Back at the Brotherhood’s training center, Assail stared down his body at the dark-haired human who was closing the gash on his calf and ankle with a needle and thread. When the man made no response and did not slow in his ministrations, Assail rolled his eyes.

“I said—”

“Yeah, yeah.” The guy poked his needle through skin once more and pulled until the black thread was taut. “You’ve made yourself perfectly clear. The only thing I’ll say back is that MRSA doesn’t give a fuck if you’re a vampire or a human, and leaving a six-inch open wound on your leg is the definition of stupid.”

“I heal rather fast.”

“Not that fast, buddy. And can you stop twitching? I feel like I’m working on a goldfish in water.”

Actually, he could not. His extremities had their own ideas at the moment, and as he checked the wall clock and calculated how little time there was before dawn, the trembling got worse—

The door to the room swung open and his cousins came back in.

“I thought you didn’t want to watch,” Assail muttered. And indeed, Ehric, the one on the left, was studiously not looking at the fix-it job.

As proficient a killer as the male was, his stomach turned squeamish at clinical matters, a contradiction that could be a source of amusement—but was not, currently.

Indeed, Assail was not in the mood for any manner of levity. He hadn’t consented to be brought here to this facility of the Brotherhood’s for treatment. What he had wanted to do was go back to his house upon the Hudson and scratch the itch that was quickly turning to a roar.

“When shall you be finished?” he demanded.

“I’m X-raying your shoulder next.”

“There is no need.”

“Where’s your medical degree from?”

Assail cursed and lay back flat upon the gurney. The medical chandelier above him, with its brilliant lights and its microscope arm, was like something out of a science-fiction movie. And as he closed his eyes, it was impossible not to remember coming here with his Marisol, right after he had gotten her free from Benloise . . . the pair of them passing through the extensive gating system, heading underground, entering this stellar facility.

He tried to train his mind elsewhere, however. That thought destination was simply too painful to bear.

“I shall need to depart prior to dawn,” he blurted. “And I want our weapons, phones, and other personal articles returned to us promptly.”

The doctor did not reply until he had put in his last stitch and tied a tight little knot at the base of Assail’s ankle. “You mind telling your boys to step out again for a minute?”

“Why?”

Ehric spoke up. “Zsadist wants us in here. And I am disinclined to argue with the Brother, as I am unarmed and desirous of retaining the blood supply to my head.”

The doctor sat back on his rolling stool, and for the first time, Assail read the stitching on the human’s white coat: DR. MANUEL MANELLO, CHIEF OF SURGERY. There was a crest and the name of a hospital system below the black cursive writing.

“The Brothers brought you in from the other species for this night?” Assail asked. “How is that possible?”

Dr. Manello looked down at his name. “Old coat. And old habits die hard—don’t they.”

As the human met Assail in the eye, Assail frowned. “Whatever do you mean.”

“Do you consent for me to speak candidly in front of these two?”

“They are my blood.”

“Is that a yes?”

“You humans are so odd.”

“And you can cut that superior tone, asshole. I’m married to one of your kind, ’kay? And excuse me for thinking you might not want to be called out for your drug addiction in front of a peanut gallery—whether or not they’re related to you.”

Assail opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I know not of what you speak.”

“Oh, really?” The man snapped off his bright blue gloves and put his elbows on his knees, leaning in. “You’re fidgeting on my table like you have a case of the hives. You’re in a cold sweat, and not because you’re in any pain. Your pupils are dilated. And I’m pretty sure if I give you your coat back, the first thing you’re going to do is make an excuse to go to the bathroom and use the rest of the coke that was in the vial I took out of the inside chest pocket. How’m I doing? Reading your mind correctly? Or are you going to lie like a motherfucker.”

“I do not have a drug problem.”

“Uh-huh. Sure you don’t.”

As the human got to his feet, Assail did some studious ignoring of his own—no way was he going to look over at his cousins: He could feel their twin stares on him quite well enough, thank you rather much.

At least neither of them said anything.

“Look, it’s no skin off my back.” Dr. Manello went over to a worktable on which a computer, some pens, and a pad rested. Bending down, he scribbled something and tore the top sheet off, folding it in half. “Here’s my number. When you hit bottom, call me and we can help detox you. In the meantime, be aware that prolonged use of cocaine leads to all kinds of fun things, like panic attacks, paranoia, and even full-blown psychosis. You’re already in the weight-loss category, and as I mentioned, you’re twitchy as fuck. Your nose has also been running the entire time so I’m pretty sure your septum is deviated.”

Assail glanced at the wastepaper basket beside him and wondered how all those Kleenexes had ended up in it. Certainly, it could not have been . . . huh. He had a wad of tissue in his hand he had been unaware of holding.

“I am not addicted.”

“So take this and toss it.” The human held the paper out. “Burn it. Roll the thing up and use it to snort your next fix. Like I said, I don’t care.”

When Assail accepted what was offered, the doctor turned away as if he’d already forgotten about the whole interaction. “So how about that X-ray? And the Brothers will tell you when you can go. Departure is not a voluntary thing, as I’m sure you get.”

Assail made a show of crushing the paper and pitching it into the trash with the tissues. “Yes,” he said dryly. “I am rather aware of precisely how involuntary all of this is.”

Vishous drove the food-service truck back to the compound. Like a bat out of hell.

The thing hadn’t been built for speed, and its piss-poor handling reminded him of an old airplane trying to take flight off of a dirt runway—everything vibrated, to the point where you would have sworn you were one sneeze away from total, molecular disintegration. But he kept his foot down on the accelerator—which was what you did when you had, ohhhhhhh, about twenty-five minutes of true darkness left and at least thirty-seven miles of driving to cover. And you really didn’t want to abandon possible slayer evidence at the side of the road.

Still, worse came to worst, he and Tohr, who V had insisted ride back with him, could pull over and dematerialize right to the steps of the mansion in a nanosecond: Butch had just texted to report that he’d made it to the training center safely with Xcor. So no one had to worry about Tohr acting out on some bright idea that involved blood-shed and a body bag with the Bastard’s name on it.

At least not during these next ten minutes, anyway.

“You saved our lives when the Omega showed up.”

Vishous glanced across the front seat. Tohrment had been silent in the shotgun position since the pair of them had driven off the campus about twenty minutes after the Omega had up and disappeared.

“And I wasn’t going to kill Xcor.”

“You sure about that, true?”

When Tohr didn’t say anything further, V thought, Yeeeeeeah, right you weren’t gonna murder the motherfucker.

“It’s not like I don’t get it,” V muttered as a dip in the highway helped push the food-service truck’s speed north of seventy miles an hour. “We all want to off him.”

“I performed a tracheotomy on Wrath. While he was dying in my lap after fucking Xcor shot him.”