heart was pounding so fast he felt like he should put his hands
up to keep it in place.
He needed a drink… now.
On sloppy legs he went to the bar, grabbed a fresh glass, and poured himself about four inches of
Grey Goose. The long-tall was almost at his lips when he realized he wasn't alone.
He unsheathed a black dagger from his waistband and whirled around.
«It is only I, warrior.»
Jesus Christ. The Scribe Virgin stood before him swathed in black robes from head to foot, her
face covered, her tiny form dominating the penthouse. From beneath her hem a glow spilled out
onto the marble floor, bright as the noonday sun.
Oh, this was an audience he wanted right now. Yup, yup.
He bowed and stayed put. Tried to figure out how he could keep drinking in this position. «I am
honored.»
«How you lie,» she said dryly. «Lift thyself, warrior. I would see your face.»
V did his best to marshal some hi-how're-ya onto his puss, in hopes of camoing the oh-fuck-me
that was there. Goddamn it. Wrath had threatened to turn him into the Scribe Virgin if he
couldn't pull it together. Guess that dime been dropped.
As he eased upright, he figured sucking some Goose would be perceived as an insult.
«Yes, it would,» she said. «But do what you must.»
He swallowed the vodka like it was water and put the glass on the wet bar. He wanted more, but
hopefully she wouldn't be staying long.
«The purpose of my visit has naught to do with your king.» The Scribe Virgin floated over,
stopping when she was just a foot away. V fought the urge to step back, especially as she
reached out her glowing hand and brushed his cheek. Her power was like that of a lightening
bolt: deadly and precise. You didn't want to be her target. «It is time.»
Time for what? But he kept a lid on himself. You didn't ask questions of the Scribe Virgin. Not
unless you wanted to add being used as floor wax to your resume.
«Your birthday draws near.»
True, he was going to be three hundred and three years old soon, but he couldn't think why that
would warrant a private visit from her. If she wanted to fly him some birthday jollies, quick
something in the mail would be just fine. Fuck it, she could rock out an e-card from Hallmark
and call it a day.
«And I have a gift for you.»
«I am honored.» And confused.
«Your female is ready.»
Vishous jerked all over, like someone had goosed him in the ass with a jackknife. «I'm sorry,
what-« No questions, dumb ass. «Ah… with all due respect, I have no female.»
«You do.» She dropped her glowing arm. «I have picked her from among all the Chosen to be
your first mate. She is the most pure of blood, the finest of beauty.» As V opened his mouth, the
Scribe Virgin steamrolled right over him. «You will be mated, and the two of you will breed, and
you will also breed with the others. Your daughters shall replenish the ranks of the Chosen. Your
sons shall become members of the Brotherhood. This is your destiny: to become the Primale of
the Chosen.»
The word Primale dropped like an H-bomb.
«Forgive me, Scribe Virgin… ah…» He cleared his throat and reminded himself that if you
pissed Her Holiness off, they'd need barbecue tongs to pick up your steaming pieces. «I mean no
offense, but I will take no female as my own-«
«You will. And you will lay with her in the proper ritual and she will bear your young. As will
the others.»
Visions of getting trapped on the Other Side, surrounded by females, unable to fight, unable to
see his brothers… or… God, Butch… snapped the hinge on his mouth. «My destiny is as a
fighter. With my brothers. I am where I should be.»
Besides, with what had been done to him, could he even sire young?
He expected her to hit the fan at his insubordination. Instead she said, «How fearless of you to
deny your station. You are so like your father.»
Wrong. He and the Bloodletter had nothing in common. «Your Holiness-«
«You shall do this. And you shall submit of your own volition.»
His reply shot out, hard and cold. «I'd need a good goddamned reason.»
«You are my son.»
V stopped breathing, his chest going concrete on him. Surely she meant that in the broader sense.
«Three hundred and three years ago you were born of my body.» The Scribe Virgin's hood rose
off her face of its own volition, revealing a ghostly, ethereal beauty. «Lift thy so-called cursed
palm and know our truth.»
Heart in his throat, V brought up his gloved hand,