She looked mortified. “Of course I don’t like it—”

He cut her off again with a kiss, this one harder and more demanding. He pressed his body against hers, rolled half on top of her, and when she wrapped her arms around his neck he took both her wrists in his hands and pressed them down to the pillow above her head and held them there, captive.

“Truth with a capital T, remember?” he said, his voice husky, eyes burning into hers.

She managed to look outraged, for about two seconds. Then she dissolved into laughter. “Okay. Maybe I like it a little bit.”

“Better,” he said, smiling now. He released her wrists and brushed a lock of blue hair from her cheek. He tugged at the strand. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about this.”

Her hand flew to her head. “What? You don’t like it?”

“Actually…I do. But you told me before you changed it to blue with black to match your mood. Your usual mood.”

“And?”

“Well”—he brushed his lips across her forehead—“what if that’s not going to be your usual mood anymore? Would you change the color?”

She blinked up at him, suddenly coy. “How do you know it’s not going to be my usual mood anymore?”

“Because I plan to ensure it, that’s why.”

A smile spread over her face. “Well, in that case—yes, I’d change the color.”

“To what?”

The smile grew dazzling. When she really smiled, she smiled with everything she had. D’s heart soared.

“I don’t know,” his beloved said. “What’s the color of happiness?”

They stared at each other in silence, the future unfurling between them like the loosed strings of a kite.

“You know things are about to get worse,” he whispered. “Things are about to get very bad for us all.”

She nodded, her smile fading. “I know. First the Expurgari, now that group, Section Thirty…”

D stiffened in anger, remembering what the Queen had shown him, Eliana’s memories like a sped-up movie inside his own mind. He’d already taken his revenge on that bastard Keshav for putting his hands on her—he didn’t think he’d be walking anytime soon—but the images of the cold-eyed German doctor were what really stuck with him. Looking into those eyes was like looking into an abyss. His dream had revealed nothing of the German.

“You think they’re another religious outfit?”

Eliana exhaled and shook her head. “Worse—corporate.”

“How is that worse?”

“Religious fanatics, I can almost understand. They’re following a belief, and however warped that belief might be, it’s still based on something they think of as sacred. It makes them more predictable, their goals more clear. They want us dead because they think we’re evil; it’s cut-and-dry, simple. We know what to expect. But with a corporation, only one thing matters…”

“Profit,” he realized, with a slow, sinking feeling in his gut.

Her eyes, gazing up at him, grew troubled. “If they’re after us because of money, because they think somehow they can profit from us…” She swallowed. “The Expurgari just want us to die. But there are far, far worse things than death, Demetrius.”

He didn’t reply, only gazed back at her, knowing without doubt she was right. Worse than death was life in chains. Worse than death was bondage. Slavery. Being captive guinea pigs.

Greed was one of the seven deadly sins for a very good reason.

“I know.” His voice grew soft. “Like being apart from you, for instance.”

She started. “Something you’d like to tell me? Is that what your dream was about?”

He drew her even nearer, cupped her face in his hand, and looked into her eyes. “Baby girl, you’re just going to have to trust me about the dream. Can you do that?”

“Oh,” she breathed, her eyes locked on his, “I think I need more practice with the trust thing…maybe we need to be in a shower for that. It worked pretty well at Alexi’s.” Her lips curved into a slow, mischievous smile.

He smiled back. Then in one lightning-fast move, he tore the covers off both of them and threw Eliana over his shoulder.

There was little time to prepare for what lay ahead. With the death of the pope and the slaughter at the Vatican, the entire world now knew of their existence, and the entire world was in an uproar because of it.

The future, dark and uncertain, loomed large. But right now, here in this little oasis in the middle of an ocean of insanity, D and Eliana had each other, and they needed more practice at a little thing called trust. So with a sharp smack on her behind that had her cursing in outrage, D set off for the bathroom with his woman over his shoulder, kicking and squealing, pummeling his back with her fists.

“Resistance is futile, principessa.” He gave her another smack, a broad smile on his face. “How many times do I have to tell you that? Resistance is futile.”

Damn, but he loved his Gift. And her, the spitfire on his shoulder. His future bride.

He loved her most of all.

The serum had been removed, the lab that produced it totally destroyed, along with all their records. It had been shipped ahead in the large freight containers with the cache of weapons. The cases of money he wasn’t taking any chances with and had them loaded onto the yacht he’d rented that was currently en route to their final destination.

Zion, land of gods, hidden deep, deep within the African rainforest, would have to wait. Eliana knew he planned the stronghold to be built along the banks of the Congo, so he’d changed his mind and was headed to Spain.

He’d always wanted to see those Gothic cathedrals and Gaudi’s fabulist sculptures, watch the bullfights and drink sangria on a sun-drenched beach.

Meet a few sloe-eyed flamenco dancers and see if their screams outdid those of the cancan girls in Paris.

It was only him and the five others who’d helped him on Christmas Day now; naturally, Silas couldn’t be trusted. There in the pope’s private chambers, after the Swiss Guard lost their nerve en masse and fled from the sight of his bullet-riddled body regenerating itself, Caesar had ensured Silas met with the same end he’d so spectacularly failed to execute on him.

Caesar had slit his throat from ear to ear, and then he’d driven the blade of Silas’s own dagger straight through the back of his neck.

He died facedown, twitching and wheezing into a growing pool of his own blood.

Too bad, so sad, and good goddamn riddance.

The irony wasn’t lost on Caesar that his entire past had been defined by what he couldn’t do, and now his entire future would be defined by what only he couldn’t do, but everyone else on Earth could: die.

His body rejected death the way a vending machine rejects a torn bill. It took it in, assessed it for a moment, and then spat it unceremoniously back out.

No, we’re not having any of that nonsense, thank you. Try again.

In the last week, he’d tested it himself. Drowning, electrocution, a high fall, an even higher dose of prescription medication, hanging, a straight shot to the brain with a gun—just in case the first shooting was a fluke—seppuku, and the ever-popular self-immolation. Nothing worked. He would actually die, quite painfully, too, but in moments his body would simply regenerate, and that, as they say, was that.

Really, could anything be better?

He’d believed himself unblessed. UnGifted. Everyone had. But now Caesar understood he’d been given the greatest Gift of them all.

Immortality.

He couldn’t Shift to Vapor, he couldn’t Shift to panther, but so what? He also couldn’t cease to be.

Oh, happy, happy day.

Oh, beautiful day!

As Caesar stood at the helm of the yacht next to the swarthy hired captain—who of course would also have to die at the end of this trip—feeling the salt wind sting his face, the wind whip his hair into his eyes, he knew that all his tomorrows would be even better.