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When he was thick in the middle of the building, he got down on his knees, took off his cowboy hat, and settled in for one hell of a tongue-lashin’.

Just as he opened himself to the master, the newest storm got serious about coming in, its thunder rolling into downtown, then echoing as it bounced off the tall buildings. Perfect timing. The Omega’s arrival sounded like just another thunderclap as the master broke through into Caldwell’s version of reality, busting out of thin air as if he were leaping out of a lake. When he’d fully arrived, the background of the construction site wobbled like it was rubber snapping back into shape.

White robes settled around the Omega’s ghostly black form, and Mr. D got ready to pull the trigger on a whole lot of we’re-doin-the-best-we-can.

But the Omega spoke first. “I have found what belongs to me. His death was the way. You shall give me four men and you shall procure necessaries and you shall go to the farmhouse to ready it for an induction.”

Okay, that was not what he’d expected to come out of the master’s mouth.

Mr. D got up and took out his phone. “There’s a squadron on Third Street. I’ll tell them to come here.”

“No, I shall pick them up there and they shall travel with me. When I return to the farmhouse, you shall assist me in what transpires, and then you shall provide a service.”

“Yes, master.”

The Omega extended his arms, his white robe unfurling like a pair of wings. “Rejoice, for we are strengthened tenfold. My son is coming home.”

With that, the Omega up and disappeared, a rolled scroll falling to the concrete floor in the wake of his depature.

“Son?” Mr. D wondered if he’d heard that right. “Son?”

He bent down and picked up the scroll. The list was long and kind of gruesome, but not exotic.

Cheap and easy. Cheap and easy. Which was good because his wallet was darned slim.

He put the list in his jacket and his cowboy hat back on.

Son?

Across town in Havers’s underground clinic, Rehv waited in an examination room with no patience whatsoever. Checking his watch for the eight hundred and fiftieth time, he felt like a race car driver whose pit crew was made up of ninety-year-olds.

What the hell was he doing here anyway? The dopamine had kicked in and the panic had faded, and now he felt ridiculous with his Bally loafers dangling off the end of a doctor’s table. All was normal and under control, and for chrissakes, his forearm would heal up eventually. The fact that it was slow probably meant he just needed to feed. A quick session with Xhex and he’d be good to go.

So really, he should just take off.

Yeah, the only problem with that was the fact that Xhex and Trez were waiting for him in the parking lot. If he didn’t come out of here with some mummy wrapping over his needle marks, they were going to scramble his ass like eggs.

The door opened and a nurse came in. The female was dressed in a white shirtwaist dress, white hose, and white soft-soled shoes, a right-out-of-central-casting routine that was all about Havers’s old-fashioned ways and standards. As she shut the door, she had her head buried in his medical chart, and though he didn’t doubt she was checking on whatever was written there, he was well aware that the added bene was that she didn’t have to meet his eyes.

All the nurses did that when they were with him.

“Good evening,” she said stiffly while flipping through pages. “I’m going to take a blood sample, if you don’t mind.”

“Sounds good.” At least something was happening.

While he took off one side of his sable coat and shrugged out of his jacket, she bustled around washing her hands and snapping on gloves.

None of the nurses liked dealing with him. It was female intuition. Even though there was no mention in his chart that he was a half-breed symphath, they could sense the evil in him. His sister, Bella, and his former flame, Marissa, were the only notable exceptions, because they both brought out his good side: He cared for them and they