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“Your hand, human.”

He offered her his left, the one that was free.

“Palm up,” Wrath barked.

He flipped his hand over.

“Tell me, human,” the Scribe Virgin said, “if I asked for the one you hold this female with, would you offer it to me?”

“Yeah. I’d just reach over to her with the other guy.” As that little laugh came again, he said, “You know, you sound like birds when you do that chuckle thing. It’s nice.”

Over to the left, Vishous put his head in his hands.

There was a long silence.

Butch took a deep breath. “Guess I’m not allowed to say that.”

The Scribe Virgin reached up and slowly lifted the robes from her face.

Jesus . . . Christ . . . Butch squeezed Marissa’s hand hard at what was revealed. “You’re an angel,” he whispered.

Perfect lips lifted in a smile. “No. I am Myself.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“I know. ” Her voice became authoritative again. “Your right palm, Butch O’Neal, descended of Wrath son of Wrath.”

Butch let go of Marissa, regripped her with his left hand, and reached forward. When the Scribe Virgin touched him, he flinched. Though his bones weren’t crushed, the awesome strength in her was merely shelved potential. She could grind him to powder on a whim.

The Scribe Virgin turned to Marissa. “Child, give me yours now.”

The instant that connection was made, a warm current flooded Butch’s body. At first he assumed it was because the heating system in the room was really cooking, but then he realized the rush was under his skin.

“Ah, yes. This is a very good mating,” the Scribe Virgin pronounced. “And you have my permission to join for however long you have together.” She dropped their hands and looked at Wrath. “The presentation to me is complete. If he lives, you shall finish the ceremony as soon as he is well enough.”

The king bowed his head. “So be it.”

The Scribe Virgin turned back to Butch. “Now, we shall see how strong you are.”

“Wait,” Butch said, thinking about the glymera. “Marissa’s mated now, right? I mean, even if I die, she will have had a mate, right?”

“Death wish,” V said under his breath. “Fucking Death Wish Boy we got over here.”

The Scribe Virgin seemed flat-out amazed. “I should kill you now.”

“I’m sorry, but this matters. I don’t want her falling under that whole sehclusion thing. I want her to be my widow so she doesn’t have to worry about anyone else leading her life.”

“Human, you are astoundingly arrogant,” the Scribe Virgin snapped. But then she smiled. “And totally unrepentant, aren’t you.”

pp. 347-349

V was halfway down the hall when he heard a yelp. He hightailed it back, barging through the door. “What? What’s—”

“I’m going bald!”

V whipped back the shower curtain and frowned. “What are you tasking about? You’ve still got your hair—”

“Not my head! My body, you idiot! I’m going bald!”

Vishous glanced down. Butch’s torso and legs were shedding, a rush of dark brown fuzz pooling around the drain.

V started laughing. “Think of it this way. At least you won’t have to worry about shaving your back as you get old, true? No manscaping for you.”

He was not surprised when a bar of soap came firing at him.

p. 376

As her brother rose from his chair, Marissa rapped her knuckles sharply on the table. All eyes shot to her. “Wrong name.”

The leahdyre’s eyes went so wide she was quite sure he could see behind himself. And he was so aghast at her interruption, he was speechless as she smiled a little and glanced at Havers. “You may sit down, physician,” she said.

“I beg your pardon,” the leahdyre stammered.

Marissa got to her feet. “It’s been so long since we’ve done one of these votes . . . not since Wrath’s father died.” She leaned forward on her hands as she pegged the leahdyre’s face with a level stare. “And back then, centuries ago, my father lived and cast our family’s vote. So obviously that is why you are confused.”

The leahdyre looked at Havers in a panic. “Perhaps you will inform your sister she is out of order—”

Marissa cut in. “I’m not his