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Tohr’s heart had been going as fast as a jackhammer as he’d leaned over the body of the heir to the race’s throne. Blood had been everywhere, leaking fast from a gash in Wrath’s head, so Tohr had shrugged out of his jacket, bit into the sleeve, and ripped off a strip of leather. After wrapping up the heir’s temples and tying the makeshift bandage as tight as he could, he’d flagged down a passing truck, pulled a gun on the greaser behind the wheel, and been chauffeured by the human out to Havers’s neighborhood.

He and Wrath had ridden in the back bed, with him keeping pressure on Wrath’s head wound, and the rain had been cold. A late-November rain, maybe December. Good thing it hadn’t been summer, though. No doubt the chill had slowed Wrath’s heart and eased his blood pressure.

Quarter of a mile from Havers’s, in the ritzy part of Caldwell, Tohr had told the human to pull over and brainwashed him on his way.

The minutes it had taken Tohr to walk to the clinic had been among the longest of his life, but he’d gotten Wrath there, and Havers had closed what had turned out to be a temporal artery slice.

It had been touch and go that next day. Even with Marissa there to feed Wrath, the king had lost so much blood, he hadn’t rebounded as expected, and Tohr had stayed for the duration, sitting in a chair by the bedside. As Wrath had lain so still, Tohr had felt as if the whole of the race were tipping between life and death, the only one who could take the throne locked into a sleep that was only a few firing neurons off a permanent vegetative state.

Word had gotten out and people had come undone. The nurses and the doctor. The other patients who had stopped by to pray over the king who would not serve. The Brothers, who had used rotary phones to call every fifteen minutes.

The collective sense was that without Wrath, there was no hope. No future. No chance.

Wrath had lived, however, waking up with the kind of crankiness that made you sigh in relief…because if a patient had the energy to be that pissy, he was going to pull through.

The following nightfall, after having been out cold for twenty-four hours straight and having scared the shit out of everyone around him, Wrath had unplugged the IV, dressed himself, and left.

Without a word to any of them.

Tohr had expected…something. Not a thank-you, but an acknowledgment or…something. Hell, Wrath was a gruff son of a bitch now, but back then? He’d been downright toxic. Even so…nothing? After he’d saved the guy’s life?

Kinda reminded him of the way he’d been treating John. And his brothers.

Tohr wrapped the towel around his waist and thought about the more important point of the memory. Wrath out there fighting alone. Back in ’58, it had been a stroke of luck that Tohr had been where he had and found the king before it was too late.

“Time to wake up,” Lassiter said.

SEVENTEEN

As night settled in for the duration, Ehlena prayed that she wouldn’t be late to work again. With the clock ticking, she waited upstairs in the kitchen with the CranRas and the crushed drugs. She’d been meticulous about cleanup: She’d put the spoon away. Double-checked all the surfaces. Even made sure the living room was ordered properly.

“Father?” she called down the stairs.

While she listened for sounds of shuffling movement and quiet words spoken without sense, she thought of the bizarre dream she’d had during the day. She’d imagined Rehv in the dark distance with his arms hanging to the sides. His magnificent, naked body had been spotlit as if on display, his muscles bunching up in a powerful show, his skin a warm, golden brown. His head had been angled down, his eyes closed as if in repose.

Captivated, summoned, she had walked across a cold stone floor to him, saying his name over and over again.

He had not responded. He had not lifted his head. He had not opened his eyes.

Fear had whistled through her veins and kick-started her heart, and she had rushed to him, but he had stayed ever distant, a goal never realized, a destination never reached.

She had awoken with