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Blay recoiled with a frown. “You’ve seen his face. How could I not? He’s hurt and not healing well and he needs to feed. And Phury would never allow one of his Chosen to just show up in the world somewhere. This is the only safe way to do it.”

“Why didn’t you just find him someone else? It doesn’t have to be a Chosen.”

“Excuse me?” That frown got even deeper. “He’s your cousin, Qhuinn.”

“I’m well aware of the relation.” And of how petty he sounded. “I just don’t get why you pulled all these strings for the guy.”

Bullshit. He knew exactly why.

Blay turned away. “I’m going back in now—”

“Is he your lover.”

That stopped the male dead . . . just froze him like he was one of the Greek statues, his hand halting on its reach for the doorknob.

Blay glanced over his shoulder, his face hard. “That is none of your business.”

Not a blush in sight, and Qhuinn exhaled slowly in relief. “He isn’t, is he. You haven’t been with him.”

“Leave me alone, Qhuinn. Just . . . leave me alone.”

As the door shut behind the guy, Qhuinn cursed under his breath and wondered if he would ever be able to do that.

Not anytime soon, a voice said in his head. Maybe not ever.

FIFTY-THREE

Lash woke up with his face in the dirt and someone going through his pockets. As he tried to turn over, something hard cupped the back of his skull and held him in place.

A palm. A human palm.

“Get the car keys!” somebody hissed from the left.

There were two of them. A pair of humans, both of whom smelled like crack smoke and old sweat.

Just as the rummaging hand went to the other side of him, Lash caught the man’s wrist and, with a twist and a jump, traded places with the looting bastard.

As the guy went fish-mouth in shock, Lash bared his fangs and swept down from above, catching the ruddy skin of a cheek and ripping it free of the bone. A quick spit and he ripped the cocksucker’s throat wide-open.

Yelling. Serious yelling from the guy who’d given the order about the keys—

Which was quickly extinguished as Lash withdrew his knife and pitched it at the running back of Mr. Grand Theft Auto, catching the fucker right between the shoulder blades. As the son of a bitch yard-saled into the dirt, Lash curled up a fist and punched the temple of the man who’d mounted him.

With the threat now neutralized, Lash went wobbly again, his body falling to the side as he briefly considered another round of throwing up. Not a great condition to be in—especially as the human he’d nailed on the fly began to grunt and claw at the ground like he was determined to get away.

Lash forced himself to his feet and shuffled over. Standing above the crackhead, he braced a foot on the guy’s ass and yanked his knife out of that back. Then he kicked his target over and lifted his arm—

He was about to do the plunge-into-the-chest thing when he realized the bastard was built strong, his frame packed with muscle. Given his wild eyes, he was clearly into the pipe, but he was young enough so that the ravages of the addiction had yet to eat away at his body mass.

Well, wasn’t this the SOB’s lucky night. Thanks to a whim and a good body, he’d just gone from corpse to lab rat.

Instead of stabbing him in the heart, Lash slashed the human’s wrists and nicked his jugular. As red blood flowed into the earth, and the man started in with the moans, Lash looked to the car and felt like the thing was a hundred miles away.

He needed energy. He needed . . .

Bingo.

While those veins drained, Lash dragged himself to the Mercedes, popped the trunk, and lifted the carpet section up. The panel that covered where the spare would normally go pulled out easily.

Hello, wakey-wakey.

The kilo of cocaine was supposed to have been cut down and repackaged for street sale days ago, but then the world had exploded and it had been left right where Mr. D had stashed it.

Wiping his knife off on his pants, Lash punctured a corner of the cellophaned block and dipped in the tip of the blade. He snorted the shit right off the stainless steel, loading up first his right then his left nonexistent nostril.