John had never put on the ring and he had never read the entries.

There were a lot of reasons, but the main one for shutting both away was that the male he considered his father was not Darius. It was another Brother. A Brother who had been MIA for eight months now.

If he was going to wear any ring, it would be one with Tohrment, son of Hharm’s crest on it. As a way to honor the male who had meant so much to him in such a short time.

But that wasn’t happening. Tohr was likely dead, no matter what Wrath said, and in any event had never been his father.

Not wanting to sink into a mood, John pushed himself up off the mattress and lurched into the bathroom. The shower helped focus him, and so did getting dressed.

The trainee class wasn’t meeting tonight, so he was going to log some more hours down in the office and then meet up with Qhuinn and Blay. He was hoping there was a lot of paperwork to do. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing his best friends tonight.

The three of them were going across town to the…God, to the mall.

It was Qhuinn’s idea. As most of them were. According to the guy, John’s wardrobe needed a style injection.

John looked down at his Levi’s and his white Hanes T-shirt. The only flash he sported was his running shoes: a pair of Nike Air Maxes in black. And even they weren’t very flashy.

Maybe Qhuinn had a point that John was a fashion victim, but come on. Who did he have to impress?

The word that popped into his head had him cursing and rearranging himself: Xhex.

Someone knocked on his door. “John? You there?”

John quickly tucked in the T-shirt and wondered why Phury would be seeking him out. He’d been keeping up with his studies and doing well on the hand-to-hand. Maybe it was about the work he did in the office?

John opened the door. Hi, he signed in American Sign Language.

“Hey. How’s you?” John nodded and then frowned as the Brother switched into ASL. I was wondering if you might do me a favor.

Anything.

Cormia is…well, she’s had some challenges being on this side. I think it would be great if she had someone to spend a little time with, you know… someone who’s tight in the head and low-key. Uncomplicated. So, do you think you could do the honors? Just talk to her or take her around the house or… whatever. I’d do it but…

It’s complicated, John finished in his head.

It’s complicated, Phury signed.

An image of the silent blond Chosen popped into John’s mind. He’d watched Cormia and Phury studiously not look at each other for the past few months, and had wondered- like everyone else, no doubt-whether they’d sealed the deal.

John didn’t think so. They were far, far too awkward still.

Would you mind, Phury signed. I figure she must have questions or… I don’t know, things to talk about.

Truthfully, the Chosen didn’t seem as if she wanted to be hung out with. She always kept her head down at meals and never said a thing while she ate only food that was white. But if Phury asked, how could John say no? The Brother always helped him on his fighting stances and answered questions outside of the classroom and was the type of person you wanted to do nice things for because he was kind to everyone.

Sure, John replied. I’d be happy to.

Thanks. Phury clapped him on the shoulder with satisfaction, like he’d plugged a hole. I’ll tell her to meet you in the library after First Meal.

John looked down at what he was wearing. He wasn’t sure the jeans routine was fancy enough, but his closet was only stuffed with more of the same.

Maybe it was a good thing he and his boys were malling it. And too bad they hadn’t gone already.

The tradition in the Lessening Society was that once you were inducted, you were known only by the first letter of your last name.

Mr. D should have been known as Mr. R. R as in Roberts. Thing was, the identity he’d been using when he’d been recruited had been Delancy. So Mr. D he had become, and he’d been known by that for the last thirty years.

Weren’t no nevermind, though. Names never did matter none.

Mr. D downshifted as he headed into a turn on Route 22, but going into third didn’t help him pull through the curve much. The Ford Focus had getup like a ninety-year-old. Kinda smelt like mothballs and flaky skin, too.

Caldwell, New York’s farm alley was a stretch of about fifty miles of cornfields and cow pastures and while he putt-putt -putted through it, he found himself thinking about pitchforks. He’d killed his first person with one. Back in Texas when he was fourteen. His cousin, Big Tommy.

Mr. D had been right proud of himself for getting away with that murder. Being small and appearing defenseless had been the ticket. Good ol’ Big Tommy had been a rough-neck, with ham hands and a mean streak, so when Mr. D had run screaming to his mama with a beat-in face, everyone had believed his cuz had been in a killing rage and deserved what he’d got. Hah. Mr. D had tracked Big Tommy into the barn and riled him up but good for to get himself the fat lip and black eye necessary to argue self-defense. Then he’d taken the pitchfork he’d propped up against a stall beforehand and gotten to work.

He’d just wanted to know what it felt like to kill a human. The cats and the possums and the raccoons he’d trapped and tortured had been okay, but they weren’t no human.

The deed was harder to do than he’d thought. In the movies, pitchforks just went right into people like a spoon to soup, but that was a lie. The tines of the thing had got tangled in Big Tommy’s ribs so bad to where Mr. D had had to brace his foot on his cousin’s hip to get the leverage to yank the fork out. Second thrust had gone into the stomach, but got jammed again. Probably in the spine. More with the foot bracing. By the time Big Tommy stopped baying like a wounded pig, Mr. D was puffing the sweet, hay-dust air of the barn like there was too little of it to go around.

But it hadn’t been no total bust. Mr. D had really liked the changing expressions on his cousin’s face. First there had been anger, the stuff that got Mr. D hit. Then disbelief. Then horror and terror at the end. As Big Tommy had coughed up blood and gasped, his eyes had peeled with righteous fear, the kind your mama always wanted you to have for the Lord. Mr. D, the runt of the family, the little guy, had felt seven feet tall.

It had been his first taste of power and he’d wanted it again, but the police had come and there been a lot of talk in town and he’d forced himself to be good. A couple of years passed before he did something like that again. Working at a meat-processing plant had done right by his knife skills, and when he was ready, he’d used the Big Tommy kind of setup again: bar fight with a bulldozer of a man. He’d madded up the bastard, then lured him over to a dark corner. A screwdriver, and not the kind you drank, did the job.

Things had been more complicated than with Big Tommy. Once Mr. D had started in on the bulldozer guy, he hadn’t been able to stop. And it was harder to pull self-defense out your pocket when the body done been stabbed seven times, dragged out behind a car, and dismembered like a machine that were broke.

Packing the dead guy into some Heftys, Mr. D’d taken his little buddy on a road trip, heading north. He’d used the guy’s own Pinto for to make the miles, and when the body started to smell, he’d found what passed for a hill in rural Mississippi, set the car on the incline facing backward, and given the front bumper a push. The trunk with its stinking cargo had gone smack into a tree. The bomb burst had sure been exciting.

After that he’d hitchhiked to Tennessee and then hung around doing odd jobs for room and board. He’d killed two more men before drifting up to North Carolina, where he’d almost been caught in the act.