"While Dillon continues to refuse us," Alexander said, his tone heavy with frustration as he walked the tunnels below the SoHo house with his brother, "Whistler never does."

Nearly as on edge as Alex, Nicholas snorted with derision. "Where there is only a price to be met, things are far simpler."

"The Eyes are the only simple path we tread these days." Alexander checked his weapon...just in case. "Luca is contained, and though I hear reports of his well-being, I grow in concern."

"As do I."

"Bronwyn's mate has not only been impossible to locate, but refuses to keep in contact with us as he seeks Bronwyn-the one vampire whose location is known to us. Ladd still has no father-you still have no gemino, and we have no Cruen or antidote to the Breeding Male gene."

Nicholas released a weighty breath. "Let us see if this one can shed any light on our smorgasbord of troubles, shall we?"

Up ahead, at the very end of the tunnels, where stone wall met iron stairs leading to the subway, Kate and Sara were waiting with a very familiar member of the Eyes.

Alexander went directly to his mate, while Kate met Nicholas halfway, then returned with him to the nervous-looking Eye.

Nicholas offered no pleasantries to the Impure, just a demand for information. "Do you have a location for us, Whistler?"

The male shook his head. "No one can get to Cruen. Not even the Eyes. Not even with the kind of currency you're willing to put out. It's been attempted, but the only ones who can find their way in and out of his laboratory are his children."

"Children?" Alexander repeated, his brow furrowed. "That piece-of-shit member of the Order has spawned?"

Whistler shook his head. "They are not from his body. They are foundlings, what he calls his Beasts."

"The mutore," Kate said, her gaze first on her true mate, then on Alexander. "Sara and I spoke with Whistler before you arrived. It seems Cruen has several mutore in his compound."

Nicholas stiffened beside him.

"That bullshit legend again," Alexander sneered, his gaze narrowing on Whistler. "How much are we paying you for these lies?"

"Mutore is no legend, I assure you," Whistler told him, his eyes as serious as the Romans had ever seen them. "More like a nightmare. A living nightmare." He paused, then glanced at Nicholas. "The balas, your twin, was born with this mutation."

"So I've heard," Nicholas uttered through clenched teeth.

"And he is one of them. One of Cruen's adopted pack."

Both veanas gasped, while Nicholas remained composed, though his tone was cold, steely. "This is insane."

"And impossible," Alexander added quickly. "There is no such thing. No one has ever seen one, no one-"

"They are seen at birth only," Whistler said, every inch of him looking as truthful as a saint. "They shift immediately into their Beast state when air enters their lungs. Understandably, when this happens, the mothers are horrified. They want nothing to do with it, and get rid of it as quickly as possible."

"Get rid of it," Nicholas repeated, a bristle of ire coating his words now. "How do they manage that?"

Whistler shrugged. "Sometimes the mother will suffocate it, drown it-sometimes the father will drain it of blood." He glanced at both Kate and Sara, who had begun to utter words of horror, shaking their heads. "You must understand, a mutore is a bad omen on a credenti. The parents, family, all would be ostracized by the community-singled out by the Order as a veana or paven who produces the mutant gene. They might even be killed themselves. To most, these are soulless beings, wrong, beneath even the lowest of animals."

"I don't believe this," Alexander said, though he didn't feel altogether certain of his opinions anymore. Would that truly happen? A mother killing her balas? He cleared his throat, wondering for a moment if his own mother had wished to do such a thing to him when he'd exited her body. Only stopped because the Order deemed a child of the Breeding Male of higher value to themselves.

Beside him, Nicholas remained on one direct path. "I know my brother wasn't killed at birth."

Whistler nodded. "No."

"What happened to him after he was born?"

Whistler's gaze faltered. "Some mutore are thrown out like trash after their breath has been extinguished; some, only a few, survive-"

"You mean survive their botched execution," Nicholas said blackly.

Whistler nodded. "They are sold into a slave trade."

"Oh God," Kate uttered, gripping her mate's hand.

"For what purpose?" Nicholas said.

Whistler shook his head. "Anything the vampire who buys it wants. Sex, servant, toy."

Nicholas growled. "Call him an 'it' again and you will feel the wrath of my fangs, Whistler."

Ready to give in, give up his belief and his rant that mutore were nothing but myth to be feared, Alexander asked, "How many are there like this?"

"It's impossible to tell. Mutore are very uncommon. Death is still the preferable way to deal with them. The ones who survive must be low in numbers, to stay undetected."

"The Order must know about them."

"I would believe so, and they would be killed outright. They cannot be allowed to exist, much less reproduce. Though they are Pureblood and descendants of the Breeding Male, they aren't paven-they aren't worthy of breath and life."

"Cruen was a member of the Order," Kate said, watching her mate's horrified expression. "And he had these mutore from infancy. Clearly the Order did nothing to harm them."

Whistler shrugged. "Cruen has done many things the Order has no knowledge of, yes?"

Pacing the floor of the tunnel, Nicholas said, "You said my brother is with Cruen-you called him Cruen's child."

"From what information I could gather, Cruen bought five mutore infants from a flesh seller in London and brought them home"-Whistler shook his head, as if this was an odd thing he was saying-"and raised them."

"As his own balas?" Nicholas asked, his black eyebrows lifted.

Whistler nodded. "That, and as weapons, as soldiers."

Stopping, Nicholas turned and eyed Alexander. "Cruen may send these weapons to fetch the prize he wants so much."

Though his gut clenched, Alexander shook his head. "Lucian is protected in the credenti. No vampire can get past the Order's charms."

Whistler made a sound, a soft, uneasy sound that made them all turn to face him. "Remember, mutore are not just vampires," he said. "They have a very different genetic structure. The Order's magic may or may not keep them out."

The credenti of his balashood was a dark, cold, miserable village that scented of animal shit and housed a community whose stares and jibes about his sire had made his young belly ache every minute of every hour of every day. As Lucian walked through the gates and down the path toward the center of town, he had very little belief that what he was about to walk into would be any different. But this time he didn't care. This time he wasn't looking to be accepted or welcomed. In fact, he almost hoped they'd try something...just a little something so they could see what he'd turned into-what their unfeeling, ungenerous ways had helped him become.

Unfortunately, that looked as though it wasn't going to happen.

Fuckers.

Immediately upon entering the town square, Mai rushed up to them, her skirts long and blue, and waving prettily in the gentle breeze, just like her hair. She laughed a rolling laugh as Bronwyn quickly smothered her with a hug.

Lucian rolled his eyes. Fucking veanas.

Mai turned to him then and offered him a hint of a smile, a tentative thing that no doubt was supposed to bring him around, make him forgiving, perhaps even cordial-shit, maybe even jovial.

Wasn't happening.

He nodded. "Mother."

"Ye came!" she said breathlessly as though it was her greatest wish in the entire world, and maybe it was-then she calmed herself and lowered her voice. "I'm so glad. It's so good to see ye both." Her gaze moved over her son, her eyes shining. "And ye look well, Balas. Very well."

"Pray do not get emotional, Mother," Lucian said flatly, though his insides were doing some kind of bullshit dance of softness that really pissed him off. "Asshole feelings" is what they should be referred to as. "I have enough of that from my veana here."

Mai smiled at Bronwyn, who squeezed Lucian's hand before leading him forward. They followed Mai through groups of Impures and Purebloods mixing soil and compost, some carrying trays of seedlings, their expressions happy and excited under the mixture of torchlight and moonlight. Lucian couldn't understand excitement over a few plants and a couple of buckets of shitty-smelling earth, but to each his own, he supposed.

"Here," Mai said, pointing to a patchwork blanket near the river. "I saved ye the best spot."

"Thank you," Bronwyn said, her tone so damn kind he almost wondered if she was faking it. He guessed not. "It's lovely." She elbowed him then. "Isn't it lovely, Lucian?"

"It's precious," he said tightly. "As precious as pig shit."

Bronwyn turned to him and glared, but Mai laughed, a damn pretty sound that brought him back a few years, maybe more than a few. He didn't want to go back there. Didn't want to acknowledge the good or the tolerable, only the heinous and the suckass. Only the debilitating fact that his mother welcomed the rutting, unfeeling monster of a Breeding Male into her bed and her heart and turned a blind eye to the torment that it caused her son. It was easier to hate that way.

A loud sound-some kind of pop-electrocuted the air. A shot of lightning or burst of sound. Then again. Lucian came alert, his nostrils flaring as he scented the air. "What is that?"

Far from alarmed, Mai smiled. "Some of the balas get ahold of firecrackers this time of year. Ye remember."

"Fuck yes, I remember." He turned to Bronwyn. "I believe one of them placed a particularly nasty blaster in my school bag."

Bronwyn's eyes softened and she leaned in and whispered, "May have been why your mother sent you away, huh?"

"Stop trying to make sense, Veana," he growled, seeing his mother move down to the stream out of his peripheral vision. "I'm not in the mood."

She grinned. "What are you in the mood for?"

"I don't know." He released a weighty, tired breath. "Perhaps for you to tell me you love me."

Bronwyn's brows lifted. "Really? In front of all these people? All these townsfolk who treated you so foully?"

He lowered his chin. "Especially in front them."

She smiled. It was like sitting inside the goddamn sun it was so brilliant. "Come here."

When he leaned forward, she kissed him, so softly it hurt his empty heart. Then she whispered, "I love you, Lucian Roman."

There was another blast, a crack of sound, then something that resembled a soda bottle opening.

"Little shites," Lucian grumbled, standing up and offering her his hand. "Come. I want to show you something."

Making their way between couples and families, both Pureblood and Impure, along the gentle river, Lucian led her up a rise and into the center of town.

"Where are we going?" Bronwyn asked.

"You will see, lass."

He led her past the market carts and around the blacksmith's shop until they stopped in front of a tree. The tree. It was a massive birch with a sturdy trunk and thirty arms at least, stretching every which way. It had been Lucian's one place of comfort, of respite from the bullying balas of his youth. Carved into the wood were the names of nearly everyone who had lived in the credenti during Lucian's life there.

He watched Bronwyn draw her hand over the wood, over the carvings. "It's beautiful."

"It is more than that," he said, leaning back against it smartly. "As long as I stood close to this tree, no one could ever, or would ever, hurt me." He grinned. "They thought this a magic tree, believed that if they disturbed it in any way, stood beside it, touched it-they would be cursed."

"Why would they think that?"

"The names of everyone in town were carved into this tree by an unknown, unseen force. Morning dawned, a new name. A walk in the square after evening meal-a new name." He looked past her at the town and its inhabitants. "The names of the balas who tormented me went up first."

"They never knew it was you, did they?"

He found her gaze and grinned widely. "Fuck no." Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out a crude knife, the only thing the cottage had in terms of weapons. "It's time for my name."

"Nothing to fear from the balas in town," she said. "Not anymore."

The wood gave easily as he carved. It felt good to put his name there, release it all into this living thing. He was nearly to the final letter when the crash and pop of another set of fireworks went off.

"Those little shites are really asking for it," Lucian griped, his back to Bron as he worked.

"The balas are a good distraction," a deep voice said. "For the Beast."

Lucian whirled around to find Bronwyn in the arms of the mutore, of Nicholas's twin, of what could be his brother, her back to his chest, her eyes wide and as fixed on Lucian's as the glittering diamond ones of her captor.

"Flash, Bron," Lucian hissed, though his gaze never left the paven holding her.

He regarded Lucian without vitriol. "She cannot."

Out of the corner of his eye, Lucian saw Bronwyn nod imperceptibly. Fucking hell. Whatever magic the mutore had was rich and solid. He would have to think quickly to get her out of his hold.

He pushed away from the tree and said evenly, "You won't take her."

"I will have you both, Lucian Roman."

Forcing his body to calm, Lucian's mind worked hard and fast. Did he get physical with this bastard? Could he do that without injuring Bron? His fingers played with the blade in his hand. The possibilities were few, but he circled on one and landed. He stepped closer, his knife in his fist. "She is in swell, Gemino, and the balas is mine."

Bronwyn made a sound like the last thing in the world she wanted was for this bastard to know such a thing.

The mutore, the gemino, raised one black eyebrow. "Cruen will be most interested in your offspring, Son of the Breeding Male."

"I'm certain of that," Lucian uttered. "Though he may try to hurt the child."

The paven nodded. "It is possible."

Lucian's fangs descended. He couldn't help it, couldn't stop the instinct of protection. Through gritted teeth, he said, "Understand something, Gemino-if my balas is hurt, yours will be as well."

The mutore sneered. "My balas. I have no balas."

"Unfortunately for the boy, you do." Lucian moved closer. "Remember the credenti veana you bedded? The one who thought you were Nicholas?"

Deep in the gemino's gaze, there was a shudder. "I remember. But passing my seed is not possible. I am not able to sire."

Lucian chuckled. "Well, it looks like your pecker was working just fine that day, Brother. The veana you hold in your arms at this very moment is a genealogist and the very one who tested your son. He doesn't belong to Nicholas, as we first believed-he belongs to you." He took another step. "Now release my veana and I will go with you nice and quiet and easy."

"No!" Bronwyn yelled, the sound rushing down the town road to the ears of the other credenti members.

The mutore looked unconvinced, yet affected by Lucian's words. He signaled to Lucian. "Come. Now."

The switch was quick, and left no time for Bronwyn to fight. Right before Lucian was flashed away, Alexander and Nicholas landed in the square.

"Take her home!" Lucian shouted, praying that his command, his last request for Bronwyn's care, made it to the ears of his brothers.

As Dillon sat on the window ledge outside the room Gray had given her in his compound, her legs dangling down over a good eight stories, she ignored the thick, pale wrist that had been shoved under her nose a second ago. Not as an offer, but a demand. He wanted her to flash her fangs and feed off his Impure blood. And she just wanted him to fuck off.

Gray took his arm away, leaned against the window frame, and made a sound that confirmed his growing frustration. "I know my weak swill doesn't tempt your refined palate, but you need something."

Dillon didn't answer, just stared out at the lights of the city, let the cold air numb her skin.

"Do you want me to contact the Romans?" he asked.

"No."

"What about Sara?" The strain of bitterness was barely hidden beneath the surface of the question.

She inhaled, closed her eyes. "All I want is to be left alone."

"So you can flash out of here?"

She turned to look at him. "You're kidding, right?"

His gaze moved over her. Not as it had a few weeks ago when he'd pulled her into the shower and kissed the shit out of her. No...this was a pity kind of gaze.

"I'll leave you alone, D," he said. "No problem. But you're not leaving here without me knowing about it. Understand?"

"Don't manage me, Impure. I'm not a motherfucking fool, okay?" She opened her arms-not to invite an embrace, but to show herself to him fully. "Where exactly would I go looking like this?"

His jaw worked hard. "You need to feed. You don't want it now, fine. But I'll just keep asking till you do."

He almost didn't get that last word out before Dillon grabbed his wrist and ripped into him with her fangs.

"Fuck!" he cried, but he didn't flinch.

She drank. She drank hard and fast and just to shut him up. Because she needed to think, plan, devise. She wasn't jumping out the window tonight, maybe not even tomorrow or the following day. But it was coming. Her revenge. That was the blood she wanted flowing down her throat. That was the blood that would make her strong again.

Sweet, satisfying senator's blood.