“That’s the plan.”

As the magic was worked on his other foot, Blay realized that the angel was not wearing one of his trademark crazy outfits. He was in all black, his wild blond-and-black hair likewise braided and out of the way. For a male who usually went around in spandex leggings, à la David Lee Roth, the reserve was yet another jarring shock.

Nothing was ever going to be normal again. Of this, Blay was quite sure.

“Can I ask you something?” he blurted.

“Anything.”

It was a while before Blay could frame the question. “What can I do to help him?”

Okay, fine, it was probably not fair to ask that of the angel, given the attack. But was anybody really thinking right tonight?

“You know the answer to that,” Lassiter said.

“No, I really don’t.”

The angel leaned down and picked up the shoes. The wetness on them receded as soon as he touched them, retreating from the tips and traveling to the heels. Unfortunately, there were stains left behind in the fine leather, that which had been unmarred before now marked with permanent discoloration.

“Yes,” Lassiter said, “you do know what to do.”

After the shoes changed hands, the angel left, a lonely figure it seemed, in spite of his power and influence. Or perhaps . . . because of it.

Blay, on the other hand, stayed where he was, staring at what had been on his feet. Overhead, the heating came on, warm, dry air drifting downward onto his hair.

“I can’t stay here all night,” he said aloud.

All things considered, the first part of going anywhere else was putting his shoes back on. His socks were still wet, however, having not benefitted from Lassiter’s attentions, and so he wadded them up into soggy fists that he held in one hand. Then he shoved his feet home, the loafers fitting more tightly than they had before.

Out in the foyer, he discovered that everyone had scattered from the drama. Turning to the grand staircase, he pictured Qhuinn upstairs. He knew where the male would be. He would be with the twins—

Blay frowned and looked around the base of the stairs.

A split second later, he fell into a hurried rush.

The angel was right. He did know what he had to do.

Qhuinn found what he was looking for in the playroom. As he pulled open the door, Layla glanced up from the floor where she was sitting with the kids—and froze while their eyes met.

“Oh, Qhuinn.”

She made a move like she was going to get up and hug him, but when he stepped back sharply, she ducked her eyes and hung her head.

“I’m okay,” he heard himself say as he waved at Lyric, who’d started beaming at him, and then to Rhamp, who was shaking a rattle in his direction. “I just want to be with them for a while, all right? Just me and them.”

Layla nodded and got to her feet like she was stiff. “Of course. I—ah, a text went out. From Tohr, so . . . I’m so sorry—”

“It’s fine.”

She recoiled—and then tried to hide her reaction. But he couldn’t help her with her awkwardness. He couldn’t even help himself right now—and the “fine” thing was just a door to close on her sympathy, her worry, the burden of the referred pain she was feeling as she confronted a tragedy that really only affected him.

“Is there anything I can do?” she said.

“Just give me some time with them.”

The Chosen pulled the waistband of her jeans higher up on her hips. Then she pushed her blond hair back as her eyes roamed around the cheerful room—and he was grateful she kept her thoughts to herself. He did not want to be mean, but he was raw—and like a wounded animal, he was dangerously unstable.

“Let me know when you need me back?” she said. Then she shook her head. “Actually, I was going to feed them in about forty-five minutes. Unless you’d like to?”

“That’ll be good. I mean, forty-five. That’s fine.”

“Okay.”

There was a moment of frozen silence, and then Layla went over to the door. As she hesitated to push her way out, he cleared his throat.

“I’m not going to do anything stupid,” he said roughly. “You don’t need to worry about that. I’ve seen entirely too many dead blooded relations of mine tonight.”

Her eyes closed. “Oh, Qhuinn. I am so sorry—”

“Scratch that.” He rubbed his eyes, not because he was getting emotional, but because he couldn’t stop seeing his brother’s face. “Make that for a lifetime. I’ve seen enough dead relatives for a goddamn fucking lifetime.”

She took a deep breath. “I want you to know something—”

“Just come back in forty-five minutes—”

“I took them to see him the night before the storm.”

Qhuinn blinked. “What? Wait, what did you say?”

“Lyric and Rhamp. I took them down to see Luchas two nights ago.” Her eyes started to water. “I’d do that from time to time. You know, I mean . . . I just—he loved seeing them. They sat on his bed, and he played with them, and he smiled at them. They always seemed to make him happy.”

Rhamp ditched the rattle, rolled over onto his tummy, and hit the ground crawling fast, going for broke toward a big, red inflatable ball in the corner. The kid had the grace of an Army tank, the speed of a motivated turtle, and the fixation of a chess master about to be pawn’d out of a tournament.

“Thank you,” Qhuinn said softly. “I’m so glad he got to see them one last time.”

“I’m going to miss Luchas. He was such a sensitive soul. We would talk about books and—”

Qhuinn put his hand up. “I’m sorry, Layla. I, like, don’t mean to be rude. But I can’t talk about him right now. I’m not even on this planet, actually. I’m just trying to find the floor beneath my feet.” He lifted his soggy sneakers one after another. “Because I can’t feel it—and talking about my brother makes this floating feeling worse.”

“Okay. Just please know, there are a lot of us here in the house for you to talk to.”

The door eased shut in her wake, and he looked into Lyric’s beautiful pale green eyes . . . and prayed his brother had made it into the Fade. Surely, even if the rumor was true about killing yourself, Luchas would be granted an exception for all he had suffered.

Right?

Lyric put her arms out, and that was Qhuinn’s cue to scoop—and scoop he did, gathering his daughter up and bringing her to his heart. In response, she made a whole bunch of cooing noises and babbling sounds. She was normally a quiet kid, but in situations like this, when it was just the two of them because her brother was distracted by another one of his missions, oh, she opened up big. It was like she patiently waited her turn, and as such, there was always a backlog of unexpressed opinions and commentary for her to get out.

Meanwhile, across the blue-and-yellow padded floor, Rhamp was up on his feet and throwing punches at the ball. Both of the twins were still a little unsteady when walking, but coordinated activity improved Rhamp’s balance.

And he’d found a helluva rhythm.

Qhuinn pictured them at five years old. At ten. At fifteen and twenty. At . . . fifty and a hundred . . . all their lives ahead of them, adventures to be had, love to be discovered, challenges to best and good fortune to find.

“Oh, Luchas,” he whispered. “Why couldn’t you have stayed for them . . .”

Yet even as that occurred to him, he realized that he was being self-centered. After all, the twins were his young, not his brother’s—

The door to the playroom opened—and he tried not to glare at whoever it was.

When he saw it was Layla, Qhuinn closed his eyes in frustration. “I thought you said I’d have forty-five minutes.”

Layla’s voice was gentle. “You’ve been in here for an hour and a half.”

His lids popped. And he frowned.

Sometime in the last, well, ninety minutes, apparently, he’d sat down against the wall. Lyric was face-up in his lap, sprawled across with her feet draped over one side and her back braced against the other. Rhamp, meanwhile, had come over from his red-ballabusing session and found the crook of Qhuinn’s arm.

They were both fast asleep.

Swallowing hard, he watched their chests rise and fall, heard their gentle breaths through parted mouths, felt their warmth against him.

“I would like to help feed them,” he said in a hoarse voice. “And then after . . . I think it’s Blay’s and my turn for bath.”

When there was no reply, he looked up from his young. Layla was standing in the doorway, her hand over her mouth, a tear rolling down her cheek. Behind her, Xcor loomed big as a mountain, silent as the sky. The male’s hand was resting on his shellan’s shoulder, protectively, lovingly. His eyes were dry, but the sadness in them darkened them nearly to black.

“Yes,” Layla said. “I think it is your turn.”

Qhuinn glanced down. “They look so comfortable.”

Xcor’s voice was deep and grave. “That is because they know they are safe with their father.”

Blay traveled fast through the training center’s tunnel. He actually jogged for part of the way—which he knew was overkill. What he was worried about happening would not happen. It was just paranoia that the already horrible situation they were all in was going to get worse.

At least he was pretty sure it wouldn’t happen.

Blasting through the office, he didn’t run into anybody, and this was good. Hopefully no one had gotten to thinking.

As he came up to the clinical area, he wondered how much time anyone would have had to intervene if somebody had known Luchas had walked out into the storm. Like, if only an alarm had gone off when the hatch had been opened—no, Luchas had used the code. Okay . . . fine. So if some kind of notice had pinged V’s phone that there had been a departure . . . maybe Manny and Doc Jane could have been told to run out and turn the male back around.