When something heavy hit what was likely a desk, Cormia ducked into one of the guest rooms. A moment later she heard the Brother Zsadist’s heavy footsteps as he went down to his room.

Danger to himself and others.

She couldn’t picture the Primale brutalizing their enemy or putting himself in harm’s way because he was careless. But why would the Brother Zsadist lie?

He wouldn’t.

Suddenly exhausted, she sat on the corner of the bed and idly looked around. The room was done in the same shade of lavender as her favorite rose.

What a lovely color, she thought, letting herself fall back against the duvet.

Lovely, indeed, though it did nothing to soothe her agitated nerves.

The Caldwell Galleria was two stories of Hollister, H amp;M, Express, Banana Republic, and Ann Taylor, located in the exurbs of the city. With JCPenney, Lord and Taylor, and Macy’s anchoring the ends of the floor plan’s three spokes, it was solidly in the middle tier as malls went, and the crowd it drew was three parts teenage and one part restless soccer mom. Food court had McD’s, KuikWok, California Smoothie, Auntie Anne’s, Cinnabon. Kiosks down the center aisles sold knitted shit, bobble-head dolls, cell phones, and animal calendars.

The place smelled like stale air and plastic strawberries.

Holy shit, he was in the mall.

John Matthew couldn’t fricking believe that he was in the mall. Talk about your trippy full circles.

The place had been given a surface upgrade since he’d last seen it, the shades of beige having been replaced with a pink and ocean green Jamaican theme. Everything from the floor tiles to the garbage cans to the fake potted plants and the fountains screamed, We be jammin’.

It was kind of like a Hawaiian shirt on a fifty-year-old man. Cheerfully and unattractively out of whack.

God, how things changed. The last time he’d been here, he’d been a scrawny orphan tagging along behind a bunch of other unwanted kids. Now here he was, with fangs in his mouth and size-fourteen shoes and a big body that people didn’t want to get in the path of.

He was still an orphan, though.

And speaking of orphans, man, he could remember so clearly those field trips here to the mall. Every year, St. Francis had taken its charges to the Galleria before Christmas. Which had been kind of cruel, as none of the kids had had money to buy any of the shiny, pretty stuff that was for sale. John had always been afraid that they’d get kicked out or something, because no one carried any shopping bags to validate the group’s use of the bathrooms.

But that wasn’t going to be a problem tonight, he thought, as he patted his back pocket. In his wallet was four hundred dollars he’d earned working in the training center’s office.

What a relief to have green to burn and to belong amid the strolling masses.

“You forget your wallet?” Blay asked.

John shook his head. Got it.

Up ahead by a number of feet, Qhuinn was in the lead and moving quickly. He’d been in a rush since they’d walked in, and as Blaylock paused in front of Brookstone, the guy looked at his watch with bracing impatience.

“Let’s hustle it, Blay,” he snapped. “We’ve only got an hour before closing time.”

“What is your damage tonight?” Blay frowned. “You’re tight as hell, and not in a good way.”

“Whatever.”

They walked faster, passing groups of tweens that hung together like schools of fish, each by species and sex: Girls and boys didn’t mix; Goths and preps didn’t mingle. The lines were very clear, and John remembered exactly how all that worked. He’d been on the outside of every group, so he’d been able to watch all of them.

Qhuinn stopped in front of Abercrombie and Fitch. “Urban Outfitters’ too core for you. We’re going to A-and-F your flow.”

John shrugged and signed, I still don’t think I need a ton of new clothes.

“You have two pairs of Levi’s, four Hanes T-shirts, and a set of Nikes. And that fleece.” Fleece was pronounced with the same enthusiasm as fresh roadkill.

I also have workout sweats.

“Which will abso put you on the cover of GQ. My b.” Qhuinn headed into the store. “Let’s do this.”

John followed along with Blay. Inside, the music was loud and the clothes were crowded in tight and the pictures of the models on the walls showed lots of perfect people in black and white.

Qhuinn started flipping through rows of hanging shirts with vague disgust, like the shit was something his grand-mother would wear. Which made sense. He was definitely an Urban Outfitters man, with a thick chain swinging from the blue-black jeans and the Affliction T-shirt with the skull and wings on it and the black boots that were big as your head. His dark hair was spiked up, and he had seven gunmetal studs in his left ear running from lobe to upper cartilage.

John wasn’t entirely sure where else he was pierced. Some things you just didn’t need to know about your buddies.

Blay, who fit in at the store, branched out and went over to the distressed-jeans section, which he seemed to approve of. John hung back, less concerned with the clothes than the fact that people were looking at them. As far as he was aware, humans couldn’t sense vampires, but man, the three of them were getting a lot of attention for some reason.

“Can I help you?”

They turned around. The girl who’d asked was tall as Xhex, but the comp between the two females ended right there. Unlike the female of John’s fantasies, this one spiked way high on the feminine scale and suffered from hair-related Tourette’s, a condition that manifested itself in incessant head jerks and an evidently irresistible urge to fondle her brunette frizz bomb. But she had skills. Somehow, she managed to handle all that hair play without tipping over into a T-shirt display.

Frankly, it was kind of impressive. Although not necessarily in a good way.

Now Xhex would never-

Fuck. Why the hell was Xhex always the standard?

As Qhuinn smiled at the girl, plans of the on-all-fours variety flared in his eyes. “Perfect timing. We totally need help. My buddy here needs a vibe injection. Can you hook him?”

Oh. God. No.

When the girl glanced over at John, her hot stare made him feel like she’d grabbed him between the legs and sized up his cock with a squeeze.

He took cover behind a rack of brand-new, old-looking button-downs.

“I’m the manager,” she said, her drawl all about the bump and grind. “So you’re in good hands. All of you.”

“Niiiice.” Qhuinn’s mismatched eyes traced down the girl’s smooth legs. “Why don’t you get to work on him? I’ll watch.”

Blay stepped up beside John. “Whatever you pick out, I check first, and I’ll bring it to him in the dressing room.”

John sagged with relief and signed a quick thank-you to Blay for coming to the rescue yet again. The boy’s middle name was buffer. For real.

Unfortunately, the manager just smiled even more widely. “Two for one sounds good to me. Check it, I didn’t know we were having a sale on man candy tonight.”

Okay, this was going to be horrible.

An hour later, though, John was feeling better. Turned out Stephanie, the manager, had a good eye, and once she got into the clothes she chilled out on the come-ons. John got jacked into some sweet ragged jeans, a bunch of those deconstructed button-downs, and a couple of tight muscle shirts, which even he had to admit showed off his guns and his pecs like they were worth seeing. A couple of necklaces were pushed on him, and so was a black hoodie.

When it was done, John went up to the register with the shit draped over his arm. As he put the clothes down, he glanced at a bunch of bracelets in a basket. Within the tangle of leather and shells, there was a flash of lavender, and he weeded through the pile to get to it. Pulling out a woven bracelet with beads the color of Cormia’s rose on it, he smiled and surreptitiously put the thing underneath one of the muscle shirts.