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O’er by a fire, upon a bed of clean linens, a female lay with her face turned toward the flaming warmth. She was pale as that which covered her, and her empty eyes reminded him of the tragic female who had passed unto the Fade before his own hearth.

The gentlemale’s shellan did not sit up or look over as her hellren entered the bedchamber, and for a moment, Darius worried that he had made a mistake.

But the young must have let out a sound, because the female’s head suddenly snapped around.

As she beheld the bundle that was presented to her, her mouth fell open, confusion and then awe filtering through her lovely features. Abruptly, she cast the coverlet from her arms and reached for the babe. Her hands were shaking so badly, her hellren had to place the young against her heart . . . but she held her newborn daughter in place all by herself.

’Twas the wind which made Darius’s eyes water. Verily, ’twas but the wind.

As he brushed over his face with his palm, he told himself that all was well and how it should be. . . . even if he felt a mourning within his breast.

Behind him, his charger let out a roar and reared up against the hold on his reins, his massive hooves pounding against the earth. At the sound, the female in the bedchamber looked up with alarm and cradled her precious gift closely, as if she needed to protect the babe.

Darius wheeled away and blindly jogged over to his steed. With a leap, he was up on the back of the great beast, taking control of the animal, harnessing the power and rage that had been bred into its every muscle and bone.

“We shall go unto Devon,” Darius said, needing a purpose more than he needed breath or heartbeat. “There are reports of lessers.”

“Aye.” Tohrment looked back at the house. “But are you . . . of a proper spirit to fight now?”

“ The war waits for no male to be of sound mind.” Indeed, at times ’twas better to be in lunacy.

Tohrment nodded. “Onward to Devon, then.”

Darius gave his stallion all the head it wanted and the warhorse burst forth from its enforced halt, galloping off into the woods, tearing o’er the ground. The wind in Darius’s face cast his tears away, but did naught to cure the ache in his chest.

He wondered as he rode off back to the war whether he would see the babe again—but he knew the answer. There was no way their paths would cross. How could they? In what manner of life’s twists and turns could they find themselves united once more?

Verily, it defied destiny, did it not.

Oh, the wee one. Ill begotten. Ne’er to be forgotten.

E’er to have a piece of his heart.

SEVENTY-THREE

Later Xhex would reflect that good things, like bad, came in threes.

She’d just never had that particular experience before . . . not with the three thing, but with the “good” part.

Thanks to John Matthew’s blood and Doc Jane’s handiwork, she was up and around the night after the rollout with Lash, and she knew she was back to her normal self because she’d put her cilices on again. And trimmed her hair. And been to her house on the Hudson River to get clothes and weapons.

And spent about . . . four hours making love with John.

She’d also met with Wrath and it looked like she had a new job: The great Blind King had invited her to come fight with the Brotherhood. In the wake of her initial shock, he’d maintained that her skills were much needed and welcome in the war—and gee, yeah, kill some lessers?

Great. Idea. She was so on board with that.

And speaking of on board, she’d moved into John’s room properly. In his closet, her leathers and her muscle shirts were hanging next to his, and their shitkickers were lined up together, and all her knives and her guns and her little toys were now locked up in his fireproof cabinet.

Their ammo was even stacked together.

Too frickin’ romantic.

So, yup, business as usual.

Except . . . well, except for the fact that she’d been reduced to sitting on this big bed, rubbing her sweaty palms on her leathers for, like, the last