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“I want you to divvy up the list of the ones we haven’t heard from,” Wrath said. “If there’s anyone still in those houses, I want you to get them out, even if you have to drag them by the hair. John, you and Qhuinn go with Z. Blay, you’re going with Rhage. Any questions?”

For no good reason John found himself looking over at the ugly-ass avocado green chair that was behind Wrath’s desk. It was Tohr’s.

Or had been.

He would have liked Tohr to see him with the list in his hand, ready to go out and defend the race.

“Good,” Wrath said. “Now get the fuck out of here and do what I need you to do.”

On the other side, in the Temple of the Sequestered Scribes, Cormia rolled up the parchment she had been sketching houses and buildings on and placed it on the floor next to her stool. She had no idea what to do with the thing. Maybe burn it? Wastepaper baskets didn’t exist in the Sanctuary.

As she moved a crystal bowl that was full of water from the Scribe Virgin’s fountain in front of her, she thought of the ones Fritz had brought her with her peas in them. She missed that hobby of hers already. Missed the butler. Missed . . .

The Primale.

Palming the bowl, she began to rub the crystal, creating ripples in the surface of the water that caught the light of the candles. The warmth of her hands and the subtle movement created a swirling effect, and from out of the gentle waves came the vision of exactly who she wanted to see. Once the image appeared, she stopped agitating the water and let the surface smooth out so she could watch and then describe what she saw.

It was the Primale, and he was dressed the way he’d been that night he’d met her at the top of the stairs and looked at her as if he hadn’t seen her for a week. But he wasn’t in the Brotherhood’s mansion. He was racing down a corridor that was marked with streaks of blood and black heel prints. Bodies were crumpled on the floor on either side, the remains of vampires who had been living just moments before.

She watched as the Primale gathered a small group of terrified males and females and put them into a supply closet. She saw his face as he locked them in, saw the dread and the sadness and the anger in his features.

He’d scrambled to save them, to find a way to safety, to take care of them.

When the vision dimmed, she palmed the bowl once more. Now that she had seen what had transpired, she could call it up again, and she watched his actions once more. Then again.

It was as the movie had been back on the far side, only this was real; this was past that had transpired, not a constructed fictional present.

And then there were other things she saw, scenes tied to the Primale and the Brotherhood and the race. Oh, the horror of the killings, of those dead bodies in luxurious houses . . .the corpses too numerous for her to comprehend. One by one, she saw the faces of those who had been killed by the lessers. Then she saw the Brothers out fighting, their numbers so small that John and Blay and Qhuinn were being forced too early into the war.

If this continued, she thought, the lessers would win. . . .

She frowned and bent down closer to the bowl.

On the surface of the water, she saw a blond lesser, which was not unusual . . . but it had fangs.

There was a knock, and as she jumped from being startled, the image disappeared.

A muffled voice came from the other side of the temple door. “My sister?”

It was Selena, the previous sequestered scribe.

“Greetings,” Cormia called out.

“Your meal, my sister,” the Chosen said. There was a scraping sound as a tray was slid through a trapdoor. “May it please you.”

“Thank you.”

“Have you any inquiries of me?”

“No. Thank you.”

“I shall come back for the tray.” The excitement in the Chosen’s voice lifted it nearly an octave. “After his arrival.”

Cormia inclined her head, then remembered that her sister couldn’t see her. “As you wish.”

The Chosen left, no doubt to prepare herself for the Primale.

Cormia leaned back over the desk and looked at the bowl, instead of into it. Such