Qhuinn had one blue eye and one green eye.

Now, there were blue and green eyes in the bloodline, of course. Just not one of each in the same person, and what do you know, deviation was not divine. The aristocracy refused to deal with defects, and Qhuinn’s folks were not only firmly entrenched in the glymera, as both were from the six founding families, but his father had even been leahdyre of the Princeps Council.

Everyone had hoped his transition would cure the problem, and either blue or green would have been acceptable. Yeah, well, denied. Qhuinn came out of his change with a big body and a pair of fangs and a craving for sex… and one blue eye and one green eye.

What a night. It had been the first and only time his father had lost it. The first and only time Qhuinn had ever been struck. And since then, no one in the family or on the staff had met his stare.

As he headed out for the night, he didn’t bother to say good-bye to his mother. Or to his older brother or sister.

He’d been sidelined in this family since the moment of his birth, set apart from them, benched by some kind of genetic injury. The only saving grace to his pitiable existence, according to the race’s value system, was the fact that there were two healthy, normal young in the family, and that the oldest male, his brother, was considered acceptable for breeding.

Qhuinn always thought his parents should have stopped at two, that to try for three healthy children was too much of a gamble with fate. He couldn’t change the hand that had been dealt, though. Couldn’t stop himself from wishing things were different, either.

Couldn’t keep from caring.

Even though the gala would just be a bunch of stuffy types wearing gowns and penguin suits, he wanted to be with his family during the glymera’s big end-of-summer ball. He wanted to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother and be counted for once in his life. He wanted to dress up like everyone else and wear his gold ring and maybe dance with some of the high-bred, unmated females. In the glittering crowd of the aristocracy, he wanted to be acknowledged as a citizen, as one among them, as a male, not a genetic embarrassment.

Not going to happen. As far as the glymera were concerned, he was less than an animal, no more suitable for sex than a dog.

Only thing missing was a collar, he thought, as he dematerialized to Blay’s.

Over to the east, in the Brotherhood’s mansion, Cormia waited in the library for the Primale and whoever it was he thought she should spend time with. As she paced from couch to club chair and back, she heard the Brothers talking in the foyer, discussing some upcoming fete of the glymera’s.

The Brother Rhage’s voice boomed. “That bunch of self-serving, prejudicial, light-in-the-loafer-”

“Watch the loafer references,” the Brother Butch cut in. “I have some on.”

“-parasitic, shortsighted motherfuckers-”

“Tell us how you really feel,” someone else said.

“-can take their fakakta ball and blow it out their asses.”

The king’s laugh was low. “Good thing you’re not a diplomat, Hollywood.”

“Oh, you gotta let me send a message. Better yet, let’s have my beast go as an emissary. I’ll have him rip up the place. Serve those bastards right for how they’ve treated Marissa.”

“You know,” Butch announced, “I’ve always thought you had half a brain. In spite of what everyone else has said.”

Cormia stopped pacing as the Primale appeared in the library ’s entrance, a glass of port in his hand. He was dressed in what he usually wore to First Meal when he wasn’t teaching: a pair of perfectly tailored slacks, cream tonight; a silk shirt, black per normal; and a black belt, the buckle of which was an elongated, golden H. His square-toed shoes were buffed to a shine and bore the same H as the belt.

Hermès, she thought she’d overheard him say at one meal.

His hair was loose, the waves breaking on his heavy shoulders, some in the front, some down the back. He smelled of what the Brothers called aftershave, as well as the coffee-scented smoke that lingered in his bedroom.

She knew precisely how his bedroom smelled. She had spent a single day lying beside him in his room, and everything about the experience had been unforgettable.

Although now was not the time to remember what had happened between them in that big bed of his when he’d been asleep. Hard enough to be in his company with a whole room between them and people out in the foyer. To add those moments when he’d pressed his naked body to hers-

"Did you enjoy your dinner?” he asked, taking a sip from his glass.

“Yes, indeed. And you, your grace?”

He was about to reply when John Matthew appeared behind him.

The Primale turned to the young male and smiled. “Hey, my man. Glad you’re here.”

John Matthew looked across the library at her and lifted his hand in greeting.

She was relieved by the choice. She didn’t know John any more than she knew the others, but he was quiet during meals. Which made his size not quite as intimidating as it would have been if he’d been loud.

She bowed to him. “Your grace.”

As she straightened, she felt his eyes on her and she wondered what he saw. Female or Chosen?

What an odd thought.

“Well, you two visit.” The Primale’s brilliant golden eyes shifted her way. “I’m on duty tonight, so I’ll be out.”

Fighting, she thought, with a stab of fear.

She wanted to rush over to him and tell him to be safe, but that was not her place, was it? She was barely his First Mate, for one thing. For another, he was the strength of the race and hardly needed her concern.

The Primale clapped John Matthew on the shoulder, nodded at her, and left.

Cormia leaned to the side so she could watch the Primale going up the staircase. His gait was smooth as he went along, in spite of his missing limb and his prosthesis. He was so tall and proud and lovely, and she hated that it would be hours before he would return.

When she glanced back, John Matthew was over at the desk, taking out a small pad and a pen. As he wrote, he held the paper close to his chest, his big hands curling up. He looked much younger than the size of his body suggested while he labored over his letters.

She’d seen him communicate with his hands on those rare occasions he had something to say at the table, and it dawned on her that perhaps he was a mute.

He turned the pad to her with a wince, as if he were not impressed with what he’d written. Do you like to read? This library has lots of good books.

She looked up into his eyes. What a lovely blue color they were. “What is the difficulty of your voice? If I may ask.”

No difficulty. I took a vow of silence.

Ah… she remembered. The Chosen Layla had said he’d taken such a pledge.

“I see you using your hands to talk,” she said.

American Sign Language, he wrote.

“It’s an elegant way of communicating.”

It gets the job done. He wrote some more and then flashed the pad again. I’ve heard the Other Side is very different. Is it true it’s all white?

She lifted the skirting of her robe as if to give an example of what is was like where she was from. “Yes. White is all we have.” She frowned. “All we need, rather.”

Do you have electricity?

“We have candles, and we do things by hand.”

Sounds old-fashioned.

She wasn’t sure what he meant by that. “Is that bad?”

He shook his head. I think it’s cool.

She knew the term from the dinner table, but still didn’t understand why temperature would have anything to do with an apparently positive value judgment.

“It’s all I know.” She went over to one of the tall, narrow doors that had glass panes. “Well, until now.”