John did not struggle to find his place, his movement, his echoing of the larger group.

Sure as if he had done this before, he fell immediately into the groove.

And then they were all going forward.

Together. As one body—

Without warning, there was a great change in acoustics, the booming voices blooming in a vast open space and echoing around, the chanting redoubling on itself, expanding … exploding. And just as abruptly, tears formed in John’s eyes and he blinked quickly but could not catch them. As he swayed along with the others, the tears landed on the tops of his bare feet.

But he was smiling.

In the strangest way, he felt like he’d come home.

He even somehow knew when he needed to stop even before someone’s hand on his shoulder halted him.

The chanting silenced, the tail ends of the voices trailing off. Both of his arms were clasped, and then he was led forth once again.

“Stairs,” Murhder said softly.

John took the marble steps one by one, and though his hood and his lowered head prevented him from seeing anything, he knew that he was being moved onto a stage. And even before he was positioned so that his toes touched something and he was left by himself, his mind told him that it was the wall.

The Wall.

Deep within the Black Dagger Brotherhood’s sanctum sanctorum, Murhder stepped off the dais and stood shoulder to shoulder with his brothers, the whole lot of them staring up at John Matthew as he faced the great wall of names. Every single member of the Brotherhood who had served had had his name inscribed in the marble expanse in the Old Language, and the torchlight that glowed in the subterranean cave played over the beautiful characters.

Breathing in deep, he braced himself for the appearance of the Scribe Virgin—except no, the mother of the race would not be coming. Wrath would be performing her part in the ceremony, and sure enough the King was being led up to the marble steps by Tohr—

All at once, a brilliant light blazed through the cave, so bright that it had a white-hot blast to it. Everyone covered their eyes, and even John, who was still hooded and facing away from its source, had to duck his head into his shoulder.

When the blast of illumination faded some, Murhder dropped his arm, looked over his shoulder … and gasped along with many of the others.

A male figure had materialized at the entrance of the cave, his body glowing from within and without, an aura surrounding his naked body. Draped in chains of gold, from his neck to his nipples to his hips, he had long hair that was blond and black, and an unearthly beauty that defied description.

But none of that was what truly awed.

Rising behind his shoulders, a magnificent pair of iridescent angel wings glimmered with all the colors of the rainbow.

He did not walk down to the Brotherhood. He floated over the marble aisle that led down to the dais.

Next to Murhder, Vishous slapped a palm on his face and cursed.

Rhage chuckled. “So this is who your mom picked as a successor, huh.”

“Yeah, I always knew she hated us,” V muttered.

Over by the steps, Tohr leaned into the King, clearly telling him what had arrived and Wrath smiled slowly.

“Yes, I know,” the King said.

The angel passed by the row of brothers, and paused in front of Vishous. In a low voice, he whispered, “Who’s your daddy?”

Vishous rolled his eyes. “Give it a rest.”

The angel blew a kiss and then looked at Murhder.

Abruptly, the angel’s voice entered Murhder’s mind, “Worry not over your female’s future. I have her in hand.”

Murhder’s eyes flared as he recoiled. “What?”

But the angel merely continued on, stopping in front of the King. With a deep bow, Tohr stepped aside, leaving the sacred male to escort the race’s leader up to the great wall’s altar.

In a clear, deep voice, the angel called out, “Who proposes this male?”

“We do,” Tohr answered. “Tohrment, son of the Black Dagger warrior Hharm.”

Murhder shook himself back into focus and spoke up as well. “And Murhder, son of the Black Dagger warrior Murhder.”

“Who rejects this male?”

When there was only silence, the angel spoke again. “On the basis of testimony from Wrath son of Wrath, sire of Wrath, and upon the proposal by Tohrment, son of Hharm, and Murhder, son of Murhder, I find this male before me, John Matthew, blooded son of Darius, adopted son of Tohrment, an appropriate nomination unto the Black Dagger Brotherhood. As it is within my power and discretion to do so, and as it is suitable for the protection of the race, I hereby give you permission to begin.”

Wrath nodded. “Turn John. Unveil yourself.”

Up at the wall, John pivoted around and removed his robe, keeping his head still lowered as the folds fell to the marble at his feet. As Murhder watched, he remembered his own induction and had to blink away tears. Never had he thought he’d stand here again. And how wonderful this all was.

“Lift thine eyes,” Wrath ordered.

The inductee slowly followed the command—only to gasp at the sight of the cave and the Brotherhood before him. His gaze then went to the altar on which an ancient skull was placed, a tangible representation of the great history of the warriors serving the race.

“Step back against the wall. Grasp that which fits your hands.”

John Matthew did as he was told, locking fists on two pegs that were mounted in the wall, his position framed by the lines of names.

Wrath brought up his dagger arm, revealing an ancient weapon that was locked on his entire forearm and hand. Made of silver, the flexible glove had barbs at the knuckles, and inside the curl of his fist was the handle of a black dagger.

Tohr led him over to the altar and positioned the King’s other wrist above the silver cup that was mounted in the top of the skull. With a vicious streak of the blade, Wrath cut himself and let his sacred pure blood flow into the reservoir.

“My flesh,” the King said. Then he licked his wound closed, put the blade down, and approached John.

After Tohr made sure he was in correct alignment, the King grabbed onto the inductee’s jaw, wrenched the male’s head to the side, and bit him in the neck, clearly sparing none of his strength. In response, John’s body spasmed from the pain, but he gritted his teeth and did not so much as exhale, his hands using the pegs to control his response. Like a Brother should.

Wrath stepped back and wiped his mouth, smiling with aggression. “Your flesh.”

Then he curled up a fist within the silver glove, drew back his powerful arm, and pounded the barbs into John’s pec … directly over the scar that was already present there.

As if John had previously been through the ceremony.

What a birthmark, Murhder thought.

Tohrment was next, scoring himself with the black dagger, mingling his blood with the King’s in the sacred skull cup, biting John, and brutally marking the male’s chest in the same place Wrath had.

And now it was Murhder’s turn as the second nominator.

Trading places with Tohrment, he accepted the glove and slipped it onto his own hand. Over at the altar, he picked up the black dagger, the candlelight flashing on the blade. For a moment, his eyes clouded once more with tears.

He thought of Sarah, waiting for him when this was through.