Sparks exploded from the motor Balz was disconnecting, the electrical charge transferring from the metal to the male, the blue arc of the lightning-like flash going right into one of the Bastard’s hands.

And through his body.

As a brownout registered the transfer of voltage, Balz was thrown back into thin air, his body stiff as a board, arms and legs fully extended.

Z reacted without conscious thought. He triangulated the fall and got under the male, bracing himself for the impact, arms cupped like he was going to catch a hay bale. At the last moment, as Balz dead weighted down toward the ground, Z pivoted, realizing he needed to be sideways to the load he was going to try to cradle.

Talk about electrical burns.

As he captured the heavy load, a whiff of burned flesh along with a metal tang hit his nose, and then he wasn’t thinking about smells at all. Lying the male out in the snow, he checked for breath and found none. Reaching for his own shoulder—

Fuck, no communicator. ’Cuz they were at home, not in the field.

Z whistled loud and long as he ripped off his gloves and felt for a pulse at the jugular. Faint. Or . . . maybe there wasn’t one? Yanking open the Bastard’s parka, he dropped his head down to make sure there was no breathing still. Then he put one of his palms on top of the other in the center of that big-ass chest, interlocked his fingers, and started straight-arming CPR.

“Stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive,” he said under his breath as he compressed with his doubled-up hands. “Ah, ah, ah . . . ah . . . stayin’ alive . . .”

He paused to give the male two breaths. Which, yes, he was aware was not what the American Heart Association recommended anymore, but he was hardly a casual bystander and rescue breaths were fine with him.

As he resumed chest compressions, he called out with various “Hey!” “My brothers!” “Fritz!”

He didn’t yell Help. He never had, and he wasn’t starting now.

Time to breathe for the Bastard again.

Inhale. Forced puff into that lax mouth. Inhale. Forced puff. And then more with chest compressions and the yelling.

Jesus Christ, what did he need to do to get someone’s attention around here?

In the mansion’s foyer, the security lights came back on with the same lack of warning that they went out, and Blay braced himself for a paralyzed mahmen and a young with horrible injuries, for Wrath to be crazed with grief, for—

Halfway down the grand staircase, there was a tableau of off-kilter, and the great Blind King was in the center of it. L.W. was hanging from the back of his onesie in Wrath’s fist, the young screaming and red-faced—but safe from a fall that would have killed him for sure. And on the other side of the King, Beth had been caught by the arm, her whole body leaning out over the rest of the red-carpeted steps, only one foot planted, the other on a high kick to nowhere.

As for the fall? Down at the bottom of the steps . . . L.W.’s favorite toy, the nearly life-sized golden, with its beanbag paws and loosely stuffed legs, was lying in a tangled heap on the hard mosaic floor.

Wrath had saved his Queen and his son.

And beside him, George, the real-life dog, was frozen and panting in a panic, as if the animal knew that things had almost been a tragedy.

As everyone standing around exhaled in relief, the King pulled his loved ones into him, cradling both his shellan and his young close, L.W. settling down as soon as his mahmen was back in range and all was okay.

“Shit,” Qhuinn breathed. “I mean . . . just shit—”

There was a hiccup in the electricity, things faltering before surging again—and then the sconces on the walls flared back fully to life, the chandelier in the dining room reigniting and all kinds of illumination streaming from sources you only noticed when they weren’t working.

“I got you,” Wrath was saying in a soft voice. “I got both of you.”

Beth trembled as she hung on to the King’s enormous upper arm. “How did you catch us?”

“Eyes aren’t everything, leelan.” Wrath tucked her head under his chin and stared out into space, his wraparounds hiding his expression. “And I’ve got a knack for knowing where things are. It’s what keeps me on my feet.”

The feel of a hand on Blay’s waist brought his head around. As he looked into Qhuinn’s eyes, he mumbled, “I can’t even.”

“I know. Come here.”

It seemed unmanly to turn to his mate and drop his face into that strong neck and close his eyes. But like he gave a fuck? All he could see against the backs of his lids was a pile of bodies, all broken bones and blood spilled on the tiles.

Before he could think of what to do, what to say, he felt his hand get taken in that warm, solid grip he knew so well—and the next thing he was aware of was being drawn into the billiards room by Qhuinn. As the pair of them hit the layout of pool tables, he had no clue where they were going, but then—presto!—they were at the bar.

“Sit.”

Qhuinn pulled out a stool and arranged Blay like you would a potted plant: He saw a flat place and put something on it.

Blay wasn’t inclined to argue. At least not with the ass support. “I thought we weren’t drinking tonight, though.”

“We’re not drinking. This is medicinal.”

Two shot glasses were outed, and then came the I. W. Harper’s. Qhuinn’s hand wasn’t completely steady as he poured a splash in each, and that was not what you wanted to see in your mate—but when you were quaking in your own boots, it was nice to know you weren’t alone with your shimmies.

“Drink up.”

As all kinds of talk bloomed out in the foyer, they did the shot together, and Qhuinn doled out another. After the two, they stopped and put the glasses in the sink—

That was when Blay heard the whistle. Or at least . . . he thought he did.

It was hard to tell because there were so many voices in the echo chamber around that grand staircase, people burning off their adrenaline with are-you-sure-you’re-okay conversations.

Looking to the open pocket door that led into the library, Blay closed his eyes and ordered his ears to sift through the other bird-like sounds the wind was making as it winnowed through the nooks and crannies on the front of the house—as well as the big-ass hole some tree had made in the back.

“What is it?” Qhuinn asked.

Blay got off his stool and proceeded over to the pocket door—oh, shit. A pointy evergreen the size of the one the Big Apple put up for the holidays at Rockefeller Center had barged in through a set of French doors, bringing with it snow and cold and all kinds of outdoor.

Not exactly a redecorating job that went with all the priceless books and the wonderful old rug.

“Well,” Qhuinn hedged, “at least we won’t have to cut down something to drape the garland and lights on.”

“So that’s what was chasing Rhage and Butch—”

The shout outside was muffled, but distinct enough.

Blay rushed forward, but not to the tree, to the other banks of French doors, which were still shut and locked. As he yanked open one set, more of the cold rushed in, but he didn’t pay attention to the deep freeze.

In the security lights, he saw the two figures, one back-flatted in the snow, the other crouched down and pumping at a chest.

Blay pivoted and shouted, “Medic! We need a medic!”

Then he and Qhuinn were out in the storm. Z was the one doing the compressions, Balthazar the person in cardiac arrest.

“Do you need me to take over?” Blay asked as he fell to his knees.

“You breathe for him when I say so. Three . . . two . . . one . . . breathe.”

Blay pinched Balz’s nose, sealed the male’s lips, and pushed oxygen into those lungs. When he backed off and took another deep inhale, he smelled the burn. Skin . . . and something metallic.

He’s not dead, Blay told himself. He can’t be dead.

“Breathe!” Z commanded.

Blay went back down again, forcing air out of his own lungs and into the other male’s. Beside him, Qhuinn had taken Balz’s hand and was rubbing it. Or maybe praying over it.

“Where are they?” Blay said as he wrenched around. “Medic!”

Jesus Christ, the fighter was dead—

Without warning—because hey, nothing was coming with any warning tonight—Balz arched back and hauled in a breath so big, it was as if he had been animated by an outside force, some dark magic rushing through him and bringing him back to life.

The male’s eyes popped wide, and the dilated pupils focused upward. Then the head swiveled toward Z.

In a voice that sounded all wrong, Balz said in the Old Language, “She is here. The demon is back.”

An hour later, Z was down in the training center. Instead of crowding the clinic, where everybody else was, he was over by the gym.

Every time he blinked, he saw Balthazar in the snow, white face turning to him, eyes rapt and yet unfocused, that haunted voice like something from the other side.

The demon is back.

Z rubbed his eyes and turned away, walking farther down to the pool. Those four words that had been uttered across that cold air had been unconsciously spoken. Z knew this because when Doc Jane and V had come out, assessed Balz, and cleared him to be moved back inside, the real Bastard had returned.

What had spoken those words had been someone halfway back, a ghost with a corporeal shell, the message eerie because it emanated from a place other than mortal consciousness.

When they’d gotten him into the library, he’d jerked again and then glanced at the tree that had broken through one of the sets of doors.

“Who put that in here?” he’d mumbled. “It doesn’t fit.”

There had been such relief at that point, a bubbling happiness for everybody as the stabilization and recovery had presented itself. Balz had still been taken down here, of course. And his fellow Bastards were inside the exam room with him. He was going to be fine, though—no lingering aftereffects anticipated, according to the doctors.

Except they were wrong about that. Although not with respect to Balz.