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Stabbing out what little was left of the hand-rolled, he stared across his bedroom at the bureau. The medallion had finally stalled out.

It took him less than ten minutes to shower, dress in white silks, and put the Primale medallion’s leather thong over his head. As the slab of gold settled between his pecs, its weight was warm, probably because of its workout.

He traveled directly to the Other Side, having special dispensation as Primale to skip being routed through the Scribe Virgin’s courtyard. Taking form in front of the Sanctuary ’s amphitheater, where the whole thing had started five months ago, he found it hard to believe he really had taken Vishous’s place as Primale.

It was kind of like looking at his shaky hand: This just wasn’t him.

Yeah, except it totally was.

Up ahead, the white stage with its heavy white curtain glowed in the odd, relentless light of the Other Side. Here there were no shadows, as there was no sun in the pale sky, and yet there was plenty of illumination, as if everything were its own light source. The temperature was seventy degrees, neither too hot nor too cold, and there was no breeze to brush over your skin or ruffle your clothes. Everything was a soft, eye-soothing white.

The place was the landscape equivalent of Muzak.

Walking over cropped white grass, he headed around the back of the Greco-Roman theater toward the various temples and living quarters. On the fringes, all around, there was a white forest bracketing the compound that cut off any long vistas. He wondered what was on the far side of it. Probably nothing. The Sanctuary had the feel of an architect’s model or a train set, as if, were you to walk to the edge, all you would find was a steep drop-off to some giant’s wall-to-wall-carpeted floor.

As he went along, he wasn’t sure how to get the Directrix ’s attention, but he wasn’t in a big hurry to make that happen. To delay, he went to the Primale’s temple and used his gold medallion to unlock the double doors. After stepping through the white marble foyer, he went into the temple ’s single, lofty room and stared at the bedding platform with its white satin sheets.

He remembered what Cormia had looked like tied down naked, a white sheet falling from above and pooling at her throat to mask her face. He had torn the thing down and been horrified to meet her tear-filled, terrified eyes.

She’d been gagged.

He looked up to the ceiling, where the draping that had covered her face had been hung. There were two tiny gold hooks embedded in the marble. He wanted to take them out with a fucking jackhammer.

As he stared upward, he randomly thought back to a conversation he’d had with Vishous right before all the shit had gone down with this Primale business. The two of them had been in the dining room at the mansion, and V had said something about having had a vision of Phury.

Phury hadn’t wanted deets, but they’d come out anyway, and the words the brother had spoken were oddly clear to him now, like a recording replayed: I saw you standing at a crossroads in a field of white. It was a stormy day . . . yeah, lots of storms. But when you took a cloud from the sky and wrapped it around the well, the rain stopped falling.

Phury narrowed his eyes on those two hooks. He’d torn the sheet down from there and wrapped Cormia in it. And she had stopped crying.

She was the well . . . the well that he was supposed to fill. She was the future of the race, the source of new Brothers and new Chosen. The fountainhead.

As were all of her sisters.

“Your grace.”

He turned around. The Directrix was standing in the doorway of the temple, her long white robe brushing the floor, her dark hair coiled up high on her head. With her calm smile and the peace that radiated from her eyes, she had the beatific expression of the spiritually enlightened.

He envied all that serene conviction.

Amalya bowed to him, her body lean and elegant in its Chosen dress code. “I am pleased to see you.”

He bowed back to her. “And I you.”

“Thank you for this audience.” She straightened and there was a