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God . . .

Damn.

When he felt like he could talk, he stretched over to the side table and picked up his phone. Flipping the thing open, he saw that it was Saxton who’d called.

Maybe to cancel? And wouldn’t that be a relief. Getting shut down twice in one night was hardly good news, but it would save him from having to beg off from the male.

Firing up voice mail, Blay propped his forehead on his palm and stared down at his bare feet.

“Good evening, Blaylock. I imagine that you are, at this very moment, standing in front of your closet trying to decide what to wear.” Saxton’s smooth, deep voice was a curious balm, so soothing and low. “Well, indeed, I am before mine own clothes. . . . I believe I shall be going with a suit and vest coat in a gamine houndstooth. I think pinstripes would be a good accompaniment on your part.” There was a pause and a laugh. “Not that I would tell you what to wear, of course. But do call if you’re on the fence. About your wardrobe, of course.” Another pause and then a serious tone. “I’m looking forward to seeing you. Bye.”

Blay took the phone away from his ear and hovered his thumb over the delete option. On impulse he saved the message.

After a long, steady inhale, he forced himself to his feet. Even though his hands were shaking, he tucked in his fine shirt and went back to the now messy dresser.

He picked up the cologne bottles, righting them once again, and retrieved the brush from the floor. Then he opened up the sock drawer . . . and took out what he needed.

To finish getting dressed.

THIRTY-FIVE

Darius was due to meet his young protégé after the sun was well set, but before he headed over to the human mansion they’d spied upon through the trees, he materialized in the woods afore the Brotherhood’s cave.

With the Brothers scattered thither and yon, communication could be delayed and a system had been set up for the exchange of notations and announcements. All came here once a night to see what had been left for the others or to leave missives of their own.

After ensuring that there were no eyes upon him, he ducked into the dark enclave, went through the secret rock wall, and made his way through the series of gates toward the sanctum sanctorum. The “communication system” was nothing but an alcove set in the rock wall, into which correspondence could be placed, and because of its simplicity, it was far down the way.

He didn’t make it far enough to see if his brothers had anything to say to him, however.

Coming up to the final gate, he saw upon the stone floor that which at first glance appeared to be a pile of clothing folded up next to a rough sack.

As he unsheathed his black dagger, a dark head rose from the heap.

“Tohr?” Darius lowered his weapon.

“Aye.” The boy turned over on his ragged bed. “Good evening, sire.”

“Whatever are you doing herein?”

“I have slept.”

“’Tis obvious, indeed.” Darius went over and knelt down. “But why-for did you not return unto your home?”

After all he had been disowned, but Hharm rarely went unto his mated abode. Surely the young one could have stayed with his mahmen?

The boy pushed himself up to his feet and steadied himself on the wall. “Whatever time is it? Have I missed—”

Darius gripped Tohr’s arm. “Did you eat?”

“Am I late?”

Darius didn’t bother asking any more questions. The answers to what he wanted to know were in the manner in which the boy refused to lift his eyes: Indeed, he had been asked not to take shelter in his father’s house.

“Tohrment, how many nights have you passed herein?” On that cold floor.

“I can find another place to tarry. I shall not retire here again.”

Praise the Scribe Virgin, that would be true. “Wait here, please.”

Darius ducked through the gate and checked for correspondence. As he found communications for Murhder and Ahgony, he thought about leaving one for Hharm. On the lines of, How could you possibly turn out your blooded son such that he is forced to spend the day with naught but stone for a bed and his clothes