"Shit," Qhuinn whispered.

John put his backpack away, shut his locker, and tugged his shirt into place. He walked over to the Brother as quickly as he could manage, stepping around other guys as they pretended to keep doing what they were doing.

Z held the door wide as John went out into the hallway. After the thing was closed, he said, "Tonight, you and me are meeting before dawn, just like usual. We're just going to skip the walking. You'll come to the weight room while I lift. We need to talk."

Shit was right. John signed, Same time?

"Four a.m. As for training tonight, I expect you to sit it out in the gym, but participate at the shooting range. Feel me?"

John inclined his head, then grabbed Z's arm as the male turned away. Is it about last night?

"Yup."

The Brother walked away, punching open the double doors to the gym. When the two halves shut they made a clanking sound.

Blaylock and Qhuinn came up behind John.

"What's doing?" Blay asked.

I'm going to get shit for capping that lesser, John signed.

Blay pushed a hand into his red hair. "I should have covered for you better."

Qhuinn shook his head. "John, we'll take up for you, my man. I mean, it was my idea to go to the club."

"And my gun."

John crossed his arms over his chest. It's going to be okay.

Or at least he hoped it would. He was on the thin edge of getting kicked out of the program as it stood.

"By the way…" Qhuinn put his hand on John's shoulder. "Haven't gotten a chance to thank you."

Blay nodded. "Me neither. You were righteous last night. Totally righteous. You fucking saved us."

"Shit, you totally knew what you were doing."

John felt his face go red.

"Well, ain't this cozy," Lash drawled. "Tell me something, do you three draw straws to decide who'll be on the bottom? Or is it always John?"

Qhuinn smiled, baring his fangs. "Has anyone ever shown you the difference between good touch and bad touch? 'Cause I'd love to demonstrate. We could start right now."

John stepped in front of his friend, going face-to-face with Lash. He said nothing, just looked down at the guy.

Lash smiled. "You got something to say to me? No? Wait, you still have no voice? God… what a bummer."

John could feel Qhuinn gearing up for a lunge, the heat and the impulse rolling off his friend. To stop the collision from happening, John reached behind and put a hand on his buddy's abs to keep him in place.

If anyone was going after Lash, it was him.

Lash laughed and tightened the belt on his ji. "Don't front like you have game, John-boy. The transition doesn't change you on the inside or fix your physical defects. Right, Qhuinn?" As he turned away, he said under his breath, "Mismatched motherfucker."

Before Qhuinn could jump the guy, John wheeled around and grabbed him around the waist just as Blay locked onto one of the guy's arms. Even with their combined weight, it was like keeping back a bull.

"Chill," Blay grunted. "Just relax."

"I'm going to kill him one of these days," Qhuinn hissed. "I swear to God."

John glanced over as Lash sauntered into the gym.

Taking a vow to himself, he marked the guy for a beating, even if it got him kicked out of the program for good.

He'd always felt that if you fucked with his friends, you were going to get served. End of story.

Thing was, now he had the equipment to deliver the job.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Around midnight Jane found herself in the back of a black Mercedes on her way home. Up front, on the other side of the partition that was in place, the uniformed driver was that butler who was older than God and as cheerful as a terrier. Beside her V was dressed in black leather, as silent and grim as a tombstone.

He hadn't said much. But he wouldn't let go of her hand.

The car's windows were darkened to such a degree she felt like she was in a tunnel, and in an effort to ground herself she hit a button on the door next to her. As her slice of glass went down, a shocking rush of cold pushed inside and replaced the warmth, a bully scattering the good kids at a playground.

She stuck her head out into the breeze and looked at the pool of illumination thrown by the headlights. The landscape was blurry, like a photograph out of focus. By the downward angle of the road she knew they were coming off a mountain. Thing was, she couldn't get any sense of where they were headed or where they had been.

In a weird way the disorientation was appropriate. This was the interlude between the world she'd been in and the one she was returning to, and stretches of neither here nor there should be hazy.

"I can't see where we are," she murmured as she put the window back up.

"It's called mhis," V said. "Think of it as a protective illusion."

"A trick of yours?"

"Yeah. Mind if I light up, as long as I let in some fresh air?"

"That's fine." It wasn't like she was going to be around him for much longer.

Crap.

V gave her hand a squeeze, then put his window down a quarter of an inch, the soft drone of wind flaring up over the quiet hum of the sedan. His leather jacket creaked as he took out a hand rolled and a gold lighter. The flint made a little rasp, and then the faint smell of Turkish tobacco made her nose tingle.

"That smell is so going to-" She stopped.

"What?"

"I was going to say, 'remind me of you.' But it won't, will it?"

"Maybe in a dream."

She put her fingertips on her window. The glass was cold. Just like the center of her chest.

Because she couldn't stand the silence, she said, "These enemies of yours, what exactly are they?"

"They start as humans. Then they're turned into something else."

As he inhaled, she saw his face aglow in orange light. He'd shaved before leaving, using the razor she'd once wanted to turn against him, and his face was impossibly beautifully arrogant, masculine, hard as his will. The tattoos at his temple were still beautifully done, but now she hated them, knowing them for the violation they were.

She cleared her throat. "So tell me more?"

"The Lessening Society, our enemy, chooses its members through a careful screening process. They look for sociopaths, murderers, amoral Jeffrey Dahmer types. Then the Omega steps in-"

"The Omega?"

He looked down at the tip of his hand-rolled. "Guess the Christian equivalent is the devil. Anyway, the Omega gets his hands on them… as well as other things… and presto, changeo, they wake up dead and moving. They are strong, virtually indestructible, and can be killed only by a stab wound to the chest with something steel."

"Why are they your enemies?"

He inhaled, again his brows going down low. "I suspect it might have something to do with my mother."

"Your mother?"

The hard smile that stretched his lips was more a curve than anything else. "I'm the son of what you'd probably consider a god." He lifted his gloved hand. "This is from her. Personally, as baby gifts go, I'd have preferred one of those silver rattles, or maybe some paste to eat. But you don't get to pick what your parents give you."

Jane looked at the black leather that stretched over his palm. "Jesus…"

"Not according to our lexicon or my nature. I'm not the savior type." He put the cigarette between his lips and pulled off the glove. In the dimness of the backseat, his hand glowed with the soft beauty of moonlight reflecting off of fresh snow.

He inhaled one last time, then took the cigarette and pressed the lit tip down right to the center of his palm.

"No," she hissed. "Wait-"

The butt was ashed in a flare of light, and he blew off the residue, a fine powder that dispersed in the air. "I would give anything to get rid of this piece of shit. Although I will say, it's damn handy when I don't have an ashtray."