Math, math, math . . . mostly multiplication. As in, given the amount of cocaine he had, how long would he be able to keep the cravings at bay? Fourteen hours? Fifteen?

He opened up one of the little brown containers and poured its white powder out on the leather blotter. Using a Centurion American Express card, he made a pair of lines, leaned over them, and took care of his business. Then he sat back in his chair and snuffed everything into place.

Truly, he hated the dripping down the back of his throat. The burn in his sinuses. The bitter taste that bloomed in his mouth. And he most especially despised the fact that he didn’t really get high anymore. He merely experienced a temporary upswing on this horrible roller coaster he had set himself upon, said respite to inevitably be followed by a rushing crash—and then, if he did not attend to himself, the clawing, relentless grab of the cravings.

Glancing at the remaining two vials, he found it difficult to believe that he’d fallen into this pattern. The slip and fall had been both the work of a moment and a slow-motion tragedy. He had initially started using to keep himself alert, but what had begun as a habit of practicality now owned him sure as a master had dominion over a servant in the Old Country.

Fates, he had not intended this.

Had not intended rather a lot, of late.

Extending his arm, he woke up his laptop with a stroke on its touch pad, signed in using one hand even though there were capitals involved in his password, and accessed, via encrypted channels, his overseas account. The big one that was in Geneva.

He had several others.

So many digits and commas before the decimal point on the balance. And staring at the line up, he contemplated exactly how much money one needed—even assuming that as a vampire, he would live out ten human lifespans or more.

Assuming his little habit didn’t usher him off unto the Fade.

Or in his case, Dhund in all likelihood.

Surely he had enough by any practical standard, even in light of recent international finance crises . . . so did he truly have to deal in the drugs anymore? Then again, at the rate he was snorting powder up his nose, he was in danger of becoming his own best customer.

I need your help with the glymera.

As he considered Wrath’s proposal, he had to wonder how what the King wanted him to do was any better or worse than making money off the backs of humans and their need for chemical reinforcement. The royal endeavor was something to pass the time, surely. And if he wasn’t going to traffic in drugs, he needed to surmount the night hours somehow.

Otherwise he would go insane.

Mostly from missing that female of his. Who had not, in fact, ever been his own.

“Marisol,” he whispered into the air.

Why in the hell had he never taken a picture of her? When she had stayed here, in this very house, when he had protected her, with his very life, why hadn’t he picked up his phone, pointed it in her direction and snapped a shot? A mere moment of time, a split second, that was all that it required. But no, he had not done such a thing, and now, here he was, on the far side of the divide, with nothing left of her save that which was in his mind.

It was as if she had died. Except she was still on the planet.

In fact, she was down in Florida, where the ocean lapped at the sweet sand and the nights were a balmy mystery even in fucking October.

He knew exactly where she was, precisely where she stayed—because he had tracked her down there. Made sure that she had gotten to her destination with her grandmother safely. Pined for her from the shadows in the most pathetic manner possible.

But he had honored her request. He had let her go. Let her be free of him and this illegal lifestyle they had both participated in.

Cat burglars and drug dealers could co-exist.

A human woman who wanted to be on the correct side of the law and a vampire pusher addict could not.

With a groan, he put his face in his hands and called her to mind. Yes, oh, yes, he could remember her dark hair and her lithe body, her skin and her dark eyes with a certain clarity. But the passage of time . . . he worried he would forget some nuance at first and then ever larger and more significant details.

And the loss of that was a death by inches even as he continued to breathe.

“Enough,” he muttered as he dropped his arms and leaned back.

Refocusing on himself, he thought about what the King had laid out for him. It would be a change of endeavor, for certain. But he had enough money. He had enough time. And finding another network of middlemen dealers to farm out his product on the streets of Caldwell and Manhattan abruptly seemed too much like work.

Besides . . . having fought side by side with the Brotherhood? He found himself respecting those males. Respecting their leader, too.

It was quite the about-face for an otherwise avowed Libertarian—rather like an atheist considering the existence of God following a near-death experience.

Plus, he owed Vishous his life; that much he was sure of. As worthless as his existence was, he would not be sitting upon this chair, in this glass mansion on the Hudson River, feeding his cocaine habit, unless that Brother had thrown him over his shoulder and run like hell.

Twice.

Oh, that beast. Had he not seen it, he would ne’er have believed its existence.

Assail pushed his chair around with his foot such that he could peer out the windows to the river beyond. A subtle chiming rang from the corner of the room where an old French clock was placed. In the background, over in the rear part of the house, he could hear his cousins moving around in the kitchen.

When he decided to use his cell phone, all he had to do was reach into the pocket of his shredded leather jacket. He had neglected to remove the ruined outerwear even though his house was well-heated against the cold October night.

Then again, all he had cared to do when he had arrived back home was sequester himself in private so he could play catch-up with his little problem.

He could not abide doing lines in front of his cousins. Not that he had any intention of altering his behavior for anybody.

Summoning a number up out of his contacts, he hesitated before initiating the call. As his thumb hovered over the screen, he was acutely aware that if he followed through on this, he was going to become something he had always disdained.

An agent of the King.

Or more to the point . . . an agent of another.

With a strange feeling of dread, he gave into the impulse and put the device to his ear, listening to the ringing commence. In the end, he decided to give himself up to Wrath’s demand for the simple reason that it seemed like the only good thing he could do with himself.

A right thing.

A positive thing.

He was beginning to feel as if it were about time. And mayhap he was taking a page from his Marisol’s book because it was the only way he could be close to her now.

No more drug dealing for him.

Although what he was about to do might well prove to be just as dangerous. So at least he would not grow bored.

“Hello, darling,” he said when the call was answered by a female. “Yes, I do need to feed, thank you. Tonight would be preferable, yes. And I have missed you as well. Indeed, very much so.” He let her go on a bit as she took his lie and swallowed it whole. “Actually, at your main house, please. No, the cottage does not suit a male such as myself. I was willing to make the accommodation at first due to your hellren’s presence, but now that he has taken unto his bed, I find myself unable to make that concession any further. You understand.”

There was a long pause, but he knew that she would relent. “Thank you, nalla,” he intoned evenly. “I shall see you very soon—oh, be in something red. No panties. That is all.”