“I can’t do this,” she said.

“I’m sorry, what did you-”

There was a knock on the jamb. “Enter,” Amayla called out.

One of their sisters came in and bowed low. “The Chosen Layla is readied from the baths for His Majesty, the Primale.”

“Ah, good.” Amalya reached for an incense burner. “Let us install her at his temple, and then I shall summon him.”

“As you wish.” While the Chosen bowed her head and backed out of the room, Cormia caught the smile of anticipation on the female’s face.

She probably hoped to be next in line for a trip to the temple.

“Will you excuse me?” Cormia said, heart beating erratically, an instrument that couldn’t find its beat. “I’m going to retire to the Scribes’ Temple.”

“Of course.” Abruptly, Amayla’s eyes grew shrewd. “Are you sure about this, my sister?”

“Yes. And this is a glorious day for all of us. I’ll be sure to record it properly.”

“I shall have meals delivered unto you.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Cormia… I am here for you should you need counsel. In a private capacity.”

Cormia bowed and left in a hurry, going directly to the solid white temple that was now her home.

When she shut the door behind herself, she was enveloped by a dense pitch-black darkness. At her will, candles positioned at the four corners of the high-ceilinged room lit, and, in their glow, she looked at the six white desks with their white quill pens standing at attention and their pots of sanguinary ink and their crystal bowls of seeing water. In baskets on the floor, sheaves of parchment were rolled and tied with white ribbon, ready to accept the symbols of the Old Language that would preserve the race’s progress.

Against the far wall, there were three double-layered bunks, each set with a single pristine pillow and made up with sheets that were precisely folded. No blankets were bundled at the feet of the beds, as the temperature was too perfect for extra covers to be required. Off to one side, there was a curtain that led into the private bath.

Over to the right there was an ornate silver door that led into the Scribe Virgin’s private library. The sequestered scribes were the only ones to whom Her Holiness dictated her private diary, and when they were summoned, they used that door to take the audience they were granted.

The slot in the center of the portal was used to slip parchments generated by both recording and sequestured scribes back and forth during the editing process. The Scribe Virgin read and approved or edited all history until she found it appropriate. Once accepted, a scroll was either cut to size and bound with other pages to become one of the volumes in the library, or it was rolled and placed in the Scribe Virgin ’s sacred archives.

Cormia went over to one of the desks and sat down on the backless stool.

The silence and the isolation were as agitating as a teeming crowd, and she had no idea how long she sat there, struggling to get control of herself.

She’d assumed she could do this-that the sequestering solution was the only one that would work. Now she was screaming to get out.

Maybe she just needed something else to focus on.

Taking the white-plumed quill into her hand, she opened the pot of ink to her right. To warm up, she began by composing some of the simpler characters of the Old Language.

She couldn’t keep it up, though.

The letters became geometric designs. The designs turned into rows of boxes. The boxes turned… into building plans.

Back in the Brotherhood’s mansion, John’s head lifted from his pillow as he heard a knock on his door. Shifting off his bed, he went over and answered the knuckle-rap. Out in the hall, Qhuinn and Blay were standing side by side, shoulder-to-shoulder, just like they always did.

At least one thing had apparently gone right.

“We need to find Blay a room,” Qhuinn said. “You got any idea where we should stuff him?”

“And I should get some of my things at nightfall,” Blaylock tacked on. “Which would mean a trip back to my house.”

No problem, John signed.

Qhuinn was in the room that adjoined his, so he went down one farther and opened the door into a pale lavender guest room.

We can change the decor, John signed, if it’s too girlie.

Blay laughed. “Yeah, I’m not sure I can rock this.”

As the guy went over and tested out the bed, John walked to the bathroom’s double doors and pushed them open-

Phury was passed out with his head next to the toilet, his huge body lax, his face the color of candle wax. At his feet were a needle and a spoon and a belt.

“Fuckin’ hell!” Qhuinn’s curse echoed around all the creamy marble.

John wheeled around. Get Doc Jane. Right now. She’s probably in the Pit with Vishous.

Qhuinn tore off as John rushed over and rolled Phury onto his back. The Brother’s lips were blue, but not because of all the bruising John’s fists had done. The male wasn’t breathing. Hadn’t been for a while.

Against all odds, Doc Jane came in with Qhuinn literally a split second later. “I was on my way to see Bella- Oh… shit.”

She came over and did the fastest vitals check John had ever seen. Then she popped open her doctor’s bag and took out a needle and a vial.

“Is he alive.”

All four of them looked toward the bathroom’s doorway. Zsadist was standing there, feet planted, scarred face pale.

"Is he…” Z’s eyes drifted over to what was on the floor next to the Jacuzzi. “Alive.”

Doc Jane looked at John and hissed, “Get him the fuck out of here. Now. He doesn’t need to see this.”

John’s blood went cold from what he saw in her face: She wasn’t sure she could bring Phury back.

With shock rolling through him, he stood up and went over to Z.

“I’m not leaving,” Zsadist said.

“Yes, you are.” Doc Jane held up the syringe she’d filled and pressed the plunger. As a hair-width stream of something shot out the tip, she turned back to Phury’s body. “Qhuinn, you stay with me. Blaylock, go with them and shut the door.”

Zsadist opened up his mouth, but John just shook his head.

It was with the oddest calm that he stepped to the Brother ’s face, put his hands on both the guy’s arms and pushed backward.

And it was in stunned silence that Z let himself get walked out of the room.

Blay shut the doors and stood in front of them, blocking the way.

Z’s bleak eyes held on to John’s.

All John could do was stare right back into them.

"He can’t be gone,” Zsadist said hoarsely. “He just can’t be…”

Chapter Forty-four

"What do you mean, work?” the guy with the prison tats said.

Lash put his elbows on his knees and looked his new best friend in the eyes. How the two of them had gone from loudmouth loggerheads to cozy as kittens was a testament to the powers of seduction. First you hit head-on to establish equality. Then you showed respect. Then you talked about money.

The other two, the ’banger with, Diego RIP, around his collarbones, and Mr. Clean with the chrome dome and the combats, had inched in and were listening, too. Which was another part of Lash’s strategy: Draw the toughest one in and the others will follow.

Lash smiled. “I’m looking for help with enforcement.”

Prison Tat’s stare was full of dirty deeds done dirt cheap. “You run a bar?”

“Nope.” He glanced at RIP. “Guess you could say it’s territorial.”

The ’banger nodded like he knew all the rules of that board game.

Prison Tat flexed his arms. “What makes you think I’d carry on anything wichu? I don’t know you.”

Lash leaned back so his shoulders were against the cinder blocks. “Just thought you’d like to make some green. My bad.”

As he closed his eyes like he was going to sleep, he heard voices that popped open his lids. An officer was bringing another offender down to the holding cell.