“Eliana,” Gregor entreated.

He wanted so badly to say, “Don’t go,” or “Please stay,” or some version thereof, but under the shrewd, watchful eye of Céline, he didn’t dare. He might have been the gangster in the room, but between these two goddamn women he was as helpless as a newborn kitten. Each of them had one of his testicles gripped firmly in a delicate, ruthless hand.

At the door Eliana paused. She looked back at him over her shoulder, and something in her face softened. She glanced down at the painting she’d left on his desk, and he realized she’d done it on purpose, as an offering. If she’d taken it with her, he’d never have seen her again.

“Gregor,” she said.

His heart leapt at the unexpected softness in her voice, and he held his breath, waiting. She smiled, and Gregor thought he’d never seen anything quite so sad in his entire life.

“I’ll send the courier by for the…” She trailed off and glanced at Céline, then back at him. “Packages. Does next Monday give you enough time?”

He nodded, and she nodded back. She glanced down at the carpet and then quickly back to his face. Her expression now was unreadable, her voice cool, but he imagined both held the palest echo of relief. “Thank you.”

Then she turned and disappeared through the door, leaving him with a curious emptiness resounding through his chest.

“There’s something so bizarre about that girl,” snapped Céline when she was gone. She cooed at the still-terrified dog, stroking its little bearlike head until it stopped trembling and licked her hand. “Even Gigi can tell. I wish you wouldn’t let her come around anymore. She really gets under my skin.”

Mine, too, Gregor thought as he stared at the empty doorway. Mine, too.

“He’s getting worse, Constantine.”

It was a statement of fact, not an accusation, but for Constantine the two were indistinguishable when the subject was Demetrius. Guilt made him hyperaware of every nuance of voice; even the most innocuous comment regarding their brother Demetrius—universally called D—set him on edge.

“He’ll be fine,” Constantine snapped, folding massive arms across a broad chest. “He’s just having a bad day.”

Lix snorted his opinion of that.

They stood together in the cool blue shadows at the back of the low-ceilinged sparring chamber, observing the crowd of young Legiones—the lower caste of soldiers—gathered in a cheering circle around two men who stood in the middle of an elevated boxing ring. One of the bare-chested men in the ring was now spread-eagle on the mat, unconscious. The other—a beast of a male with chest and arms covered in tattoos that rippled with every movement of impossibly huge muscles—stood over his opponent, panting, looking down at the still body with crazed eyes, bared teeth, and all the geniality of a shark in a feeding frenzy.

“You can’t deny his dreams are getting worse,” Lix persisted as they watched D wave another opponent into the ring. He’d already been through three, and the training session had only started twenty minutes ago. Two Legiones dragged the unconscious male out of the ring, leaving a long smear of crimson on the white tarp. Another young male took his place, a tall, sinewy soldier nearing his twenty-fifth birthday who the Bellatorum were considering inviting to join their ranks if he survived the Transition. Which most likely he wouldn’t; less than one percent of them ever did.

The Transition hung like a hangman’s noose over the head of every half-Blooded Ikati. When fused with its human counterpart, Ikati blood was warped from the initial purity that allowed their unique characteristics to flourish. Twenty-five years to the minute from birth, and the half-Blood lived…or didn’t. Just like a clock ticking down to zero hour.

Constantine remained silent. He knew what Lix had said about D’s dreams was true because he’d heard the screams with his own ears. An almost nightly occurrence, D’s dreams—more correctly nightmares, though he never said what they were about—weren’t the dreams of ordinary people.

D was Gifted with Foresight, a talent he’d had since birth that had of late been torturing him with visions of which he refused to speak. It had everyone on edge, and not just because his screams echoed eerily through the winding corridors of the catacombs, fading to silence around dark corners while the children in bed pulled the sheets over their heads.

The things D dreamed came true. And if his terrified screams were any indication, something awful was headed their way.

“Does he ever talk to you about her?” Lix murmured, watching as D’s new sparring partner began to circle him in the ring. D stood still, hands with taped knuckles lowered to his sides, tracking his opponent’s every move with only his eyes. They shone with a murderous light.

“He barely speaks to me at all anymore,” replied Constantine. Then, lower, “Not that he was much of a talker before, but now he’s perfected the silent treatment into an art form.”

Lix nodded his agreement. Then, as D threw a vicious punch that slammed his opponent into the ropes where he clung, wavering for a moment, before he fell face-first onto the tarp and lay still while the crowd went wild, he said, “He’s going to kill one of them, Constantine. He’s supposed to be training them, but it’s like he wants to kill them. We have to do something about this. We’ve got to get Celian involved.”

Constantine watched as D, who’d apparently had enough of beating trainees senseless for the moment, jumped the ropes and leapt down from the ring. The crowd, still cheering, gave him a wide berth as he stalked away into the gloom of the far corridor and then broke into a run. After only a few long strides, he was swallowed by blackness.

The gathered Legiones began to disperse and make their way out of the sparring chamber and into one of the dozen winding tunnels that fed it. The catacombs where the Roman colony made their home included miles and miles of those tunnels, deep beneath the city, dark and chilly and scented faintly of mold and more strongly of the incense that burned everywhere in gold censers to mask it.

“Maybe it’s not anyone else he wants to kill, Lix.”

Even in the semi-gloom that was the constant of the catacombs, he saw Lix blanch. He turned to Constantine, his long hair falling, as always, into his eyes. “He would never…do that,” he said, scandalized. “It’s forbidden.”

“You know as well as I do that D doesn’t give a damn about rules. Ours, the gods’, anyone’s. I hope you’re right, though, brother.” He sighed, feeling a lead weight settle into the center of his chest. “I really hope you’re right. But we’re going to have to do something about him soon—before we find out the hard way.”

The therapeutic waters that fed the underground baths of the thermae were bubbling hot and faintly salty, as always, but for D they provided little relief. His muscles would be helped, but that wasn’t where the real ache lay. He settled his heavy bulk lower into the water, dragged his hands across his face, and closed his eyes.

Eliana.

Her image sprang to life beneath his lids. She was on the forefront of his mind every moment. Sleeping, waking, fighting, eating…he carried her with him always, and the need for her was like a sickness that had spread to every organ, eating him alive.

There would be no relief from it until he found her…or died.

He’d been in love with Eliana so passionately and for so long that the pain of her disappearance three years ago had transfigured itself into a morbid kind of obsession, burning and black and weirdly alive, like an agonizing cancer in his gut that was slowly devouring him from the inside out.