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He bowed. “As for you, Bella, beloved nalla of mine blooded brother, Zsadist.”

When the door shut behind her, Phury sank down on the bed and brought the blunt to his lips. As he looked around the room he’d stayed in since the Brotherhood had moved into the compound, he realized it wasn’t home to him. It was just a guest room…a luxurious, anonymous guest room…four walls of nice oil paintings with good carpeting and drapes lush as a female’s ball gown.

It would be nice to have a home.

He’d never had one. After Zsadist had been abducted as an infant, their mahmen had closed herself in underground, and their father had gone on the hunt for the nursemaid who’d taken Z. Growing up, Phury had lived among the moving, breathing shadows of the household. Everyone, even the doggen, had just gone through the motions of life. There had been no laughter. No happiness. No calendar of ceremonies.

No hugs.

Phury had learned to keep quiet and stay out of the way. It was, after all, the kindest thing he could do. He’d been the replica of what had been lost, the reminder of the heartbreak that was on everyone’s mind. He took to wearing hats to hide his face, and he’d walked with a shuffle, curling into himself so as to be smaller, less noticeable.

As soon as he’d gone through his transition, he’d left to find his twin. No one had waved him off. There had been no good-byes. Z’s disappearance had used up all of the household’s capacity for missing someone, so there was none left over for Phury.

Which had been good, actually. It made everything easier.

About ten years later he’d learned from a distant cousin that his mother had died in her sleep. He’d gone back home immediately, but they’d had the funeral without him. His father had died about eight years later. Phury had made it to that funeral and had spent his last night in the family house. Afterward the property had been sold, the doggen had dispersed, and it was as if his parents had never been.

His rootlessness now was not new. He’d felt it since his first moment of consciousness as a child. He was ever the wanderer, and the Other Side was not going to give him a base. He couldn’t make a home there because he couldn’t have one without his twin. Or his brothers. Or—

He stopped. Refused to let himself think of Bella.

As he stood up and felt his prosthesis bear his weight, he thought it was ironic that a nomad like him was missing a limb.

Tamping out his blunt, he slipped a number of them into his pocket, and was almost out the door when he stopped and turned around. Four strides brought him to his walk-in closet, three clicks of a lock opened a metal door, two hands reached in. One black dagger came out.

He palmed his weapon, feeling the perfect balance and the precision grip that matched only his specs. Vishous had made it for him…hell, how long ago? Seventy-five years…yeah, it would be seventy-five years this summer since he’d joined the Brotherhood.

He examined the blade in the light. Seventy-five years of offing lessers, and not a scratch on the blade. He took out the other one he used. Same diff. V was a master craftsman, all right.

Looking at the weapons, feeling their weight, he pictured Vishous standing in the bedroom’s doorway earlier this evening, explaining that the Scribe Virgin was going to allow the substitution of Primales. The icy brother had had life in his eyes. Life and hope, along with a shining purpose.

Phury tucked one of the daggers into the satin belt that was around his waist and returned the other to the safe. Then he strode to the door with steel in his spine.

Love was worth sacrificing for, he thought as he left his room. Even if it wasn’t yours.

At that moment Vishous materialized on the far side of the street across from Jane’s condo. There were no lights on inside her place, and he was tempted just to go inside, but he stayed in the shadows.

Goddamn, his head was scrambled. He felt guilty as hell over Phury. Scared to death over what Jane was going to say.