There is no “us” for me, Sola thought.

She sat forward and put her mug on the coffee table. “Well, it doesn’t matter.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Sola stared straight ahead without seeing anything. “Assail’s going to wipe my memories, he said. Make it so all this”—she motioned around the room—“doesn’t exist. Assuming that is possible.”

“It is.”

At the sad tone in the woman’s voice, Sola refocused on the doctor. “How do you know?”

“Vishous did that to me. He took…my memories from me. But fate had other plans for the two of us, thank God.” The other woman frowned. “The amnesia thing is the standard procedure if a human gets too close. It’s the reason vampires have been able to lay low as successfully as they have. But it doesn’t have to be like that.”

“When it comes to me, it does.” Sola shook her head. “I’m out of here. In fact, I would leave now if my grandmother would let us. I can take care of myself and my own. I don’t need this—and I don’t need him.”

As she laid that out there, she meant each and every word. This whole thing was so far and away more than she could handle, it was on a whole different planet.

She was going to get gone the second she was able, and she was never going to look back. And hey, if Assail did what he said he was going to, she wouldn’t remember any of it. So she wasn’t going to have to worry about all this confusion, panic, and scrambling sense that reality was not nearly as concrete and settled as she had always thought it was.

She also didn’t have to worry about missing him.

Not that she would have anyway.

Nope. Not at all.

FIFTY-THREE

As Vishous materialized downtown with Rhage, he knew what he was riding up on before he was even fully present.

Yup, there was a civilian down in the dirty snow, writhing in pain, with no visible marks or tears on his clothes and no scent of blood in the air. The new twist was there was another male with him—who looked as though he had seen a ghost. Natch.

“We-we-we were just walking along, heading for the club,” the guy who was on his feet said. “It came from out of nowhere. It was like a shadow—it was…and then it was just gone. After it attacked him, it just disappeared…”

V knelt by the injured male and captured the pinwheeling arm. “We’re going to help you, buddy. We’ve got help coming.”

He looked around as Rhage stepped in close to the witness and tried to calm things down. The alley was not off the beaten path at all. It was a pass-through between clubs, and there were pedestrians of the human and nosy variety walking by just out there on the four-lane street proper.

“Please…I’m dying…”

V refocused on the civilian who had been attacked. “I gotchu. You’re going to be fine.”

That last one was a lie, he feared.

“I’m dying…I can’t see anymore…”

Fuck. If this kid turned out like the last one did, how in the hell were they going to isolate that?

A scattering of laughter had V glancing over his shoulder. Four human women came around the alley’s corner, the drunken bunch walking in an intertwined lineup, as if they were functioning as their own crutches. As their sloppy feet tripped and slid in the snow, their giggles were the kind of thing that made V want to outlaw drinking for the human race.

“Oh! Someone had too much!” one of them said, pointing to the civilian.

“Tipsy, tipsy!”

Giggling. More giggling and pointing. More stupid fucking comments from the Instagramming set about someone who just happened to be dying.

Vishous nearly got up and yelled, Hashtag that, you bitches.

What kept him quiet was the fact that, for once in their Snapchat lives, they didn’t get a phone out to document the scene. They were just too drunk and high, and as much as he really wanted to tell them off, he wasn’t about to waste his time on non-criticals—although at sunrise, when he lay his little fucking head to sleep, he was going to put some curses on them: five-pound unexplained weight gain—in the left butt cheek only; accidentally deleted social media accounts; spray tans that turned into raging cases of dermatitis.

He’d wish them all an STD, but they were probably going to have that covered by the end of the night on their own nickel.

V turned back to the patient and prayed like hell Manny’s driving skills held up. “Just hang with me—”

“I can’t breathe…I’m…not…breathing…”

The civilian’s chest began to pump up and down, the inhales and exhales so congested that they were like whistles.

“Rhage,” V hissed. When his brother looked down, V nodded his head toward the civilian. “Give us some space. Now.”

“What’s happening?” the male asked. “Is he—is he dying? What’s going on?”

Thank fuck Hollywood took the direction and ran with it. With quiet reassurances, he drew the friend out of the alley and around the corner—which was going to spare the male what happened next.

Or what V worried was coming.

“I don’t…feel…right,” the injured guy was saying. “Something…happening…”

V released the hand he’d been holding and discreetly unholstered his gun. With efficiency, and without having to look because he’d done it so many times, he took a suppressor off his belt and fit it on to the muzzle.

He did not take his eyes off the male as the last breath was exhaled.

“You’re okay, buddy,” he said roughly. “You’re going to be just fine…”

Even though death had come, he wanted to reassure the poor sonofabitch.

And as he promised, Vishous was ready with the gun when, some ten minutes later, the body jerked once…twice…and woke the fuck up as a demon.

Before the undead could get its groove on, V put the gun to its temple and squeezed off three rounds right into the brain. There was no noise, other than the flopping of the arms, and only he, with his vampire sense of smell, caught the whiff of the gunpowder and fresh blood in the cold, cold wind.

Praying for stillness was not what you usually went for with a corpse. But as V waited to see what happened next, he was hoping like fuck that nothing moved. That there were no twitches. No jerks. No jiggles.

When two good solid minutes of statue passed, he put his weapon away with the suppressor still in place, and then snagged a knit cap that he kept on him.

He put the thing on the kid’s head to hide the bullet wounds and then whistled. Just as Rhage and the friend came back into the alley, Manny pulled the mobile surgical unit around at the far end and trundled down.

“Is he dead?” the civilian asked. “Oh…God…is he dead?”

* * *

—

Five stories directly above the scene, Throe stepped away from the lip of the roof and addressed his shadow. “You did very well. Now off you go.”

As he made a waving motion, the entity disappeared into thin air, leaving nothing in its wake—and Throe once again peered over the edge of the building to the alley down below. A large RV had shown up, and Vishous—yes, the Brother with the goatee was named Vishous, if he recalled—gathered up the body and carried it quickly into the belly of the vehicle.

Rhage, the blond Brother, put his arm around the shoulders of the weeping civilian. And then the pair of them dematerialized.

Throe stayed where he was as the Brotherhood’s presence rumbled off.

They had to be on to his plan, he thought. Why else would Vishous have killed the injured civilian? The Brother had drilled three bullets into that head, and then Rhage had left with the other one, as if he were going to strangle, stab, or shoot the male.

They were controlling the situation through elimination. Making sure no one could talk about the attacks. Hindering Throe’s progress toward social disruption.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

And what if they know of his identity?

Filled with frustration, he paced around the ductwork and mechanicals, trying to think if he’d done anything to give himself away—then again, if the Brotherhood knew or suspected it was him, they would come and find him. It wasn’t as if he were hiding himself at that mansion he’d taken over.