Summoning the dredges of her life force, she pulled against the rope that locked her unto her passing, yanking with desperation, praying for the strength she needed to see him one last time.

In response, her eyelids lifted slowly and only partway, but yes, she saw her beloved, his head bowed, his body collapsed beside their bedding platform.

He was weeping openly.

Her mind commanded her hand to reach out, her mouth to open and speak, her head to turn unto him.

Nothing moved; nothing was uttered.

The only thing that came of it was a single tear that gathered itself at the corner of her eye, plumping up until it lost hold of her lash and slipped down her cold cheek.

And then it was done, her lids re-closing, her good-bye given, her strength done for.

At once, a white fog boiled up from the corners of the black field of her vision, the wafting rolls of it replacing the blindness that was wrought upon her. And from out of its curls and strange illumination, a door arrived to her, coming forward as if birthed from the cloud.

She knew without being told that if she opened it, if she reached out for the golden knob and opened the portal, she would be welcomed unto the Fade—and there would be no going back. She was also aware of a conviction that if she did not act within a prescribed time, she would lose her chance and become lost in the In Between.

Anha did not want to go.

She feared for Wrath without her. There were so few to be trusted at court—so many to be feared.

The legacy left by his father had been a rotten one. It had just not been evident at the start.

“Wrath…” she said unto the fog. “Oh, Wrath…”

The yearning tone in her voice echoed around, rebounding in her own ears as well as the white-on-white landscape.

Looking upward, she had some hope that the Scribe Virgin would appear in robed splendor and take pity on her.

“Wrath…”

How could she depart the Earth when so much of her would be left behind—

Anha frowned. The door before her seemed to have moved back. Unless she had imagined it?

No, it was retreating. Slowly, inexorably.

“Wrath!” she shouted. “Wrath, I don’t want to leave! Wraaaaaaaaaath—”

“Yes?”

Anha screamed as she wheeled around. At first, she had no idea what was confronting her: It was a little boy of mayhap seven or eight, black of hair, pale of eye, his body so painfully scrawny, her immediate thought was that she must feed him.

“Who ever are you?” she croaked. And yet she knew. She knew.

“You called me.”

She put her hand upon her lower belly. “Wrath …?”

“Yes, mahmen.” The young focused on the door with eyes that seemed ancient. “Are you going to cross unto the Fade?”

“I have no choice.”

“Untrue.”

“I am dying.”

“You do not have to.”

“I am losing the fight.”

“Drink. Drink of what is in your mouth.”

“I cannot. I cannot swallow.”

The cadence of their words was increasing, faster and faster, as if he knew she was running out of time … and by extension, he was, too.

Those eyes of his, such a pale green … and there was something strange about them. The pupils were too small.

“I cannot drink,” she repeated. Dearest Virgin Scribe, her mind was muddled beyond measure.

“Follow me and you will be able to.”

“How?”

He held out his hand to her. “Come with me. I shall take you back home, and then you will drink.”

She looked to the door. There was a pull to it, a draw that made her want to reach out and complete the cycle that had started as soon as she had fainted unto the floor.

But what she felt toward her son was stronger.

Turning away, she gave the portal her back. “Return me to your father?”

“Yes. Back to him and to me.”

Walking forward, she clasped the warm palm of her son instead of the knob of the door, and lead her on he did, escorting her out of the white fog, away from the death that had come for her, toward …

“Wrath?” she whispered into the darkness that claimed them both.

“Yes?”

“Thank you. I did not want to go.”

“I know, mahmen. And someday, you will repay me thus.”

“I will?”

“Yes. And all shall be well—”

She didn’t hear the rest of what he said: Just as a suction had pulled her under, a sudden explosion propelled her outward, the push hitting every part of her at the same moment. And then a great wind hit her in the face, stripping her hair back, rendering her breathless.

Anha knew not where she would end.

All she could do was pray that what had come to her was in fact her progeny … and not some demon to mislead her. The only thing worse than not going back would be to be cheated of an eternity with those whom she loved …

“Wrath!” she screamed into the maelstrom. “Wraaaaaaaaaaath…!”

THIRTY-ONE

Trez knew that none of this should be happening.

Not the way he’d taken Selena’s throat instead of her wrist. Not that crazy-ass shit on the bed. And really, totally not the fact that she was laid out on the fur rug, her br**sts bare to his eyes, her sex ready for the taking, her scent all about the aroused.

“Take me,” she said in the sexiest voice he had ever heard. “Teach me…”

Her stare was dead to marks on his, and on some level, he didn’t understand. She’d turned him down before, and then … now she wanted him?

Who cares. His erection throbbed. Who cares! Take her! She wants us!

Us. Like there were two parts of him. And actually, that wasn’t as moronic as it sounded. His c*ck was, in fact, talking on its own at this point.

“Selena,” he groaned. “Are you sure? I get any more of you, anywhere … and I’m not going to be able to stop.”

Hell, he was barely holding on to this pause.

She reached her hand out and ran it up his forearm, stroking him. “Yes.”

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he heard himself say.

Shut up! Sit down!

Great, now he was channeling Howard Stern’s father.

“Selena, I’m not … worthy of this.”

“I want you. And that makes you worthy.”

I told you not to be stupid, you moron.

Yup, that was defo Ben Stern.

Trez closed his lids and swayed, thinking it seemed a goddamn cruel twist of fate to be offered this tonight.

“Please,” she said.

Aw, f**k. Like he was going to say no to her?

When he opened his eyes again, he didn’t know how he was going to get them both through the sex in one piece. It was the worst possible moment to open this can of worms, but he wasn’t going to turn away from her: He was raw in places he didn’t like to acknowledge even to himself, and this was going to be a Band-Aid, something that was going to help him.

Even though only temporarily.

And at least he could do his damnedest to make it good for her.

Moving up on Selena, he braced his arms on either side of her undulating body and slowly, inexorably brought his mouth down until it was barely a millimeter above hers.

“No going back,” he growled.

She linked her arms behind his neck. “No regrets.”

Fair enough.

To seal the deal, he kissed her, brushing his mouth against hers, plying at her until she opened herself on her own. His tongue had already penetrated into her sex—but only by a degree. Hell, he’d shocked himself with that licking. Now? There was no holding back. He extended himself into her fully, fusing his mouth to hers, tilting his head to the side as he drew against her lips.

It was the strangest dichotomy. He was so ready to take her, prepared to split her legs wide and drive into that hot, wet place between her thighs—and yeah, he wanted to mark her internally with his come, leave his scent all over her inside and out, make it so no male dared to touch her, look at her.

Yet he had all the time in the world for this kissing.

Then again, she was sweet as ice wine, smooth as double-batch bourbon, heady as port. And he was drunk before he even lifted his head for a breath.

But he wasn’t going to stay forever. There was another place he wanted to get back to.

As he kissed his way down to her neck, he regretted the raw marks he’d left at her vein, and brushed them with his lips, once, twice.

“I’m sorry,” he said, roughly.

“Whatever for?”

He had to reclose his eyes as that husky voice of hers penetrated his haze—and promptly sexed him up even more. What had she asked … oh, yeah.

“I shouldn’t have been so rough.”

“Well, I didn’t mind being held down. At all.”

Annnnnnnnnnd didn’t that get him seeing double.

“Are you going to return to where you were?” she asked.

Fuck yeah. “Yes … right now. If you want—”

The undulation of her body and that moan was the best “I do” he’d ever heard.

Trying to keep a lid on his inner beast, he kissed his way over to her collarbone and then had to pull back and just look at her. Her br**sts were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen: She was perfectly built, her ni**les tight on top of the pale swells, her skin smooth, her breathing a taunt to his self-control.

He was as careful as he had been with her mouth.

Extending his tongue, he licked a circle around her nipple—and going by the way her hands speared into his hair, she approved.

“Oh…” she groaned.

He smiled before he sucked her in. Nursing at her, he eased onto his side and swept a hand down to her waist, her hip, her thigh … her inner thigh.

She gave way for him like water, her body loose and trusting as he suckled and inched his touch higher, and higher. He was almost at her core, and planning exactly where to stroke her when—

An image of a human invaded the space between his ears.

At first, he couldn’t figure out what the f**k his brain had coughed up … but then he recognized the random woman as one he’d nailed in the back of a car over a year ago. And the clarity was a killer. He saw everything in HD, the lipstick smeared on her front teeth, the mascara smudges under her eyes, her botched boob job where one of her ni**les was wall-eyed.

But none of that was the worst part.

No, the worst was the way her head moved up and back, up and back—because he was inside of her. His c*ck was in her sex, going in and out, the rhythm growing faster so that he could come and be done with the session.

His erection, the one that he was getting ready to slip into Selena, had been in a cesspool. Had been in … hundreds of dirty human women who hadn’t brought up safe sex or STD tests or whether or not they’d already contracted AIDS from letting sluts like him into their panties.

The fact that he couldn’t contract their diseases did not matter in the slightest.

Filthy was filthy.

Jerking back, he hissed and closed his eyes, trying to order an evac for all of that shit.

“Trez?”

“Sorry, I…” Shaking his head, he refocused on her br**sts—and felt nauseous from self-hatred. “I’m just—”

Another human woman tackled his brain, this one that real estate agent he’d done at the warehouse he’d just bought: He pictured her hands spread against the wall as he f**ked her from behind, her wedding ring flashing.

“I’m sorry,” he grunted. And then it was more with the head shaking—like the memories were objects he could knock off his table of consciousness. “I’m…”

In rapid succession, he saw the brunette he’d let suck him off in his office. The redhead he’d done with that blond in the club bathroom. The threesome with those college girls, the Goth at the cemetery, the waitress at Sal’s, the pharmacist when he’d gone to get Motrin one afternoon, the bartender at that place, the woman he’d seen at the car dealership …

Faster and faster, until the images were like bullets one after another after another, firing into his brain.

As he peeled off of Selena, it seemed both bizarre and totally appropriate that the only thing he could think of was that the Shadows were right.

Sex with humans had contaminated him.

And he was paying the price for the poison, right here and now.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Assail could only stare at his cousins. The pair of contract killers, drug dealers, and enforcers had not only washed up before the meal, they were now easing back in their seats and looking like they wanted to loosen their pants.

As Marisol’s grandmother got to her feet again, Assail shook his head. “Madam, you must enjoy this food on which you worked so diligently.”

“I am enjoying.” She headed back for the counter and cut more bread. “These boys, they need to eat more. Too thin, too thin.”

At this rate, she was going to turn his backups into—what was the expression, sofa potatoes?

And what do you know, even though those two males were stuffed, they took another slice of her homemade bread, and dutifully layered on the sweet butter.

Unbelievable.

Assail shifted his eyes over to Marisol. Her head was down, her fork testing the mettle of the food. She hadn’t eaten much, but she had opened the copper-colored pill bottle Doc Jane had given her and taken one of the gray-and-orange capsules inside.

He wasn’t the only one watching her. The eagle eyes of her grandmother were monitoring everything: Every move of that fork, each sip from her glass of water, all the non-eating that was going on.