“So it wasn’t the next Queen,” he said. “The young that was born.”

“No.” s’Ex went back over to the couch. “They killed it.”

“What.”

“It was . . . decreed. In the”—he waved his glass around over his head—“stars. So they killed the infant. My . . . daughter.”

iAm blinked. Drank some more. And then thought, Jesus, if the Queen could do that to an innocent young born of her own body, the s’Hisbe’s leader was capable of anything.

“So,” s’Ex said more evenly. “Your brother is once again Her Majesty’s prime concern. There is a mandatory period of mourning and I shall depart to join in that. But following the Enclosure Ceremony and its attendant rituals, I will be sent to collect the Anointed One.”

The Enclosure Ceremony was the formal entombing of the sacred dead, a right that was reserved for members of the royal family only. And the mourning would last a number of nights and days. After which . . . it appeared their reprieves had run out.

“Shit,” iAm breathed.

“I am happy to inform your brother, but—”

“No, I’ll do it.”

“I thought so.”

iAm sat down in the chair next to the executioner. Looking over, he traced the male’s features. s’Ex had come from worse than the lower class; the male had been born of servant parents but, through his brawn and smarts, had risen to seduce the Queen. It was an unprecedented ascension through the strata of social levels.

“I’m sorry,” iAm whispered.

“Whatever for.”

“Your loss.”

“It was decreed. In the stars.”

The male’s casual shrug was belied by the way his voice cracked.

Before iAm could say anything further, s’Ex leaned in. “Just so we’re clear, I will not hesitate to do whatever is necessary to bring your brother home and provide him bodily to the purpose for which he was born.”

“You’ve already said that.” iAm likewise sat forward and locked eyes. “And get real, you don’t actually believe that astrology bullshit, do you?”

“It is our way.”

“And that means it’s right?”

“You are a heretic. So is your brother.”

“Lemme ask you something. Did you hear the infant scream? When they killed your kid, did you—”

The attack was not unexpected, the executioner launching at him with such force his chair was blown backward and the pair of them ended up on the floor, s’Ex straddling iAm while shaking with rage.

“I should kill you,” the male growled.

“Get angry with me if you want,” iAm shot back. “But be honest, at least with yourself. You’re not quite so duty-proud anymore. Are you.”

s’Ex shoved himself away and landed on his ass. Putting his head in his hands, he breathed hard, as if he were trying to pull a composure job—and losing the fight.

“I’m not going to help the pair of you anymore,” the executioner said hoarsely. “Duty demands to be served.”

iAm sat up and thought that the constellations under which his brother had been born were like a disease, something unvolunteered for, embedded in the life that was lived, a ticking time bomb waiting to go off.

Trez’s detonation had been put off for oh, so long. It would not be denied any longer, however.

Not for the first time, iAm wished that he had been born before Trez. He would much rather have been the one cursed, the bearer of the burden. It wasn’t that he wanted to be imprisoned for all his life, with nothing but repeatedly trying to impregnate the heir to the throne for a pastime, but he was different from Trez.

Or maybe he was fooling himself.

What he was clear on? He would do anything he had to in order to save his brother.

And he was prepared to get really damn creative.

By the time Trez came back to check the private lounge, Rhage had woken up from his coma, trance, nap, whatever it was. And although V’s verbal diarrhea had been a real ball slapper, as the owner of the club and the guy who’d attacked first, Trez felt like he needed to make sure the Brother was okay.

“How we doing in here,” he said as he reentered.

As Hollywood slowly sat up, it was clear he was trying to reenter reality, returning from some mental destination that had been far from the club.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” V muttered as he took out a hand-rolled and a lighter. “You back?”

“You can’t smoke in here,” Trez said.

Vishous cocked a brow. “What’re you going to do? Kick me out?”

“Don’t want to get shut down on my first night.”

“You got bigger problems than the Department of Public Health.”

Fuck you, V, Trez thought.

“You need something?” he asked Rhage. “I got all kinds of things that don’t have alcohol in them.”

“Nah, I’m all right.” The Brother rubbed his face and then looked over. “So you’ve bonded with that Chosen, huh—”

“I even have food, if you want—”

“Come on, man.” Rhage shook his head. “You just tried to eat my lunch.”

Trez glanced at his watch. “Actually, it was over an hour ago.”

“I mean, whatever—what’s the problem? Why don’t you get with her.”

“You’re still a little pale.”

“Fine, fine. You wanna hit the mute button, that’s your business.”

Cue. Awkward. Silence.

OMG, this was the best fucking night, Trez thought. What next, a meteor hitting Caldwell?

Nah, probably just his club.

“Sooooo . . . I’ll take the drugs,” V said, pocketing the cellophane packets. “You get any more—”

The third goddamn flash in the room was bright enough to blind, and Trez put up an arm to cover his face as he fell back into a defensive stance.

“Oh, fuck!” one of the Brothers barked.

Bomb? Deadly slayer retaliation?

All that new electrical wiring failing on an epic scale?

Or maybe he shouldn’t have given the universe a suggestion about the whole meteor thing.

As Trez blinked the spots in his vision clear, it turned out to be a case of None of the Above.

A figure was standing where the great burst of light had flared—a figure that was about as impressive as a garden gnome gone Goth: Whatever it was was four feet tall, covered from head to foot in black robing . . . and evidently the source of illumination: From beneath the hem, brilliant light glowed. Like maybe La Perla had gone Las Vegas strip under there.

Abruptly, Trez stopped breathing as he put the math together and came up with the impossible. Holy shit, that was the—

“Hello, Mother,” Vishous said dryly.

—Scribe Virgin.

“I have come for a purpose.” The female voice was hard as crystal and just as clear. “And it must be served.”

“Really.” V took a drag on his hand-rolled. “You gonna take candy from a baby? Or is it kick-a-puppy night?”

The figure turned Her back on the Brother. “You.”

Trez recoiled, his head banging into the wall. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not supposed to make inquiries of Her,” V bit out. “Just FYI.”

“Me?” Trez repeated. “What do you want me for?”

“You are summoned by one of mine own.”

“You taking him to Disneyland?” V muttered. “Lucky you, Trez—but She’s probably only tight with Maleficent, the Shadow Man, Cruella—”

“How do you know so much Disney shit?” Rhage cut in.

“Come with me,” the Scribe Virgin said, extending her robed arm.

“Me?” Trez blurted a third time.

“You have been summoned.”

“Selena . . . ?” he breathed.

Rhage shook his head. “Should I just get the marshmallows? ’Cuz you are about to get toasted for those questions, buddy.”

That was the last thing Trez heard before a swirling vortex of energy claimed him and carried him off to God only knew . . .

. . . where.

As the sense of having been transported disappeared, he steadied himself on his feet with a shout, both arms punching out from his torso, his head spinning so badly he figured he was going to dreidel it to the ground.

A sudden awareness of his surroundings stopped all that.