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Out in central processing, he waited while an officer explained page after page of “here are the charges against you,” “this is the public defender’s office number—you need to call them if you want to get assigned an attorney,” “your court date is in six weeks,” “if you fail to show, your bail will be forfeited and an arrest warrant will be issued,” blah, blah, blah . . .

He signed the name Larry Owens a couple of times, and then he was let out into the hall he’d been led down while handcuffed eight hours ago. At the end of the linoleum stretch, Mr. D was sitting in a grotty plastic chair, and as he got to his feet he seemed relieved.

“We’re going for food,” Lash said as they headed toward the exit.

“Yes, suh.”

Lash walked out of the front of the CPD’s building, too distracted by the things he needed to do to think about the time. When the sunshine hit him square in the face, he reared back with a scream and slammed into Mr. D.

Covering his face, he scrambled back for the building.

Mr. D caught him by the upper arms. “What—”

“The sun!” Lash was almost back through the doors when he realized . . . nothing was happening. There was nothing up in flames, no great ball of fire, no horrible burning demise.

He stopped . . . and turned around to face the sun for the first time in his life. “It’s so bright.” He shielded his eyes with his forearm.

“You’re not supposed to look straight into it.”

“It’s . . . warm.”

Falling back against the building’s stone facade, he couldn’t believe the warmth. As the rays beat into him, they radiated through his skin into his muscles.

He’d never envied humans before. But, God, if he’d known how this felt, he would have all along.

“You okay?” Mr. D asked.

“Yeah . . . yeah, I am.” He closed his eyes and just breathed in and out. “My parents . . . they never let me go out. Pretrans are supposed to be able to handle sunlight up until the change, but my mom and dad never wanted to risk it.”

“Can’t imagine not havin’ no sun.”

After this, neither could Lash.

Tilting his chin up, he closed his eyes for a moment . . . and vowed to thank his father the next time he saw him.

This was . . . magnificent.

Phury woke up with a burning, foul taste in his mouth. Actually it was all over, like someone had sprayed the inside of his skin with oven cleaner.

Eyes were glued shut. Stomach was a lead ball. Lungs were inflating and deflating with all the enthusiasm of a pair of stoners the day after a Grateful Dead binge. And leading the charge on going absolutely nowhere was his brain, which evidently had flatlined and not been resuscitated along with the rest of his body.

Actually, his chest was pretty much a closed shop as well. Or . . .no, his heart must have still been beating, because . . . well, it had to be, didn’t it? Or he wouldn’t have thoughts, right?

An image of the gray wasteland came to him, the wizard silhouetted against that vast gray horizon.

Welcome back, sunshine, the wizard said. That was such bloody fun. When can we do it again?

Do what again, Phury wondered.

The wizard laughed. Oh, how easily they forget the fun times.

Phury groaned and heard someone move.

“Cormia,” he croaked.

“No.”

That voice, that deep, male voice. So like the one that came out of his own mouth. In fact, it was identical.

Zsadist was with him.

As Phury turned his head, his brain sloshed in his skull, his bone dome nothing but a fish tank that had water and plants and a little treasure chest with bubbles, but nothing with fins in it. Nothing that actually lived.

Z looked as bad as Phury had ever seen him, with dark shadows under his eyes and his lips drawn tight and that scar more visible than ever.

“I dreamed of you,” Phury said. God, his voice was just a rasp. “You were singing to me.”

Z’s head slowly went back and forth. “That wasn’t me. Not up for singing anymore.”

“Where is she?” Phury asked.

“Cormia? The Sanctuary.”

“Oh . . .” That’s right. He’d driven her there after having sex with her. And then he’d . . . Shot. Up. With. Heroin. “Oh,