Her lovely face, though. Oh, her beautiful face.

He was so very glad he had never made love to her. That would have been selfish on his part, a session of passion that would have left her truly sullied for the rest of her life. Better that she should continue on as pristine for the male who would truly claim her as his own.

Although, dearest Virgin Scribe, it killed him to think about that.

But alas, he loved her enough to let her go and wish her all of the best that life had to offer—and his clarity around that was, he supposed, the very highest and kindest thing he had ever done.

Mayhap the only high and kind thing.

“I love you,” he whispered.

He’d meant for that to come out more loudly, but he was losing the battle to drag oxygen into his lungs—and thus, to conserve strength and give them a little more time, he stopped trying to speak and contented himself with staring at her. Funny, the way he had merged her arrival here in the forest with that memory of his past, his addled brain inserting her as a rescuer into a terrible recollection.

Then again, whether it be in real life or in the relative fiction of recall, she was his goddess and his miracle—indeed, even his savior, in spite of the fact that he was not going to live through this. And he was so lucky to have—

The instant her eyes shifted from him to something that startled and then frightened her, he was energized with purpose, his body responding as any bonded male’s would, his flesh prepared to defend and protect even if whatever it was turned out to be naught but a gentle, scampering deer.

That was the extent of his reaction, however, his instincts seeking to mobilize that which could no longer be moved. He did, however, manage to turn his head ever so slightly and shift his eyes.

Such that he could behold his killer—assuming nature didn’t move more swiftly than the Brother Vishous. And given that gun, what were the chances of that.

In Xcor’s peripheral vision, he took note as Layla put her palms forth and slowly rose to her feet. “Vishous, please don’t—”

Xcor found his voice once more. “Not in front of her. Do not do it in front of her if you have any decency. Send her away and then dispatch me.”

Layla crumpled back down beside him, spreading her arms wide to shield him. “He’s a good male. Please, I beg of you—”

With supreme effort and pain that nearly made him pass out, Xcor twisted to meet the diamond eyes of the Brother, and as the two stared at each other, Layla continued to plead for a life that was not worth saving.

“Stop, my love,” Xcor said to her. “And go now to leave us. I am at peace, and he will do what brings peace to the Brotherhood. I am guilty of treason and this will wipe the stain of me clean from your life and theirs. My death frees you, my love. Embrace the gift that destiny has brought us both.”

Layla brushed her cheeks again. “Please, Vishous. You told me you understood. You said—”

“Just not in front of her,” Xcor demanded. “A criminal’s last request. An opportunity for you to prove yourself as a better male than I.”

Vishous’s voice was loud as thunder compared to the weakness of Xcor’s own. “I already know I’m better than you, asshole.” The Brother looked at Layla. “Get out of here. Now.”

“Vishous, I beg of you—”

“Layla. I’m not going to ask you again. You know exactly what you stand to lose and I suggest you think of those young of yours. You got enough fucking problems of your own right now.”

Xcor closed his eyes in sorrow. “I am so sorry, my love. That I e’er drew you into this.”

There had been only two females of significance in his life: his mahmen, who had forsaken him at every turn … and his Chosen, whom he had hurt on too many levels to count.

He had been a curse to them both, as it turned out.

“Vishous, please,” Layla begged. “You told me he wasn’t evil. You said—”

“I lied,” the Brother muttered. “I fucking lied. So leave. Now.”

NINETEEN

Trez came back to consciousness to find himself staring up at a flat ceiling that was painted white. Wait … weren’t all ceilings flat by definition? Not really, he supposed. Not the textured kind people had favored in the seventies, those ones that looked like old-fashioned white boiled icing. And then there were the ceilings of caves, he supposed … rather bumpy. Theaters often had descending steps in elevation that helped with acoustics—

Hold up, what was the question?

Blinking, he became aware of a pounding headache in the rear of his skull—

His brother’s face, as familiar as his own, came into his line of vision and cut off the ceiling debate.

“How you doin’?” iAm asked.

“What happened? Why did I—” Trez went to sit up—but then stopped that nonsense when the back of his head pounded. “Fuck me this hurts.”

Yeah, and then there was the place where his gun had bitten into the lower part of his spine. He should really start holstering that damn thing under his arm. Then again, when was the last time he’d pulled a case of the Victorian vapours?

“Are you okay?” iAm prompted.

“No, I’m not fucking okay.” Right, at least he knew the part of his cerebral cortex that supplied f-bombs was still functioning properly. “I don’t know what hit me. I came around the corner and—”

Just as he remembered the female in the doorway to iAm’s office, he jerked upright and ripped his head around … and there she was, standing against the wall of this squat corridor, her arms around her middle, her face all tense.

Selena’s face all tense.

“Leave us,” Trez said hoarsely.

She bowed a little. “Yes, of course, I—”

“Not you. Him.”

iAm put his face in the way so Trez couldn’t see her. “Listen, we need to—”

“Get out of here!” As Trez snapped, the female recoiled, and that was probably the only thing that could have chilled him even a little. “Just … let me talk to her.”

The female … his Selena … put her palms out. “I really should go, I feel bad enough already.”

Trez closed his eyes and swayed. Her voice. That voice. It was the one that had been haunting him, night and day, the exact pitch and intonation, the slight huskiness, the—

“Is he going to pass out again?” she asked.

“No,” iAm muttered. “Unless, of course, I hit him with a pan. Which is really appealing at the moment.”

Trez popped his lids open again because he was suddenly paranoid. “Is this a dream? Am I dreaming?”

The female looked back and forth between him and his brother as if she were praying iAm manned up to answer that one.

“I just want to talk to you,” Trez said to her.

“Wait for us in the kitchen for a sec,” iAm told the female. And before Trez could get on his high horse again, the guy cut in, “She’ll talk to you, but only if she wants to. I’m not going to make her, and whatever the outcome on that, you’re going to listen to me first.”

The female took a last look at Trez and then nodded and walked off.

“Who is she?” Trez asked in a broken voice. “Where did she come from?”

“It’s not Selena.” iAm got to his feet and paced around. Which amounted to little more than three short steps one way, a tight turn, and two back toward Trez. “She’s not your female.”

“She’s Selena—”

“No, according to her résumé …” iAm ducked into his office, leaned over his desk, and picked up a single sheet of paper. “Her name is Therese, and she’s just moved to Caldwell. She’s looking for a waitress job as she puts down roots here.”

As his brother held the thing out to him, Trez stared at the eight-and-a-half-by-eleven and wondered if he could remember how to read.

“I don’t understand,” he mumbled. “She looks exactly like Selena. And her voice …”

He took the résumé and his eyes bounced around, playing paintball with the words, only hitting some. Detroit, Michigan. Thirty-four years old. Had had a number of jobs through the decades, some in IT, some in food service. No mention of her bloodline, but she wouldn’t have put that on the thing if she were using it to apply for human jobs as well. Clearly, though, she had to be a civilian as opposed to a member of the glymera, because aristocrats didn’t let their unmated daughters apply for waitressing jobs.