He began to black out.

All at once the nonexistent weight was lifted; then air shot through his nose and into his lungs sure as if it were a solid and an invisible hand had shoved the shit into him.

His body took over, hammering back his self-control. Against his will he sucked in oxygen like it was water, curling over on his side, breathing in great drafts, his vision gradually clearing until he could focus on the hem of his mother's robes.

When he finally peeled his face off the white floor and looked up at her, she was no longer the bright form he was used to. She had dulled, as if her glow were on a dimmer switch and someone was trying to pull off mood lighting.

Her face was the same, though. Translucent and beautiful and hard as a diamond.

"Shall we proceed in for the presentation?" she said. "Or perhaps you would like to receive your mate lying prostrate on my marble?"

V sat up, dizzy but not caring if he passed the fuck out. He supposed he should feel some kind of triumph for winning the fight with her, but he didn't.

He glanced at Phury. The guy was freaked, his yellow eyes peeled like grapes, his skin sallow and pasty. He looked like he was standing in the middle of a gator pool wearing steaks for shoes.

Man, going by how his brother was handling this little family spat, V couldn't imagine the Chosen would deal any better with open conflict between him and his Joan Crawford mother-mare. And V might not have any affinity for that bunch of females, but there was no reason to rile them up.

He got to his feet, and Phury stepped in at just the right time. As V listed to one side, the brother caught him under the armpit and steadied him.

"You will follow me now." The Scribe Virgin led the way to the arcade, floating above the marble, making neither sound nor any particular movement, a tiny apparition of solid form.

The three of them proceeded down the colonnade to a pair of gold doors V had never been through before. The things were massive and marked with an early version of the Old Language, one that bore enough relation to the current written symbology that V could translate:

Behold the sanctuary of the Chosen, sacred domain of the Race's past, present and future.

The doors opened unhanded, revealing a pastoral splendor that under other circumstances might have calmed the shit out of even V. Except for the fact that everything was white, it could have been any Ivy League-type college campus, the buildings Georgian-formal and spread out widely amidst rolling, milky grass and albino oak and elm trees.

A runner of white silk had been stretched out, and he and Phury walked on it while the Scribe Virgin ghosted along about a foot above the thing. The air was at the perfect temperature and so absolutely calm there was no sensation of it passing over exposed skin. Although gravity still held V down, he felt lighter and somewhat buoyant… as if, with a running start, he could go bounding off across the lawn like those pictures of men on the moon.

Or, shit, maybe this lunar-walk sensation was because he had some brain-fry going on.

When they crested a hill, an amphitheater was revealed down below. As were the Chosen.

Oh, Jesus... The forty or so females were dressed in identical white robes with their hair up and their hands gloved. Their coloring varied from blond to brunette to redhead, yet they seemed to be all the same person because of their long, lean builds and those matching robes. Split into two groups, they lined either side of the amphitheater, presenting themselves at a three-quarter turn with their right feet out slightly. They reminded him of the caryatids of Roman architecture, those sculptures of females that supported pediments or roofs on their regal heads.

Staring at them now, he wondered whether they had hearts that beat and lungs that pumped. Because they were as still as the air.

See, this was the problem with the Other Side, he thought. Nothing ever moved here. There was life… without life.

"Come forward," the Scribe Virgin commanded. "The presentation awaits."

Oh… God… He couldn't breathe again.

Phury's hand landed on his shoulder. "You need a minute?"

Fuck a minute; he needed centuries-although even assuming he had that kind of time, it wasn't going to change the outcome. With a sense of destiny, he pictured that civilian vampire he'd found in the alley, the one who he'd come upon that night he'd been shot, the one who he'd killed that lesser to avenge.

They needed more in the Brotherhood, he thought as he started to walk again. And it wasn't like the stork was going to get the job done.

Down in front there was only one seat in the house, a golden thronelike production that was positioned up close to the lip of the amphitheater's stage. From this vantage point, he realized that what he'd assumed was a blank white wall at the back was really a vast white velvet curtain that hung down as motionless as if it had been painted on a mural.

"You. Sit," the Scribe Virgin said to him, obviously beyond sick of his ass.

Funny, he felt the same way about her.

V planted it as Phury took root like a tree behind the throne.

The Scribe Virgin floated over to the right, assuming a position at the side of the stage, a Shakespearean director, the driver of all the drama.

Man, what he wouldn't give for an asp right about now.

"Proceed," she called out in a clipped voice.

The curtain split down the middle and retracted, revealing a female covered in jeweled robes from head to foot. Flanked by two Chosen, his intended seemed to be standing at an odd angle. Or maybe she wasn't standing. Jesus, it appeared as though she was on some kind of slab that had been tilted upright for viewing. Like a butterfly mounted.

As she was rolled forward, it became clear that she was in fact fixed on something. There were bands around her upper arms, ones that were camouflaged with jewels to match her robes, ones that appeared to be holding her up.

Must be part of the ceremony. Because what was under that robe was not only prepared for this presentation and the mating ritual that would follow, but no doubt was psyched as hell to be the number one female: The Primale's first Chosen had special rights, and he could only imagine what a rocking good time that would be for her.

Even though it might not be fair, he resented the hell out of what was under that splendor.

The Scribe Virgin nodded, and the Chosen to the left and the right of his intended started to undo the robing. As they went to work, a rush of energy rippled through the stillness of the amphitheater, the culmination of decades of the Chosen waiting for the old ways to start up again.

V watched with no care whatsoever as the jeweled robes were pulled back to reveal a stunningly beautiful female form draped in a gossamer-thin sheath. His intended's face was kept hooded, according to tradition, for it was not her that was being given but all of the Chosen.

"Is she to your liking?" the Scribe Virgin asked dryly, as if she knew that the female was utter perfection.

"Whatever."

A murmur of disquiet went through the Chosen, a chilly breeze through stiff reeds.

"Perhaps you shall choose your words anew?" the Scribe Virgin snapped.

"She'll do."

After an awkward pause, a Chosen came forward with an incense burner and a white feather. As she chanted, she wafted smoke over the female from hooded head to bare feet, going around once for the past, once for the present, once for the future.

As the ritual progressed, V frowned and leaned forward. The front of his intended's gossamer-thin sheath was wet.

Probably oils from when she'd been prepared for him.

He eased back in the throne. Shit, he hated the ancient ways. Hated this whole fucking thing.