“They can. They are always with you.”

Wrath had to clear his throat. And then he tried—and failed—to keep the pride out of his voice. “This is my son. Another thing you already know, right?”

“Yes.” The affection in her voice was a surprise. “I know many things.”

“So you’re not completely gone, then. The cat, though? Really.”

“I have been with your Queen since day one.”

He had to laugh. “That makes me happy.”

“You are a fine King. You have done your father proud.”

Behind his wraparounds, he started blinking hard. “Don’t say shit like that. You’ll melt me.”

“And as for your son, he looks like you.”

“Does he?” He ran a fingertip over L.W.’s soft hair. “You know, his eyes have changed. They were blue. But now they’re green. Beth doesn’t want me to know. She’s kept it a secret—but I overheard her talking to Doc Jane about it. I don’t care. He’s perfect the way he is.”

“Yes, he is.” There was a pause. “Here. See for yourself, my old friend.”

All at once, his vision opened up from a pair of pinpoints, the apertures widening in perfect concert, providing him with a crystal clear vision of Little Wrath . . .

. . . that carved him in half.

Gasping, he fumbled his wraparounds off and beheld his blessed born son, from the face that was a carbon copy of Wrath’s own, to the jet-black hair that was growing in thick and healthy, to the limbs and torso that, even in this still nascent stage, promised to be powerful and strong.

And then there were the eyes.

Clear . . . and icy green just like Wrath’s own. And they stared back at him with a gravity that made no sense. How could the young know how important this moment was?

“He knows,” the Scribe Virgin said. “He is a very old soul, that one.”

Wrath looked up. And there she was, a glow of light in the form of a female, levitating above the Aubusson rug just on the other side of the desk.

“He will be a fine ruler,” she said. “He will live long and succeed your legacy with one of his own. And yes, he will find love. In all this, you may put your faith.”

Wrath stared down at his son. The tears in his eyes were doing his fucking nut in. He knew this wasn’t going to last and he didn’t want to waste one second of it on blurriness.

“You have given me such a gift this night,” he said in the Old Language.

“You have tallied long and hard. You deserve it. Now be well, Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath.”

Wrath looked up. “I still owe you a favor. Remember?”

Even though the Scribe Virgin was just a light source, he could swear she was smiling at him. “Oh, I have not forgotten. And in time, you will give me my due, I promise you that—now, though, here comes your shellan. I shall give you a moment with her, and then—”

“I know. Be well, Analisse.”

“And you, old friend.”

Just as the Scribe Virgin disappeared, Beth appeared in the study’s open doorway. “Wrath, are you . . .”

She stopped talking as he looked up at her with eyes that properly focused. Then she put her fingertips to her mouth.

“Wrath?” she said urgently.

“You are so beautiful.”

As she rushed over to him, he made note of her flowing dark hair and her lovely skin, her eyes and her body, her . . . everything. His eyes were starved for what fed into them, and when she got in range, he took her hand and pulled her into his lap. Then he looked down at George.

“And hello there as well, you good boy.”

He stroked the golden’s perfectly boxy head. Then he stared at his son and his shellan.

“How did this happen?” Beth choked out as she touched his brows.

“It’s a gift from an old friend.” He stroked her hair. Her face. “And it’s not going to be for long.”

“The Scribe Virgin was here?” she said with shock.

“She’s always with us, as it turns out.”

Wrath kissed his shellan. Kissed his son. Kissed his dog.

Then with one last look at the three of them, he closed his eyes. It seemed important for him to have control over the re-loss of his sight. If he’d had to watch his family fade from him, he would have panicked. But by doing it himself, it was less traumatic.

“L.W.’s eyes are green now,” Beth admitted with contrition. “They changed a while ago. I didn’t want you to be upset.”

Wrath smiled. “He’s perfect. Just the way the Scribe Virgin made him.”

“I love you,” his shellan said.

Taking a deep breath, Wrath slowly opened his lids . . . and saw nothing now. But his family was still with him. He could feel the weight, the warmth—and the fur—of all of them.

With peace and love in his heart, Wrath said, “And your voice in the darkness is my reason for living.”

Downtown, as a rare blood moon shone its eerie light upon the twinkling city, a figure in white appeared on the top of one of Caldwell’s two span bridges. Later, people would debate whether it actually existed. Paranormal enthusiasts would say yes, and that it was a ghost or a wraith. Skeptics, on the other hand, would maintain that the pictures taken of the mysterious apparition were doctored.

Oh, and the Area 51 aficionados were convinced it was an alien.

As with so much in life, what folks thought they saw depended more on who they were than what may or may not have been before them.

The stone-cold truth, however, was that a demon did in fact materialize to that arch, and she did look over the city as if it were hers for the taking.

And as for what she wore? It wasn’t a robe like her big brother had sported.

No, when Devina decided to pick that seminal spot for her declaration of dominion, she was wearing a wedding gown.

It seemed apt. And the shit was not vintage.

The ball-gown-style dress with the tight bodice and the peekaboo panels at the cleavage and on the ribs was a brand-new, never-before-worn Pnina Tornai. Devina had chosen it from all of the available stock at the most exclusive boutique in town, putting the satin and sparkles on and three-way-mirror’ing it before she came down here for her big reveal. The dress was all her, elegant but flamboyant, expensive and exclusive. Just what she would walk down the aisle with some night.

Brian O’Neal was correct. She only needed the right partner.

And until someone of male extraction volunteered for that role— and really, what were the chances of that—she was marrying Caldwell.

This city would be her spouse and she was going to enjoy expressing her special brand of love all over its streets and—

At first, Devina couldn’t comprehend what obstructed her view of the highest skyscraper in the financial district.

But there was something on the other bridge.

Standing with feet planted and body braced.

Devina narrowed her eyes. It was a male. Dressed in . . . were those hot pink zebra tights? And what was that shirt? Was that . . . Barney?

“Jesus Christ,” she spat.

All at once, from behind those broad shoulders, a set of gossamer wings extended outward as blond and black hair spooled loose from some kind of tie.

No, it wasn’t J. C.

Lassiter, the Fallen Angel.

As Devina narrowed her eyes and her temper rose, he smiled at her. And lifted one of his hands. With an elaborate show, he blew her a kiss, turned that palm around . . . and extended his middle finger at her.

And thus the next generation of conflict was born.