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The bathroom was pitch dark, as the shutters were still down for the day and he’d turned all the lights off after Layla left. With his hand on the switch he took a deep breath, then flipped on the recessed lights.

He blinked hard, his eyes supersensitive and way more acute than they’d been before. After a moment, his reflection came into focus like an apparition, emerging from the glare, like a ghost of himself. He was…

He didn’t want to know. Not yet.

John shut the lights off and went to the shower. As he waited for the hot water to get running, he settled back against the cold marble, wrapping his arms around himself. He had this absurd need to be held at the moment, so it was a good thing he was alone. Although he’d hoped the change would make him stronger, it appeared to have nancied him out even more.

He thought back to killing those lessers. Right after he’d stabbed them he’d gotten such clarity as to who he was and what kind of power he had. But that had all faded, so much so that he wasn’t sure he’d ever really felt that way.

He pushed open the shower door and stepped inside.

Christ, ow. The fine spray was like needles going into his skin, and when he tried to soap up his arm that French-milled stuff Fritz bought stung like battery acid. He had to force himself to wash his face, and though it was cool to have stubble on his jaw for the first time in recorded history, the idea of taking a razor to his puss was utterly repellent. Like drawing a cheese grater down his cheeks.

He was washing his body off, being as gentle as he could, when he got to his privates. Without thinking much of it he did what he had done all of his life, a quick sweep under his sac then down himself—

This time the effect was different. He got hard. His…cock got hard.

God, that word seemed weird to use, but…well, that thing was definitely a cock now, something a man had, something a man used—

The erection came to a halt. Just stopped swelling and lengthening. The curling ache in his lower belly went away, too.

He rinsed the soap off himself, determined not to open the can of worms about him and sex. He had enough problems. His body was a remote-controlled car whose antenna was broken; he was going to class, where everyone was going to stare at him; and it dawned on him that Wrath must know about the gun he’d had on him downtown. After all, he’d been brought back here somehow, and Blay and Qhuinn would have had to explain what was doing with the scene. Knowing Blay, the guy would try to protect John about the nine and cop to its being his, but what if that got the guy kicked out of the program? No one was supposed to have weapons when they were out and about. No one.

When John got out of the shower, toweling off wasn’t an option. Even though it was cold as hell he let himself air-dry as he brushed his teeth and clipped his nails. His eyes were superacute in the dark, so finding what he wanted in the drawers wasn’t a problem. Avoiding the mirror was, though, so he went into his bedroom.

Opening up his closet, he took out a bag from Abercrombie & Fitch. Fritz had turned up at his door with the thing weeks ago, and when John had taken a gander at the clothes he’d figured the butler had lost his mind. Inside were a pair of brand-new distressed jeans, a fleece the size of a sleeping bag, an XXXL T-shirt, and a pair of size-fourteen Nike Air Shox in a shiny new box.

Turned out Fritz, as usual, had been right. All of it fit. Even the boat-sized shoes.

As John stared down at his feet, he thought, man, those Nikes needed to come with PFDs and a frickin’ anchor, they were so big.

He left his room, his legs working in a gawky gait, his arms swinging loose, his balance off.

As he got to the head of the grand staircase he lifted his eyes to the ceiling, with its depictions of great warriors.

He prayed he would be one. But he just couldn’t see how in the hell he’d pull that off.

Phury woke up to the sight of the female of his dreams. Or maybe he was dreaming?

“Hi,” Bella said.

He cleared