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It was a thought he didn’t like to dwell on but one he couldn’t afford to ignore.

He didn’t think he could bear it if the Order—his family—was dealt a blow as staggering as the one that had come down on Lazaro Archer tonight. All the Gen One civilian had left after a thousand years of living was the battered young boy in the infirmary bed and the bullet-ravaged body of the son that Tegan and the rest of tonight’s team had brought back with them to the compound.

Lucan cleared his throat. “If you would like to hold funeral rites for Christophe in the morning, we will make the necessary preparations.”

Lazaro gave a somber nod. “Thank you. For everything, Lucan.”

“Accommodations here at the compound are limited, but we can rearrange a few things to make space for you and Kellan in one of the bunk rooms. You’re welcome to stay for as long as needed.”

Archer held up his hand in polite dismissal. “That’s more than generous; however, I have personal holdings elsewhere. There are other places that my grandson and I can go.”

“Yes,” Lucan replied, “but until we can be certain that you and Kellan are not in imminent danger from Dragos, I’m not comfortable releasing you from the Order’s protection.”

“Dragos,” Archer said, his face hardening with restrained fury. “I recall that name from the Old Times. Dragos and his progeny were forever corrupt. Devious, conniving. Morally decayed. Good Christ, I’d thought the entire line had died out long ago.”

Lucan grunted. “A second-generation son remains, hidden for decades behind multiple aliases but not dead. Not yet. And there is more, Lazaro. Things you don’t know. Things the civilian population would not wish to know about Dragos and his machinations.”

Grim, ageless eyes held his stare. “Tell me. I want to understand. I need to understand.”

“Come,” Lucan said. “Let’s walk.”

He guided Archer away from his grandson’s infirmary room and along the quiet corridor outside. The two Gen Ones strode in silence for a short distance while Lucan considered where to start with the facts they knew about Dragos. At the beginning, he finally decided.

“The seeds of this war with Dragos were sown centuries ago,” he said, as he and Archer progressed up the white marble hallway. “You must remember the violence of those times, Lazaro. You lived through it the same as I did, when the Ancients ran unchecked, driven by their thirst for blood and the thrill of the hunt. They were our fathers, but they had to be stopped.”

Archer nodded gravely. “I do remember how it was then. As a boy, I can’t tell you how often I witnessed my own sire’s savagery. It seemed to escalate over time, growing more feral and uncontrolled, particularly after he’d return from the gatherings.”

Lucan cocked his head. “The gatherings?”

“Yes,” Archer replied. “I don’t know where he and the other Ancients met, but he would be gone for weeks or months at a time. I always knew when he was back in the area because then the killings in the human villages around us would begin again. I was relieved when he finally left for good.”

Lucan frowned. “My father never mentioned gatherings, but I know he roamed for long periods. I know he hunted. When he killed my mother in a fit of Bloodlust, I knew it was time to put an end to all of the savagery.”

“I remember hearing what happened to your mother,” Archer replied. “And I remember your call to arms to all Gen One sons to band with you in war against our alien fathers. I didn’t think it possible that you would succeed.”

“Not many did,” Lucan recalled, but he wasn’t bitter, not then or now. “Eight of us went up against the handful of surviving Ancients. We thought we’d killed the last of them, but we had traitors in our ranks—my brother, Marek, as it turned out, and the Gen One father of Dragos, as well. They plotted in secret and built a hidden mountain crypt to house the last of the Ancients. They’d claimed he was dead but kept him protected in hibernation for centuries. He was later removed from the crypt, and survived under Dragos