Without warning, the world went on a twirl with him in the center—or maybe he was winging around the outside of the galaxy and looking in—and then everything went black and silent . . .
Things didn’t stay that way, however. The next he knew, he was lying on the exam table, with the other males standing around him and talking over his body.
Huh. So now he knew what a corpse felt like.
Staring up at them as they conversed among themselves, he noted the way their mouths moved and watched as their eyes shifted positions as the conversation ebbed and flowed. There was a nod or two. A shake of a head. Meanwhile, Boone was back to hearing nothing. Then again, when you found out you’d had your father killed? Even if it was indirectly? Well, you were allowed to retreat into your head.
Especially if, from time to time, and for good reason, you had prayed for this very moment right here.
Mission accomplished, he thought sadly.
But what else could he have done? He had told his father not to go to that gathering at that aristocrat’s house. And when his sire had refused to listen to reason—not that the male had ever much cared about Boone’s opinion of so much as a dessert course, much less matters political—he’d known he had to follow through on doing the right thing. He’d had to go to the Brotherhood: As a civilian, aristocratic or not, he had a duty to report treasonous behavior to the King. Still, it had taken him three sleepless days to make the appointment because he’d had to be sure that he was doing it for the right reason, not as some retaliation against Altamere—
“How did it happen?” he blurted.
All of the males looked down at him. Then Dr. Manello and Vishous looked at Tohr, passing the buck.
So it was bad, wasn’t it.
“He was attacked by a shadow.” As Boone sat up, the Brother put his hand on Boone’s shoulder again. “Nope, stay down, son. You’re still the color of flour—”
“What happened?”
The story had to be repeated twice—and then a third time—before he came to understand that not only was his father gone, but his stepmahmen, too.
The latter was apparently also a surprise to Dr. Manello. Not that his patient had died in surgery from a blood clot—of course, he remembered that—but that the female in question had been related by mating to Boone.
“I am so sorry, son,” the good doctor said. “Please know I did everything I could to save her.”
Boone shook his head. “I’m sure you did. And we had no relationship to speak of, really. I didn’t wish her ill, but . . . wait, tell me about my sire again?”
This time, the story’s totality finally sank in: His father had been standing among the other aristocrats at the gathering when shadow entities had come in and ambushed the crowd. The Brothers had counterattacked, but not before Altamere had sustained mortal injuries.
Boone rubbed his face. There was a question he needed to ask, except the syllables refused to come out. All he could do was stare helplessly into Tohr’s navy blue eyes.
It was a long moment before the Brother answered. “We made sure that before there was any reanimation that your father’s body was properly contained.”
“Thank God,” Boone breathed.
When it came to his father, “close” had been a measure of physical proximity between them rather than emotional connection. “Close” was a function of the pair of them sharing a house, passing each other in the luxurious halls, occasionally sitting in the same gracious room at a meal. And yet no matter how estranged you were from your parent . . . when it came to their death, it shook the ground under your feet—even if you were lying down.
“We’re going to take you back home,” Tohr said. “After Manny’s finished here and you feed.”
Boone glanced at his shoulder and was surprised to find that the stab wound was half stitched up.
“I don’t need a vein,” he muttered. “I just took one last week.”
“Not an option,” Manny said. “And the Chosen is on her way.”
As something started to ring, Vishous frowned and took out his phone to answer a call. “Yeah.” The Brother frowned, the tattoos at his temple distorting. “Where?”
Vishous turned away and lowered his voice, his words coming out so softly, Boone couldn’t track them.
Tohr spoke up. “Listen, son, with all this stress, and that injury, you do need to feed. And