adaptive behavior. Like the slave bands tattooed around his neck and his wrists, and the S-shaped scar that intersected his face, and the way he preferred to be invisible even outside of hostility, his marble had been carved in a certain way. And as with the statues he currently walked by, his evolution was as irreversible and structural as their forever-frozen poses.
A millennium from now, the statues would still be as they were—and so he would ever be as he was. His artist was dead, too. He knew this because he had killed her and slept beside her skull for a century . . . and yet there had been a corner turned for him, an unexpected fresh start that had eased him in ways that even he was coming to trust.
Love had done more than turn his black eyes back to yellow.
Yet he still walked in silence.
Stopping in front of one of the lineup of bedroom suites, he went to knock—
The door opened sharply, and on the other side, the Chosen Layla was dressed in jeans and a SUNY Caldwell sweatshirt, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, her glowing beauty the kind of thing that didn’t need makeup or fancy clothes for enhancement.
The look of abject terror on her face was wholly at odds with all of her casual, night-at-home-with-thekids attire.
“Qhuinn’s going to be fine,” Z said. “They’re taking him in the OR now, and Manny is confident there’s going to be a good result.”
“Thank the Virgin Scri—” Layla stopped herself. “Oh . . . sorry, old habits die hard. I keep forgetting She’s gone.”
“Just please don’t bring up Lassiter’s name right now, especially if it’s with gratitude. He’s liable to show up so he can enjoy the praise, and I’ve had a long night already.”
The female smiled. “I will thank our angel in private then.”
When there was a cooing sound from deeper inside the room, Z looked in. Across the antique rug, between a museum-quality inlaid bureau of Italian provenance and a Scottish writing desk from the 1800s, the dual Pottery Barn cribs were a splash of modern, some-assembly-required in the midst of all the Old World luxury. One crib was done in pink, the other in blue.
“Would you like to come in and see them?” Layla stepped back. “They love visitors, and Rhamp particularly adores you.”
Z thought of those two human girls, out in the winter darkness alone in daddy’s BMW. As he walked across the room, he wondered if they’d gotten home safe.
You have a daughter. Some night, she may need help from a human. How’d you like him to treat her?
He went over to say hi to Lyric first, but that was not how it worked out. In the midst of all the pink frills of her crib, her sturdy little brother was holding on to his feet and doing some kind of baby pull-up thing with his chunky torso. The moment Z leaned over the rail, the kid stopped his infantrobics and shifted his eyes over, those peepers narrowing into an assessment that penetrated into places a grown-ass male would just as soon not have anybody go.
Much less a bag of carbon-based molecules that only had pooping and consuming down pat.
Except then the young started to smile. Instantly, that intensity was cut off and there was nothing but toothy grin—in spite of how ugly Z was with the scar that ran down his face. Then again, one of the things he liked about these young was that they had never not known males who had deformities. Their stepdad, Xcor, had a harelip they were well used to, so there was no scaring them with what was doing on Z’s puss.
Although on that note, one couldn’t be too sure Rhamp was going to be scared of anything. He was like his sire in that regard. Qhuinn wasn’t ever afraid.
“They like to switch cribs,” Layla said as she ruffled her son’s dark hair. “Rhamp insists on being in Lyric’s space sometimes. She doesn’t mind. I feel like he’s checking the crib rails to make sure she’s safe. It’s the funniest thing.”
“He’s right to look after her.”
“Well, she looks after him, too.”
“That’s as it should be.”
Z reached out and ran his forefinger down Rhamp’s chubby cheek. As the kid grabbed hold and squeezed, the compression was surprisingly strong. Then it was a case of tug . . . tug . . . tug . . . and all the time, the kid was cheery as