“You think I’m worried about him and Mary? Fine. I’ll throw that shit in, too—’cuz right now, you don’t look like you could stand up much less escort a non-entity who you took off the mortal continuum across the divide unto the Fade at a determined time of that female’s choosing.”

Fuck. Now that he said that out loud, he really had to wonder whether this limp thing on the bedding platform could actually perform on that promise she’d made back in what felt like the old days, even though it was only three years ago.

So much had changed.

Except for the fact that he still hated weakness of any kind. And continued to want to be anywhere but in his mother’s presence.

Leave me. You tire me.

“I tire you. Yeah, ’cuz you got so many fucking things to do up here. Jesus Christ.”

Fine, fuck her. He’d figure something else out. Some other . . . something.

Shit, what else was there?

Vishous turned away for the door he’d busted open. With each step he took, he expected her to call him back, say something else, put a stinger into his chest that would be almost as lethal as what Rhage had been taken down with. When she didn’t, and the door shut directly behind him, nearly catching him in the ass, he thought he should have fucking known.

She didn’t even care enough to shit on him.

Back in the courtyard, the blood trail that he’d left on the marble pavers was like the destiny he’d followed in his life, jagged and messy, providing evidence of pain he largely failed to acknowledge. And yeah, he wanted the stain to seep into the stone, like maybe that would get her attention.

On that note, why didn’t he just throw himself on the goddamn ground and pull a temper tantrum like he was in the aisles at fucking Target and pissed off over a Tonka toy.

As he stood there, the silence registered as a sound in and of itself. Which was both illogical and precisely the experience he had as he realized how truly quiet it was up here now. The Chosen were all on Earth, learning about themselves, separating into individuals, turning away from their traditional roles of service to his mother. The race was just the same, existing in modern times where the old cycles of festivals and observances were mostly ignored, and traditions that had once been respected were now at risk of being forgotten.

Good, he thought. He hoped she was lonely and felt disrespected. He wanted her nice and isolated, with even her most faithful turning their backs on her.

He wanted her to hurt.

He wanted her to die.

His eyes went to the birds he had brought her, and the flock cowered from him, shuffling to a set of branches in the back of the white tree, huddling together as if he were going to snap their necks one by one.

Those finches had been an olive branch from a son who had never been truly wanted, but also hadn’t behaved all that well. His mother probably hadn’t spared them much more than a glance—and what do you know, he had moved beyond that brief flare of conciliatory weakness, too, back to the shores of his enmity. How could he not?

The Scribe Virgin hadn’t come to them when Wrath had been almost killed. She hadn’t helped the King keep his crown. Beth had nearly died giving birth and had had to give up any future of having more children to survive. F.F.S. Selena, one of the Scribe Virgin’s own Chosen, had just died and broken the heart of a goddamn good male—and what was the response? Nada.

And before all that? Wellsie’s passing. The raids.

And ahead of that? Qhuinn was shitting his leathers, worried that Layla was going to die birthing his twins. And Rhage was expiring down there in the middle of a fight.

Need he say more?

Twisting his head around, V glared at the door that had been reshut by her will. He was glad she suffered. And no, he didn’t trust her.

As he dematerialized back to the field of combat, he had absolutely no faith at all that she would do right by Rhage and Mary. He had taken a gamble and lost going to his mother, but with her, that was the way it always went.

Miracle. He needed a fucking miracle.

FIVE

The water rushing over Mary’s hands was cold, and yet it burned her skin—proving that opposite ends of the thermometer could coexist at the same time.

The ladies’ room sink she was standing at was white and porcelain. Its drain was shiny and silver. In front of her, a wall-length mirror reflected three stalls, all of which had their peach-colored doors closed, only one of which was occupied.

“You okay in there?” she said.

The toilet flushed, even though Bitty hadn’t used it.

Mary focused on her reflection. Yup. She looked as bad as she felt: Somehow, in the last thirty minutes, black bags had formed under sockets that had sunken in, and her skin was pale as the tile she was standing on.

Somehow? Bull crap. She knew exactly how.

I killed her!

Mary had to close her eyes and pull yet another recompose. When she opened things up again, she tried to remember what she was doing. Oh. Right. There was a little stack of paper towels on a shelf, the kind that interlocked fold-to-fold, and as she went to take one and dripped water all over the others, she thought it was strange that Havers, who was so precise about his facility, promoted such messiness. Oh . . . got it. The dispenser on the wall by the door was broken, the lower part hanging loose.

Just like me, she thought. Fully stocked with the education and experience to help people, but not doing my job right.

Take her hand. It’s okay . . .

I killed her!

“Bitty?” When that came out as nothing but a croak, she cleared her throat. “Bitty.”

After she dried her hands, she turned to the stalls. “Bitty, I’m coming in if you don’t come out.”

The girl opened the middle panel, and for some reason, Mary knew she would never forget the sight of that small hand curling around, gripping and not letting go as she stepped out.

She had been crying in there. Alone. And now that the girl was being forced to show her face, she was attempting to do exactly what Mary herself was desperately shooting for.

Sometimes composure was all you had; dignity your only consolation; the illusion of “all right” your sole source of comfort.

“Here, let me . . .” As Mary’s voice dried up, she went back for the paper towels and wet one in the sink she had used. “This will help.”

Approaching the girl slowly, she brought the cool, soft cloth to the child’s flushed face, pressing it onto the hot, red skin. As she blotted, in her mind she was apologizing to the grown-up Bitty would hopefully become: I’m sorry I made you do that. No, you didn’t kill her. I wish I had let you do it on your own terms and in your own way. I’m sorry. No, you didn’t kill her. I’m sorry.

I’m so sorry.

Mary tilted the girl’s chin up. “Bitty—”

“What do they do with her now? Where does she go?”

God, that pale brown stare was steady. “They’re going to take her to . . . well, they’re going to cremate her.”

“What is that?”

“They’re going to burn her body into ashes for the passing ceremony.”

“Will that hurt her?”

Mary cleared her throat again. “No, honey. She won’t feel anything. She’s free—she’s in the Fade, waiting for you.”

The good news was that at least Mary knew that part was true. Even though she’d been raised Catholic, she had seen the Scribe Virgin for herself, so no, she wasn’t feeding the girl false, if compassionate, rhetoric. For vampires, there was in fact a heaven, and they did, really and truly, meet their loved ones there.

Heck, it probably proved the same was true for humans, but as there was less visible magic in that world, eternal salvation was a much harder sell to the average joe.