life—was not the kind of thing anyone would handle well.

He leaned over and put his hand on her leg, giving it a squeeze. “It’s okay, baby girl.”

She didn’t turn her head to him. Just shook it. “How can you say that.”

“You didn’t know.”

“He stayed back in town. He didn’t follow us.”

Good to know. “You’ll let me know if that changes.”

“Absolutely.” Her voice was dead. “In a moment.”

Qhuinn cursed under his breath. “Layla. Look at me.” When she didn’t, he put his forefinger on her chin. “Hey, you didn’t know who he was.”

Layla closed her eyes, as if she wished she could return to whatever night she had met the guy and do everything over.

“Come here,” he said, pulling her into an embrace.

She came stiffly to him, and as he rubbed her back, the tension in her muscles was legion.

“What if the king turns me out?” she said into his pectoral. “What if Phury—”

“They won’t. They’ll understand.”

As she shuddered against him, he glanced up at John in the rearview mirror and shook his head at his best friend. Mouthing the words, he said silently, Let’s just drive her in. Xcor stayed back in town.

John cocked a brow, and then nodded.

After all, blood sense didn’t lie—although unfortunately, it was a sword that cut both ways. The good news was that the mhis V threw up around the compound would keep anyone on the outside from finding her—which was the reason Throe had been fed in the first place. And at least that connection with Layla was fading with every passing night, even with the Chosen’s blood being so pure.

“I’ve got nothing of my own,” Layla said roughly. “Nothing. Even my service can be taken away from me.”

“Shhh… ain’t going to happen. I won’t let it.”

Man, he prayed that wasn’t a lie. And they damn well had to tell the king and the Primale right away: Their first stop, after they took her to Doc Jane’s, was going to be Wrath’s study. Those two just had to understand where she’d been coming from—she’d been manipulated by the enemy, exploited like any other resource into doing something she never would have volunteered for in a million years.

He wished he’d killed Xcor when he’d had the chance…

A good thirty minutes later, John turned off onto the rear road to the training center, and it was another ten before they finally pulled into the parking garage.

The first clue something was off came when Qhuinn stepped out onto the curb: His skin tightened up in a rush, his blood heating to a boil in his veins for no good reason. And then he popped a giant, throbbing erection.

Frowning, he glanced around. And John did the same as the guy cracked his door and got out from behind the steering wheel.

There was… some kind of mojo working in the parking lot. What the fuck?

“Ah, right, okay, let’s get you to Doc Jane,” Qhuinn said as he took Layla’s elbow, and made sure the front of his hips was covered by the tails of his leather jacket.

“I’m fine. Honestly—”

“Then that’s just what the good doctor will tell—”

As John opened the door to the place and they all stepped inside, Qhuinn lost his train of thought as a wall of hormones smacked right into him. Looking down at his pelvis, he couldn’t believe he was suddenly about to orgasm.

“Someone’s in her needing,” Layla announced. “I don’t think you two should go in—”

Far down the hall, Doc Jane all but jumped out of one of the examination rooms. “You have to leave—Qhuinn and John, you’ve got to go—”

“Who’s—” Qhuinn had to close his eyes and slow his breathing down: The motion was causing his cock to rub against his button fly, threatening a messy explosion. “Who is—”

As some kind of wave intensified, he lost the ability to speak.

Fuck, it was like he’d just come through his transition and was surrounded by naked females in all-access positions.

“It’s Autumn,” Jane said, running toward them and ushering them back out into the parking lot. “Are you okay, Layla?”

“I’m fine—”

“She needs a quick physical,” Qhuinn mumbled as he turned for the Shadow’s car. “Just came close to passing out. Text me when you’re done, Layla, ’kay?”

John was walking like a scarecrow as well—stiffly and without any coordination. Then again, when you had a baseball bat in your pants, you were hardly going to Fred Astaire around.

As the heavy steel door shut them out, things got a little better, and by the time they had driven through the series of gates, short of a raging hard-on, he was feeling more rational.

“Jesus,” Qhuinn said. “Bottle that shit and the Viagra boys are out of business.”

Behind the wheel, John whistled an agreement.

As the guy drove them around the base of the mountain and approached the main house from the front, Qhuinn squirmed in his leathers.

He hadn’t done much sexually since… well, shit, almost a year ago, when he’d had some private time with that red-haired guy at the Iron Mask. After that, he hadn’t had much interest in anything or anyone, male or female. He didn’t even wake up hard anymore.

Hell, given the length of his dry spell, he’d begun to think that he’d just burned through his allotment of orgasms: Considering how much fucking he’d done after his transition, it sure as shit seemed possible.

But here he was, itching in his seat.

Next door, John was doing the same, moving this way and that. Jacking himself up, pushing back.

When the mansion finally made an appearance out of the mhis, Qhuinn dreaded going inside. There didn’t seem anything even remotely sexy or appealing about heading up to his room alone, jerking off once or twice, and then resuming his vigil in front of a dark TV screen.

I’ve got nothing of my own. Nothing. Even my service can be taken away from me.

Layla was so right about that: Although everyone made him welcome here, the bottom line was, he was allowed to hang because he served a purpose for John, as ahstrux nohtrum.

Like Layla, however, he could be fired.

And as for his future? He was certainly never going to be mated, because he wasn’t going to condemn some female to a loveless union, and he was never going to have any young—although, considering his mismatched eyes, maybe that was a good thing.

Bottom line, he was staring down the barrel of countless centuries with no real home, no true family, no blood of his own.

As he rubbed a hand through his hair and wondered whether there was any possibility his cock would magically deflate… he knew just what that Chosen meant when it came to empty.

SIXTY

Xhex needed intel. Stat.

When Xcor had dematerialized away from her, he’d gone outside the scope of her radar within seconds. And yeah, she had a bead on his direction, but only an asshole wouldn’t camo the way to his hideout.

Sure enough, as she followed what she could of him, she found herself stuck on the shores of the Hudson not far from her house: The trail got cold at that point, and not because the frigid north wind was blowing down the river.

She kicked a random snowdrift and paced around. Retraced her steps back to the theater district. Scanned the rest of the city, going rooftop to rooftop.

Nothing.

She ended up back on top of that building where she’d seen John and the others, stalking around and cursing like a sailor. In the absence of physical clues, she was forced to go with the only other thing she had: the drama outside that dessert place.

Taking out her phone, she texted John and waited. And waited. And… waited.

Did they get ambushed on the way back?

She texted again. Hit up Qhuinn—and got no reply.

Damn it, what if something had happened? Just because Xcor had appeared to leave the city, that didn’t mean he couldn’t cycle around and intersect iAm’s SUV. Meanwhile, she was here chasing her tail like an idiot—

Just as she was about to start another round of near-panicked texting, John hit her back: @ hm safe. Srry wz dwn in clinic.

Dialing back on her chick-out, she took a deep breath and texted back: We need to talk about Layla. Let me come to the house.

It was possible that Qhuinn wouldn’t want to leave the Chosen in her condition, and Xhex didn’t want John to drag his ahstrux nohtrum out just for a meeting.

Instead of waiting for a response, she flashed herself over to the mansion and strode up the steps and into the vestibule. The inner door opened immediately, and Fritz appeared frazzled.

“Good evening, my lady.”

“What’s wrong?”

The butler bowed and shuffled backward. “Oh, indeed. Yes. Whom are you here to see?”

There was a time when that wouldn’t have been a question. “John. Is he at the clinic?”

“Oh… no. No, definitely not there. He is upstairs.”

Xhex frowned. “Is there any problem?”

“Oh, no. Please, madam, go forth.”

Bullshit there wasn’t something going on. She crossed the mosaic apple tree at a jog and took the stairs two at a time. When she got to the second floor, she hesitated.

Even out in the hall, she could catch the scent of sex—a mixed bag of it, actually, suggesting there were multiples going on. Literally.

And didn’t that make her feel like throwing up.

As she approached John’s door, she braced herself for whatever could be on the other side. Layla was trained as an ehros, and Qhuinn had long been up for anything—and maybe this separation had led her mate into the arms of others.

With a dead heart, she knocked loudly. “John? It’s me.”

Closing her eyes, she imagined naked bodies freezing, people looking back and forth, John scrambling to get something to cover himself. There was no reading grids—she was too scattered to pull that off. No sorting through the scents, either—she was having enough trouble staying on her feet because she knew at least one of them was John’s.

“I know you’re in there.”

Instead of the door opening, she got a text on her phone: Am soz—busy. Can I cm find u l8r?

Fuck that and the horse it rode in on.

Xhex grabbed the doorknob, twisted hard enough to break the thing off, and shoved her way—

Holy. Shit.

John was by himself on his bed, lying on top of twisted sheets, his naked body gleaming in the light that bled in from the bathroom. One hand was between his legs, his big fist locked on his thick cock… the other was gripping the headboard for leverage as he worked himself, his teeth bared, the muscles in his shoulders and neck standing out in stark relief as he strained.

Shiiiiit. His lower abdomen was slick from other orgasms, and yet he seemed starved for release.

Fevered eyes met hers as his hand stilled. Go, he mouthed. Please…

She quickly stepped inside and shut the door. This was not something anyone else needed to see.

Please! he demanded.

Please, indeed, she thought to herself, her own body responding, her own blood starting to pump.

Stepping over the crumpled discards of what he’d been wearing in the theater district, she could think only about how much she had missed the carnal side of him. It was as if she had been shut down during these long months—and yeah, it would have been far better for her to walk out, let him deal with his rock-and-a-hard-place by his lonesome, and reconvene later.

But, God, she had missed being his female.

I can’t stop, he mouthed. Autumn in her needing—got too close.

Ah. That explained it. Except… “Is my mother okay?”

At Jane’s, and yes.

God, that poor female. To have to suffer through that again after all she’d been through. But at least Jane would ease the suffering—assuming Tohr didn’t.…

Right, she was so not getting close to that one.

Xhex, you have… to go.…

“What if I don’t want to.”

At that, his body undulated wildly, sure as if she were already touching him, and he orgasmed hard, his grip slipping up and down as he came all over the muscled expanse of his lower belly.

Well, wasn’t that a very well-spoken answer: He wanted her, too.

Xhex stepped up to the edge of the bed and reached out, brushing his churning thigh with her fingertips. The light contact was enough to keep his release going, his hips thrusting up, his sex kicking, his warrior body contracting as the pleasure rocked through him.

Bending down, she shoved his pumping hand aside and captured him with her mouth, sucking him off, finishing him the right way as he thrashed in the sheets. And as soon as he was done, at least with that particular release, he stilled for only a nanosecond before sitting up and reaching for her.

She went to him with ease, kissing him as he pulled her on top of his body. His hands, those big, familiar hands, roamed everywhere… until they settled on her ass, and jacked her upward so he could nestle his face into her breasts—

With a quick slash of his fangs, he bit through her muscle shirt, and latched onto her nipple, sucking, and licking as she helped him out, pulling her jacket off, ditching her weapons, and—

John flipped her over onto her back and snarled soundlessly at her leathers.

Things didn’t go well for them—which, considering how tough cowhide was, said something about all the get-naked that was happening. At least he knew better than to mess with her cilices, though.

As soon as they were in position, he pushed into her with a jab, and the sting of the stretch was enough to throw her right into a bone-bending orgasm. He followed, joining her, their bodies working each other while she cried out.

And still he kept riding her, the relentless pounding giving her more of exactly what she needed.

Baring her fangs, she waited until he paused for a moment—then she struck. Biting him hard, she shoved him over onto his back, forcing him flat on the mattress so she could straddle him. And as she held him down by the shoulders and drew against his throat, she resumed the fucking, her thighs lifting her up and pushing her down, working his erection.

John’s surrender to her was complete. His arms stayed to the sides, his strength ceded to her, his body hers to use until she drained him dry up at his neck and down at his hips.

As she took him, his eyes stayed locked on her face, the love shining out of them so great, they were a pair of blue suns raining warmth all over her.

How in the world could she ever live without him…

Releasing his throat temporarily, she rode out the current orgasm, burying her face into his shoulder as things got so violent she couldn’t keep contact with his throat. But she knew his vein was hers for the taking, as soon as it was over…

Man, life was complicated. But the truth was simple.

He was her home.

He was where she belonged.

Rolling to the side, she encouraged him to follow her, and he came with her as easy as water, as hot as fire. It was his turn to feed… and given the way his eyes zeroed in on her jugular, he agreed with her.

“Let me seal you first,” she said as she went for her puncture marks.

He took her wrist and held her back, shaking his head. No—I want to bleed for you.

Xhex closed her eyes, her throat tightening.

It was hard to say where this was going to lead them, because she never would have predicted their split in the first place. But it was so damned good to be home… even if this was just a short stay.

Hours passed, the night waning and dawn arriving; and then the sun rose from the lip of the horizon, ascending to its noonday heights, washing the snow-covered mountain with light.

Autumn was unaware of any of this—and that would have been true whether she was down in the clinic or up at the mansion… or out in the snow.

In fact, she might as well have been directly in the sunshine.

She was on fire.

The blazing heat in her womb reminded her of the birthing of Xhexania, the agony rising to heights that made her wonder if death wasn’t coming for her, before easing off just enough so she could catch her breath and prepare for the next peak. And as with labor, the cycling persisted, the moments of relenting becoming farther and farther apart until the pain of the need filled out the contours of her body and took over all movement, all breath, all thought.

It had not been like this before. Back when she’d been with that symphath, the needing hadn’t been half this strong.…

Or half this long…

After however many hours of torture, she had no more tears left, no more sobs, not even any twitches. She just lay in stillness, barely breathing, her heartbeat sluggish, her eyes closed as her body was yet assaulted internally.

It was hard to pinpoint exactly when the tipping point came upon her, but gradually the throbbing between her legs and the burning in her pelvis drifted away, the rigors of the needing replaced with an abiding soreness in her joints and her muscles from all the straining she’d done.

When she could finally raise her head, her neck cracked loudly, and she groaned as her face hit a wall of some sort. Frowning, she tried to orient herself… oh, indeed, she was at the foot of the bed, pressed up against the short board at its end.

She laid her head back down for a while. With the boiling heat easing to a mere simmer, she began to feel cold, and she fumbled around for a sheet, or a blanket, or a cover of any sort. There was nothing—all was on the floor: She was naked on a bare mattress—clearly she’d ripped off even the fitted sheet.

Summoning what little energy she had, she attempted to push her torso up and lift her head. She made little progress. It was as if there was glue holding her down…

Eventually, she rose up.

The trip to the bathroom was as arduous and treacherous as a hike up a mountainside, but lo, the joy with which she beheld the shower and turned it on.

As temperate water fell generously from the spout anchored upon the wall, she sat down on the tile beneath it, tucking her heels up against her bottom, hugging herself around her knees. As she laid her head to the side, the gentle spray washed away the salt of her tears and her sweat.

The shivers turned violent shortly thereafter.

“Autumn?” came Doc Jane’s voice from the room beyond.

Her rattling teeth prevented her from replying, but the shower said enough: The other female appeared in the doorway, and then ventured further into the bath, until she pulled back the cloth curtain and knelt down so they were eye-to-eye.

“How’re you feeling?”

Abruptly, Autumn had to shield her face as she began crying.

Hard to know whether the outburst was because the needing had finally passed, or because she was so tired she had no boundaries left… or because the last thing she remembered before everything became a blur was the sight of Tohr driving those two needles into his thighs and falling to the floor.

“Autumn, can you hear me?”

“Yes…” she croaked.

“I’d like to get you back in bed if you’re done washing up. There’s a lot of heat in here, and I’m worried about your blood pressure.”

“I’m c-c-cold.”

“That’s fever chills. I’m going to turn off the water now, okay?”

She nodded, because she didn’t have the wherewithal to do anything else.

When the warm rain stopped falling, the rattling inside her skin got worse as the cold rushed in and traveled across her tender flesh. Soon enough, however, a soft blanket was draped around her shoulders.

“Can you stand?” When Autumn nodded again, she was helped up, dressed in a light sheath and escorted back over to the bed—which had magically been remade with fresh sheets and blankets.

Stretching out, she was aware only of the tears that seeped from the corners of both eyes, an endless, slow stream of them, hot against her cold face.

“Shhh, you’re okay,” the healer said, as she sat down on the edge of the mattress. “You’re all right—it’s over.…”

As a gentle hand stroked her wet hair back, the tone of Doc Jane’s voice, more than the female’s actual words, helped the most.

And then there was a straw sticking out of a soda can, brought close to her mouth.

One draw of that cold, sweet nectar and Autumn’s eyes rolled back into her head. “Oh… blessed Virgin Scribe… what is that?”

“Ginger ale. And you’re welcome—hey, not too fast.”

After she’d finished the whole lot of it, she lay back again as a band was shuffled onto her arm and puffed up before being deflated. Next, a cold disk was pressed to her chest in a couple of places. A light was flashed in her eyes.

“May I have some more ginger ale, please?” she asked.

“Your wish is my command.”

The healer did one better than that, returning not only with another chilly tin can and a straw, but some plain crackers that tasted like absolutely nothing and were total heaven in her belly.

She was making quick work of the sustenance when she realized the healer had sat down in a chair and was saying nothing.

Autumn stopped eating. “Do you not have any other patients?”

“Just one, and she was fine when she got here.”

“Oh.” Autumn picked up another of the crackers. “What are these called?”

“Saltines. Of all the drugs I dispense down here, sometimes there’s nothing better.”

“They’re wonderful.” She put the flaky, dusty square in her mouth and bit down. As a silence persisted, she said, “You want to know why I refused the drugs.”

“It’s none of my business. But I do think you need to talk to someone about it.”

“A professional of some order?”

“Yeah.”

“There is nothing wrong with letting nature take its course.” Autumn glanced over. “But I begged you not to get him. I told you not to call him.”

“I had no choice.”

Tears threatened, but she forced them away. “I didn’t want him to see me like that. Wellsie—”

“What about her.”

Autumn jerked around in surprise, rattling the crackers, splashing soda out over her hand. In the doorway, Tohrment loomed, a great dark shadow that filled the jambs.

Doc Jane rose up. “I’ll just go check on Layla again. Your vitals are good, and I’ll bring a proper meal back with me when I come.”

And then they were alone.

He didn’t approach the bed, but stayed by the door, settling back against the wall. With his brows down tight and his arms linked over his chest, he was self-contained and explosive at the same time.

“What the hell was that all about,” he said harshly.

Autumn put the crackers and the can aside, then busied herself folding and unfolding the edge of the blanket.

“I asked you a question.”

Autumn cleared her throat. “I told Doc Jane not to summon you—”

“Did you think if you suffered I’d come and help you out?”

“Not at all—”

“You sure about that? Because what did you think Jane was going to do when you refused to be treated?”

“If you don’t believe me, ask the healer. I instructed her specifically not to call upon you. I knew that that would be too much for you—how could it not be after—”

“This is not about my shellan. This has nothing to do with her.”

“I’m not so sure about that—”

“Trust me.”

After that, he didn’t say anything else. He just stood there with that tense body and those hard eyes, staring at her as if he had never seen her before.

“Where are your thoughts?” she asked quietly.

He shook his head from side to side. “You don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I think I’ve been fooling myself all these months.”

As she felt the shivering from the shower return, she knew the cause was not a temperature imbalance in her bones. Not anymore. “How so.”

“Now isn’t the time for this.”

As he turned to go, she had the very clear sense that she was not going to see him again. Ever.

“Tohr,” she said in a rough voice. “There was no manipulation on my part—you need to believe that. I didn’t want you to service me—I would never put you through that.”

After a moment, he looked over his shoulder, his eyes dead. “You know what? Fuck all that. It’s almost worse that you didn’t want me in here with you. Because the other option is that you’re mentally ill.”

“I beg your pardon.” Autumn frowned. “And I am utterly sane.”

“No, you’re not. If you were, you wouldn’t have chosen to put yourself through that—”

“I just didn’t want the drugs. Your extrapolation is extreme—”

“Oh, yeah? Well, brace yourself, you’re really not going to like my next conclusion. I’m beginning to think you’re with me to punish yourself.”

She recoiled so sharply, her neck cracked again. “I most certainly am not—”

“What better way to steep yourself in misery than to be with a male who loves someone else.”

“That is not why I’m with you.”

“How would you know, Autumn. You’ve been making a martyr out of yourself for centuries. You’ve been a servant, a maid, a laundress—and you’ve been fucking me for the last few months—which brings us back to my point about clinical insanity—”

“How dare you judge my inner convictions,” she hissed. “You know nothing of what I think or feel!”

“Bullshit. You’re in love with me.” He pivoted to face her and put up his palm to stop her commenting. “Don’t bother denying it—you tell me in your sleep every day. So let’s build a case. You clearly like to punish yourself. And you know damn well the only reason I’m with you is to get Wellsie out of the In Between. So don’t I just fit your pattern to a T—”

“Get out,” she snapped. “Get out of here.”

“What—you don’t want me to stay so you can make it hurt so good some more?”

“You bastard.”

“You got that right. I’ve been using you, and the only person it’s working for is you—God knows it’s gotten me nowhere. The good news is that this whole thing”—he gestured back and forth between them—“is going to give you a terrific excuse to torture yourself even longer— Oh, don’t bother with the denials. That symphath was your fault. I’m your fault. The weight of the world is all your fault, because you enjoy being the victim—”

“Get out!” she screamed.

“You know, the whole indignant routine is a little hard to take seriously, considering you spent the last twelve hours suffering—”

“Get out!”

“—when you didn’t have to.”

She threw the first thing within reach at him—the soda can. But his reflexes were so good, he just caught it in his big hand… and then walked it right back over to the rolling table.

“You might as well own the fact that you’re a masochist.” He set the thing down with deliberate finesse, as if he were daring her to pitch it at him again. “And I’ve been your drug of choice lately. But I’m not doing that anymore… and neither are you, at least not with me. This shit between us… it’s not healthy for me. It’s not healthy for you. And it’s all we are together. All we’ll ever have.” He cursed low and hard. “Look, I’m sorry, Autumn. For the whole fucking thing—I’m really sorry. I should have stopped this long ago, long before it went as far as it did—and all I can do to make it right is to end it right now.” He shook his head, his eyes growing haunted. “I was part of you self-destructing once, and I remember all too well the blisters that came from digging your grave. I’m not doing that again. I can’t. You will always have my sympathy for everything you’ve been through, but I’ve got my own shit to deal with.”

As he fell silent, she wrapped her arms around herself. In a whisper, she said, “All this just because I didn’t want to be knocked out?”

“It’s not just about the needing. You know it isn’t. If I were you, I’d take Jane’s advice and talk to someone. Maybe…” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t fucking know anything anymore. The only thing I’m sure of is that we can’t keep doing this. It’s getting us both worse than nowhere.”

“You feel something for me,” she said, kicking her chin up. “I know it’s not love, but you feel—”

“I feel sorry for you. That’s where I’m at. Because you’re just a victim. You’re no one but a victim who likes to suffer. Even if I could fall in love with you, there’s nothing about you to get truly attached to. You’re just a ghost who’s not really here… any more than I am. And in our case, two wrongs do not make a right.”

At that, he turned his back on her and walked out, leaving her to reel in pain and loss, leaving her to confront his twisted vision of her past, her present, her future… leaving her alone in a way that had nothing to do with the fact that she was by herself.

The door, as it shut behind him, made no sound whatsoever.

SIXTY-ONE

As Tohr stepped out into the hall, he was crazed, incoherent, on the verge of a violent breakdown. Jesus Christ, he had to get out of here, get away from her. And to think he’d called her insane?

He was a fucking madman at the moment.

When he looked up, Lassiter was right in front of him. “Not now—”

The angel hauled back and cocked him so hard, he didn’t just see stars; he saw whole fucking galaxies of them.

As he hit the concrete wall behind him, the angel grabbed the front of his shirt and slammed him back again, rattling his molars.

When his vision finally cleared, that pierced face was nothing short of a demon’s mask, the features distorted by the kind of anger that required a gravedigger’s cleanup.

“You’re an asshole,” Lassiter barked. “A total fucking asshole.”

Tohr tilted to the side and spit out blood. “Was it Maury or Ellen who taught you to judge character.”

A long finger was shoved into his face. “Listen to me very carefully, because I’m going to say this only once.”

“Wouldn’t you rather hit me again? I know I’d get more out of it—”

Lassiter threw him into the wall again. “Shut up. And listen to me. You win.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve got what you wanted. Wellsie’s condemned for eternity—”

“What the—”

The third slam cut him off. “It’s over. Done.” He pointed to the closed door of Autumn’s room. “You just killed your chance when you ripped her apart.”

Tohr lost it, his emotions detonating. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about—you don’t know shit! You haven’t had a clue about any of this, not me, not her—not your job! What the fuck have you done here for the last year? Nothing! You’ve been sitting on your ass watching talk shows while my Wellsie’s disappearing! You’re a goddamn waste of time!”

“Really. Okay—you’re so fucking brilliant, how about this.” Lassiter released him and stepped back. “I quit.”

“You can’t quit—”

Lassiter flashed his middle finger. “I just did.”

The angel turned away and stalked down the hall.

“You’re fucking quitting! That’s great—fucking great! Talk about staying true to someone’s character, you selfish son of a bitch!”

All he got was another bird flipped over the shoulder.

With a vicious curse, Tohr made a move to go after the guy, but then stopped himself. Spinning around, he threw out a quick jab, punching the concrete so hard, he felt his knuckles break. And what do you know, the pounding pain in the back of his hand wasn’t even close to the agony in his chest.

He was absolutely raw, inside and out.

Taking off in the opposite direction from that angel, he found himself at the heavy steel door that opened into the parking lot. With no clue what he was doing or where he was going, he sent it flying wide on its hinges, and marched out into the chilly air, going to the right, heading up the incline, passing the empty spaces that were demarcated with yellow paint.

He went all the way to the back, to the farthest wall, and sat his ass down on the cold, hard asphalt, his shoulders against the damp concrete.

As he breathed hard, he felt like he was in the goddamn tropics—likely the tail end of the needing’s effect on his body: Even though he’d been out like a light from the drugs, he had had plenty of exposure, his balls aching as if he’d put them in a vise, his cock still hard, his joints sore as if he had strained even in the morphine haze.

Gritting his teeth, he sat alone and stared straight ahead, into the darkness.

This was the only safe place for him at the moment.

Probably for a while.

When Layla heard shouting, she poked her head out of the gymnasium to see who was yelling—and immediately ducked back inside. Tohr and Lassiter were having a set-to, and that was not anything she had to get involved with.

She had her own problems.

In spite of Autumn’s needing, she had stayed down in the clinic for the night, knowing she had spent some time up at the Sanctuary recently, so there was no reason to worry about her cycle. More to the point, however, she had nowhere else to go. Qhuinn and John were no doubt talking to the king and the Primale at the main house, and soon enough she would be summoned to learn of her fate.

Faced with possible exile—or worse, death for aiding a traitor—she had spent the hours upon hours upon hours walking around the edges of the gym’s honey-colored floor, passing the bleachers and the benches, and the entrances into the PT suite, and the doors out into the corridor. And then going back by them all again.

Her anxiety was such that it spooled out tension like a wool spinner, the twisted threads reaching up to encircle her throat and winding down to constrict her gut.

She thought relentlessly about Xcor and his second lieutenant. She had been used by them both—but especially the latter. Xcor hadn’t wanted to partake of her vein. He had fought it—and when she had overridden him, there had been deep regret in his eyes because he had known exactly what position he was putting her in. The other soldier had had no such compulsion.

Indeed, she blamed him—whatever fell upon her head, it was his doing. Mayhap she would be reincarnated as a ghost and could haunt him for the rest of his nights… of course, that was assuming she would be put to death. And if she was not, what was she going to do? Surely they would strip her of her duties herein as well as her Chosen status. Where would she go? She had nothing of her own, nothing that had not been provided at the behest of the king or the Primale.

Continuing on her loop, she confronted yet again the emptiness of her breathing days, and wondered what purpose she would serve in the future—

The door opened at the far end, and she stopped.

All four of them had come to find her: The king, the Primale, Qhuinn and John Matthew.

Straightening her spine, she crossed the gym down its middle, holding their eyes. When she got close enough, she curtsied down to the floor and did not wait to be addressed. Court manners were the least of her problems.

“My lord. I am prepared to accept all responsibility—”

“Rise, Chosen.” A hand appeared in front of her face. “Rise and be at ease.”

As she gasped and looked up, the king’s smile was gentle, and he didn’t wait for her to respond. Bending to her, he gathered her palm in his and helped her up from her supplication. And when she glanced at the Primale, his eyes seemed impossibly kind.

She just shook her head and addressed Wrath. “My lord, I fed your enemy—”

“Did you know who he was at the time?”

“No, but—”

“Did you believe that you were helping a fallen soldier?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Have you sought him out again?”

“Absolutely not, but—”

“Did you in fact tell John and Qhuinn where he was when you were leaving town last night.”

“Yes, but—”

“Enough with the buts then.” The king smiled again and put his hand to her face, brushing her cheek lightly in spite of his blindness. “You’ve got a big heart, and they knew it. They took advantage of your trust, and used you.”

Phury nodded. “I should have told you who you were feeding in the first place, but the war’s a messy, nasty business, and I didn’t want you to get sucked into it. It never dawned on me that Throe would seek you out—but I shouldn’t be surprised. The Band of Bastards is ruthless to the core.”

In a rush, she put her free hand up to her mouth, holding in a sob. “I’m so sorry—I swear to the both of you—I had no idea—”

Phury stepped in and drew her against him. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.… I don’t want you to think about this again.”

As she turned her head to the side to rest it upon his heavy pectoral, she knew that wasn’t possible. Unwittingly or not, she had betrayed the only family she had, and that wasn’t the kind of thing someone could just shrug off—even if her stupidity was forgiven. And these past tense hours, when her fate had been unknown and her loneliness revealed to its fullest extent, were not going to be brushed away, either.

“The only thing I ask,” Wrath said, “is that if he contacts you again—if any of them do—you tell us immediately.”

She pulled free and had the temerity to reach for the king’s dagger hand. As if Wrath knew what she wanted, he gave his palm over to her readily, the great black diamond flashing on his finger.

Bowing her head and placing her lips upon the symbol of the monarchy, she spoke in the Old Language. “With all that I have, and all that I am, I so swear.”

As she made the pact with her king, in front of the Primale and two witnesses, an image of Xcor played across her mind’s eye. She remembered every detail about his face and his warrior’s body—

From out of nowhere, a shot of heat speared through her.

It mattered not, however. Her body might be a traitor; her heart and soul were not.

Straightening, she stared at the king. “Let me help you find him,” she heard herself say. “My blood is in his veins. I can—”

Qhuinn cut her off. “Absolutely not. No fucking way—”

She ignored him. “Let me prove to you my fealty.”

Wrath shook his head. “You don’t have to. You’re a female of worth, and we’re not endangering your life.”

“I agree,” the Primale said. “We’ll deal with those fighters. They’re nothing for you to worry about—and now I want you to take care of yourself. You look exhausted, and you must be starved—go get yourself some food and have a sleep at the mansion.”

Wrath nodded. “I’m sorry we took so long to come to you. Beth and I were down in Manhattan having some R and R, and we just arrived back at nightfall.”

Layla nodded and agreed with everything else that was said, but only because she was suddenly too exhausted to stay on her feet much longer. Fortunately, the king and the Primale left soon thereafter, and then Qhuinn and John took over, leading her back to the mansion, taking her to the kitchen, and sitting her down at the counter as they popped open refrigerator and pantry doors.

It was sweet of them to want to wait on her, especially given that they didn’t know their way around even boiling an egg. The thought of food turned her stomach, however, making her gag.

“No, please,” she said, waving away leftovers from First Meal. “Oh… dearest Virgin Scribe… no.”

As they fixed themselves plates of turkey and mashed potatoes and some kind of broccoli mix, she tried not to see or smell any of it.

“What’s the matter?” Qhuinn said as he slid onto the stool next to her.

“I don’t know.” She should have been relieved that Wrath and Phury were so forgiving of her transgression. Instead, she was more anxious than ever. “I don’t feel right… I want to help. I want to make amends. I—”

John began signing something from over by the microwave—but whatever it was, Qhuinn shook his head and refused to translate.

“What is he saying?” she demanded. When she got no response, she put her hand on the male’s arm. “What’s he saying, Qhuinn?”

“Nothing. John ain’t sayin’ no goddamn thing.”

The other male didn’t appreciate the shutout, but he didn’t argue either as he prepared a second plate of food, no doubt for Xhex.

After John excused himself to go feed his shellan, the silence in the kitchen was broken only by the sound of Qhuinn’s silverware against his plate.

It was not long before she was ready to jump out of her skin, and to keep from screaming, she began to pace around.

“You really should rest,” Qhuinn murmured.

“I can’t seem to settle.”

“Try to eat something.”

“Dearest Virgin Scribe, no. My stomach’s a mess—and it’s so hot in here.”

Qhuinn frowned. “No, it isn’t.”

Layla just kept walking, faster and faster—and she supposed it was because she was trying to get away from the images in her head: Xcor looking up at her. Xcor taking her vein. Xcor’s big body… his massive, warrior body laid out before her and clearly aroused from the taste of her blood—

“What the hell are you thinking about?” Qhuinn asked darkly.

She stopped short. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Qhuinn shifted on his stool, and then abruptly shoved his half-eaten food away.

“I should leave you,” she announced.

“Nah, it’s cool. Guess I’m tetchy, too.”

As he got up from the counter with his dishes, her eyes traveled down his torso and widened. He was… aroused.

Just as she was.

Remnants of Autumn’s needing, clearly—

The heat wave came over her in such a rush, she barely had time to grab onto the granite counter to keep herself standing, and she coudn’t respond as she heard Qhuinn shout her name from a distance.

Need gripped her body, fisting her womb, making her buckle under its force.

“Oh… dearest Virgin Scribe…” Between her legs, her sex opened, the blossoming having nothing to do with Xcor or Qhuinn or any outside force.

The arousal came from inside of herself.

Her needing…

It hadn’t been enough. The visits to the Sanctuary hadn’t been enough to keep her from being caught by Autumn’s—

The next surge of yearning threatened to take her to her knees, but Qhuinn was there to catch her before she hit the hard tile. As he dragged her into his arms, she knew she didn’t have much time to be rational. And knew the resolution that abruptly came upon her was at once utterly unfair and totally undeniable.

“Service me,” she said, cutting off whatever it was he was saying to her. “I know you don’t love me, and I know we won’t be together afterward, but service me so that I can have something that’s mine. So you can have something that’s yours.”

As the blood drained out of his face and his mismatched eyes bulged, she forged on, talking in fast gasps. “We both have no true family. We’re both alone. Service me… service me and change all that. Service me so that we may each have a future that is at least partially our own.… Service me, Qhuinn.… I beg of you… service me.…”

SIXTY-TWO

Qhuinn was pretty certain he was in a parallel universe. Because there was no way that Layla was going into her needing… and turning to him to see her through it.

Nah.

This was just a mirror image of the way the real world was—a world where the biologically pure stuck to themselves so that they created generations of biologically pure and therefore superior young.

“Service me and give us something that is ours—” The hormones in her cranked up to a newer, higher level, cutting off her voice. It soon came back, however, with the same words. “Service me.…”

As he started to pant, it was unclear whether that was the sex in his blood, or the vertigo created by this unexpected cliff he was hanging off of.

The answer was no, of course. No, absolutely not, no children ever, certainly not with someone he wasn’t in love with, certainly not with a virgin Chosen.

No.

No…

Fuck, no, shit, no, God, no, damn it to hell, no…

“Qhuinn…” she groaned. “You’re my only hope, and I yours.…”

Well, actually, that wasn’t true—at least the first part. Any other male in the house—or on the planet—could take care of this. And of course, right afterward, they would be answerable to the Primale.

Not a conversation he was going to volunteer for.

Except… well, she was right about the second part. In her delirium, in her desperation, she was voicing the same thing he’d been thinking for months now. Like her, he had nothing that was really his, no prospects of true love, no abiding reason to rise each sunset other than the war. What kind of life was that?

Fine, he told himself. Go get a goddamned dog. The answer to all that was not to lie with this Chosen.

“Qhuinn… please…”

“Listen, let me get you to Doc Jane. She’ll take care of you the right way—”

Layla shook her head wildly. “No. I need you.”

From out of nowhere, he thought, Young were a future that was your own. If you parented them well, they never truly left you—and they could not be taken away from you if you kept them safe.

Hell, if Layla conceived, even the Primale couldn’t do shit, because Qhuinn would be… the father. Which in vampire terms was the ultimate trump short of the king—and Wrath wouldn’t touch something private like this.

On the other hand, if she didn’t fall pregnant, they would likely beat the ever-loving balls off him for soiling a sacred female—

Wait a minute. Was he actually considering this?

“Qhuinn…”

He could love a young, he thought. Love it with everything he was and ever would be. Love it as he had loved no other, even Blay.

Closing his eyes briefly, he went back in time to the night he had died and gone up to the door of the Fade. He thought about that image he had seen, that little female.…

Oh, Jesus…

“Layla,” he said roughly, as he put her back on her feet. “Layla, look at me. Look at me.”

As he shook her, she seemed to gather herself, focusing on his face as she gripped his upper arms with her nails. “Yes…”

“Are you sure. Are you positive—you need to be sure—”

For the briefest of moments, a completely lucid, rather ancient expression cut through her tortured, beautiful features. “Yes, I am sure. Let us do what we must. For the future.”

He searched her face carefully, just to be sure. Phury was going to be pissed, but then, even Chosen had the right to choose—and she was picking him, right here, right now: As all he saw was an abiding resolution, he nodded once, picked her back up into his arms, and strode out of the kitchen.

His only thought, as he hit the bottom of the grand staircase, was that they were going to conceive in the next few hours, and both the young and Layla were going to live through everything: the pregnancy, the birthing, and those critical few hours thereafter.

He and Layla were going to bring into the world a daughter.

A fair-haired daughter with eyes that were shaped like his, and at first colored like the Chosen’s… before they changed to be as the blue and green of his own.

He was going to have a family of his own.

A future of his own.

Finally.

As Xhex stepped out of the shower, she knew John had returned, because she caught his scent as well as the smell of something frickin’ delicious. Reapplying the cilices she’d removed to get cleaned up, she wrapped a towel around herself and padded out into the bedroom.

“Oh, man, turkey,” she said as he set up a lap tray for her.

Glancing over, his eyes lingered on her body like he wanted to eat her instead, but then he just smiled and went back to his ministrations with what he’d brought them both.

“This is perfect timing,” she murmured as she got on the bed. “I’m starved.”

After everything was set up properly, from the napkin to the silverware to the glass and covered plate, he brought the tray over to her, placing it across her thighs. Then he retreated to the other side of the room to have his own food at the chaise lounge.

Would he rather be feeding her by hand? she wondered as they ate in silence. Vampire males liked to do that… but she’d never had the patience for it. Food was energy for the body, not something to get all Valentine’s Day about.

Guess they were both capable of closing each other out, weren’t they. And something was up: His grid was conflicted, to the point where his emotions were nearly frozen.

“I’ll leave,” she said sadly. “After I check in on my mother, I’ll go—”

You don’t have to, he signed. I don’t want you to.

“You sure about that.” When he nodded, she had to wonder, given what his grid was up to.

But come on, a couple of hours in the sack were not going to close the kind of distance they had been rocking lately—

Abruptly, he took a deep breath and stopped playing with what was on his plate. Listen, I need to tell you something.

She put down her fork and wondered how bad this was going to hurt. “Okay.”

Layla fed Xcor.

“What the f— I’m sorry, did I hear you right?” As he nodded, she thought, Right, she’d known there was drama going down in the theater district, but she never would have guessed it was that serious.

She didn’t know who it was. Throe tricked her—he reached out and found her and brought her to Xcor.

“Jesus…” Like the king needed another reason to kill that motherfucker?

Here’s the thing. She wants to help find him—and with her blood in his veins… she can. She knew where he was last night—sensed him clear as day. She could really help you.

Xhex forgot all about the food, adrenaline rocketing through her body. “Oh, man, if I can just get her in range… How long ago did she feed him?”

The fall.

“Shit. Time’s wasting.” She burst up and went for her leather pants, picking them up off the floor. Damn it, they were split in half—

There are some others still in the closet.

“Oh, thanks.” She went over and tried not to get depressed as she saw their clothes lined up together. God… “Ah, do you know where she is?”

Down in the kitchen with Qhuinn.

As John’s grid shifted, Xhex stopped in the process of pulling a fresh set out. Narrowing her eyes over her shoulder, she said, “What aren’t you telling me.”

Wrath and Phury don’t want to involve her. She offered to help and they shut her down. If you use her, they can’t ever know you did—I can’t state that more plainly.

Xhex blinked, her breath freezing in her lungs.

No one can know, Xhex. Not even Qhuinn. And it goes without saying that you’ve got to keep her safe.

As John met her stare grimly, she didn’t care about any of that shit. Didn’t even hear it.

With this piece of intel, he had just chosen her and her quest over both his king and the Primale of his race. Even more, he had potentially handed her the key to infiltrating the Band of Bastards—and sent her into the belly of the beast.

Talk about putting his money where his mouth was.

Xhex forgot about the leathers and walked over to him, taking his face in her hands. “Why are you telling me this?”

It’s going to get you there, he mouthed.

She brushed back his hair from his handsome, tense face. “You keep this up…”

And what?

“… and I’m going to owe you.”

Can I pick how you repay me?

“Yeah. You can.”

Then I want you to move back in with me. Or let me come live with you. I want us to be together properly again.

Blinking hard, she bent down and kissed him slowly, thoroughly. Words didn’t mean shit. He’d been right about that. But this male, who’d been all about brick walls and obstacles in the spring, was clearing the way for her big-time now.

“Thank you,” she whispered against his mouth, rolling everything she was feeling up into those two simple words.

John beamed at her. I love you, too.

After she kissed him once more, she stepped off from him, threw on a fresh set of pants, and grabbed her muscle shirt. Pulling it over her head, she—

At first she thought the hot flash that went through her was because she was standing directly under a heat vent in the ceiling. But as she moved and it stuck with her, she looked down at her body.

Glancing over at John, she watched him stiffen and glance into his lap.

“Fuck,” she whispered. “Who the hell’s in her needing now?”

John went to check his phone, and then shrugged his shoulders.

“I should probably get out of here.” Symphaths could generally control their fertility at will, and she’d always had luck with that. As a half-breed, however, she wasn’t willing to take a chance on it with someone actually having their time next door. “You’re sure my mother was over it when you went down to see Layla— Shit, I’ll bet it’s her. I’ll bet it’s the Chosen—”

A groan bled through the walls from over on the right. Where Qhuinn’s room was.

The muffled thumping that followed could only mean one thing.

“Holy shit, is Qhuinn…” Except she knew the answer to that. Training her senses next door, she picked up on their grids. No romantic love between them—more like resolution on both sides.

They were doing what they were with a purpose she could only guess at. But why would they want a young? That shit was crazy town—especially given the Chosen’s station… and his.

As another surge from the needing threatened to overtake her, Xhex lunged for her jacket and her weapons. “I really should go. I don’t want to get exposed, just in case.”

John nodded and went to the door.

“I’m going to go check in on my mother now. Layla’s going to be busy for a while—but afterward, I’ll talk to her and let you know how it goes.”

I’ll be here. Waiting to hear from you.

She kissed him once, twice… a third time. And then he opened the door and she left—

The instant she got out into the hall, the hormones hit her hard, knocking her off balance.

“Oh, hell no,” she muttered, taking off for the stairs and then dematerializing down to the hidden door under the staircase.

The farther away she went, the more like herself she felt. But she was worried about her mother. Thank God they had drugs to soften the edges of that crucible.

Tohr couldn’t possibly have serviced her. No way.

Emerging from the tunnel into the office, she strode out into the training center’s long corridor. There was nothing peculiar in the air, and that was a relief. The fertility period was violent, but the good news was, when it was over, it got out of Dodge fairly quickly—although the female generally required a day or so to recover fully.

Putting her head into the main examination room, she found no one. Same with the two recovery rooms. But her mother was here—she could sense her.

“Autumn?” she called out with a frown. “Hello? Where are you?”

The reply came from somewhere much farther down, where the lectures used to be given to the trainees.

Striding toward the sound, she pushed her way into the primary classroom and found her mother seated at one of the tables that faced the blackboard. The lights were on overhead, and there was no one else in there with her.

Not good. Wherever the female was in her mind… was a not-good situation.

“Mahmen?” Xhex said as she let the door ease shut behind her. “How’re you doing?”

Time to tread carefully. Her mother was as motionless as a statue, and just as put together, everything all arranged from her tightly braided hair to her carefully matched clothes.

That totally-put-together was false, however, nothing but external trappings of composure that just made her appear even more brittle.

“I’m not well.” Autumn shook her head. “Not well. Not well at all.”

Xhex walked over to the instructor desk and put down her weapons and her jacket. “At least you’re honest.”

“Can’t you tell what is on my mind?”

“Your grid’s shut down. So you’re hard to read.”

Autumn nodded. “Shut down… yes, that would cover it.” Long pause, after which her mother looked around. “Do you know why I came in here? I thought the residue of the teaching would rub off on me. Not working, I’m afraid.”

Xhex eased her ass down on the desktop. “Did Doc Jane check you out?”

“Yes. I am fine. And before you ask, no, I wasn’t serviced. I did not want to be.”

Xhex exhaled in relief. Aside from her mother’s mental health, the physical risks of pregnancy and birth were not anything they needed to face right now—although maybe that was selfish.

Come on, though, she’d just found the female; she didn’t want to lose her so soon.

As Autumn’s eyes shifted over, there was a frankness in them that was new. “I need a place to stay. Away from here. I have no money, no job, and no prospects, but—”

“You can move in with me. For however long you want.”

“Thank you.” Those eyes moved away and lingered on the blackboard. “I shall endeavor to be a good guest.”

“You’re my mother. You’re not a guest. Listen, what’s happened?”

The other female stood up. “May we go now?”

Man, that grid was totally closed off. Battened down. Draped in self-protection. As if she’d been attacked, somehow.

Now was clearly not the time to push.

“Ah, yeah. Sure. We can go.” Xhex shoved herself off the desk. “Do you want to check in with Tohr before you leave?”

“No.”

Xhex waited for some kind of explanation after that, but none came. Which told her plenty.

“What did he do, Mahmen?”

Autumn lifted her chin, her dignity making her more beautiful than ever. “He told me what he thought of me. Quite succinctly. So at this point, I do believe he and I have nothing more to say to each other.”

Xhex narrowed her eyes, anger curling up in her gut.

“Shall we?” her mother said.

“Yeah… sure…”

But she was going to find out what the fuck had gone down; that was for certain.

SIXTY-THREE

After the shutters rose from their sills, and night whisked away all the light from the sky, Blay left the billiards room, intending to check in with Saxton in the library and then go up to shower for First Meal.

He didn’t make it much farther than the trunk of the mosaic apple tree in the foyer.

Stopping dead, he glanced down at his hips. A pounding erection had punched out of him, the arousal as unexpected as it was demanding.

What the… looking upward, he wondered who else had gone into her needing. It was the only explanation.

“You may not want the answer to that.”

Glancing over, he found Saxton standing in the archway of the library. “Who.”

But he knew. He fucking knew it.

Saxton swept his elegant hand behind himself. “Won’t you come and have a drink with me in my office?”

The male was aroused as well, the slacks of his fine herringbone suit pulled out of shape at the fly—except his face didn’t match the erection. He was grim.

“Come,” he repeated, motioning with his hand again. “Please.”

Blay’s feet went to work, taking him into the chaotic mess that the library had been in since Sax had been given his “assignment.” Whatever it was.

As Blay stepped inside, he heard the double doors click into place behind him, and searched his mind for something to say.

Nothing. He had… nothing. Especially as up above his head, on the ornate ceiling with its plaster molding, a muffled thumping started to sound out.

Even the crystals on the chandelier twinkled, as if the force of the sex was being transmitted through the floor joists.

Layla was in her needing. Qhuinn was servicing her—

“Here, drink this.”

Blay took whatever was offered and threw it back like his gut was on fire and the shit was water. The effect was the opposite of any extinguishing, though. The brandy burned its way down and landed in a ball of heat.

“Refill?” Saxton said.

When he nodded, the snifter disappeared and came back much heavier. After he sucked back number two, he said, “I’m surprised…”

At how awful this felt. He’d thought all the ties between him and Qhuinn had been severed. Ha. He should have known better.

He refused to finish the thought out loud, however.

“… that you can handle this disorder,” he tacked on.

Saxton went over to the bar and poured himself his own tipple. “The detritus is necessary, I’m afraid.”

As Blay walked over to the desk, he circled his brandy in his palm to warm it, and tried to talk in a sensible way. “I’m surprised you’re not doing this more on the computers.”

Saxton discreetly covered his work with yet another leather-bound volume. “The inefficiency of taking notes by hand gives me time to think.”

“I’m surprised you need it—your first instinct is always right.”

“You’re surprised about a lot of things right now.”

Only one, really. “Just making conversation.”

“But of course.”

Eventually, he looked over at his lover. Saxton had settled on a silk couch across the way, his legs crossed at the knee, his red silk socks peeking from beneath his precisely pressed cuffs, his Ferragamo loafers gleaming from regular polishing. He was every bit as refined and expensive as the antique he was perched on, a perfectly elegant male from a perfectly appointed bloodline with perfect taste and style.

He was everything anyone could want—

As that fucking chandelier twinkled overhead, Blay said roughly, “I’m still in love with him.”

Saxton dropped his eyes and brushed at the top of his thigh, as if there might have been a tiny piece of lint there. “I know. You thought you weren’t?”

As if that were rather stupid of him.

“I’m so fucking tired of it. I really am.”

“That I believe.”

“I’m so fucking…” God, those sounds, that muted pounding, that audible confirmation of what he had been ignoring for the past year—

On a sudden wave of violence, he pitched the brandy snifter at the marble fireplace, shattering the thing.

“Fuck! Fuck!” If he’d been able to, he’d have jumped up and torn that goddamn cocksucking light fixture off the goddamn cocksucking ceiling.

Wheeling around, he went blindly for the doors, tripping over books, messing up the piles, nearly knocking himself over on the coffee table.

Saxton got there first, blocking the way out with his body.

Blay’s eyes locked onto the male’s face. “Get out of my way. Right now. You don’t want to be around me.”

“Is that not for me to decide.”

Blay shifted his focus to those lips he knew so well. “Don’t push me.”

“Or. What.”

As his chest started to pump, Blay realized the guy knew precisely what he was courting. Or at least thought he did. But something had come unhinged; maybe it was the needing, maybe it was… Shit, he didn’t know, and he really didn’t care.

“If you don’t get the fuck out of my way, I’m going to bend you over that desk of yours—”

“Prove it.”

Wrong thing to say. In the wrong tone. At the wrong time.

Blay let out a roar that rattled the diamond-paned windows. Then he grabbed his lover by the back of the head and all but threw Saxton across the room. As the male caught himself on that desk, papers went flying, the confetti of yellow legal pads and computer printouts falling like snow.

Saxton’s torso curled around as he looked behind at what was coming at him.

“Too late to run,” Blay growled as he ripped open his button fly.

Falling upon the male, he was rough with his hands, tearing through the layers that kept him from what he was going to take. When there were no more barriers, he bared his fangs and bit down on Saxton’s shoulder through his clothes, locking the male beneath him even as he grabbed those wrists and all but nailed them to the leather blotter.

And then he pushed in hard and let out everything he had, his body taking over… even as his heart stayed far, far away.

The cabin, as Xhex called it, was a very modest accommodation.

As Autumn walked around its interior, there was not much to get in the way of her path. The galley kitchen was nothing but cabinets and countertops. The living space offered little more than a view of the river, with only two chairs and a little table for furnishings. There were only two bedrooms, one with a pair of mattresses, another with a larger, singular sleeping platform. And the bathroom was cramped but clean, with a single towel hanging from the shower rod.

“Like I told you,” Xhex said from the main room, “it’s not much. There’s also an underground facility for you during the daytime, but we have to access it from the garage.”

Autumn came back out from the loo. “I think it’s beautiful.”

“Tha’s okay, you can be honest.”

“I mean what I say. You are a highly functional female. You like things to work well, and you don’t like to waste time. This is a beautiful space for you.” She cast her eyes around once more. “All the fixtures that carry water in and out are new. So are the radiators for the heat. The kitchen has plenty of space to cook on, with a stove that has six burners, not four—and is gas powered, so you don’t have to worry about electricity. The roof is slate and thus enduring, and the floors don’t squeak—so I assume the undercarriage is as cared for as everything else.” She pivoted from one corner to the next. “From every angle there is a window to look out of, so you will never be caught unaware, and I see that there are copper locks everywhere. Perfect.”

Xhex took her jacket off. “That’s, ah… very perceptive of you.”

“Not really. It’s obvious to anyone who knows you.”

“I’m… I’m really glad you do.”

“Myself as well.”

Autumn went over to the windows that faced the water. Outside, the moon cast a bright light down upon the snowy landscape, the refracted illumination reading blue to her eyes.

You’re in love with me. Don’t bother denying it—you tell me in your sleep every day.… And you know damn well the only reason I’m with you is to get Wellsie out of the In Between. So don’t I just fit your pattern to a T.

“Mahmen?”

Autumn focused on her daughter’s reflection in the glass. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Do you want to tell me what happened between you and Tohr?”

Xhex had yet to take off her weapons, and as she stood there, she was so powerful, secure, strong… She would bow before no male and no one, and wasn’t that wonderful. Wasn’t that a blessing beyond measure.

“I am so proud of you,” Autumn said, turning around to face the female. “I want you to know that I am so very, very proud of you.”

Xhex’s eyes dropped to the floor, and she brushed a hand through her hair as if she didn’t know how to handle the praise.

“Thank you for taking me in,” Autumn continued. “I shall endeavor to earn my keep for the duration I am here, and contribute in some small way.”

Xhex shook her head. “I keep telling you, you’re not a guest.”

“Be that as it may, I shan’t be a burden.”

“Are you going to tell me about Tohr.”

Autumn regarded the weapons that as yet hung from those leather holsters, and thought the gleam of the gunmetal was very much like the light in her daughter’s eyes: a promise of violence.

“You are not to be angry with him,” she heard herself say. “What transpired between us was consensual, and it ended for… a proper reason. He did nothing wrong.”

As she spoke, she wasn’t sure what she really thought about it all, but she was clear on one thing: She was not going to create a situation where Xhex went after the male with all guns blazing—literally.

“Do you hear me, daughter mine.” Not a question, a command—the first she had ever made that sounded as a parent to a young. “You are not to find cause with him, or speak of this to him.”

“Give me a reason why.”

“You know the emotions of others, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“When was the last time you met someone who had made themselves fall in love with somebody else. Who had willed their feelings in a given direction, when in their natural state, their heart cleaved unto someone else.”

Xhex cursed a little. “Never. It’s a recipe for disaster—but you can still be respectful of the way you phrase things.”

“Gift wrapping one’s words does not change the nature of truth.” Autumn looked back out to the snowy landscape and the river that was partially frozen. “And I would rather know what is real than live a lie.”

There was silence for a while between them. “Is that enough of a ‘why,’ daughter mine.”

Another curse. But then Xhex said, “I don’t like it… but yeah, it is.”

SIXTY-FOUR

Tohr sat in that parking lot for God only knew how long. Had to be at least a night and a day and then maybe another night or two? He didn’t know, and didn’t really care.

It was rather like being back in the womb, he supposed. Except his ass was numb and his nose ran from the cold.

As his epic anger faded and his emotions smoothed out, his thoughts became as a band of travelers, passing through sections of his life, wandering around the landscapes of different eras, doubling back for the reexamination of peaks and valleys.

Long fucking trip. And he was tired at the end of it, even though his body hadn’t moved in hours upon hours.

Not surprisingly, the two places most revisited were Wellsie’s needing… and Autumn’s. Those events, and their respective aftermaths, were the mountains most climbed, the different scenes like vistas flashing in an alternating sequence of comparison until they blurred together, forming a pastiche of actions and reactions, his and theirs.

After all the ruminations, there were three resolutions he kept returning to, again and again.

He was going to have to apologize to Autumn, of course. Christ, that was the second time he’d taken a hunk out of her, the first being way back nearly a year ago at the pool: In both cases, his temper had gotten the best of him because of the stress load he was under, but that was no excuse.

The second was that he was going to have to find that angel and do another set of I’m-sorrying.

And the third… well, the third was actually the most important, the thing he had to do before the others.

He had to make contact with Wellsie one last time.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and willed some relaxation into his muscles. Then, with more desperation than hope, he commanded his weary mind to be free of all thoughts and images, empty of everything that had kept him awake for all this time, devoid of the regrets and the mistakes and the pain.…

Eventually the order was complied with, the relentless mental trekking slowing down until all that Lewis-and-Clark cognition shit ceased.

Impregnating his subconsciousness with a single goal, he let himself go into sleep and waited in his resting state until…

Wellsie came to him in shades of gray, in that barren landscape of fog and frigid wind and boulders. She was so far away now that the scope of his vision allowed him to see one of the crumbling rock formations up close—

Except it was not, in fact, made of stone.

None of them were.

No, these were the hunched figures of others suffering as she did, their bodies and bones gradually collapsing in on themselves until they were but mounds to be worn away by the wind.

“Wellsie?” he called out.

As her name drifted off into the limitless horizon, she did not look at him.

Did not appear to even recognize his presence.

The only thing that moved was the cold wind that abruptly seemed to marshal itself in his direction, blowing across the flat gray plain, blowing across him, blowing across her.

As it caught her hair, wisps formed around her—

No, not wisps. Her hair was ashes now, ashes that scattered on the invisible current and came at him, hitting him as dust that made his eyes water.

Eventually that would be all of her. And then none of her.

“Wellsie! Wellsie, I’m here!”

He called out to her to rouse her, to get her attention, to tell her he was finally ready, but no matter how much he yelled, or how much he waved his arms, she did not focus on him. She did not look up. She did not move… and neither did his son.

Yet still the wind blew, taking infinitesimal particles from their forms, wearing them down.

In a gripping fear, he turned himself into a great monkey, caterwauling and jumping all around, screaming at the top of his lungs and flailing his arms, but, as if the rules of exertion applied even in this other world, eventually he lost his energy and fell down onto the dusty groung in a heap.

They were sitting in the same pose, he realized.

And that was when the paradoxical truth came to him.

The answer was at once all about what had happened with Autumn and the sex and the feeding—and yet had nothing to do with her. It was about everything Lassiter had tried to help him with—and yet none of that. It wasn’t even about Wellsie, really.

It was him. All… him.

In his dream, he stared down at himself, and abruptly, strength came to him with a calmness that had everything to do with the seat of his soul… and the fact that the pathway out of his suffering—and hers—had just been illuminated by the hand of his Maker.

Finally, after all this time, all this shit, all this agony, he knew what to do.

Now, when he spoke, he did not yell. “Wellsie, I know you can hear me—you hang on. I need just a little longer from you—I’m finally ready. I’m just sorry it took me so long.”

He tarried for only a moment longer, throwing all his love in her direction as if it might keep what remained of her intact. And then he withdrew, yanking himself free with a herculean burst of will that had his body jerking out of its position on the concrete floor—

Throwing out a hand, he kept himself from landing on his face, and immediately got to his feet.

As soon as he stood, he realized that if he didn’t take a piss immediately, his bladder was going to explode and take no prisoners with it.

Striding down the ramp, he punched into the clinic and hit the first bathroom he came to. When he emerged, he didn’t stop to check in with anyone, even though he could hear voices elsewhere in the training center.

Up at the main house, he found Fritz in the kitchen. “Hey, my man, I need your help.”

The butler jumped up from the grocery list he was making. “Sire! You are alive! Oh, blessed Virgin Scribe, all and sundry have sought out—”

Shit. He’d forgotten there were implications to going off the grid.

“Yeah, sorry. I’ll text everyone.” Assuming he could find his phone? Probably down in the clinic, and he wasn’t going to waste time going back there. “Listen, what I really need is for you to come with me.”

“Oh, sire, it would be my pleasure to serve you. But mayhap you should go unto the king first—all have been so worried—”

“Tell you what. You can drive and I’ll borrow your phone.” When there was a hesitation, he dropped his voice. “We’ve got to go now, Fritz. I need you.”

The call to service was precisely the motivator the butler needed. With a low bow, he said, “As you wish, sire. And mayhap I shall pack you up some refreshments?”

“Good idea. I need five minutes.”

When the butler nodded and disappeared into the pantry, Tohr rounded the base of the stairs and took the red-carpeted steps two at a time. He stopped rushing when he got to John Matthew’s door.

His knock was answered immediately, John pulling open the way with a jerk. As the kid’s face registered surprise, Tohr put his hands out in self-defense, because he knew he was going to get hollered at for disappearing again.

“I’m sorry that I—”

He didn’t get a chance to finish. John threw his arms around Tohr and held him so hard, his spine cracked.

Tohr was right there with returning the favor. And as he held the only son he had, he spoke in a low, clear voice.

“John, I want you to get off rotation tonight and come with me. I need you… to come with me. Qhuinn can as well—and this is going to take all night—maybe longer.” As Tohr felt the nodding against his shoulder, he took a steadying breath. “Good, son. That’s… good. There’s no way I would do this without you.”

“How you doing?”

Layla opened her heavy eyes and looked up Qhuinn’s body to his face. Standing next to her side of the bed in his room, he was fully dressed, big and remote, awkward though not unkind.

She knew how he felt. With the intense fire of the needing having passed, those hours of straining and pounding and clawing were done and dusted, a strange footnote that appeared to be already fading in her memory like a dream. When the two of them had been gripped in the fist of the experience, it had seemed as if nothing would ever be the same, that they would be forever changed and transformed by the volcanic eruptions.

But now… the quiet return of normalcy appeared to be just as powerful, wiping the slate clean.

“I think I’m ready to get up,” she said.

He had been so good about feeding her from his vein and also bringing her food, and she had stayed on bed rest for at least twenty-fours afterward, as was the tradition up in the Sanctuary after the Primale had lain with a Chosen.

It was time to get moving, however.

“You can stay here, you know.” He went over to his closet and began to arm himself for the night. “Rest some more. Relax.”

No, she had done enough of that.

Pushing herself up on her arms, she waited to feel light-headed, and was relieved when she didn’t. If anything, she felt strong.

There was no other way to put it. Her body just felt… strong.

Shifting her legs off the side of the mattress, she put her weight on her bare soles and slowly rose up. Qhuinn came instantly to her side, but she didn’t need the help.

“I think I’ll have a shower,” she announced.

And after that? She didn’t have a clue what she was going to do.

“I want you to stay here,” Qhuinn said as if reading her mind. “You are going to stay here. With me.”

“We don’t know if I’m pregnant.”

“All the more reason to take it easy. And if you are, you’re going to keep on staying with me.”

“All right.” They were, after all, going to be in this together—assuming there was any “this” to be had.

“I’m going out to fight now, but I have my cell phone with me at all times, and I’ve left you one on that bedside table.” He held his up and pointed to the one by the alarm clock. “You call or text if you need me, clear?”

His face was dead serious, his eyes focusing on her with an intensity that gave her an idea of how accomplished he probably was in the field: Nothing and nobody was going to get in his way if she called for him.

“I promise.”

He nodded and went for the door. Before he opened the way out, he paused and seemed to be searching for words. “How will we know if you…”

“Miscarry? I’ll start cramping, and then I will bleed. I saw it happen on the Other Side a number of times.”

“Are you in any danger if you do?”

“Not that I ever saw—not this early.”

“Should you stay on bed rest?”

“After the first twenty-four hours, if it’s going to take, it does—whether I am inactive or not at this point, our die is already cast.”

“Let me know?”

“As soon as I do.”

He turned away. Appeared to stare at the face of the door for a moment. “It’s going to stick.”

Of that he was far more confident than she, but it was gratifying to learn of his faith, and his desire for what she wanted.

“I’ll be back at dawn,” he said.

“I shall be here.”

After he left, she attended to herself in the shower, passing the bar of soap over her lower belly again and again. It seemed odd to have such a potentially momentous thing occurring in her own body, and to be as yet unaware of the particulars.

They would find out soon enough, though. Most females bled within the first week if they were going to.

When she got out from beneath the spray, she toweled off and discovered that he’d thoughtfully left another of her robes upon the counter, and she drew it on, along with some underthings in the event that a termination event occurred.

In the main bedroom, she sat down on the duvet to pull on her slipper shoes, and then…

There was nothing for her to do. And the silence and stillness were rotten companions for her anxiety.

Unbidden, the image of Xcor’s face returned to her once again.

With a soft curse, she feared she would never forget the manner in which he had regarded her, his eyes staring up at her as if she were a vision he couldn’t fully comprehend, yet would be e’er grateful for having seen but once.

Unlike memories of the needing, the sensations she had felt when that male had focused upon her were as incandescent as the moment she had lived them, unfaded through the months that separated her from that meeting. Except… had she simply imagined it all? Was it possible that the recollection was strong simply because it was fantasy?

Clearly, if the needing was anything to go by, real life faded fast.

The desire to be wanted did not, however—

The knock on the door made her gather herself. “Yes?”

Through the panels, a female voice replied, “It’s Xhex. Mind if I come in?”

She couldn’t imagine what the female was doing seeking her out. Still, she liked John’s mate, and she would always entertain his shellan.

“Oh, please do—hello, this is a welcome surprise.”

Xhex shut them in together, and awkwardly looked everywhere but upon her face. “So, ah… how are you feeling?”

Indeed, she had the sense a lot of people were going to be asking her that in the coming week. “Well enough.”

“Good. Yeah… good.”

Long silence. “Is there something I may help you with?” Layla asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Then by all means, tell me and I shall do whatever I can.”

“It’s complicated.” Xhex narrowed her eyes. “And dangerous.”

Layla put her hand over her lower belly as if to shelter her young in case there was one. “Whate’er do you seek?”

“On Wrath’s orders, I’m trying to find Xcor.”

Layla’s chest constricted, her mouth opening so she could breathe. “Indeed.”

“I know you’re aware of what he did.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I also know you fed him.”

Layla blinked as the image of that cruel, strangely vulnerable face came to her anew. For a split second, she had the absurd instinct to protect him—but that was ridiculous, and not something she would sustain.

“Of course I will help you and Wrath. I’m glad the king has reconsidered his earlier stance.”

Now the female hesitated. “What if I told you Wrath couldn’t know about it. No one could, especially not Qhuinn. Would that change your mind?”

John, she thought. John had told his mate what had transpired.

“I realize,” Xhex said, “that I’m putting you in a terrible position, but you know what my nature is. I’ll use anything at my disposal to get what I want, and I want to find Xcor now. I have no doubt that I’ll be able to protect you, and I don’t have any intention of getting you anywhere near him. I just need the general area where he settles at night, and I’ll take it from there.”

“Are you going to kill him?”

“No, but I’m going to give the Brotherhood the ammunition to do so. The weapon that was used to shoot at Wrath was a rifle with a long-range scope—not the kind of thing anyone would take into the field on a normal night. Assuming they haven’t destroyed it, they’ll leave it behind when they go out. If I can get ahold of it, and we can prove what they did, things are going to take their natural course.”

Kind eyes, she thought… the male had had such kind eyes when he’d stared up at her. But in fact, he was the enemy of her king.

Layla felt her head nod. “I shall help you. I shall do anything I can… and not say a word.”

The female came over and put a surprisingly gentle hand on her shoulder. “I hate putting you in this position. War is an ugly, ugly business that specializes in compromising good people such as yourself. I can feel how this is tearing you up, and I’m sorry that I’m asking you to lie.”

It was lovely of the symphath to offer concern, but her conflict was not with giving false testimony to the Brotherhood. It was the fighter she would be helping to kill.

“Xcor used me,” she said, as if trying to convince herself.

“He’s very dangerous. You’re lucky to have come out of meeting him alive.”

“I will do what is right.” She glanced up at Xhex. “When do we leave?”

“Right now. If you’re able to.”

Layla called upon deep recesses of strength. Then nodded. “Allow me to get my coat.”

SIXTY-FIVE

Hours later, as Marissa sat at her desk at Safe Place, she answered her cell phone and couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “It’s you again.”

Butch’s Boston-accented voice was full of gravel. As usual. “When are you coming home?”

She looked at her watch and thought, Where had the night gone? Then again, it was always this way at work. She came in as soon as the sun was safely below the horizon, and before she knew it, the light was threatening in the east, and driving her back to the compound.

Into the arms of her male.

Hardly a chore, that was.

“About forty-five minutes?”

“You could come now.…”

The way he drawled those words suggested an altogether different meaning to that verb than “return home.” “Butch—”

“I didn’t make it out of bed tonight.”

She bit her lip, picturing him naked in the sheets that had been messy when she left. “No?”

“Mmm, no.” He drew out the syllables—at least until his breath caught. “I’ve been thinking about you.…”

His voice was so deep, so raw, that she knew exactly what he was doing to himself, and for a moment she closed her eyes and indulged in some seriously beautiful mental pictures.

“Marissa… come home.…”

Snapping herself together, she pulled out of the spell he knew damn well he was weaving around her. “I can’t leave quite now. But I’ll start getting ready to check out—how about that?”

“Perfect.” She could hear the grin on his face. “I’ll be here waiting for you—and listen, all kidding aside, take as long as you need. Just come back here first before you go to Last Meal? I want to give you an hors d’oeuvre you won’t forget.”

“You’re pretty unforgettable already.”

“That’s my girlie. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

As she ended the call, that big, fat, happy smile stayed on her face. Her mate was a traditional kind of male, “old-school,” as he called himself, with all the biases that came with that mental set: Females should never pay for anything, open a door, pump gas into their cars, step through a mud puddle, carry something larger than what could fit in a sandwich bag… you name it. But he never got in the way of her job. Ever. That was the one area of her life where she called the shots, and he never complained about her hours, her workload, or her stress level.

Which was just one of the many reasons she adored the Brother. The displaced females and children who stayed at Safe Place were a kind of family to her, one that she was the head of: She was in charge of the facility, the staff, the programs, the resources, and, most important, everything and everybody who was under its roof. And she loved her job. When Wrath had given her the charter to run the charity, she had nearly balked, but she was so glad she had fought through the fear to find her professional purpose.

“Marissa?”

Glancing up, she found one of the newer counselors standing in her office’s doorway. “Hi, there. How was group tonight?”

“Really good. I’ll be filing my report in about an hour—right after we finish making cookies down in the kitchen. I’m sorry to interrupt you, but there’s a gentlemale here with a delivery?”

“Really?” She frowned at the calendar on the wall. “We don’t have anything scheduled.”

“I know, so I haven’t unlocked the door. He said you’d know him, but he didn’t give his name. I’m wondering if we shouldn’t call the Brotherhood?”

“What does he look like?”

The female reached a hand up over her head. “Very tall. Big. He’s got dark hair with a white stripe in front?”

Marissa jumped up so fast her chair let out a squeak on the floor. “Tohrment? He’s alive?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ll handle this. It’s okay—you head back to the kitchen.”

Marissa shot out of her office and went down the front set of stairs. Pausing by the main entrance, she checked the security monitor that V had installed, and then immediately yanked open the door.

She threw herself at the Brother without thinking. “Oh, God, where have you been! You were lost for nights!”

“Not really.” He returned her embrace gently. “I was just taking care of some business. But it’s all good.”

She stepped back, but held on to both his thick biceps. “Are you okay?”

Everyone at the mansion knew that Autumn had gone through her needing, and she could imagine how hard that had been on him. And she’d hoped, as they all had, that the growing relationship between the Brother and the quiet, fallen aristocrat would heal him. Instead, he’d disappeared after she’d come out of her fertile time, and Autumn had moved out of the house.

Not a happy outcome, obviously.

“Listen, I know you take donations, right?” he said.

Respecting the fact that he hadn’t answered her question, she stopped probing. “Oh, we absolutely do. We’ll take anything—we’re experts at adaptive reuse around here.”

“Good, because I have some things I’d like to give the females, maybe? I’m not sure you can use any of it, but…”

He turned and led the way over to the Brotherhood’s van, which was parked at the head of the driveway. Fritz was in the passenger seat, and the old butler hopped out as she approached.

For once, he did not have a cheery smile on his face. He did bow deeply, however. “Madam, how fare thee?”

“Oh, very well, Fritz, thank you.”

She fell silent as Tohr slid the side panel back—

One look inside and she stopped breathing.

Illuminated by the van’s overhead light were neat piles of what appeared to be clothes in laundry baskets, cardboard boxes, open duffels. There were also skirts and blouses and dresses still on their hangers, draped with care on the floorboards.

Marissa looked at Tohr.

The Brother was silent and staring at the ground—and clearly not about to make eye contact. “Like I said, I’m not sure you can use any of it.”

She leaned in and fingered one of the dresses.

The last time she had seen it, it had been on Wellsie.

These were his shellan’s clothes.

In a voice that cracked, she whispered, “Are you sure you want to give this away?”

“Yeah. Throwing it all out just seems like such a waste, and she wouldn’t approve of that. Wellsie would want them to be used by others—that would be important to her. She hated waste. But, yeah, I don’t know about the whole female-size thing, though.”

“This is very generous of you.” She studied the male’s face, realizing it was the first time since he’d come back after the killing that she’d heard him say the name. “We will use all of it.”

He nodded, his eyes still avoiding hers. “I included unopened toiletries, too? Like shampoo and conditioner, her moisturizer, that Clinique soap she liked? Wellsie was really fussy about that kind of stuff—she tended to find something she liked and stick to it—she was also big into backups, so there was a lot when I cleaned out our bathroom. Oh, and I also have some of her kitchen things—those copper pans she preferred, and her knives? I can take that to a human Goodwill if you—”

“We’ll take anything you have.”

“Here’s the cooking stuff.” Tohrment went around and opened the back to show her. “And I know you don’t allow males inside, but maybe I could put it all in the garage?”

“Yes, yes, please. Let me go and get some extra hands to help us—”

“I’d like to carry it in myself, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh yes, of course… yes.” Shaking herself, she jogged over and punched in the code on the keypad by the garage doors.

As the left side trundled open, she went over and stood by the butler as Tohrment went back and forth at a steady pace, carrying his mate’s possessions with care, creating a tall, orderly pile right by the door that led into the kitchen.

“He’s packing up the house?” she whispered to Fritz.

“Yes, madam. We’ve worked all night—John, Qhuinn, myself, and him. He did their rooms and the kitchen, whilst the other males and I worked on the rest of the house. He’s asked me to return with him after this coming sunset so that all the furniture and the art can be moved to the mansion.”

Marissa put her hand up and covered her mouth so that her shock was less apparent. But she needn’t have worried about her reaction making Tohr uncomfortable; the Brother was solely focused on his task.

When the van was empty, he closed everything up and came around to her. Just as she was trying to marshal appropriate words of gratitude, of profound respect, of deepest sympathy, he cut her off by taking something out of his pocket—a velvet bag.

“I have one more thing. Give me your hand?” When she extended her palm, he loosened the cord at the neck of the thing. Tilting it upside down, he poured out—

“Oh, my God!” Marissa gasped.

Rubies. Big red rubies set with diamonds. Lots of them—a necklace—no, a necklace and a bracelet. Earrings, too. She needed both hands to hold it all.

“I bought these for her back in nineteen sixty-four. From Van Cleef and Arpels? It was supposed to be for our anniversary, but I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. Wellsie wasn’t a big fan of jewelry—she liked art more. She always said that jewels were fussy. Anyway, you know, I saw these in a magazine at Darius’s—in a Town and Country. I thought they would go well with her red hair, and I wanted to do something over-the-top and romantic just to prove I could. She didn’t really care for them, but every year afterward, every single year without fail, she took the set out from the gun safe and put it on. And every year—every single year—I got to tell her that they didn’t hold a candle to how beautiful she was—” He stopped short. “I’m sorry, I’m totally rambling.”

“Tohr… I can’t accept these. This is too much—”

“I want you to sell ’em. Sell ’em and take the money and use it to expand the house in the back. Butch was saying something about you needing more space? I think they’ve got to be worth a quarter of a million, maybe more. Wellsie would have loved what you’re doing here—she would have supported it, volunteered with the females and the kids, really gotten involved. So, you know, there isn’t a better place for these to go.”

Marissa started to blink really fast—it was either that or have tears fall. It was just… he was being so brave.…

“Are you sure,” she said roughly. “Are you certain you want to do all this?”

“Yeah. It’s time. Holding on to it hasn’t brought her back and never will. But at least it can help the females in this house—so none of it’s wasted. It’s important to me that the things we bought together, had together, used together… aren’t, you know, wasted.”

At that, Tohr leaned in and gave her a quick hug. “Be well, Marissa.”

And then he closed up the van, helped the butler into the driver’s seat, and, with a final wave, dematerialized into the waning night.

Marissa looked down at the fortune in her hands, then back up at the van Fritz was cautiously reversing out of the driveway. As the doggen went, so she followed, walking down to the street, putting the gems back in their little bag. While he K-turned, she lifted her arm and waved. He did the same.

Wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the chill, she watched the tail lights fade.

With the weight of the gems still in her hands, she pivoted around toward the house and pictured the expansion she could do out into the rear yard, creating more rooms for more females and their young—especially underground, where it was safe during the day.

Her eyes misted over again, and this time there was no stopping the tears from hitting her cheeks. As the facility in front of her grew wavy, the future became clear: She knew exactly who she was going to name the new wing after.

Wellesandra had such a nice ring to it.

SIXTY-SIX

Layla had never been out close to dawn before, and she found it interesting to note that there was a real change in the air, a vitalization she could sense but not see: The sun was indeed powerful, capable of illuminating the whole world, and the gathering illumination made her skin prickle in alarm, some instinct bred deep in her flesh telling her now was the time to be heading home. Yet she did not want to go.

“How you doing?” Xhex asked from behind her.

For truth, it had been a long evening. They had been on the outskirts of Caldwell for hours, circling in the darkness, tracking Xcor and his fighters—which had proven easy enough to do. Her sense of the male was clear as a spotlighted location, her tie to him from that feeding months ago as yet unfaded. And on his side… Xcor appeared to be so caught up in his fighting that he did not know she was on the periphery; certainly if he was aware of her vicinity, he did not approach her, and nor did the other soldier.

“Layla?”

She glanced over at the female. “I know right where he is. He hasn’t moved.”

“That isn’t what I’m asking about.”

Layla had to smile a little. One of the big surprises of the night had been the symphath—whom she actually no longer felt comfortable defining as such. Xhex was razor-sharp mentally, and strong as a male physically, but there was a warmth to her that was at odds with those traits: She had never once left Layla’s side, hovering like a mahmen over a young, ever solicitous and careful, as if she knew that so much of this was foreign work under troubling circumstances for her charge.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

As Layla refocused on the signal of her blood some two blocks away, she stayed quiet.

“I’m sure you’re already aware of this,” Xhex murmured. “But you really are doing the right thing here.”

“I know. He’s changing positions.”

“Yeah, I can sense that.”

Abruptly, Layla turned toward a lofty, glowing beacon to the west: the highest skyscraper in the city. As she focused on the lights that blinked white and red at its apex, she imagined him standing in the gusting cold atop the monument, staking his claim to the city.

“Do you think he’s evil?” she asked roughly. “I mean, you can sense his emotions, yes?”

“To a point I can.”

“So… is he evil?”

The other female exhaled long and slow, as if she regretted what she had to share. “He wouldn’t be a good bet, Layla. Not for you, not for anyone—and not just because of the Wrath issue. Xcor’s got some sinister shit in him.”

“So he is a dark soul.”

“You don’t need to read him to know that. Just think about what he did to your king.”

“Yes. Yes, indeed.”

From Qhuinn to Xcor. Fabulous track record for picking males—

“He’s moving fast,” Layla said urgently. “He’s dematerialized.”

“This is it. This is where you come in.”

Layla closed her eyes and shut out all of her senses except the instinct to find her own blood. “He’s moving north.”

As previously agreed, the two of them traveled a mile and reconvened; traveled another five miles and reconvened; traveled another ten, and another ten… with Layla’s instincts acting as a compass, steering their course.

And all the while time was of the essence, dawn racing in, a dangerous glow lodging in the seat of the sky and getting stronger.

The final leg of their race found them in a wooded forest, a good mile to a mile and a half away from where he had stopped—and at last gone no farther.

“I can get you closer,” Layla murmured.

“He’s not going anywhere?”

“No, he’s not.”

“Then you go. Now—go!”

Layla took one last look in the direction he was in. She knew she had to depart—for if she could sense him, he could perhaps sense her as well. The expectation, of course, was that if he did, he would not be able to react fast enough, that her disappearance to the mhis-protected environment up north would stop her trail and stymie him completely, not just giving him no inkling of her destination, but scrambling his blood sense so totally, he would be sent in a different direction like light bouncing off the surface of a mirror.

Fear made her heart skip, and she held on to the sensation, recognizing it as more real than her assessment of the time they’d been together when he had fed from her.

“Layla? Go!”

Dearest Virgin Scribe, she had condemned him to death this night—

No, she corrected. He had done that to himself. Assuming that rifle was found in and among the Band of Bastards’ living arrangements, and that it proved what the Brothers thought it would, Xcor had set the wheels of his doom in motion months ago.

She might be the conduit, but his actions were the electrical charge that was going to stop his heart.

“Thank you for giving me this opportunity to do the right thing,” she told Xhex. “I’ll go home right now.”

With that, she dematerialized away from the wooded glen, zeroing in on the mansion, making it into the vestibule just as the light was beginning to sting her eyes.

It was not tears doing that. No, those were not tears—it was the coming dawn.

Tears shed for that male would be… wrong of her on too many levels to count.

“We need to go, buddy.”

John nodded as Qhuinn spoke to him, but he didn’t move. Standing in the middle of Wellsie’s kitchen, he was suffering from a kind of culture shock.

The cupboards were bare. The pantry was empty. So were all the drawers and the two closets. The bookcases over the built-in desk. The desk itself.

Walking around, he circled the table that was in the alcove, remembering the dinners Wellsie had served on it. Then he ambled down the long stretch of granite countertop, imagining her bowls of bread dough draped with dish towels, her cutting boards with piles of diced onions or sliced mushrooms on them, her canister of flour, her crock of rice. At the stove, he almost bent down to breathe in the aroma of the stew and the spaghetti sauce and the mulled apple cider.

“John?”

Turning away, he walked over to his best friend… and then kept going, heading out into the living room. Shit, it was like the place had been bombed in a way. The paintings had all been stripped from the walls, nothing but their claw-shaped brass hangers left where they had been hung: Everything in a frame had been moved over to the far corner, the works of art leaning up against each other, separated by thick terry-cloth towels.

The furniture had likewise been shifted all around, the lot of it sorted into arrangements of chairs, side tables, lamps—God, the lamps. Wellsie hadn’t liked overhead lighting, and that had meant there were, like, a hundred lamps of different shapes and sizes in the house.

Same with rugs. She’d hated wall-to-wall, so there were Orientals—had been Orientals—lying everywhere on hardwood and marble. Now, though, like everything else, they had been rolled up with their pads and organized into a cordwood-like stack against the long wall in the living room.

The best of the furnishings and all of the artwork were going to be brought north to the mansion, the staff securing a U-Haul truck for the relocation. What was left over would be offered to Safe Place, and, if declined, forwarded on to Goodwill or the Salvation Army.

Man… even after the four of them had worked for ten hours straight, there was a lot left to do. This first big push, however, seemed like the most critical part.

From out of nowhere, Tohr stepped into his wandering path, stopping him short. “Hey, son.”

Oh, hey.

As they clapped palms and then shoulders, it was a relief to be on the same page again after months of estrangement. The fact that the Brother had brought him here to help with all this had been a measure of respect that had surprised him and touched him deeply.

Then again, as Tohr had said on the trip out here, Wellsie had been as much John’s as anyone else’s.

“I sent Qhuinn back, by the way. Figured this is an extenuating circumstance—and I gotchu.”

John nodded. As much as he loved his friend, it felt right for him and Tohr to be in the house together alone, even if just for a few moments.

How’d it go at Safe Place? he signed.

“Really well. Marissa was—” Tohr cleared his throat. “You know, she’s just a lovely female.”

She totally is.

“She was really happy about the donations.”

You give her the rubies?

“Yeah.”

John nodded again. He and Tohr had gone through what little was in Wellsie’s jewelry collection. That necklace, bracelet, and earrings had been the only things with any intrinsic value. The rest was more personal: little charms, a couple pairs of hoops, a set of tiny diamond studs. They were going to keep all that.

“I meant what I said, John. I want you to use the furniture if you want. The art, too.”

There’s a Picasso in there I really like, actually.

“It’s yours, then. All of it, any of it, is yours.”

Ours.

Tohr inclined his head. “That’s right. Ours.”

John walked around the living room again, his footsteps echoing up and around. What made you decide tonight was the night, he signed.

“It wasn’t any one thing. More like a culmination of a lot of stuff.”

John had to admit he was glad for that answer. The idea that this might have somehow been solely tied to Autumn would have made him angry—even though that would have been unfair to her.

People moved on. It was healthy.

And maybe that lingering anger was a sign that he needed to let go a little more as well.

I’m sorry I wasn’t better about Autumn.

“Oh, no, it’s okay, son. I know it’s tough.”

Are you going to mate her?

“No.”

John’s brows jumped. Why not.

“It’s complicated—actually, no. It’s pretty simple. I blew up the relationship the night before last. There’s no going back.”

Oh… shit.

“Yeah.” Tohr shook his head and looked around. “Yeah…”

The pair of them just stood there side by side, their eyes tracing the mess they had created out of the order that had once been. The state of the house was now, John supposed, rather like where their lives had been after Wellsie had been killed: blown apart, hollow, everything in wrong places.

It was more accurate than what had been before, though. False order, preserved out of a refusal to move on, was a dangerous kind of lie.

You’re really going to sell the property? he signed.

“Yeah. Fritz is calling the Realtor as soon as the business day gets rolling. Unless… well, if you and Xhex want it, it goes without saying—”

No, I agree with you. Time to let it go.

“Listen, I want to see if you can take the next couple of nights off? There’s a lot still to do here, and I like having you with me.”

Of course. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.

“Good. That’s good.”

The two of them stared at each other. I guess it’s time to go.

Tohr nodded slowly. “Yeah, son. It really is.”

Without another word, the pair of them stepped out of the front door, locked up… and dematerialized back to the mansion.

As his molecules scattered, John felt like there should have been some kind of proclamation or exchange between them that was momentous, some conversational flag in the sand, a grave, milestone-y recitation of… something.

Then again, he supposed the healing process, in contrast to trauma, was gentle and slow…

The soft closing of a door, rather than a slam.

SIXTY-SEVEN

Several nights after Autumn arrived at Xhex’s cabin, a towel changed everything.

It was just a white hand towel, fresh from the dryer, destined to be rehung in the aboveground bathroom and used by either one of them. Nothing special. Nothing that Autumn hadn’t handled either at the Brotherhood mansion or up in the Sanctuary over the course of decades and decades and decades.

But that was the point.

As she held it in her hands, feeling the warmth and the soft nap, she began to think of all the laundry she had done. And the trays of food she had delivered to the Chosen. And the bedding platforms she had made. And the stacks of johnnies and scrubs and towels…

Years and years of maid service that she had been proud to do…

You’ve been making a martyr out of yourself for centuries.

“I have not.” She refolded the towel. And unfolded it again.

As her hands made work for themselves, Tohr’s angry voice refused to yield. In fact, it got even louder in her head as she went out and saw the floors gleaming from her hand-polishing, and the windows sparkling, and the kitchen neat as a pin.

That symphath was your fault. I’m your fault. The weight of the world is all your fault—

“Stop it!” she hissed, clamping her hands on her ears. “Just stop it!”

Alas, the desire to become deaf was thwarted. As she limped around the small house, she was trapped not by the confines of the roof and walls, but by Tohrment’s voice.

The trouble was, no matter where she went or what she looked at, there was something she had scrubbed or straightened or buffed right in front of her. And her plans for the night had included more of the same, even though there was no demonstrable need for any more cleaning.

Eventually, she forced herself to sit down in one of the two chairs that faced the river. Extending her leg, she looked down at the calf that had not looked right or worked right for such a very long time.

You enjoy being the victim—you’re all about it.

Three nights, she thought. It had taken her three nights to move into this place and slip right into the role of maid—

Actually, no, she had started in as soon as she had woken up after that first sunset.

Sitting by herself, she breathed in the lemon-scented fragrance of furniture polish and felt an overwhelming need to get up, find a rag, and start wiping tabletops and counters. Which was part of her pattern, wasn’t it.

With a curse, she forced herself to stay seated as a replay of that horrid conversation with Tohrment churned through her brain again and again.…

Immediately after he had left, she had been in shock. Next had come great waves of anger.

Tonight, however, she actually heard his words. And considering she was surrounded by evidence of her behavior, it was hard to dispute what he had said.

He was right. Cruel though the expression of the truth had been, Tohrment was right.

Although she had couched it all in terms of service to others, her “duties” had been less of a penance, more of a punishment. Every time she had cleaned up after others, or bowed her head under that hood, or shuffled off to stay unnoticed, there had been a satisfying lick of pain in her heart, a little cut that would heal nearly as quickly as it was inflicted.…

Ten thousand slices, over too many years to count.

In fact, none of the Chosen had ever told her to clean up after them. Nor had the Scribe Virgin. She had done it herself, casting her own existence in the mold of worthless servant, bowing and scraping over millennia.

And all because of…

An image of that symphath came back to her, and for a brief moment she remembered the smell of him, and the feel of his too slick skin, and the sight of his six-fingered hands on her flesh.

Yet as bile rose up in her throat, she refused to give in to it. She had given him and those memories far too much weight for far too many years…

Abruptly, she pictured herself in her room at her father’s manse, right before she had been abducted, ordering around the doggen, unsatisfied by everything around her.

She’d gone from madam to maid by her own choice, pitching herself between the two extremes of unqualified superiority and self-enforced inferiority. That symphath had been the binding agent, his violence linking the ends of the spectrum such that in her mind one flowed from the other, tragedy overtaking the entitlement and leaving in its wake a ruined female who had made suffering her new status quo.

Tohrment was right: She had punished herself ever since then… and denying the drugs during her needing had been part and parcel of that: She had chosen that pain, just as she had picked her low station in society, just as she had given herself to a male who could never, ever be hers.

I’ve been using you, and the only person it’s working for is you—it’s gotten me nowhere. The good news is that this whole thing is going to give you a great excuse to torture yourself even longer.…

The urge to attack some manner of dirt, to scrub with her palms until sweat beaded upon her brow, to work until her back ached and her leg screamed was so strong, she had to grip the arms of the chair to keep herself where she was.

“Mahmen?”

She twisted around and tried to pull herself out of the spiral. “Daughter mine, how fare thee?”

“I’m sorry I’ve gotten home so late. Today was… busy.”

“Oh, that is fine. May I get you something to—” She stopped herself. “I…”

The force of habit was so strong, she found herself holding on to the chair again.

“It’s okay, Mahmen,” Xhex murmured. “You don’t need to wait on me. I don’t want you to, actually.”

Autumn brought a shaking hand up to the tail end of her braid. “I feel quite undone this evening.”

“I can sense that.” Xhex came forward, her leather-clad body strong and sure. “And I know why, so you don’t have to explain. It’s good to let things go. You have to if you want to move forward in your life.”

Autumn focused on the dark windows, picturing the river beyond. “I don’t know what to do with myself if I’m not a servant.”

“That’s what you need to find out—what you like, where you want to go, how you want to fill your nights. That’s life—if you’re lucky.”

“Instead of possibility, I see only emptiness.”

Especially without—

No, she would not think of him. Tohrment had made it more than clear where their relationship stood.

“There’s something you should probably know,” her daughter said. “About him.”

“Did I speak his name?”

“You don’t have to. Listen, he’s—”

“No—no, do not tell me. There is nothing between us.” Dearest Virgin Scribe, that hurt to say. “There never was—so there is nothing I need to know about him—”

“He’s closing up his house—the one he and Wellsie stayed in. He spent all last night packing up stuff, giving her things away, getting the furniture ready to move out—he’s selling the place.”

“Well… good for him.”

“He’s going to come see you.”

Autumn burst up from the chair and went to the windows, her heart thumping in her chest. “How do you know.”

“He told me so just now, when I went to make a report to the king. He said he’s going to apologize.”

Autumn put her hands up to the cold glass, the pads of her fingers going numb quickly. “For what part, I wonder. The insight that he was right about? Or would it be the honesty with which he spoke when he said he felt nothing for me—that I was merely a vehicle to free his beloved? Both are true, and therefore, short of his tone of voice, there is naught to offer apology for.”

“He hurt you.”

“No greater than I have been before.” She retracted her hands and began rubbing them together for warmth. “He and I have crossed paths twice now in our lives—and I can’t say I wish to continue the association. Even though his assessment of my character and my flaws is correct, I need not have that elucidated again, even gilded by syllables of ‘I’m sorry.’ That sort of thing sticks with one well enough the first time.”

There was a length of silence.

“As you know,” Xhex said quietly, “John and I have been having problems. Big ones, the kind of shit I couldn’t live with even though I loved him. I really thought it was all over—what convinced me otherwise was not what he said, but what he did.”

Tohrment’s voice came back: You know damn well the only reason I’m with you is to get Wellsie out of the In Between.

“There is one difference, my daughter. Your mate is in love with you—and at the end of the day, that means everything. Even if Tohrment lets his shellan go, he will never love me.”

The good news is that this whole thing is going to give you a great excuse to torture yourself even longer.

No, she thought. She was done with that.

Time for a new paradigm.

And though Autumn had no idea what it was, she was damn sure going to figure it out.

“Listen, I have to hustle,” Xhex said. “But I’m hoping this won’t take long—I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

Autumn glanced over her shoulder. “Do not rush on my account. I need to get used to being on my own—and I might as well start tonight.”

As Xhex left the cabin, she was careful to lock up behind herself—and wishing she could do more for her mother than just turn a dead bolt: Autumn’s emotional reorientation was extreme, the female’s interior grid turned upside down on itself.

But then, that was what happened to people when they finally got a clear picture of themselves after aeons of sublimation.

Not a happy place. And it was hard to witness. Hard to leave behind—but Autumn was right. There came a time in everyone’s life when they realized that in spite of how hard they’d been running from themselves, everywhere they went, there they were: Addictions and compulsions were nothing but marching bands of distraction, masking truths that were unpleasant, but ultimately undeniable.

The female did need some time to herself. Time to think. Time to discover. Time to forgive… and move on.

And as for Tohrment? There was a part of Xhex that really wanted to take whatever had been said to her mother out of his hide. Except she had been around him, and he was suffering in ways that a bruised jaw couldn’t compete with. Tough to know how much of it was the shit with Autumn and how much was Wellsie—her instinct told her they’d all find out soon enough, however: The Brother had only started by dismantling that house and giving away Wellsie’s clothes.

His end game was pretty damn clear.

Then they’d see just how much he cared about Autumn.

On that note, Xhex dematerialized and headed to the east. She had spent the entire day on Xcor’s home turf, never getting closer than a quarter mile away: The male’s grid had been clear to her as soon as she’d gotten within range, and she’d been careful to get beads on those of his soldiers as well before she’d headed north to the mansion and reported to the king.

And now she was back under the veil of the night, moving slowly through the forest, throwing out her symphath senses.

Closing in on the area where the grids had been concentrated during the daylight hours, she dematerialized at clips of a hundred yards, taking her sweet time, using the pine boughs as cover. Man, shit like this made her really appreciate evergreens, their fluffy branches not just concealing her, but providing a snowless ground cover that hid her footprints as she went from trunk to trunk.

The empty farmhouse she eventually came across was exactly what she would have expected. Made of coarse old stone, it was sturdy and had few windows—the perfect bunker. And of course, the irony was that with its snow-covered roof, and its cheery chimneys, the place looked like something off a Christmas card.

Ho-ho-ho, Season’s Beatings.

As she cased the environs, the van that was parked off to the side seemed to belong somewhere else, an unwelcome shot of the modern in what appeared to be a resolutely antiquated picture. And the same was true for the electrical lines that came in and were anchored at the rear corner.

Xhex ghosted to that back flank. It was impossible to know whether or not the power was live: No lights had been left on, the house dark as the inside of a skull.

The last thing she wanted to do was trigger an alarm.

Except a quick look at the glass of a window had her frowning. No shutters—unless they were on the inside? More important, no steel bars. Then again, the underground would be the priority, wouldn’t it.

Going around, she looked in every window, then dematerialized up to the roof to check the dormers on the third floor.

Totally empty, she thought with another frown. And not well fortified.

Back down on ground level, she took out both her guns, grabbed a deep breath, and…

Re-forming inside the house, she was in full attack mode, her back to the corner of the empty, dusty living room, autoloaders up in front of her.

The first thing she noted was that the air was as cold inside as out. Did they not have heat?

Second thing was… there was no sound of an alarm.

Third: No one appeared from out of nowhere, ready to defend the territory.

Didn’t mean this was a lickety-split sitch, however. What was more likely was that they didn’t give a crap about anything on this floor or above.

With care, she dematerialized over to the doorway of the next room. And the next. The logical location of basement stairs would be the kitchen—and what do you know, she found what she assumed were them right where she expected them to be.

And gee-fucking-whiz, the door keeping her out was sporting a brand-new solid lock made of copper.

It took her a good five minutes to pick the bitch, and by then her nerves were twitchy. Every sixty seconds she stopped and listened hard, even though her symphath side was out in full force the whole time, her cilices left behind at the cabin.

When she finally worked the lock, she opened the door but a crack—and had to let out a dry laugh: The hinges squealed loud enough to wake the dead.

It was a reliable, old-fashioned trick—and she was willing to bet every door and window in the place was likewise unoiled; stairs probably creaked like an old woman if you put any weight on them, too. Yup, just like folks had done before electricity had been invented—a good ear and a lack of WD-40 was an alarm that never needed a battery or a power source.

Putting her penlight between her teeth so she could keep a gun in each hand, she searched what she could see of the rough wooden staircase. Down at the bottom there was a dirt floor, and she flashed herself to it, pivoting quickly into a defensive stance.

Lot of bunks: three sets of uppers and lowers with a single off to one side.

Clothes in big sizes. Candles for light. Matches. Reading materials.

Cell phone charging cords. One for a laptop.

And that was it.

No weapons. No electronics. Nothing that offered any true identification.

Then again, the Band of Bastards had started out as nomads, so of course their personal effects were few and very portable—and this was part of the reason they were so dangerous: They could relocate at the drop of a hat and leave no meaningful footprint behind.

This definitely was, however, their inner sanctum, the site where they were relatively vulnerable during the day—and they did protect themselves accordingly: The walls and the ceiling and the back of the door were covered with steel mesh. No getting down here, or out of here, but through that opening way above.

She went around slowly, looking for trapdoors, a tunnel entrance, anything.

They’d need an ammunition storage facility somewhere in here: Even as mobile as they liked to be, there was no way they could go out night after night buying just enough bullets to get them to the dawn.

They’d need a cache.

Refocusing on the single cot, she guessed it was Xcor’s, as their leader, and it didn’t take a genius to figure that if there was any hiding place, it would be in his area—he had just the kind of suspicious mind to not fully trust even his own soldiers.

Investigating the bed with her light, she searched for triggering mechanisms either to an alarm or a bomb or a trapdoor. Finding none, she sheathed her guns for a moment and lifted up the metal frame, moving aside. Taking out a miniature handheld metal detector, she scanned the dirt floor and…

“Hello, boys,” she murmured.

Her handy-dandy piece of equipment picked up a perfectly square outline that measured about four by two and a half feet. Kneeling down, she used one of her knives to displace the soil around the peripheral edges. Whatever it was, was buried deep—

Xhex froze as her acute hearing informed her that a car had pulled up.

It was not one of the Bastards or their cohorts, however. The emotional grid was far too uncomplicated.

A doggen, arriving with provisions?

Flashing up to the head of the stairs, she shut the door as much as she could without reengaging the lock and then went back to the buried box. Moving at triple time now, she kept one ear pinned on the footsteps creaking around on the first floor.…

On the long side of the delineated rectangle, she used her knife point to probe the packed dirt for a handle. Finding nothing, she repeated the investigation on the short—

Bingo. Brushing the earth away, she gripped a circular ring, put the penlight back between her teeth and heaved with everything she had. The lid weighed as much as a car hood, and she had to swallow her grunt—

Wow. Talk about an arsenal.

In the large box below there were handguns, shotguns, knives, ammunition, munitions cleaning supplies… all of it in a well-ordered, obviously watertight environment.

Among which was a long, black, hard-plastic rifle case.

She took the thing out and put it on the dirt floor next to her. One look at the lock and she cursed. Fingerprint activated.

Whatever. The damn thing was big enough to house one or maybe two long-noses. So it was coming with her.

With quick, sure hands, she shut the lid, kicked dirt back over it, and patted the surface so it was packed hard once more. Covering her tracks took less time than she thought, and before she knew it, she was moving the bunk into place again.

Picking up the case with her left hand, she listened. The doggen was moving around upstairs, the female’s grid as unremarkable as it had been when she had arrived: She had heard nothing, knew nothing.

Glancing around, Xhex thought it was unlikely that the maid had the key to get down here. Xcor would be too cagey for that. But still, it wasn’t safe to just hang out. Even if they gave the doggen the run only of the upstairs, one of the Bastards could get injured in the field at any time, and though she had no hesitation in fighting any one of them, or every fucking one, if the rifle was in fact in this case, she needed to get the weapon out immediately.

Time for a meet-and-greet.

As she dematerialized up to the head of the stairs, her weight on the top step released a creak from the wood.

On the far side, the doggen called out, “Sire?” There was a pause. “Wait, I shall assume the position.”

What. The. Fuck?

“I am ready.”

Xhex palmed the doorknob, opened the way, and stepped out, expecting to find some kind of Kama Sutra nightmare going on.

Instead, the older female was standing in the corner of the kitchen facing the juncture of the walls, with her eyes covered by her hands.

They didn’t want her to be able to identify them, Xhex thought. Smart. Very smart.

Timely, too, as she would have had to waste precious minutes screwing with the female’s head. Further, that “position,” as it were, was going to save the doggen’s life later, when Xcor eventually found out that his lair had been infiltrated while they were gone.

If you didn’t see anyone ever, there was no way you were protecting an intruder.

Xhex shut the door, and the lock triggered itself, reengaging. Then she dematerialized right out of there, carrying the gun case against her chest.

Good thing it wasn’t that heavy.

And God willing, Vishous was going to be off rotation for the night.

SIXTY-EIGHT

Back at the Brotherhood compound, Tohr held the basement door open and stood aside as John passed by and hit the stairs.

Descending after the other male, Tohr’s body was stiff, especially his back and shoulders. His nightly workouts as a furniture mover were finished, though. After a final three-hour push this evening, his and Wellsie’s house was officially empty, and on its way to being entered into Caldwell’s MLS system. Fritz had met with the Realtor during the day, and the price they had set was aggressive, but not crazy. If Tohr had to carry the costs of the place for another couple of months, or even through the spring, that was fine.

Meanwhile, the furniture and rugs had been moved into the mansion’s garage; the paintings and etchings and ink drawings were up in the climate-controlled part of the attic; and the jewelry box was in Tohr’s closet above the mating dress.

So it was… done.

At the bottom of the stairs, he and John set off at a resolute pace that took them through a cavernous room and by the massive boiler that not only kicked out enough heat to keep the main part of the house warm, but threatened to fry his face and body as he strode into its orbit.

Continuing onward, their footsteps were loud, the air cooling fast as they left the boiler’s range and hit the second half of the basement. This part was cut up into storage rooms, one of which would soon hold the balance of his and Wellsie’s furniture, another of which was V’s private workspace.

No, not that kind of work.

He used his penthouse for that shit.

Vishous’s forge was down here.

The sound of the Brother’s fire-breathing monster started off as a low hum; by the time they turned the final corner, the dull roar was loud enough to drown out the sound of their shitkickers. In fact, the only thing that cut through the din was the tink-tink-tink of V pounding a hammer on red-hot black metal.

As they stepped into the doorway of the cramped stone room, V was hard at work, his bare chest and shoulders gleaming in the orange light of the flames, his muscled arm rising up to strike again and again. His concentration was fierce—and it should be. The blade that strip of metal was becoming would be responsible for keeping its owner alive, as well as getting the enemy good and dead.

The Brother looked up as they appeared, and nodded. After two more strikes, he put down his hammer and cut the oxygen feed to the fire pit.

“What’s doing?” he said as the great growl settled into a purr.

Tohr glanced over at John Matthew. The kid had been a star throughout the whole process, never faltering in the grim work of dismantling a lifetime’s worth of keepsakes, mementos, and collections.

So hard, this was. On the both of them.

After a moment, Tohr looked back at his brother… and found himself at a loss for words—except V was already nodding and getting to his feet. Removing the heavy leather gloves that went up to his elbows, he stepped free of his station.

“Yeah, I’ve got them,” the brother said. “Back at the Pit. Come on.”

Tohr nodded, because that was all he had to share with anyone. Still, as the three of them filed out and walked in sad silence back for the stairs, he clapped his hand on John’s nape and kept it there.

The contact comforted them both.

When they emerged into the kitchen, there was too much Last Meal chaos for any of the staff to really notice them—so fortunately there were no questions, no kind inquiries, no guesses about why they were all looking so serious.

Out the butler’s pantry. Hop across to the hidden door beneath the staircase. Down into the tunnel to avoid the cold of the winter.

As they hung a right and headed in the opposite direction from the training center, he couldn’t believe on some level that this was happening. His shitkickers even faltered a couple of times, like maybe they were trying to pull him away from this last piece.

He was resolved, however.

At the door that led into the Pit, V punched in the code and opened the way up, indicating that they should go first.

The place where Butch and V bunked in with their shellans was the same as always—except neater now that there were females cohabitating there: The Sports Illustrateds were in an orderly pile on the coffee table; the kitchen didn’t have empty bottles of Lag and Goose all over the counters; and there were no more gym bags or biker jackets hanging off of everything.

V’s Four Toys still took up one whole corner, however, and the massive plasma-screen TV remained the biggest thing in the place.

Some things would never change.

“She’s in my room.”

Tohr wouldn’t ordinarily follow the guy into his private space, but this was not ordinary.

V and Doc Jane’s room was small and had more books than bed in it, stacks of physics tomes and chemistry volumes crowding the rug until you could barely walk on it. The good doctor made sure the place wasn’t a total pigsty, however, with the duvet all pulled up nice and neat, and the pillows angled carefully against the headboard.

Over in the corner, Vishous opened the closet and reached up to the top shelf, straining even with his height for…

The black velvet–wrapped bundle he brought out was big enough and heavy enough to require both hands, and he grunted as he eased back and carried it over to the bed.

As he put the thing down, Tohr had to force himself to keep breathing.

There she was. His Wellsie. Everything that was left of her on earth.

Lowering onto his knees before her, he reached forward and undid the satin bow at the top. With hands that shook, he pried the velvet bag open and pushed it down, revealing a sterling silver urn that had art deco etchings on its four sides.

“Where did you get this?” he said, running a forefinger down the bright, shiny metal.

“Darius had it in a back room. I think it’s Tiffany, from the thirties. Fritz polished it up.”

The urn was not part of their tradition.

Ashes were not meant to be kept.

They were supposed to be set free.

“It’s beautiful.” He glanced up at John. The kid’s face was pale, his lips tight… and in a quick, slashing movement, he brushed under his left eye. “We’re ready to do her Fade ceremony, aren’t we, son.”

John nodded.

“When?” V asked.

“Tomorrow night, I think.” As John nodded again, Tohr said, “Yeah, tomorrow.”

“You want I talk to Fritz and set it up?” V asked.

“Thanks, but I’ll take care of it. John and I are going to do it.” Tohr refocused on the lovely urn. “He and I are going to let her go… together.”

Standing over Tohr, John was having a difficult time keeping it together. Hard to know what was getting to him more: the fact that Wellsie was actually in the room with them again, or that Tohr was kneeling before that urn as if his legs weren’t working right.

The past couple of nights had been a brutal exercise in reorientation. It wasn’t that he hadn’t known Wellsie was gone; it was just… dismantling everything in that house had made that fact so loud, there was a constant screaming in his head.

Goddamn it, she was never going to know that he’d made it through his transition, or that he was a halfway decent fighter, or that he’d gotten mated. If he ever had a child of his own, she’d never hold it in her arms, or see a first birthday, or get to witness first steps or first words.

Her absence made his own life seem less full, and he had the awful feeling that that was always going to be true.

As Tohr bent his head, John went over and put his palm on the guy’s heavy shoulder, reminding himself that however hard this was for him, what Tohr was going through was a thousand times worse. Shit, though, the Brother had been strong, making all those out and safe decisions about everything from pairs of jeans to pots and pans, working steadily in spite of the fact that he had to be raw on the inside.

If John hadn’t respected the fuck out of the Brother before, he sure as hell did now—

“Vishous?” came a female voice down the hall.

John wrenched around. Xhex was here?

Tohr cleared his throat and pulled the velvet bag back into place. “Thanks, V. For taking such good care of her.”

“V? You got a minute?” Xhex called out. “I need to— Oh, shit.”

As she stopped herself, like she’d tweaked to the vibe in the bedroom from where she was out in front, Tohr got to his feet and nodded at John with a smile too generous to comprehend. “You’d best go to your female, son.”

John hesitated, but then V stepped up and put his arms around his brother, whispering low words.

Giving the males some privacy, John went down to the living room.

Xhex was not surprised to see him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

It’s okay. His eyes went to the carrying case in her hand. What’s that?

Even though he knew… Holy shit, had she gotten the—

“That’s what we need to find out.”

In a sudden panic, he looked her over carefully, searching for signs of injury. There were none, though. She had gone in and come out in one piece.

John didn’t mean to do it, but he lunged forward and grabbed her hard, holding her against his body. As she embraced him in return, he felt the rifle case press into his back, and he was just… really fucking glad she was alive. So fucking glad—

Shit, he was tearing up.

“Shh, John, it’s okay. I’m safe. I’m all right.…”

While he shuddered, she held him with the strength and power in her body, keeping him together, blanketing him with exactly the kind of deep love that Tohr had lost.

Why some people were lucky and others were not seemed the cruelest kind of lottery.

When he finally pulled back, he mopped up his face and then signed, Will you come to Wellsie’s Fade ceremony?

There was no hesitation. “Absolutely.”

Tohr says he would like the two of us to do it together.

“Good, that’s good.”

At that moment, Vishous and Tohr came back out, and both Brothers immediately locked eyes on that case.

“You are fan-fucking-tastic,” V said with a kind of awe.

“Hold your ass-kissing—I haven’t opened it yet.” She held the thing out to the Brother. “Fingerprint lock. I need your help.”

V grinned in an evil way. “Far be it from me to not come to the aid of a lady. Let’s do this.”

As the pair of them took the gun case over to the kitchen counter, John pulled Tohr aside. Nodding at the velvet-covered urn, he signed, Do you need me any further tonight?

“No, son, you stay with your female—I’ve got to go out for a little bit, actually.” The guy stroked the velvet. “I’m going to put her in my room first, though.”

Yeah, okay. Cool.

Tohr hugged him hard and fast, and then went out the door into the tunnel.

From over in the kitchen, Xhex said, “How are you going to— Well, yeah, that’ll work.”

The smell of burning plastic had John twisting around. V had removed his glove and put his glowing forefinger up against the locking mechanism, acidic smoke rising from the contact in nasty curls of dark gray.

“My prints tend to do the job on just about anything,” the Brother said.

“Clearly,” Xhex murmured, her hands on her hips, her taut body bent forward. “You ever barbecue with that thing?”

“Only lessers—and they ain’t good eatin’.”

Staying back, John stared across the way and just… Well, he was just amazed at the female. Who the fuck did shit like this? Going into the B.o.B.’s secured hideout. Rifling through, looking for a rifle, natch. Coming back like she’d done nothing more incredible than order a Starbucks.

As if she sensed his eyes on her, she glanced over.

Opening himself up emotionally, so that there were no barriers at all, he revealed to her everything he was feeling—

“Got it,” V announced, retracting his glowing hand and regloving it.

Turning the gun case toward Xhex, the Brother said, “How’d you like to do the honors.”

Xhex refocused and cracked open what she had brought home, the mangled locking mechanism falling apart.

Inside, there were a pair of rifles nested in black egg-crate padding, along with long-range scopes.

“Bingo,” she breathed.

She’d done it, John thought. He was willing to bet his left nut that one of those guns was going to prove to be the rifle that shot Wrath.

She’d frickin’ done it.

From out of his gut, a massive groundswell of pride rose, warming his entire body, stretching his lips into a smile so wide his cheeks hurt. Staring at his female, and the mission-critical evidence she’d brought into the fold, he was willing to bet he threw shadows, he was beaming so much.

He was just so incredibly… proud.

“Pretty goddamn promising.” V closed up the case. “I’ve got the equipment we’re going to need at the clinic—along with that bullet. Let’s do this.”

“One minute.”

Xhex turned to John. Walked over to him. Took his face in her hands. As she stared up at him, he knew she was reading every bit of everything he had in him.

Rising up onto her tiptoes, she pressed her lips to his and spoke three words he hadn’t expected to hear again anytime soon.

“I love you.” She kissed him again. “I love you so much, my hellren.”

SIXTY-NINE

On the other side of the Hudson, down south from the Brotherhood compound, Autumn sat in the cabin in darkness, still occupying the same chair she’d settled into at the beginning of the night. She had long since willed the lights off, and the lack of illumination around her made the snow-covered landscape appear bright as day under the moon’s glow.

From her vantage point, the river was a wide, motionless expanse, even though it was iced in only at its shores.

From her vantage point, she had seen little of the view before her, having dwelled instead on the stages of her life.

Many hours had passed since Xhex had checked in with her, the moon shifting position, the black shadows thrown by the trees pinwheeling around over the white ground. In many ways, time had no meaning, but it did have an effect: The longer she spent mulling over things, the more clearly she saw herself, her earlier realizations no longer a shock, but instead something she steeped herself in.…

Something she began to change herself with—

At first, the dark slash that cut through the wintry vista seemed to be just another shadow cast by a tree trunk at the edge of the property. Except then it moved.

It was alive.

It was… not an animal.

It was a male.

A sudden shot of fear jerked her upright, but her instincts rushed forward and told her immediately who it was. Tohrment.

Tohrment was here.

Her first thought was to go down into the underground retreat and pretend she hadn’t seen him—and considering how he waited on the lawn, giving her plenty of time to identify him, he seemed to be offering her that out.

She was not going to run, however. She’d done enough variations of that to last for several lifetimes.

Rising from the chair, she went to the door that opened toward the river and unlocked it, pushing it wide. Crossing her arms over her chest against the cold, she tilted up her chin and waited for him to come forward.

And he did. With an expression of somber purpose, the Brother approached slowly, his heavy boots crunching through the crusty top layer of the snow. He still looked the same, still tall and broad, with his thick, white-striped hair, and his handsome, grave face marked with lines of distinction.

How odd of her to measure him for some kind of metamorphosis, she thought.

Clearly, she was ascribing her own transformation to anyone and everyone.

As he stopped in front of her, she cleared her throat, easing the tickle of the bitterly frigid air. She did not speak first, however. That was his due.

“Thank you for coming out,” he said.

She just nodded, unwilling to make whatever cursory apology he was about to offer easy on him. No, no more easing his way—or others’.

“I want to talk for a bit—if you have some time?”

Given the way the cold wind cut through her clothes, she nodded and stepped back inside. The interior of the cabin hadn’t seemed particularly warm before; now it was tropical. And cramped.

Sitting back down in her chair, she let him choose whether to stand or not. He picked the former, and did so directly before her.

Upon a deep, bracing breath, he spoke clearly and succinctly, as if he had mayhap practiced his words: “I can’t apologize enough for what I said to you. It was utterly unfair, and unforgivable. There’s no excuse for it, so I’m not going to try to explain it away. I just—”

“You know what?” she cut in evenly. “There’s a part of me that wants to tell you to go to hell… to take your apology, and your weary eyes, and your heavy heart, and never, ever get anywhere near me again.”

After a long pause, he nodded. “Okay. I get that. I can totally respect that—”

“But,” she cut him off again, “I’ve spent all night sitting in this chair, thinking about that candid soliloquy of yours. Actually, I’ve thought of little else since I left you.” Abruptly, she glanced out at the river. “You know, you must have buried me on a night like tonight, didn’t you.”

“Yes, I did. Except it was snowing.”

“It must have been hard to get through the frosted ground.”

“It was.”

“Blisters to prove it, yes, indeed.” She refocused on him. “To be honest, I was fairly close to ruined when you left my recovery room at the training center. It’s important to me that you realize that. After you departed, I had no thought, no feeling, nothing but breathing, and only because my body did that on its own.”

He made a noise in the back of his throat, as if, through his regret, he couldn’t find the voice to speak.

“I have always known that you love only Wellsie, and not just because you told me so yourself in the beginning—but because it was evident all along. And you’re right: I did fall in love with you, and I did try to keep it from you—at least consciously—because I knew that it would hurt you in an unbearable way—the idea that you had let some female get that close…” She shook her head as she imagined how that would have impacted him. “I really wanted to spare you any more pain, and I honestly wanted Wellsie to be free. Her disposition was nearly as important to me as it was to you—and that was not about punishing myself, but because I truly loved you.”

Dearest Virgin Scribe, he was so still. Barely even breathing.

“I’ve heard that you’re disposing of the home you had with her,” she said. “And have done likewise with her things. I am guessing it is because you are trying a new route to release her unto the Fade, and I hope it works. For the both of you, I hope it works.”

“I came here to talk about you, not her,” he said softly.

“That’s kind of you, and know that I am turning the conversation onto you not because I feel like a victim of some unrequited romance that has ended badly, but because our relationship in this era has always been based upon you. Which is my fault, but also the nature of the cycle we have completed.”

“Cycle?”

She rose up, wanting to put them on equal footing. “Just as the seasons come full circle, so have we. When we first crossed paths, it was all about me, my selfishness, my focus on a tragedy I had lived through. This time it was all about you, your selfishness, your tragedy that you had lived through.”

“Oh, Jesus, Autumn…”

“As you yourself pointed out to me, we can’t deny the truth, and shouldn’t attempt to. Therefore, I suggest that neither of us tries to fight it any longer. We are of an accord as of now, our transgressions one against the other wiped clean by deeds and words that neither of us can take back. I will always regret the position I put you in with your dagger so many years ago, and you don’t have to tell me that you feel deep sorrow as you stand before me now—I can see it written in your face. You and I… it’s a full circle, and it is completed.”

He blinked, his stare holding hers. Then he brought his thumb over his eyebrow and rubbed at his forehead like it hurt. “You’re wrong about that last part.”

“I fail to see how you can argue with the logic.”

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, too. I’m not going to fight with you about it, but I want you to know I was with you for more than just Wellsie. I didn’t realize it at the time—or I couldn’t let myself… I don’t fucking know. But I am rock solid that it was also very much about you, and after you left, that became clear—”

“You don’t have to apologize—”

“This isn’t an apology. This is about waking up and reaching for you and wishing you were next to me. It’s about ordering extra food for you, and then remembering that you’re not around to feed it to. It’s about the fact that even as I was packing up my dead mate’s clothes, I had you in my mind, too. It wasn’t just Wellsie, Autumn, and I think I knew that after your needing and that’s why I snapped. I spent a day and a half sitting on my ass, staring into the dark, trying to figure this all out—and I don’t know… I guess I finally found the courage to be really fucking honest with myself. Because it’s hard when you’ve loved one person with everything you’ve got, and she’s gone, and someone else comes and treads all over her territory in your heart.” He put his hand up to his chest and struck at his sternum. “This was hers and hers alone. Forevermore. Or at least so I thought… but shit didn’t work out that way, and then you came along… and circle be damned, I don’t want to be finished with you.”

Now it was her turn to feel poleaxed, her body going numb as she struggled to comprehend what he was saying.

“Autumn, I’m in love with you—that’s why I came here tonight. And we don’t have to be together, and you don’t have to get over what I said, but I wanted you to hear that from me. And I also want to tell you that I’m at peace with it, because…” He took a deep breath. “You want to know why Wellsie got pregnant? It wasn’t because I wanted a young. It’s because she knew that every night when I left the house I could get killed in the field, and as she said, she wanted something to keep on living for. If I had been the one to go? She would have carved out a life for herself, and… the strange thing is, I would have wanted her to do that. Even if it included someone else. I guess I’ve realized that… she wouldn’t have wanted me to mourn her forever. She’d have wanted me to move on… and I have.”

Autumn opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out.

Had she really heard him say all that—

“Halle-fucking-lujah!”

As she let out a cry of alarm and Tohr unsheathed a black dagger, Lassiter stepped out into the middle of the room.

The angel clapped a couple of times, and then held his palms up to the heavens like an evangelist. “Finally!”

“Jesus,” Tohr hissed as he put his weapon away. “I thought you’d quit!”

“Okay, still not that guy who was born in a manger. And believe me, I tried to file my resignation, but the Maker wasn’t interested in what I had to say. As usual.”

“I called for you a couple of times and you didn’t come.”

“Well, first I was flat-out pissed off at you. And then I just didn’t want to get in your way. I knew you were up to something big.” The angel came over and put his hand on Autumn’s shoulder. “You okay?”

She nodded and managed something close to an uh-huh.

“So this is good, yeah?” Lassiter said.

Tohr shook his head. “Don’t force her into anything. She is free to choose her path, as she always has been.”

At that, he turned and went to the door. Just before he opened the way out, he glanced over his shoulder, his blue eyes locking on hers. “Wellsie’s Fade ceremony is tomorrow night. I would love you to be there, and will understand completely if you don’t want to come. And, Lassiter, if you’re going to stay with her, and I hope you do, make yourself useful and get her a cup of tea and some toast? She likes the sourdough bread done on both sides, with sweet butter, preferably the whipped kind, and a little strawberry jam. And she’s Earl Grey with a teaspoon of sugar.”

“What—do I look like a butler?”

Tohrment just stared at her for the longest time, as if he were giving her a chance to see just how sure and steady and grounded he was—solid in a way that had nothing to do with his weight, and everything to do with his soul.

He had, in fact, been transformed.

With a final nod, he stepped out into the snowy landscape… and dematerialized into thin air.

“You got a TV in here?” she heard Lassiter ask from the kitchen as cupboards were opened and shut.

“You don’t have to stay,” she mumbled, still shocked down to her shoestrings.

“Just tell me you have a television and I’m a happy guy.”

“We do.”

“Well, what do you know, it’s my lucky day—and don’t worry, I’ll keep us entertained. I’ll bet I can find us a Real Housewives marathon.”

“A what?” she said.

“I’m hoping it’ll be New Jersey. But I’ll take Atlanta. Or B.H.”

Shaking herself, she went to look at him, and could only blink as she was blinded by all the lights he’d turned on.

Oh, wait, that was just him, glowing.

“Whatever are you speaking of?” she asked, finding it incredible that the male would be talking about human TV at a time like this.

From over at the stove, the angel smiled darkly and gave her a wink. “Just think—if you let yourself believe in Tohr and open your heart to him, you can get rid of me forever. All you have to do is give yourself to him, mind, body, and soul, baby girl, and I’m as good as gone—and you won’t have to worry about what a Real Housewife is.”

SEVENTY

The following evening, as soon as night fell, Assail, son of Assail, stalked through his glass house, heading for the garage. As he passed by the mansion’s rear door, he glanced at the glass that had been replaced back in the fall.

The repair was neat as a pin. To the point that one could not tell that anything violent had ever transpired.

The same could not be said about the events that had gone down that horrid night. Even as calendar days churned by, and seasons shifted, and moons rose and fell, there was no repairing what had happened, no way of patching up that mess.

Not that Xcor wanted to, he supposed.

Indeed, tonight he was finally going to get a sense of exactly how much damage had been done.

The glymera were so fucking slow, it was ridiculous.

Initializing the alarm system with his thumbprint, he went into the garage, locked up, and walked around the Jaguar. The Range Rover on the far side had huge tires with clawlike treads—his newest purchase having finally been delivered last week: As much as he loved the XKR, he was tired of feeling as though he were driving a greased pig on ice.

Once inside the heavily modified SUV, he hit the garage door and waited; then he reversed, K-turned, and waited again until the door was down.

Elan, son of Larex, was a right little shit, the kind of aristocrat who truly set Assail’s teeth on edge: too much inbreeding and too much money had insulated him too utterly from the realities of life. The male was no more capable of forging his way without the trappings of his station than a babe out in the cold.

And yet by the exigencies of fate, that male was in a position now to effect more change than he was worthy of: Following the raids, he was the highest-ranking non-Brother on the Council, but for Rehvenge—who was so entangled with the Brotherhood, he might as well have had a black dagger strapped on his chest.

Therefore, Elan was the one calling tonight’s little “unofficial” get-together.

Which would again not be including Rehvenge. And which was going to likely be about an insurrection.

Not that someone as highbrow as Elan would call it such. No, traitors who wore cravats and silk socks tended to couch their reality in much more refined terms—although the wording would change naught…

As Assail sped along, the trip to Elan’s house took a good forty-five minutes even though the highways were all salted and the streets plowed. Naturally, he could have saved himself time by dematerializing, but if things got out of hand, if he were to be injured and unable to disappear himself, he needed to make sure he had effective cover and escape.

He had taken for granted safety only once, and long ago. Never again. And, indeed, the Brotherhood were highly intelligent. There was no telling whether this nascent cabal would be raided tonight or not—especially if Xcor were to make an appearance.

Elan’s retreat was a gracious brick house, Victorian in derivation, with lacelike woodwork marking its every peak and corner. Located in a sleepy little hamlet of only thirty thousand humans, it was set well back from the lane it was on, and had a river snaking down one side of the property.

As he got out, he did not fasten the tortoiseshell buttons on the front of his camel-hair coat or put on gloves. Nor did he do up his double-breasted suit jacket.

His guns were close to his heart, and he wanted access.

Closing in on the front door, his fine black boots clapped over the shoveled walkway and his breath left his mouth in puffs of white. Overhead, the moon was bright as a halogen light and fat as a dinner plate, the lack of clouds and humidity allowing its true power to rain down from the heavens.

The drapes on all the windows had been pulled, so he could not see how many others had arrived, but it would not surprise him if they were already assembled, having dematerialized to the site.

Imbeciles.

Punching the doorbell with his bare hand, the entry was immediately pried wide, a formal doggen butler bowing at the hips.

“Master Assail. Welcome—may I take your coat?”

“No, you may not.”

There was a hesitation—at least until Assail cocked a brow at the servant. “Ah, but of course, my lord—please come this way.”

Voices, all of them male, flooded his ears as the cinnamon scent of mulled cider eased into his nose. Falling in behind the butler, he allowed himself to be led into a grand living room that was crammed with heavy mahogany furniture as per the period of the house. And in and amongst the antiques, there were a good ten males attending upon the host, their trim forms dressed in suits with ties or cravats at the throat.

There was a noticeable dip in conversation as he made his appearance, suggesting that at least some of them did not trust him.

It was likely the only wise thing about the group.

His host broke away and approached with a smug smile. “How good of you to come, Assail.”

“Thank you for having me.”

Elan frowned. “Where is my doggen? He should have taken your coat—”

“I prefer to leave it on. And I shall take that seat over there.” He nodded to the one corner that would provide the most visual access. “I trust we will be getting started soon.”

“Indeed. With your arrival, we await only one more.”

Assail narrowed his eyes on the subtle line of sweat that dotted the skin between the male’s nose and upper lip. Xcor had chosen the correct pawn, he thought as he went over and eased himself into his chair.

A sharp draft announced the arrival of the final guest.

As Xcor strode into the room, there was a hell of a lot more than a lull in the chatter. Every one of the aristocrats fell silent, a subtle rearrangement of the crowd being effected as they each stepped back.

Then again—surprise! Xcor had more than a plus-one with him.

The entirety of the Band of Bastards filed in on his heels, forming a semicircle behind their leader.

In person and up close, Xcor was precisely as he had always been: rough and ugly, the kind of male whose countenance and stance suggested his reputation for violence was based on reality, not conjecture. Verily, standing in the midst of these weaklings, in their environment of luxury and civility, he was ready and perfectly capable of cutting down everything that breathed in the room—and the males at his back were just the same, each dressed for war, and prepared to bring it to bear at a mere nod from their liege.

Regarding the lot of them, even Assail had to admit they were impressive.

What a fool Elan was—he and his glymera gadabouts had no clue of the Pandora’s box that they had opened.

With an officious cough, Elan stepped forward to address all and sundry as the one who was in charge—even though he was dwarfed not only by the soldiers’ heft, but their very presence.

“I believe there are no introductions necessary, and it goes without saying that if any one of you”—at this point, he eyed his fellow Council members—“speaks of this meeting, there will be reprisals the likes of which shall make you wish for the raids to return.”

Whilst he spoke, he gathered a certain momentum, as if assuming the mantle of power, even if it was provided by someone else, was a sort of masturbation for his ego.

“I thought it was important to bring all of us together this night.” He began to pace, clasping his hands at the small of his back and leaning forward to address his shiny shoes. “From time to time in the last year, the esteemed members of the Council have each come unto me and expressed not just their catastrophic losses, but their frustration with the current regime’s response to any meaningful recovery.”

Assail’s brows popped at the word current: This uprising had progressed further than he’d guessed if that was being thrown around.…

“These discussions have taken place over a period of months, and there has been an unwavering consistency to the complaints and disappointments. As a result, and after much deliberation with my conscience, I have found myself for the first time in my life eschewing the race’s current leader to the extent that I am compelled into action. These gentlemales”—at that ludicrous term, he waved an open hand to the collection of fighters—“have expressed similar concerns, as well as a certain willingness to—how shall I put it—effect a change. As I know that we are all of one mind, I thought we might discuss our next steps.”

At this point, the assembled dandies decided to piss on the conversational guidepost, reiterating, in their own interminable words, precisely what Elan had just stated.

Clearly they felt it was an opportunity for them to prove to the Band of Bastards how serious they were, but he doubted Xcor was moved by any of the hot air. These members of the aristocracy were fragile, expendable tools, each one of them limited in use and easily broken—and Xcor had to know this. No doubt he was going to work them until he didn’t need them, and then he was going to snap their paltry wooden handles and cast them aside.

As Assail sat back and listened, he had no particular love or regard for the monarchy. But he was clear on the fact that Wrath was a male of his word—the same could not be true of any of these glymera yahoos: This whole group, with the exception of Xcor and his males, would kiss the king’s ass until their lips went numb—right up until they caused his death. And after that? Xcor would serve himself and himself alone—and to hell with anyone else.

Wrath had stated that he would allow commerce with the humans to continue unfettered.

Xcor, however, was the type who would not permit any other seats of power to rise up—and with all the money there was to be made in the drug trade, sooner or later Assail would have a target on his back.

If he didn’t have one already.

“… and my family’s estate is lying fallow in Caldwell—”

When Assail rose up from his chair, all the eyes of the fighters flipped to him.

Stepping forward through the crowd, he was careful to show his hands, lest they believe he had taken out a weapon.

“Please excuse the interruption,” he said without meaning it. “But I must leave now.”

Elan began to sputter as Xcor’s lids lowered.

Addressing the true leader in the room, Assail spoke clearly. “I shall make no reference to this meeting, either to the individuals here in this room or to any others, neither about the statements that have been made nor who has attended. I am not a political individual, nor do I have designs on any throne—I am but a businessman seeking only to continue to prosper in circles of commerce. In leaving this meeting and resigning herewith from the Council, I am acting accordingly, seeking neither to promote nor obstruct any of your agenda.”

Xcor smiled coldly, his eyes locked and loaded with deadly intent. “I shall consider anyone who departs this room to be mine enemy.”

Assail nodded. “So be it. And know that I will defend my interests as appropriate against interlopers of any kind.”

“As you wish.”

Assail left without hurry—at least until he got into his Range Rover. Once inside the SUV, he was efficient in locking the doors, starting the engine, and taking off.

Driving along, he was alert, but not paranoid. He believed Xcor meant every word he’d said about marking him as an enemy, but he was also aware that the male was going to have his hands full. Between the Brotherhood, who were no doubt more than formidable foes, and the glymera, who were going to be like herding cats, there was much to consume his attention.

Sooner or later, however, the male would focus on Assail.

Fortunately, he was ready now, and would stay that way.

And waiting had never bothered him.

SEVENTY-ONE

As Tohr emerged naked and dripping from the shower, the knock on his bedroom’s door was loud and a little muffled, as if it had been made by the heel of a hand, instead of a set of knuckles— and after so many years of being a brother, he knew it could have been made by only one male.

“Rhage?” He put a towel around his waist and walked over to open the way up. “My brother, what’s doing?”

The guy was standing out in the hall, his incredibly beautiful face solemn, his body clad in a white silk robe that fell from his broad shoulders and was tied at the waist with a simple white rope. Across his chest, his black daggers were holstered by white leather.

“Hey, my brother… I, ah…”

In the awkward moment that followed, Tohr was the one to break the tension. “You look like a powdered doughnut, Hollywood.”

“Thanks.” The brother stared down at the carpet. “Listen, I brought you something. It’s from Mary and me.”

Opening his big palm, he held forward a heavy gold Rolex, the one that Mary wore, the one that the brother had given her when they’d been mated. It was a symbol of their love… and their support.

Tohr took the thing, feeling the warmth that lingered in the metal. “My brother…”

“Look, we just want you to know we’re with you—I added back the links so it’ll fit your wrist.”

Tohr slipped the thing on, and yeah, it clipped just fine. “Thank you. I’ll return it—”

Rhage snapped out his arms and gave the kind of bear hug that he was known for—the sort that put a strain on your spinal cord and made you have to reinflate your rib cage afterward just to make sure you hadn’t punctured a lung.

“I got no words, my brother,” Hollywood said.

As Tohr clapped him on the back, he felt the dragon tattoo seethe, as if it, too, were offering condolences. “It’s okay. I know this is hard.”

After Rhage left, he was just shutting his door when there was another knock.

Peering around the jamb, he found Phury and Z lined up side by side. The twins were wearing the same robing and tie that Rhage had on, and their eyes were just the same as Hollywood’s Bahama blues: sad, so damned sad.

“My brother,” Phury said, stepping up and embracing him. When the Primale eased back, he held out something long and intricate. “For you.”

In his hand was a five-foot-long grosgrain white ribbon on which a prayer for strength had been carefully and beautifully embroidered in gold thread.

“The Chosen, and Cormia, and I are all with you.”

Tohr took a moment to fan out the strip, and trace the Old Language characters, reciting the ancient words in his head. This must have taken hours, he thought. And many, many hands. “My God, it’s beautiful.…”

As he forced back tears, he thought, Fan-fucking-tastic. If just the warm-up to the ceremony was getting to him like this? He was going be a goddamn mess when it actually happened.

Zsadist cleared his throat. And then the brother who hated touching others leaned in and put his arms around Tohr. The embrace was so gentle that Tohr had to wonder if it was from lack of practice. Either that or Tohr looked as fragile as he felt.

“This is from my family to yours,” came the soft words.

The brother offered forward a small piece of parchment paper, and Tohr’s fingers shook as he opened it. “Oh… shit…”

In the center was a tiny handprint in red paint. A young’s. Nalla’s…

There was no greater or more precious thing to a male than his offspring—especially if it was a female. So the palm print was the symbol that everything Z had and all that he was, now and in the future, was pledged in support of his brother.

“Fuck,” Tohr said simply as he took a shuddering breath.

“We’ll see you down there,” Phury stated.

They had to close the door.

Tohr backed up and sat down on his mattress, laying the ribbon across his thighs and staring at the child’s print.

When another knock sounded, he didn’t look up. “Yeah?”

It was V.

The brother seemed stiff and awkward, but then, he was probably the worst out of all of them when it came to mushy shit.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t try any of the hugging bullshit, either, which was just as well.

Instead, he placed a wooden case next to Tohr on the bed, exhaled some Turkish smoke, and went back for the exit like he couldn’t wait to get out of the room.

Except he stopped before he left. “I gotchu, my brother,” he said to the door.

“I know, V. You always have.”

As the male nodded and left, Tohr turned to the mahogany case. Freeing the black steel clasp and lifting the lid, he had to curse under his breath.

The set of black daggers was… breathtaking. Taking one out, he marveled at the fit against his hand, and then saw that there were symbols etched into the blade.

More prayers, four of them, one on each side of each of the weapons.

All for strength.

These daggers were really not for fighting—they were too valuable. Christ, V must have worked on these for a year, maybe longer… although of course, as with everything the brother made down in that forge of his, they were deadly as hell—

The next knock was Butch. It had to be.

“Ye—” Tohr had to clear his throat. “Yes?”

Yup, it was the cop. Dressed as all the others were, in that white robe with the white rope tie.

As the brother came across the room, there was nothing in his hands. But he hadn’t come empty-handed.

“On a night like tonight,” the guy said roughly, “I only got my faith. That’s all I got—’cuz there’re no mortal words to ease where you’re at—I know up close and personal.”

He reached up behind his neck and worked at something. When he brought his hands forward once more, he was holding the heavy gold chain and even heavier gold cross that he never, ever took off.

“I know my God is not yours, but can I put this on you?”

Tohr nodded and dropped his head. As the linchpin of the male’s awesome Catholic faith was hung around his neck, he reached up and touched the cross.

It had incredible weight, all that gold. It felt good.

Butch bent over and put a squeeze on Tohr’s shoulder. “I’ll see you down there.”

Fuck. He had nothing to say anymore.

For a while, he just sat there, trying to hold it together. Until he heard something at the door. A scratching, as if…

“My lord?” Tohr said as he forced himself to his feet and went across the way.

You opened the door for the king. No matter what state you were in.

Wrath and George came in together, and his brother was characteristically blunt. “I’m not going to ask how you’re holding up.”

“I appreciate that, my lord. Because I’m pretty fucking ragged.”

“Why wouldn’t you be.”

“It’s almost harder when people are kind.”

“Yeah. Well. Guess you’re going to have to suck some more of that shit up.” The king worked at something on his finger. And then put forward—

“Oh, fuck, no.” Tohr threw his hands up and out of the way even though the male was blind. “Uh-uh. No way. No fucking way—”

“I order you to take it.”

Tohr cursed. Waited to see if the king would change his mind.

Got nowhere on that one.

As Wrath just stared straight ahead, Tohr knew he was going to lose this argument.

With a dizzying feeling of total unreality, he reached out and took the black diamond ring that had only ever been worn by the king.

“My shellan and I are there for you. Wear that during the ceremony so that you know my blood, my body, my beating heart are yours.”

George chuffed and wagged his tail as if backing his master.

“Fucking hell.” This time, Tohr was the one who reached for his brother, and the embrace was returned sharply and with power.

After Wrath left with his dog, Tohr pivoted around and leaned back against the door.

The final knock was soft.

Steeling himself so that he at least appeared to be a male, even though he was feeling like a pussy on the inside, he found John Matthew out in the hall.

The boy didn’t bother signing anything. He just reached out for Tohr’s hand, and pressed…

Darius’s signet ring into Tohr’s palm.

He would have wanted to be here for you, John signed. And his ring is all I’ve got of him. I know he’d want you to wear it during the ceremony.

Tohr stared at the crest that was stamped in the precious metal and thought of his friend, his mentor, the only father he’d really had. “This means… more than you can imagine.”

I’ll be right beside you, John signed. The whole time.

“Right back atchu, son.”

They embraced, and then Tohr shut the door quietly. Going back over to the bed, he looked down at all the symbols of his brothers… and knew that when he faced this crucible, it was with all of them with him—not that that had ever been at issue.

Something was missing, though, in all of this.

Autumn.

He needed his brothers. He needed his son. But he needed her, too.

He hoped what he’d said to her would be enough, but there were some things you couldn’t come back from, some things that there was no healing from.

And maybe she had a point about the cycle thing.

He prayed there was more to it than that, however. He truly did.

As Lassiter stood in the corner of Tohr’s room, he kept himself invisible. Good thing. Watching that in-and-out of males had been rough. How Tohr had managed to get through it in one piece was a flipping miracle.

But this was finally coming together, the angel thought. Finally, after all this time, after all this—well, shit, frankly… things were finally turning in a good direction.

After spending the previous night and day with a very quiet Autumn, he had left her at sunset to stew in her thoughts, putting his faith in the fact that she was replaying that Tohr visit over and over in her head and finding nothing but sincerity in what had been said to her.

If she showed tonight, he was home-fucking-free. He’d done it. Well, okay, fine—they had done it. In truth, he had been a sideline player in all this… except for the fact that he kind of fucking cared about the pair of them. And Wellsie, too.

Across the way, Tohr went to the closet and seemed to brace himself.

Taking out a white robe, the Brother put the thing on and then returned to the bed to gird his waist with the magnificent ribbon Phury had brought. After that, the guy picked up the folded piece of parchment Z had given him, tucked it into the tie, and drew on a white holster—into which he slid V’s two spectacular black daggers. The signet ring went on his left middle finger, the black diamond on the thumb of his fighting hand.

With the unfamiliar sense of a job well-done, Lassiter thought about all the months he’d been back on earth, recalling the way he and Tohr and Autumn had all worked together to save a female who would in turn… well, in different ways, free each of them.

Yeah, the Maker had known what was up when this assignment had been made: Tohr was not the same. Autumn was not the same.

And Lassiter himself was not the same: It was simply impossible for him to disconnect from this, to be all blasé, to act like nothing mattered—and the funny thing was, he really didn’t fucking want to pull out.

Man, there were a lot of purgatories getting expunged tonight, he thought ruefully, both real and figurative: When Wellsie transitioned unto the Fade, he was going to finally get out of his prison. And with her release, that meant Tohr’s burden was lifted so the both of them were free.

And as for Autumn? Well, with any luck, she’d allow herself to love a male of worth—and in turn be loved back—so after all these years of her suffering, she could finally begin to live again; she would be reborn, resurrected, come back from the dead.…

Lassiter frowned, a strange alarm beginning to ring in his head.

Looking around, he half expected some lessers to be rappelling down the side of the mansion or landing out in the gardens from a helicopter. But no…

Reborn, resurrected… back from the dead.

Purgatory. The In Between.

Yeah, he told himself. Where Wellsie was. Hello?

As an odd, disembodied panic gripped him, he wondered what the fuck his problem was—

Tohr froze and looked over into the corner. “Lassiter?”

With a shrug, the angel figured he might as well make himself visi. No reason to hide—although, as he took form, he kept his dread to himself. God… what the hell was wrong with him? They were at the finish line. All Autumn had to do was show up at the Fade ceremony—and, going by the way she’d been laying out clothes as he’d left to come here, it was pretty clear she wasn’t just going to be scrubbing floors at that cabin all night long.

“Hey,” the brother said. “I guess this is it.”

“Yeah.” Lassiter forced a smile onto his face. “Yeah, it sure is. I’m proud of you, by the way. You’ve done well.”

“High praise.” The guy fanned his fingers out and looked at the rings. “But you know what? I really am ready to do this. Never thought I’d say that.”

Lassiter nodded as the Brother turned and headed for the door. Just before Tohr got there, he stopped at the closet, reached into the darkness, and pulled out the skirting of the red gown.

As he rubbed the delicate fabric between his thumb and forefinger, his mouth was moving like he was talking to the satin… or his former mate… or, shit, maybe it was just to himself.

Then he released his hold on the dress, letting it settle back into the quiet void it hung in.

They left together, Lassiter pausing to give a last measure of support before breaking off and paving the way down the hall of statues.

With each step closer to the stairs, that alarm bell got louder, until the sound of it reverberated through the angel’s body, his stomach going sour as his legs grew sloppy.

What the hell was his problem?

This was the good part, the happily-ever-after. So why was his gut telling him that doom was waiting in the wings?

SEVENTY-TWO

As Tohr stepped into the pitch-dark hallway outside of his room, he accepted a quick hug from the angel and then watched the guy walk off toward the glow at the second-floor balcony.

Damn, his breath sounded loud in his ears. And his heart rate was the same.

Ironically, it had been just like this when he and Wellsie had been mated, his nervous system all a-twitter. And funny, the fact that his physiological response was identical in this context proved the body was a one-note machine when it came to stress, the adrenal gland firing in the same way, regardless of whether the trigger was good or bad.

After a moment, he began to walk down the corridor toward the grand staircase, and it was good to feel all the symbols of his brothers on him. When you got mated, you went into it alone: You came up to your female with your heart in your throat and your love in your eyes, and you didn’t need anyone or anything else, because it was all about her.

When you were performing her Fade ceremony, on the other hand, you had to have your brothers with you, not just in the same room, but as close as you could get them: The weights on his hands and around his neck and the tie about his waist were all that were going to keep him standing. Especially when the pain came.

As he got to the head of the stairs, he felt the floor under his feet go into a wave, the great swell beneath him shifting his balance right when he really fucking needed it to stay in place.

Down below, the foyer had been draped in vast bolts of white silk that fell from the ceiling molding, so that everything, from the architectural features to the columns to the fixtures to the floors, was covered up. All the electric lights had been turned off throughout the mansion, and massive white candles on stanchions along with fires in the fireplaces made up for the deficit.

Every member of the household was standing around the edges of the great space, the doggen, the shellans, the guests all dressed in white, according to tradition. The Brotherhood had formed a straight line off from the center starting with Phury first, who was going to officiate, and then John, who was going to be part of the ceremony. Wrath was next. Then V, Zsadist, Butch, and Rhage on the end.

Wellsie was in the middle of it all, in her beautiful silver box, on a small table that had been draped in silk.

So much white, he thought. As if the snow had sneaked in from outside, and was breeding in spite of the warmth.

It made sense: color was for matings. For the Fade ceremony, it was all about the opposite, the monochromatic palette symbolizing both the eternal light the dead would be subsumed in, as well as the intention of the community to someday join with the deceased in that sacred place.

Tohr took one step, and then another, and then a third.…

As he descended, he looked at the upturned faces. These were his people, and they had been Wellsie’s. This was the community he was continuing with, and the one she had left.

Even in the sadness, it was hard not to feel blessed.

There were so many with him in this, even Rehvenge, who was now so much a part of the household.

And yet Autumn was not among them; at least, not that he could see.

Down at the bottom, he fell into a bracing stance before the urn, his hands clasped in front of his hips, his head lowered. As he settled into his body, John joined him, assuming the same pose even though he was pale, and his hands couldn’t seem to still.

Tohr reached out and touched John’s forearm. “It’s okay, son. We’re going to get through this together.”

Instantly, the jerky movements stopped, and the boy nodded as if eased a little.

In the ticking moments that followed, Tohr thought dimly that it was amazing how a crowd this size could be so quiet. All he could hear was the crackle of the lit fires on either side of the foyer.

Over to the left, Phury cleared his throat and bent down to a table over which a bolt of white silk had been draped. With graceful hands, he lifted the cover to reveal a mammoth silver bowl filled with salt, a silver pitcher of water, and an ancient book.

Picking up the tome, he opened it and addressed them all in the Old Language. “On this night, we come herein to mark the passing of Wellesandra, mated of the Black Dagger Brother Tohrment, son of Hharm; blooded daughter of Relix; adoptive mahmen of the soldier Tehrror, son of Darius. On this night, we come herein to mark the passing of the nascent Tohrment, son of the Black Dagger Brother Tohrment, son of Hharm; blooded son of the beloved departed Wellesandra; adopted brother of the soldier Tehrror, son of Darius.”

Phury turned the page, the heavy parchment making a soft noise. “According to tradition, and in hopes it will be both pleasing to the Mother of the race’s ears, and of solace to the bereaved family, I call upon all who tarry herein to pray with me for the safe carriage of those who have passed unto the Fade.…”

So many voices rose up as Phury commanded sentences and had them repeated, female and male tones mixing together such that the words were lost to Tohr and all he heard was the pattern of somber speech.

He glanced over at John. Lot of blinking going on, but the boy was holding back the tears like the male of worth he was.

Tohr swung his eyes back to the urn, and gave his mind free rein to play through a slide show of images from all different parts of their shared lives.

His reminiscing ended on the very last thing he had done for her before she’d been killed: put those chains on the tires of that SUV. So she’d have traction in the snow.

Okay, now he was blinking like a motherfucker.…

The ceremony became a blur at that point, with him saying things when prompted, and staying silent the rest of the time. He found himself glad that he had waited this long to do it. He didn’t think it would have been possible to get through all this at any other moment.

On that note, he glanced over at Lassiter. The angel was glowing from head to foot, his gold piercings catching the light around and within him and magnifying it back tenfold.

For some reason, the guy didn’t look happy. His brows were squeezed together as if he were trying to crunch numbers in his head and coming up with a sum total he didn’t like—

“I would now ask the Brotherhood to pledge their condolences to the bereaved, starting with His Majesty Wrath, son of Wrath.”

Tohr decided he was seeing things and refocused on his Brothers. As Phury stepped away from the little table, Wrath was discreetly led forward by V so that he was standing over the bowl of salt. Drawing up the sleeve of his robe, the king unholstered one of his black daggers and drew the blade up the inside of his forearm. As bright red blood rushed to the surface of the cut, the male extended his arm and let drops fall.

Each one of the Brothers did the same, their eyes locking on Tohr’s as they reaffirmed without words their shared mourning for all he had lost.

Phury was the last, with Z holding the book as he completed the ritual. Then the Primale picked up the pitcher and spoke sacred words as he poured water from it, turning the pink-stained salt into brine.

“I would now ask Wellesandra’s hellren to disrobe.”

Tohr was careful to take out Nalla’s palm print before untying the Chosen’s sash, and he put both down on top of the robe after he’d removed it.

“I would now ask Wellesandra’s hellren to kneel before her for one last time.”

Tohr did as commanded, falling to his knees in front of the urn. In his peripheral vision, he watched Phury walk over to the marble fireplace on the right. From out of the flames, the brother withdrew a primeval iron brand, one that had been brought over from the Old Country long ago, one that had been made by hands unknown, long before the race had had a collective memory.

The terminal part was about six inches long and at least an inch wide, and the line of Old Language symbols was so hot it glowed yellow, not red.

Tohr assumed the proper position, curling his hands into fists and easing forward so that his knuckles were planted on the heavier white cover that had been laid on the floor. For a split second, all he could think about was the mosaic depiction of the apple tree that was underneath him, that symbol of rebirth that he was beginning to associate only with death.

He had buried Autumn at the foot of one.

And now he was saying good-bye to Wellsie on top of one.

As Phury stopped beside to him, Tohr’s breath began to come in punches of air, his ribs jerking tight and popping open.

When you were mated, and you got your shellan’s name carved in your back, you were supposed to bear the pain in silence—to prove that you were worthy of both her love and the mating.

Breath. Breath. Breath…

Not so with the Fade ceremony.

Breath-breath-breath…

For the Fade ceremony, you were supposed to—

Breathbreathbreath—

“What is the name of your dead?” Phury demanded.

On cue, Tohr dragged in a giant pull of oxygen.

As the brand was laid to the skin where her name had been carved those many years ago, Tohr screamed her name, every ounce of pain in his heart and his mind and his soul coming out on a oner, the sound shattering through the foyer.

The scream was his final good-bye, his pledge to meet her on the flip side, his love made manifest one last time.

It went on forever.

And then he was sagging so badly, his forehead was on the floor, while all across the top of his shoulders, his skin burned as if it was on fire.

But this was just the beginning.

He tried to drag himself up, but his son had to help him, because he had lost all muscle tone: With John’s help, he reassumed his position.

His breath took over once again, that rhythmic, shallow panting pumping him up, restoring his energy.

Phury’s voice was rough to the point of hoarseness. “What is the name of your dead?”

Tohr grabbed another hectare of oxygen and got ready to do it again.

This time, the name he screamed was his own, the pain of losing his blood-born son cutting him so deep he felt as though the inside of his chest was bleeding.

He screamed longer the second time.

And then he flat-out collapsed on his arms, his body spent—even though it was still not over yet.

Thank God for John, he thought, as he felt himself get repositioned.

From up above, Phury said, “For to seal unto your skin e’ermore, and to bind our blood with yours, we shall now complete the ritual for your beloveds.”

No panting this time. He didn’t have the energy.

The salt stung so badly he lost his vision and his body convulsed, his limbs jerking uncontrollably until he fell over on his side, even though John was trying to hold him upright.

Indeed, all he could do was lie there in front of all of these people, many of whom were crying openly, his pain their own. Tracing the faces, he wanted to comfort them in some way, spare them what he had gone through, ease their sorrow.…

Autumn was at the far end, by the billiards room archway, standing in the flesh.

She was dressed in white, her hair twisted back from her face, her delicate hands up to her mouth. Her eyes were wide and red rimmed, her cheeks wet, her expression one of such love and compassion, it instantly made the pain fade.

She had come.

She had come for him.

She still had love… for him.

Tohr started to weep properly, his sobs exploding out of his chest. Reaching for Autumn, he held his hand forward, beckoning to her, because in this moment of letting go, after this seemingly endless, painful journey, along which she and she alone had joined him, he’d never felt closer to anyone.…

Even his Wellsie.

Reborn, resurrected… back from the dead.

Across from where Tohr was writhing in pain from the salt wash, Lassiter grit his teeth not because he was commiserating, but because his head was driving him nuts.

Reborn, resurrected… back from the dead—

Tohr began to sob, his heavy arm stretching, his hand opening… and reaching for Autumn.

Ah, yes… Lassiter thought, the final part of it. Fate had demanded the blood, and the sweat… and the tears, not for Wellsie, but for another. For Autumn.

This was the final part, these tears spilled by the male for the female he had finally allowed himself to love.

In a rush, Lassiter looked up to the ceiling, to the painted warriors with their fierce steeds, to the deep blue background—

The sunbeam seemed to come from out of nowhere, piercing through the stone and mortar and plaster of what was above them all, the bright light so strong even Lassiter had to wince as the illumination arrived to claim a female of worth from a hell that was not of her doing.…

Yes, yes, there in the center of the dome, with her young in her arms, Wellsie appeared as brilliant and vibrant as a rainbow, lit from without and within, color returned unto her, life renewed because she was saved, because she was free—and so was her son.

And just before she was subsumed, from the loft of her heavenly heights, she looked upon Tohr, and looked upon Autumn, though neither of them saw her and nor did the crowd. Her expression was nothing but love for the pair, for the hellren she had had to leave behind, for the female who would spare him his own torment, for the future the two would have together.

Then with an abiding, peaceful expression, she lifted her hand in a good-bye to Lassiter… and was gone, the light consuming her and her son and carrying them away to the place where the dead were at home and at rest for all of eternity.

As the light faded, Lassiter waited for his own burst of illumination, his own claiming sun, his own return for a final time to the Maker.

Except…

He was still… right where he was.

Resurrected, reborn… back from the dead…

He was missing something here, he thought. Wellsie was free, but—

At that moment he focused on Autumn, who had gripped the skirting of her white robe and taken a step forward, toward Tohr.

From out of nowhere, a second bolt of great light broke through from above—

But it came not for him. It came… for her.

Lassiter’s mind made the connection with the speed and shock of a lightning bolt: She had died long ago. Taken her own life…

The In Between. Different for each person. Tailor-made.

Everything went into slow motion as the second truth was revealed: Autumn had been in her own In Between the whole time, traveling to the Sanctuary and serving the Chosen for all those years, then coming down here to earth to complete the cycle that had begun back in the Old Country with Tohrment.

And now that she had helped him save his shellan… now that she had let herself feel for him and let go of her sorrow at her own tragedy…

She was free. Just as Wellsie was.

Fucking hell! Tohr was going to lose another female—

“No!” Lassiter screamed. “Noooooo!”

As he broke out of the lineup and lunged forward, trying to stop the connection between the two of them from being made, people started shouting, and someone grabbed onto him, as if to keep him from getting in the way. But it didn’t matter.

It was too late.

Because the pair of them didn’t have to touch. The love was there, and so was the forgiveness of deeds past and present, as well as the commitment in their hearts.

Lassiter was still lunging forward, in midair, when the final beam of light claimed him, catching him in flight, plucking him out of the present and pulling him upward, even as he still screamed at the cruelty of fate.

His entire purpose had culminated in condemning Tohr to another round of tragedy.

SEVENTY-THREE

For truth, Autumn had not been sure she would come unto the mansion… until she did. And she had not been sure how she would feel about Tohrment… until she saw him searching the crowd and knew he was looking for her. And she did not completely open her heart to him… until he reached out for her, his control breaking the moment he locked eyes with her.

She had loved him before now—or had thought she did.

But she had not been all the way there. The critical part that had been missing was a sense of herself not as somebody who was unworthy and had to be punished, but as an individual with value and a life to live beyond the tragedy that had defined her for so long.

As she stepped forward, it was not as a servant or a maid, but as a female of worth… one who was going to go to her male, and embrace him, and be joined with him for as long the Scribe Virgin deemed.

Except she didn’t make it.

She was not even halfway across the foyer when her body was struck by some kind of force.

She could not comprehend what o’ertook her: One moment she was striding toward Tohr, answering his silent plea that she come to him, crossing over the floor, zeroing in on the one she loved.…

And the next, a great light fell upon her from some unknown source, halting her in her tracks.

Her will commanded her body to continue to Tohr, but a greater force laid claim to her, and take her it did: With a pull that was as undeniable as gravity, she was drawn up from the earth, into the light. And as she was lifted upward, she heard Lassiter screaming, and saw him surge forward as if he wanted to stop her departure—

That was what energized her to flail against the current. Struggling fiercely, she fought with all she had, but there was no freeing herself from what had captured her: No matter how she battled, she could not alter her ascension.

Down below, chaos reigned, people racing forward as Tohr dragged himself up off the floor. As he regarded her, his face was a mask of confusion and disbelief—and then he began to leap up as if he were trying to catch her, as if she were a balloon, the string of which he sought to palm. Someone grabbed him as he lost his balance—John. And the Primale rushed to his side. And his Brothers…

Her last image was not of any of them, not even of Tohrment, but of Lassiter.

The angel was beside her, rising as well, the light consuming them both until he disappeared and so did she, until she was nothing at all, not even conscious.…

When Autumn came to once again, she was in a vast white landscape, one so wide and so long that it had no horizons.

Before her was a door. A white door with a white knob and a glow around its jambs as if there was a bright light awaiting her on the other side.

This had not been what had greeted her when she’d first died.

Back years and years ago, when her consciousness had returned to her after she had inflicted that dagger upon her own stomach, she had found herself in a different white landscape, one that had trees and temples and rolling lawns, one that was populated by the Scribe Virgin’s Chosen females, one that she had gone on to live in without question, accepting her fate as not one of her choosing, but the inevitable result of her choices down below.

This, however, was not the Sanctuary. This was the entrance unto the Fade.

What had happened?

Why had she—

The explanation came to her in a rush as she realized that she had finally let the past go and opened her heart to embrace all that life had to offer… thus freeing herself from her own In Between—even as she had been unaware she had been within it.

She was out of the In Between. She was… free.

But Tohrment was down below.

Her body began to shake, rage shooting through her, the anger so deep and abiding she wanted to claw through the door and have a harsh word with the Scribe Virgin or Lassiter’s Maker or whoever the sick bastard was who dealt out fates.

After having traversed the great distance from where she had first started, only to find that the prize was nothing but another sacrifice, she was livid to the point of violence.

Not holding anything back, she let herself go, throwing herself at the portal, beating at it with her fists, tearing at it with her nails, kicking at it with her feet. She uttered curses that were vile and called the holy forces names that were villainous—

When arms shot around her waist and began to drag her back, she attacked whoever it was, baring her fangs and biting into the thick forearm—

“Fucking hell! Ouch!”

Lassiter’s indignant voice cut into her temper, stilling her body until she just heaved to catch her breath.

The damn door was utterly uninjured. Uncaring. Unmoved.

“You bastards,” she hollered. “You bastards!”

The angel turned her around and shook her. “Listen to me—you’re not helping here. You need to calm the fuck down.”

With a force of will, she pulled herself together. And then promptly sobbed. “Why? Why are they doing this to us?”

He shook her again. “Listen to me. I don’t want you to open that door—just stay here. I’m going to do what I can, okay? I don’t have a lot of pull, I may not have any at all—but I’ll give it a fucking shot. You stay right where you are, and for the love of God, do not open that thing. Once you do, you’re in the Fade and I can’t do shit. Are we clear?”

“What are you going to do?”

He stared at her for a long moment. “Maybe I’m finally going to be an angel tonight.”

“Wha— I don’t understand…?”

Lassiter reached forward and cupped the side of her face. “You two have done so much for me—hell, we’ve all been in our own In Betweens, in a way. So I’m going to offer up everything I’ve got to save the pair of you—we’ll see if it’s enough.”

She clasped a hold on to his hand. “Lassiter…”

He stepped back and nodded to her. “You stay here and don’t get your hopes up. The Maker and I have not had the best relationship—I may just get incinerated on the spot. In which case, no offense, but you’re screwed.”

Lassiter turned away and walked into the whiteness, his big body disappearing.

Closing her eyes, Autumn tucked her arms around herself and prayed for the angel to work a miracle.

Prayed with everything she had…

SEVENTY-FOUR

Down below on earth, Tohr felt as though he was losing his ever-loving mind. Lassiter was gone. Autumn was gone.

And a terrible sense of logic was making him wonder why he hadn’t guessed at the mechanisms they’d been working under for the past year.

Wellsie had been trapped in the In Between by him.

And Autumn… had been trapped in the In Between by herself.

Then by loving him, and forgiving not just him but herself, she had been freed—so just like Lassiter, she had been granted what she had not even known she was in search of: She had been given at long last the entrance to the Fade, that which she had been denied when she had taken her own life in a fit of terror and agony.

Now she was free.

“Oh… Jesus…” he said as he let himself fall into John’s strong arms. “Oh… fucking hell…”

Now, like his Wellsie, she was gone from him, too.

Bringing a hand up to his face, he rubbed hard, wondering if maybe he’d wake up from this… like maybe this was just the worst nightmare his subconscious could possibly dream up… yeah, like he’d wake up at any moment and drag himself out of bed to get ready for the Fade ceremony, where in the real world this would not be the outcome…

There was only one problem with that theory: His back was still stinging from the salt and the branding. And his brothers were still milling around, talking over each other in a panic. And somewhere, somebody was yelling. And all around, the glow from candles provided plenty of light to tell who remained in the foyer and who had left.…

“Oh, fuck…” he said again, his chest suddenly so empty he wondered if he hadn’t had his heart removed and not noticed.

Time passed, and shit sank in, and he was taken into the billiards room. A drink was pressed into his hands, but he just let it sit on his thigh, his head falling back as John Matthew comforted Xhex and Phury talked to Wrath and some plan was made for the king to go confront the Scribe Virgin.

At which point V stepped in and volunteered to hit up his mother.

Which was promptly shot down. Only to have Payne’s offer to go with the king accepted.

Blah, blah, blah…

He didn’t have the heart to tell them all it was a foregone conclusion. And besides, he’d already been through the mourning process once—so he had a core competency in recovery, right?

Yay.

For godsakes, what the fuck had he done in an earlier life to deserve this? What the hell had he—

The sound of the doorbell going off was a dim noise behind him. Nonetheless, everyone froze.

Anybody who knew about the mansion was already here.

Humans couldn’t find them.

Lessers shouldn’t have been able to.

And the latter was also true for Xcor—

That doorbell let out its throaty demand once again.

On a oner, all the brothers as well as Payne and Xhex, and Qhuinn, John, and Blay, outted weapons.

Fritz was bodily prevented from going over to the vestibule; Vishous and Butch did the duty of checking the screen.

And even though he didn’t give a crap whether it was the Scribe Virgin herself on the other side, Tohr focused on the foyer.

A shout went out, an excited shout with a Boston accent. And then there were lots of shouts, a legion of them, too many to decipher.

Someone in a white robe came in with V and his boy.

Whatever—

Tohr jacked up onto his feet, sure as if someone had hooked his ass up to a car battery.

Autumn stood under the arches of the room, her eyes dazed and her hair a flyaway mess, as if she had been through a wind tunnel—

Tohr plowed through big male bodies, shoving people out of the way to get to her. And when he did, he skidded to a halt. Grabbed her shoulders. Looked her over from head to foot. Shook her hard to get a sense of how corporeal she was.

“Is it… truly you?”

In response, she threw her arms around him and held on so hard, he couldn’t breathe—and thank fuck. Because that meant she was real, right? It had to be… right?

“Lassiter… Lassiter did it.… Lassiter saved me.…”

He tried to track what she was saying. “What… what are you— I don’t understand any of this—”

The story came out several times in different iterations, because his mind just wasn’t tracking anything. Something about her making it up to the Fade, and that angel coming out and telling her…

“He said he would give everything he had to save us. Everything…”

Tohr pulled back and touched Autumn’s face, her throat, her shoulders. She was as real as he was. She was as alive as he was. She had been… saved by that angel?

Except Lassiter had said he would be free if this worked.

The only possible explanation was that he had traded his future… for theirs.

“That angel,” he whispered. “That godforsaken angel…”

Tohr bent down and kissed Autumn as deeply and for as long as he could. And as he did, he resolved to honor Lassiter, and himself, and his female as best as he was able, for however many years he had on the earth.

“I love you,” he said to her. “And just like Lassiter, I’m going to give everything I’ve got to give to the two of us.”

As Autumn nodded and kissed him back, he felt more than heard her say, “I love you,” back.

Gathering her up in his arms, he held her close and closed his eyes, his body shaking from too much to describe. But he knew the score, and he was good with it.

Life was short, no matter how many days you were granted. And people were precious, each and every one, no matter how many you were lucky enough to have in your life. And love… love was worth dying for.

Worth living for, too.

SEVENTY-FIVE

As dawn approached at the end of the darkened night, and the moon sunk low in the sky, Xcor left downtown Caldwell. After that ridiculous meeting with the glymera, he and his bastards had reconvened at the top of their skyscraper, but he hadn’t been able to stomach any strategizing or talk of the aristocrats.

Upon ordering his soldiers to return to their newest home base, he escaped into the cold night air alone, knowing precisely where he had to go.

To the meadow, the moon-washed meadow with the big tree.

As he re-formed in the landscape, he saw it not covered in snow, but vibrant with fall’s colors, the oak’s branches not bare, but lush with red and gold leaves.

Marching through the snow, he mounted the rolling earth, stopping when he came to the spot where he had seen the Chosen for the first time… and taken her blood.

He remembered every bit of her, her face, her scent, her hair. The way she moved and the sound of her voice. The delicate structure of her body and the frightening fragility of her smooth skin.

He yearned for her, his cold heart crying out in prayer for something that he knew fate could never provide.

Closing his eyes, he planted his hands on his hips and lowered his head.

The Brotherhood had found them at that farmhouse.

The rifle case that Syphon used to keep the tools of his assassin’s trade was gone.

Whoever had taken it had come and gone during the previous night. Which meant at sunset, they had packed up their few things and scattered for a new location.

He knew the Chosen had been the cause of it. He could think of no other way their lair could have been located. And another thing was clear: The Brotherhood were going to use the rifle to prove with surety that the bullet driven into Wrath months ago had been from a weapon of theirs.

How thorough of them.

Indeed, Wrath was such a good little king. So careful not to behave rashly and without cause—and yet he was obviously capable of using any weapon at his disposal.

Not that Xcor would find blame with the Chosen—not at all. He did, however, have to find out if she was safe. He simply had to be reassured that though his enemies had wielded her, they had not mistreated her.

Oh, how his wicked heart churned at the idea that she might have been hurt in any way.…

As he considered his options, a cold wind blew in from the north, trying to cut him to the core. It was too late, though. He was already sliced in the heart.

That female had slashed him in a way no war wound ever could, and from the likes of her, he was never going to heal up.

Good thing he didn’t ever allow his emotions to show, for it was best that no one knew his Achilles’ heel had finally, after all these years, come to find him.

And now… he would have to find her.

If only to put his conscience, such as he had one, at ease, he was going to have to see her again.

SEVENTY-SIX

Qhuinn didn’t know what the fuck was up. People fucking poofing it in and out of the fucking foyer, shit going south… until Autumn came the fuck back.

If there had ever been a time to drop the f-bomb, tonight was it.

But at least it ended okay, with all being recovered, and the ceremony completed: With Autumn standing beside Tohr, John had been branded twice, once for Wellsie, once for the lost brother he’d never meet. And then, after the salt had sealed those wounds, the crowd had gone up to the highest point in the house where Wellsie’s urn had been opened and revealed to the air, her ashes lovingly carried up and out to the heavens by the gusts of a rare easterly wind.

Now, everyone was heading back down to the dining room to eat and recharge; after which they’d no doubt go off to pass the fuck out in their rooms as soon as they could politely disengage.

Everybody was just about done, himself included, and that conviction had him turning to Layla as they reached the foyer. “How you doing?”

Man, he’d been asking her that nonstop for three days straight, and each time, she’d told him she was fine, and hadn’t started to bleed yet.

She wasn’t going to bleed. He was sure of this, even if she had yet to believe it.

“I’m good,” she said with a smile, as if she appreciated his kindness.

The good news was that they were getting along really well. He’d been worried after the needing that things would get weird or some shit, but they were like a team that had run a marathon, reached a goal, and were ready for the next challenge.

“Can I get you some food?”

“You know, I am hungry.”

“Why don’t you head up, have a lie down, and I’ll bring you something.”

“That would be lovely—thank you.”

Yup, it was nice the way she smiled at him in that uncomplicated and warm way, the one that made him love her like family. And as he escorted her back over to the base of the stairs, it was good to smile at her in the same manner.

All that simple-and-easy ended as he turned around. In the library, through the open doors, he saw Blay and Saxton talking. And then his cousin stepped in and pulled Blay into his arms. As the pair of them stood together, body on body, Qhuinn took a deep breath and felt a little death of his own come to him.

He guessed this was how it ended for them.

Separate lives, separate futures.

Hard to think that they had started out inseparable—

Abruptly, Blay’s blue stare found his.

And what Qhuinn saw in it caused him to falter: Love shone out of that face, unadulterated love untempered by the shyness that was very much a part of his reserve.

Blay didn’t look away.

And for the first time… neither did Qhuinn.

He didn’t know whether the emotion was about his cousin—it probably was—but he’d take it: He stared right back at Blaylock and let everything he had in his heart show in his face.

He just let that shit fly.

Because there was a lesson in this Fade ceremony tonight: You could lose the ones you loved in the blink of an eye—and he was willing to bet, when it happened, you weren’t thinking about all the reasons that could have kept you apart. You thought of all the reasons that kept you together.

And, no doubt, how you wished you’d had more time. Even if you’d had centuries…

When you were young, you thought time was a burden, something to be discharged as fast as possible so you could be grown-up. But it was such a bait-n-switch—when you were an adult, you came to realize that minutes and hours were the single most precious thing you had.

No one got forever. And it was a fucking crime to waste what you were given.

Enough, Qhuinn thought. Enough with the excuses, and the avoidance, and the trying to be someone, anyone else.

Even if he got shanked, even if his precious little ego and his dumb-ass little heart got shattered into a million pieces, it was time to stop the bullshit.

It was time to be a male.

As Blay started to straighten, like a message had been received, Qhuinn thought, That’s right, buddy.

Our future has come.