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His head flickered in hysteria at the conviction. He was not home. He was . . . Sure as hell he’d never seen this decrepit room before.

Where the fuck was he?

“Be of ease,” the Omega murmured. “It shall all come back to you.”

And it did, in a rush. He saw the locker room at the training center . . . and John, that frickin’ pansy, getting all freaked out when his dirty little secret was exposed. Then it was the two of them pounding it out until . . . Qhuinn . . . Qhuinn had sliced his throat open.

Holy shit . . . he could even feel himself going down onto the floor in the shower, the tiles a hard, wet landing pad. He relived the cold shock and remembered putting his hands to his throat and starting to gasp as a suffocating, choking squeeze overtook his chest . . . his blood . . . he’d been drowning in his own blood . . . but then he’d been stitched up and sent to the clinic, where . . .

Shit, he’d died, hadn’t he. The doctor had brought him back, but he had definitely died.

“Which was how I found you,” the Omega murmured. “Your death was the beacon.”

But why would the Evil want him?

“Because you are my son,” the Omega said in a reverent, distorted voice.

Son? Son?

Lash shook his head slowly. “No . . . no . . .”

“Look into my eyes.”

When the connection was made, more scenes were shown to him, the visions like pages flipped in a picture book. The story that unfolded made him both cringe and breathe easier. He was the son of the Evil. Born of a vampire female held against her will in this very farmhouse over two decades ago. After his birth he had been left at a gathering site for vampires, found by them, and taken to Havers’s clinic . . . where he was later adopted by his family in a private exchange that even he didn’t know about.

And now, having reached his maturity, he had returned to his sire.

Home.

As Lash grappled with the implications, a hunger swirled in his belly, and his fangs protruded into his mouth.

The Omega smiled and looked over his shoulder. A lesser the size of a fourteen-year-old stood in the far corner of the shitty room, his ratlike eyes trained on Lash, his small body tense as a coiled snake.

“And now for the service you shall provide,” the Omega said to the slayer.

The Evil extended his shadowy hand and beckoned the guy forward.

The lesser didn’t so much walk as move in a block, as if his arms and legs were paralyzed and his body were being lifted and carried upright over the floor. Pale eyes popped wide and rolled with panic, but Lash had other things on his mind than the fear of the man being presented to him.

As he caught the sweet scent of the lesser, he sat up, baring his fangs.

“You shall feed my son,” the Omega said to the slayer.

Lash didn’t wait for consent. He reached up, grabbed that little fucker around the back of the neck, and dragged the guy to his tingling canines. He bit hard and sucked deep, the blood sweet as treacle and just as thick.

It didn’t taste like anything he was used to, but it filled his belly and gave him strength, and that was the point.

As he nursed, the Omega started to laugh, softly at first, then louder, until the house shook from the force of mad, murderous glee.

Phury tapped his blunt on the lip of his ashtray and looked at what he’d done with his quill. The drawing was shocking, and not just because of the subject matter.

The damn thing was also one of the best he’d ever put on a piece of paper.

The female form on the creamy expanse was lying back on a bed of satin, with pillows puffed up behind her shoulders and neck. One arm was above her head, her fingers twining in her long hair. The other was down at her side, the hand resting at the juncture of her thighs. Her breasts were taut, her little nipples peaked for a mouth, and her lips were parted in invitation—as were her legs. Both were open, one knee bent up, her foot arched, her toes curled tight, as if she were anticipating something delicious.

She was staring straight out of the page, looking right at him.

What he’d done was no willy-nilly sketch, either. The drawing was