they
were out of time.
Daylight was coming. And there was no negotiating with its arrival.
Chapter Fifty-one
Two days later Phury decided to go over to the Other Side. The Directrix had been hammering
for a meeting, and he didn't want to put her off any longer. Besides, he had to get out of the
house.
Jane's death had brought a pall to the compound, affecting all the bonded males. The loss of a
shellan, which was what she'd been even though she and V hadn't been formally mated, was
always the greatest fear. But to have her killed by the enemy was nearly unendurable. Worse, to
have it happen less than a year after Wellsie was likewise murdered-was all a horrible reminder
of what each of the males knew to be true: Mates of the Brotherhood faced a special threat from
the lessers.
Tohrment had learned this firsthand. Now so had Vishous.
God, you had to wonder if V was going to stick around. Tohr had taken off right after Wellsie
had been killed by a slayer, and no one had seen or heard from him since. Though Wrath
maintained that he could feel that the brother was still alive, they had all pretty much given up on
the idea of him reappearing in this decade or the next. Maybe in some future era he would come
back. Or maybe he would die out in the world alone somewhere. But they wouldn't see him again
anytime soon, and, hell, the next place might well be the Fade.
Shit… Poor Vishous.
Right now V was in his room at the Pit, lying next to the brass urn Phury had eventually put
Jane's ashes in. The brother hadn't spoken or eaten anything, according to Butch, though the
guy's eyes were apparently open.
It was clear he had no intention of explaining what had happened in the Tomb. To Jane. Or to his
wrist.
With a curse Phury knelt by his bed and put the Primale's medallion around his neck. Closing his
eyes he traveled directly to the Chosen's sanctuary, thinking of Cormia along the way. She too
stayed in her room, eating little and saying less. He checked on her frequently, though he didn't
know what to do for her-other than bring her books, which she seemed to like. She was
particularly into Jane Austen, although she didn't quite understand how something could be
fiction or, as she put it, a constructed lie.
Phury took form at the amphitheater because he didn't know the layout very well yet and figured
it was a good starting point. Man, it felt bizarre to be standing in the middle of all the white.
Weirder still to walk around the back of the stage and get a gander at the various white temples.
Goddamn, the place was an ad for Clorox. No color anywhere. And it was so quiet. Freaky quiet.
As he picked a direction and started walking, he worried about getting mobbed by a bunch of
Chosen and was not exactly in a hurry to go head-to-head with the Directrix. To blow some time,
he decided to take a look at what was inside one of the temples. Picking one randomly he went
up its shallow marble steps, but found that the double doors were locked tight.
Frowning, he bent down and looked at the large, oddly shaped keyhole. On impulse, he took the
Primale medallion off and stuck it into the door.
Well, what do you know. The thing was a key.
The double doors opened without a sound, and he was surprised at what was inside. Lining both
sides of the building, and sitting six or eight deep, were bins and bins of precious stones. He
walked around the riches, every once in a while stopping and putting his hands into the sparkling
gems.
But that wasn't all that was inside. In the back, at the far end, were a series of glass cases such as
you would find at a museum. He went over and checked them out. Naturally they were dust free,
although not, he sensed, because they'd been cleaned. He just couldn't imagine there being any
pollutants in the air around here, even those of the microscopic variety.
Inside the cases the objects were fascinating, and clearly from the real world. There was an old-
fashioned pair of spectacles, a porcelain bowl of Oriental origin, a whiskey bottle with a label
from the 1930s, an ebony cigarette holder, a lady's fan made from white feathers.
He wondered how they got over here. Some of the things were quite old, though they were in
perfect condition and, of course, everything was sparkly-frickin' clean.
He paused over what looked like an ancient book. «Son… of a bitch.»
Its leather cover was tattered, but the embossed title
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