It wasn’t that he wanted to turn into the male version of Adele or some shit.

Yeah, file that under Good-bye.

But he did wish . . .

Oh, fuck, he didn’t know what the hell he was going on about.

Changing gears—before he ended up with a pair of lace panties on—he thought of Qhuinn’s daughter, of that tiny little thing that had come back from the dead.

How had Payne known what to do? Shit, if she hadn’t . . .

Vishous frowned as a memory of Mary surfaced and refused to sink back down. She had been talking about when she had saved Rhage’s life . . . when she had moved the dragon around to the center of his chest so his beast could somehow heal the gunshot wound.

I don’t know how I knew what to do, she had said to him. Or something to that effect.

He thought of himself confronting his mother as Rhage had been dying, demanding that she do something before he’d stormed off, all pissed and shit. And then he recalled the demand that he’d sent out as he’d worked on the lifeless body of Qhuinn’s daughter.

Shit.

Leaning down, he stamped out his half-smoked cigarette on the sole of his boot and tossed the butt in the trash.

Closing his eyes . . .

. . . he dematerialized up to the courtyard of his mother’s private quarters, re-forming in front of the colonnade.

Instantly, he knew there was something off.

Looking over his shoulder, he frowned. The fountain that had always run with crystal-clear water . . . was still. And when he walked over to its basin, he discovered that the thing was bone-dry, its pool empty sure as if it had never been full.

Then he glanced over at the tree that had held the songbirds.

They were gone. All of them.

As warning bells started to ring in his skull, he broke out into a run, crossing over to the entry to his mahmen’s private quarters. He pounded on the door, but not for long—once again he braced a shoulder and slammed himself into the panels.

This time, the thing broke free of all its hinges, falling flat as a dead body onto the stone floor beyond.

“Mother . . . fucker.”

Everything was gone. The bedding platform. The dressing table. The one chair. Even the double-locked cell where Payne had been kept behind drapes was exposed, the white fabric swaths that had hung on runners no longer in place.

Closing his eyes, he let his senses sweep the room, probing for clues. His mother had just been here. He knew it in his blood, some remnant of her energy source remaining in the space as a scent might linger after someone departed. But where had she gone?

He thought of the crowd down below in the training center. Amalya, the directrix, had been among them, standing with Cormia and Phury, and all the other Chosen who had come to pray for, and witness, the births.

The Scribe Virgin had waited until she was all alone before leaving.

She who knew all, saw all, had deliberately picked a moment of crisis down on Earth, when everyone who might have had reason to be up here was otherwise occupied.

Vishous bolted out of the private quarters. “Mother! Where the fuck are you?”

He didn’t expect an answer—

A sound rippled to his ears, emanating from somewhere outside of the courtyard. Following it, he went to the door that opened into the Sanctuary and looked across the verdant land.

Birds.

It was the songbirds singing somewhere off in the distance.

Falling into a jog, he tracked the dulcet harmonies, crossing over the cropped green grass and passing by empty marble temples and dormitories.

“Mother?” he hollered across the barren landscape. “Mother!”

“Hi, mahmen, you’re awake now.”

As Layla heard the male voice above her, she realized that, yes, her eyes were open, and yes, she was alive—

“Young!” she shouted.

A sudden burst of energy had her trying to sit up, but gentle hands eased her back down. And as a flare of pain clawed its way across her lower belly, Qhuinn put his face in front of hers.

He was smiling. From ear to ear.

Yes, his eyes were red rimmed, and he was pale and a little shaky, but the male was smiling so widely, his jaw had to hurt.

“Everybody’s okay,” he said. “Our daughter gave us a helluva scare, but both of them are okay. Breathing. Moving. Alive.”

A tidal wave of emotion swamped her, her chest literally exploding with a combination of relief, joy, and the afterburn of the terror she’d felt before they’d put her under. And as if he knew exactly what she was feeling, Qhuinn started hugging her, wrapping her in his arms—and she tried to hug him back, but she didn’t have the strength.

“Blay,” she said roughly. “Where’s—”

“Right here. I’m right here.”

Over Qhuinn’s big shoulder, she saw the other male and wished she could reach for him—and as if he were aware of that, he came in, too, all three of them wrapping up in an embrace that left them wobbly, and yet somehow stronger, too.

“Where are they?” she asked. “Where . . .”

The males inched back, and the way Qhuinn looked at Blay made her nervous. “What,” she demanded. “What’s wrong.”

Blay took her hand. “Listen, we want you to be ready, okay? They’re very small. They’re really . . . very small. But they’re strong. Both Doc Jane and Manny checked them over—Ehlena, too. And we video-conferenced with Havers and reviewed everything with him. They’re going to be here for a while on the water ventilators, until their lungs mature and they can breathe and eat on their own, but they’re doing great.”

Layla found herself nodding as she swallowed a load of fear back down into her gut. Looking at Qhuinn, she teared up again. “I tried to keep them in—I tried—”

He shook his head firmly, that blue-and-green stare dead serious. “It was an issue with your placenta, nalla. There was nothing you could have done or not done to prevent it from happening. It was exactly the same thing that happened with Beth.”

She put her hands on her much-flatter stomach. “Did they take my womb?”

Blay smiled. “No. They got the young out and stopped the bleeding. You can have more young if the Virgin Scribe provides.”

Layla looked down her body, feeling a rush of relief. And also sadness for the Queen. “I was lucky.”

“Yes, you were,” Qhuinn said.

“We were all lucky,” she corrected, glancing at them both. “When may I see them?”

Qhuinn stepped back. “They’re right over there.”

Layla struggled to sit up, taking the fathers’ arms. And then she gasped. “Oh . . .”

Before she knew it, she was getting off the mattress, even though it hurt, and in spite of the fact that she was connected to about a hundred and fifty thousand pounds of medical equipment.

“Shit,” Qhuinn said. “Are you sure you want to—”

“Okay, we’re moving,” Blay interjected. “We are up and moving.”

With a single-minded focus she had never known before, she didn’t pay any attention to anything other than getting over to her young: not the way the males scrambled to organize the rolling monitors, or how much she had to lean on various arms and shoulders, or how much pain her abdomen hollered about.

The incubators were up against the wall, side by side, separated by about three feet. Brilliant blue lights were shining down on the tiny little forms, and oh . . . Fates . . . the wires, the tubes . . .

That was when she got a little light-headed.

“Don’t you love the sunglasses,” Blay commented.

Suddenly, she laughed. “They look like mini-Wraths.” Then she got serious. “Are you sure . . .”

“Positive,” Qhuinn said. “They’ve got a ways to go—but, shit, they are fighters. Especially her.”

Layla inched closer to her daughter. “When can I hold them?”

“Doc Jane wants us to give them a little time. Tomorrow?” Blay said. “Maybe the night after?”