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  Cael glanced up from his desk, rubbing his fingers over his eyes. “Zy.”

  One word, clipped, tired, but ready for another round of Too fucking bad, Zylan.

  Zylan pulled a metal folding chair from the back wall and plunked it down in front of Cael’s desk. When he dropped onto the cold metal, the chair squealed in age. Zy’s chest felt like someone had his heart and lungs in a death grip, allowing just enough blood and oxygen for him to survive, not tight enough for the sweet mercy of death. Nope, I’m not that lucky. It was just enough to be a constant reminder of the pressure cooker of a life he was born into.

  “Cael, we need to talk,” Zylan started, raising his hand to keep Cael from laying down the law again. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring Nerissa back to the compound as you ordered. This isn’t about that.”

  Cael frowned, leaning back in his seat, arms across his chest. “Oh? What’s this about then?”

  Zylan took a few deep breaths, blinking his eyes to clear his unshed tears. “Where the fuck do I even start?” After a moment’s thought and a deep breath, he said, “I’ll start with my full name—Prince Zylan-Nefarious Bloodletting.”

  Cael’s eyes widened. Clearly Cael had suspected ties, but not the kind that bound Zy by the throat. Little comments here and there throughout the years they’d spent together had told Zylan that Cael was close to the truth. “Heir to the throne of Sola-Nosfer?”

  Zylan nodded, a small pathetic smile forming on his face. “In the flesh, for now.”

  “How old are you?” Cael asked, leaning forward. Cael knew. Being a lost boy without a society to call his own didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of the traditions. Everyone knew about the rituals and bullshit politics of the Vampyre society. “How much time do you have?”

  “I have three months, give or take a few hours. In fewer than ninety days, I’m thirty.” Zylan let out a deep sigh, his shoulders sagging forward. “When I was born, I was promised to a Vestal Virgyn. Amity-Rhuin Blooddawn, the daughter of a High Councilman.”

  “Fuck,” Cael whispered, more to himself than Zylan.

  Zylan’s attitude lately probably made a lot more sense to Cael now, given that he was being auctioned off like a piece of meat, cattle for the slaughter. At least the cow doesn’t know the buyer has prime rib plans.

  “I left Sola-Nosfer when I was twenty. I was given ten years, less one day, and in three months, my time is up.”

  Cael shook his head. “We’ll fight for you, Zy. If you don’t want to go, we’ve got your back.”

  Sid, failed Watchyr, the master of perfect timing, stepped through the door. His face was as grim as theirs. “No can do, boss man. Anyone who attempts to keep royalty will be slaughtered.” Sid clapped Zylan on the shoulder. “Sorry about your luck, mate.”

  Zylan gave a half smile. “Not as sorry as I am.”

  “Is there nothing we can do to help you?” Cael asked.

  “My mother is sending Amity here for me to meet her. Y’know, before it all goes down. Are you cool with that?” Zylan asked, hoping Cael would say no but knowing he wouldn’t.

  “Anything you need, you’ve got it,” Cael answered, in a voice that sounded like someone had kicked his dog. He looked to Sid. “What’s up?”

  “The Netherworld lab was leveled last night. The entire building came down.” Sid turned to Zylan, as if he could read his mind. “Chill. Neri wasn’t there. She was the one who pulled the alarm.”

  Zylan jumped up faster than his brain could process the information, grabbing onto Sid’s shoulder until his balance returned. “Where is she? Is she hurt? We need…”

  “Slow down, rock star. I tracked her into the back hills of Cypress Mountain. Our safe house was accessed at three this morning,” Sid answered.

  Zylan appreciated Sid having every stitch of information before stepping into Cael’s office. Zylan stared at Cael, waiting for the go-ahead. He would have gone to Neri without it, sure, but he wanted someone to tell him it was okay. He wanted someone to give him the order to ignore the shit-storm of a birthright and the shitty future heading his way.

  “What are you waiting for? Go get your Fyrvor,” Cael said, standing up. “Take who you need, except Des.”

  Zylan smiled, nodding. Cael didn’t let anyone take Des into harm’s way unless he absolutely had to. It usually included an argument with Des, and she always won. She was a Slayer to the bone, and she was as fierce as any other member. There wasn’t anyone who could keep that woman tied down. She was out in the field earning her feathers to pull her soul out of the chains in Hades. Cael had no backbone when it came to her. Zylan was the only one who didn’t razz the guy about it, because he knew how it felt. His weakness was Neri, and he hadn’t even spent one night with her.

  Zylan had grabbed for the door when Sid stopped him. “Hold up, Zy. I’m not finished. Your little Virgyn is here.”

  “Already?” Zylan whispered, swallowing a rock-hard lump in his throat.

  “I can take care of the doll for ya, if you want?” Sid asked, grinning and giving him a wink.

  Sid was a letch. He was one of the best Slayers they had. He had their backs no matter what, without fail. He could track like no one else—like a dog with a bone—and he didn’t hesitate to take out a Proletaryan. But, to call a spade a spade, he’d sink his cock into just about anything and anyone. He wasn’t picky. Hell, he was barely conscious when he was doing it. In Sid’s case, the road to hell was paved in self-pity, self-hatred and self-harm. He loved only one—Des—and that was a stretch of the word.

  Zylan froze at the door, staring Sid in the eyes. He may have hated the fact that he was being forced into wedlock with Amity, but he didn’t hate her enough to make her endure a night with Sid. He didn’t hate anyone that much. He wanted her gone but not like that.

  “Zy, do you want me to take her off your hands, or are you going to deal with her? I can go to get Neri,” Sid spoke again.

  Zylan shoved his finger in Sid’s chest. With a glaring look, he answered, “Do not fuckin’ touch her. I may not like this shit, but if you lay your hands on her, she will be put to death. No piece of ass is worth that. Got it?”

  Sid grinned, stepping back with his hands up in surrender. “Got it. Hands to myself. No sentencing the pretty little Virgyn to death.”

  Zylan pulled open the door, calling for Riam and a new recruit, Bane.

  Zylan had worked undercover with Riam for what felt like years. Bane? He was new and had worked his ass off to get here. He was a Therian, a werewolf. He had perfect control of his animal, even while covered head to toe in blood and bits of people. With perfect marksman shooting, a steady hand, cool temper and whisper-quiet footing, Bane was the one Zylan wanted out in the trees keeping watch on his six. Bane had earned that respect, every step of the way.

  Sid walked behind Zylan, looking back to Cael. “This is going to get ugly. You and I both know it. All of this… It’s going to go south—and fast. You can’t run from fate. Fate doesn’t give room for personal choice. You can shape your destiny. Destiny gives you choice—left or right, forward or reverse, but fate is a one-way street. It’s already mapped out. The choice is only an illusion. Fate doesn’t give a flying fuck about your destiny, and destiny always leads you to the doorstep of fate. The fate that’s coming is going to bend us over and fuck us hard.”

  Zylan ignored Sid then headed for his bedroom. He went through the motions, his mind a million miles away, thinking of his Neri. He put on his gear, piece by piece—robotic movements he’d performed night after night. His mind was filled with Neri, wondering if she was injured, safe or scared. He wondered if he could grab her and run. He knew it was wishful thinking, but the wish was nice to have, regardless.

  “Ready to rock, Zy,” Bane called to Zylan from the hall, metal on metal clashing as he jogged up.

  Zylan snapped back from his foggy thoughts, grabbed his bag and pulled his door closed on his way out. Riam was following Bane.

  “Sire,” a small, fragile voi
ce called out from the main hall ahead of him.

  Zylan froze in his stride. Every muscle in his body seized, unmoving. He closed his eyes and growled. He went from being a man on a mission to a man with a problem—a really big fucking problem. Zylan’s old world and new world had come to a face-to-face header. His body was torn between wanting to run and wanting to faint, vomit or scream. New was meeting old, and the feeling felt like a horse had kicked him in the balls.

  Bane stepped out of the hall and into the meeting room then backed up, lifted his face and smelled the air. It didn’t take any special abilities to smell the tension. “Zy, I think you have a guest.”

  Riam placed his hand on Zylan’s shoulder, not needing to be told the story. Riam with no last name, always knew the story. “I’m sorry, my friend.”

  “I’m not following,” Bane whispered from beside Riam.

  “This is not my story to tell,” Riam answered. “Zy, we’ll meet you out front when you’re ready.”

  Zylan stepped out of the hallway and into the almost-empty meeting room. Amity, a perfect specimen of a woman, filled the space as if she were completely suffocating darkness. She resembled a future he’d been running from. She was everything he didn’t want. Being in the same room with her felt as if he were standing too close to a fire, and his body was starting to catch.

  Zylan saw Amity drop to her knees, lower her face and wait. He understood that she waited for him to greet her or talk to her. She waited to be kicked, should he so choose to. She waited for a future that she was born to love and want and be proud of. She waited for something, anything. Whatever came her way, she was bred to endure and accept it without question. It angered Zylan that his people reared the consummate victims.

  Her sheer white gown flowed around her, leaving nothing to the imagination. She might as well have been naked. Zylan knew that had he requested it, she’d have burned it while still wearing it. As delicate as she was, deep down she was trained to do some of the worst deeds known. She would kill for him at the drop of a dime. She’d do his bidding, whatever he wanted. If she was anything like his own mother, Amity was bred to be a tool, nothing more. His mother was relentless, cunning and more ruthless than even his father was. She’d had to be useful in order to survive.

  My world is completely fucked up.

  “Amity, there you are.” Sid stepped into the room. Sid motioned to Zylan to speak, to do something other than stand five feet in front of her, staring at her like she had two heads.

  Zylan cleared his throat. “Sid is going to keep you company, I have to go out. I’ll be back later.”

  “Of course, Sire. Do you wish me to wait in your bedchamber?” Amity asked, keeping her eyes on the floor. Her voice was reserved, with a hint of fear that her training hadn’t yet removed. That fear would stick around until her husband beat it out of her. Eventually, she would become used to the world and would welcome death. Death wasn’t something a Vestal Virgyn feared, not when it was something that was prayed for. Eventually she would no longer fear him, as he would be the one to deliver the mercy of death.

  “No. Sid will show you to your own room.”

  Amity nodded her head, eyes still on the floor. “I will wait for you there.”

  “No, I mean… Do what you want, Amity. This isn’t a prison,” Zylan said, finally giving up and walking away.

  He gave Sid one last warning look then stepped out of the main hall. His steps turned into a jog then a full-out run. He had to get the hell away from her. His skin crawled. Being in the same room with her made him nauseated. The butterflies in his stomach were drunk on his nervousness and trying to crawl out of his belly button.

  Zylan jumped into the 454 SS truck, Riam’s baby. His body crawled and shook, making him fumble with the seatbelt. Riam didn’t wait for Zylan to buckle up. He knew Zy would survive everything short of a head-on with a transport truck. Even then he’d come back as a full Vampyre. Riam punched the gas as soon as Zylan’s ass touched leather. They were off to find Neri, towing behind them the one-ton load of regret stamped with Zylan’s name.

  Zylan knew he should have treated Amity better. His only wish for his mother had been that she’d been treated like a person and not an object to be used. But in that moment, he had done as his father had. He’d shit on her. His stomach rolled with each turn in the road. He was ashamed. For once, Zylan regretted how he’d treated a woman. Never once had he been that cruel to a female. Knowing how his mother had suffered had been the driving force behind his need to show even the smallest acts of kindness toward the opposite sex. But now he’d acted like the man he hated most, his father. He hung his head in shame.

  Chapter Four

  Strain took his usual back row seat at the Hemlock, tucked into the darkness. He was away from the prying eyes of the soon-to-be-dead irregulars who were dry humping to the shitty tunes blasting over the speakers. Gone were the days of good music. Now the speakers pumped with guitar music that sounded like a man having a seizure. But it was better than listening to the conversations that sounded even worse.

  The brain dead had been debating world events, as if they’d had a fucking clue about any of it. He’d heard someone outside talking about feeding the homeless, as they’d stepped over a homeless man to buy some smack. Van City was hypocrisy at its finest. Those double standards were what kept him in business, so he didn’t knock it that much. He did get a kick out of selling what amounted to an electric chair to them. With that, the circle of life would continue. The dead bodies of his last customers would be stepped over for the next asshole to buy.

  He’d just finished up in the back VIP bathroom, pumping his own flavor of darkness into the hips of another fallen woman. Hookers… They were a dime a dozen around here. She’d given him little pleasure, most of which had only come at the end. He’d felt a small jolt of it when he pumped his load down her hungry throat. The dime bag whore had known what would come next—cash and H. This, like every other time, would have been the last time he had her. It had been the last time anyone would have her. After having tossed the H to the floor, he’d walked out, catching a glimpse of her scurrying around on the floor like a rat digging through the trash. As she’d thanked him, he’d shaken his head, like always. The last bit of humanity he still had left in him had always told the whore to leave the drugs and only take the cash.

  “That shit will kill you,” he would say, but they would never listen.

  Soon he would own this shithole, and when he did, there would be changes. The music was on the top of his list. Décor would be number two. And as much as he loved watching his chemical in action, there would be no drugs being done on the premises. That was a heat score he didn’t need. The continual flow of whores? Well, that would stay, only he’d make bank off their demise. There really was no better way to earn money. Like every other slimy bastard around, he’d make his cash off the suffering of others. Finishing his internal chuckle, he decided he’d keep a growing list of changes until he signed the papers and could start his teardowns.

  With his rocks off and a drink in his hand, named after something toxic, he sat down. Every drink in this place was named after something tragic or poisonous. Sipping his drink of choice—a Narcissus—he got comfortable in his seat. Tonight he was celebrating the destruction of a Netherworld Agency lab. He’d carefully planned then personally set the charges that brought the lab to the ground. He didn’t trust this job to just anyone. Scouting the building, plans and people for months, he’d brought the building to a crippling heap of rubble. He’d been disappointed that there weren’t bodies littering the streets, but he’d take what he could get. Having a cure for the gene was the last thing the Rancor Order needed—well, at the moment.

  His father’s plans for an army hadn’t panned out, but they still needed irregulars. His army was built up of irregulars. They weren’t nearly as loyal as he’d wanted, but it was better than nothing. And until he no longer needed them, he’d slowly weed out the worst. He’d kill the
rest when the job was done, not before. Without them, he’d be fucked. Humans couldn’t do the job. They weren’t strong enough, physically or mentally, and loyalty was a word none had even heard of.

  Each time he’d taken a human for questioning, he hadn’t even had to touch them. They’d cracked on their way in, loyal until it no longer served them. They—like irregulars—needed to go. There was no room in this world for the weak, the traitors. They were the shit that stuck to the bottom of his shoes during his nightly street crawls.

  He pulled out his cell phone and flicked back and forth. Each picture brought him back to the moment it had captured. He landed on a picture of Zoelle, best friend of Des. He had gotten off countless times to that picture. He would zoom in on the photo while he was balls deep in some streetwalking hustler. He remembered each scream. How sweet she’d been. Even if his father had almost lashed the flesh from his bones for it, he’d have done it again and again. He now wished he’d taken her and turned her, keeping her and pulling her out for his amusement.

  He flicked his thumb to the side, landing on the photos of his new intended conquest. She was the only woman to make it out of the lab, with a white banker’s box and a shuffle in her step. She had checked her watch several times between exiting the building and her car. She’d known it was coming down, and because of her, the death count was a glaring zero.

  Nerissa Sung, molecular geneticist, had walked out of the building with minutes to spare. Strain had watched video surveillance of her survival. On her way out, she sounded the alarm system, warning the few stragglers in the building. Looking the last camera in the eye, she’d mouthed one word.

  “Zylan,” she’d whispered.

  It would take Strain and his men a couple of days to sift through the footage. The Netherworld agents would be all over this—and her—within twenty-four hours. But Strain? He had plans for her. It would be one more jab from him at their new group. Oh, he had heard all about the Slayers. They could thank their own people and their weak mouths for that. It had taken but an hour, and Strain had what he’d needed from the last interrogation. Cael and his little band of flunkies had formed a group—the Genesys Project—to combat Strain and the Order. He had sent flowers and a card, congratulating them on their new promotions. His gift had been returned. How rude.