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He paused over what looked like an ancient book. “Son…of a bitch.”

Its leather cover was tattered, but the embossed title was still evident: DARIUS, SON OF MARKLON.

Phury leaned down, astounded. It was D’s book…probably a diary.

He opened the case, then frowned at the smell inside. Gunpowder?

He looked at the assembled objects. In the far corner there was an old handgun, and he recognized the make and model from the firearms textbook he’d been teaching the trainees from. It was a 1890 Colt Navy .36-caliber, six-cylinder revolver. That had recently been used.

He took the thing out, cocked the chamber open, and palmed one of the bullets. They were spherical…and uneven, as if they were handmade.

He’d seen the shape before. When he’d been erasing V’s medical results from the computer at St. Francis, he’d looked at a chest X-ray that had been taken…and seen a spherical, slightly irregular hunk of lead in his brother’s lung.

“Were you here to see me?”

Phury looked over his shoulder at the Directrix. The female was standing in the double doors, dressed in that white robe they all wore. Around her neck, on a chain, was a medallion like his.

“Nice collection of artifacts you have here,” he drawled, turning around.

The female’s eyes narrowed. “I would think the gems would interest you more.”

“Not really.” He watched her carefully as he lifted the book in his hand. “This looks like my brother’s diary.”

As her shoulders eased up ever so slightly, he wanted to kill her. “Yes, that is Darius’s diary.”

Phury tapped the cover of the book, then waved his hand around at all the gems. “Tell me something—is this place kept locked all the time?”

“Yes. Ever since the attack.”

“You and I are the only ones with keys, right? I’d hate to have anything happen to what’s in here.”

“Yes. Only the two of us. No one may gain entry herein without my knowledge or presence.”

“No one.”

Her eyes flashed with annoyance. “Order is to be maintained. I have spent years training the Chosen unto their proper ministrations.”

“Yeah…so a Primale showing up must be a real buzz kill for you. Because I’m in charge now, aren’t I?”

Her voice dropped low. “It is right and proper for you to rule herein.”

“I’m sorry, could you say that again? I didn’t quite hear you.”

Her eyes seethed with venom for a split second—which confirmed to him her actions and her motive: The Directrix had shot Vishous. With the gun from the case. She wanted to continue to be in charge, and knew damn well that if a Primale came in at best she would be second in command under a male. At worst she could lose all her power just because the male didn’t like the color of her eyes.

When she’d failed to kill V, she backed off…until she could try again. No doubt she was smart enough and nasty enough to defend her territory until either the Brothers ran out or the Primale role started to look cursed.

“You were about to say something, weren’t you?” he prompted.

The Directrix smoothed the medallion hanging from her throat. “You are the Primale. You are the ruler herein.”

“Good. Glad we’re both straight on that.” He tapped Darius’s diary again. “I’m taking this back with me.”

“Are we not meeting?”

He walked over to her, thinking that if she had been male he would have snapped her neck.

“Not right now, no. I have something I have to take care of with the Scribe Virgin.” He leaned down, putting his mouth next to her ear. “But I’ll be back for you.”

Chapter Fifty-two

Vishous had never cried before. Throughout his life he had never, ever cried. After all the shit he’d been through, it had gotten to the point that he’d decided he’d been born without tear ducts.

The events leading up to now hadn’t changed that. When Jane had lain dead in his arms he hadn’t wept. When he’d attempted to cut off his hand in the Tomb as a sacrifice and the pain had been astonishing, there had been no tears. When his hated mother had cast him back from the deed he’d been about to do, his cheeks had been dry.

Even when the Scribe Virgin