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John focused on the apple tree depicted on the floor. It was so lovely, a sign of spring, eternally flowering . . . the kind of thing that uplifted you every time you saw it.

He’d loved the tree since he’d moved in—

A collective gasp snapped his head up.

Oh . . . sweet . . . Mary . . . Mother . . . of . . .

His brain conked out at that point. Just went blank. He was pretty sure his heart was still ticking, given that he remained upright, but other than that?

Well, he’d just died and gone to heaven.

Standing up at the top of the grand staircase, with her hand poised on the golden balustrade, Xhex had appeared in a breathtaking glory that rendered him senseless and astonished.

The red gown she was wearing suited her perfectly, the black lace at the top playing to her black hair and her dark gray eyes, the miles of satin skirting falling about her slender body in resplendent waves.

As she met his eyes, she fussed with the waist, then smoothed the front.

Come to me, he signed. Come down to me, my female.

In the far corner, a tenor began to sing, Zsadist’s crystal-clear voice sailing up toward the warrior paintings on the ceiling far, far above them all. At first John didn’t know what the song was . . . although if he’d been asked what his name was, he would have said Santa Claus, or Luther Vandross, or Teddy Roosevelt.

Maybe even Joan Collins.

But then the sounds coalesced and he caught the tune. U2’s “All I Want Is You.”

The one John had asked the male to sing.

Xhex’s first step brought out the sniffles from the females. And Lassiter, evidently. Either that or the angel had dust in his eye.

With every descending footfall Xhex took, John’s chest swelled further until he felt as if not only his body was buoyant, but he was lifting the great weight of the stone mansion up with him.

At the base of the stairs, she paused again and Beth rushed forward to arrange the long skirting.

And then Xhex was standing with him in front of Wrath, the Blind King.

I love you, John mouthed.

The smile she gave him started small, just a lift on one side, but it spread—oh, God . . . it spread until she was beaming so wide her fangs were showing and her eyes were lit up like stars.

I love you, too, she mouthed back.

The king’s voice echoed to the high ceiling. “Hear ye, all assembled before me. We are gathered herein to witness the mating of this male and this female. . . .”

The ceremony commenced and proceeded, with him and Xhex responding when they were supposed to. The absence of the Scribe Virgin was glossed over, with the king pronouncing that it was a good mating, and then when all the vows were made, it was time to get serious.

As Wrath gave the cue, John leaned in and pressed his lips to Xhex’s; then he stepped back and took off the jeweled belt and the robe. He was smiling like a motherfucker as he gave them over to Tohr and Fritz brought forward the table with the bowl of salt and the silver pitcher of water on it.

Wrath unsheathed his black dagger and said in a loud voice, “What is the name of your shellan?”

To all and sundry, John signed, She is called Xhexania.

With Tohr’s guiding hand, the king carved the first letter, right over the tattoo John had gotten. And then the other Brothers followed suit, marking across the ink in his skin, the blades of the Brotherhood cutting him along not just the four Old Language symbols, but the scrollwork the tat artist had drawn. With every slice, he bore down onto the depiction of the apple tree, taking the pain with pride, refusing to let even a silent hiss escape his lips—and after each letter or swirl, he looked up to Xhex. She was standing at the forefront of the females and the other males, her arms locked over the bodice of the dress, her eyes grave, but approving.

When the salt hit his fresh wounds, he gritted his teeth so hard, his jaw cracked under the strain, the sound cutting through the dripping of the water. But he didn’t gasp or mouth a curse even as the agony lanced through him and made his vision fuzz out.

As he