his chest, he felt empty and thought of his sister. She had
brought forth into the world a new race, a race engineered through a combination of her will
and the biology that was available. She’d been so proud of herself.
Their father had, as well.
The Omega had started to kill the vampires just to spite them both, but had quickly learned he
fed off deeds of evil. Their father couldn’t stop him, of course, because, as it turned out, the
Omega’s deeds—nay, his very existence— were necessary to balance his sister’s goodness.
Balance had to be maintained. It was his sister’s core principle, the justification for the Omega,
and their father’s mandate from his father. The very basis of the world.
And so it was that the Scribe Virgin suffered and the Omega drew his satisfaction. With each
death wrought on her race she hurt, and well he knew it. The brother had always been able to
feel the sister.
Now, though, that was even truer.
As the Omega pictured his son out there in the world, he worried about the boy. Hoped that
the twenty-plus years had been easy for him. But that was a proper parent, was it not. Parents
were supposed to have concern over their offspring and nurture them and protect them.
Whatever your core was, whether it be virtue or sin, you wanted the best for what you had
brought forth into the world.
It was stunning to find that he had something in common with his sister, after all . . . a shock to
know that they both wanted what children they begot to survive and thrive.
The Omega looked at the bodies of the humans he had just laid to waste.
Of course, that was a mutually exclusive proposition, wasn’t it.
Chapter One
THE WIZARD HAD RETURNED.
Phury closed his eyes and let his head fall back against his headboard. Ah, hell, what was he
saying. The wizard had never left.
Mate, sometimes you take the piss out of me, the dark voice in his head drawled. You truly do.
After all we’ve been together?
All they’d been together . . . wasn’t that the truth.
The wizard was the cause of Phury’s driving need for red smoke, always in his head, always
hammering about what he hadn’t done, what he should have done, what he could have done
better.
Shoulda. Woulda. Coulda.
Cute rhyme. The reality was that one of the Ring-wraiths from The Lord of the Rings drove him
to the red smoke sure as if the bastard hog-tied him and threw him in the back of a car.
Actually, mate, you’d be the front bumper.
Exactly.
In his mind’s eye, the wizard appeared in the form of a Ring-wraith standing in the midst of a
vast gray wasteland of skulls and bones. In its proper British accent, the bastard made sure
that Phury never forgot his failures, the pounding litany causing him to light up again and
again just so he didn’t go into his gun closet and eat the muzzle of a forty.
You didn’t save him. You didn’t save them. The curse was brought upon them all by you. The fault
is yours . . . the fault is yours. . . .
Phury reached for another blunt and lit it with his gold lighter.
He was what they called in the Old Country the exhile dhoble.
The second twin. The evil twin.
Born three minutes after Zsadist, Phury’s live birth had brought the curse of imbalance to the
family. Two noble sons, both born breathing, was too much good fortune, and sure enough,
balance had been wrought: Within months, his twin had been stolen from the family, sold into
slavery, and abused for a century in every manner possible.
Thanks to his sick bitch mistress, Zsadist was scarred on his face and his back and his wrists
and neck. Scarred worse on the inside.
Phury opened his eyes. Rescuing his twin’s physical body hadn’t gone far enough; it had taken
the miracle of Bella to resurrect Z’s soul, and now she was in danger. If they lost her . . .
Then all is proper and the balance remains intact for the next generation, the wizard said. You
don’t honestly think your twin will reap the blessing of a live birth? You shall have children
beyond measure. He shall have none. That is the way of the balance.
Oh, and I’m taking his shellan , too, did I mention that?
Phury picked up the remote and turned up “Che Gelida Manina.”
Didn’t work. The wizard liked Puccini. The Ring-wraith just started to waltz around the field
of skeletons, its boots crushing what was underfoot, its heavy arms swaying with elegance, its
black shredded robes like the mane of a stallion throwing its regal head. Against
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