Murhder stopped dead. Turned his head to the left. And breathed so hard in through his nose that his nostrils hurt.

Instinctually, his body turned of its own volition, and he scented the cold air again. Just in case he’d gotten it wrong.

As a set of headlights swung around and spotlit him, he was dimly aware that he’d once against halted in the middle of a street. This time, he moved away before there was any horn, any impact.

But not because he was avoiding the nuisance of another hit-andrun. Nope, as his feet found a jogging pace, and his body lithely carried itself down an alleyway, he was going after prey. And the sickly sweet stench he tracked was more than a guide. It was a thickening agent for his blood, a source of heat for his aggression, a jolt of awareness that made his brain come alive.

The enemy was not far. A member of the Lessening Society … was not far at all.

In the back of his mind, he was aware that he hadn’t fought in a very long time. That he was unarmed. That no one knew he was out here by himself and he had no phone to call somebody for backup.

Hell, he had no idea what number he could call, even if he had something to dial.

None of that mattered.

As with all members of the Brotherhood, he had been part of the Scribe Virgin’s breeding plan, designed even before the womb to hunt and kill, manufactured like a product to render death to those who threatened the species.

And however rusty and out of practice he was, the siren call of the purpose for which he had been bred was not going to be denied.

Even if it killed him.

Far from downtown’s alleys, in the enclave of Caldwell’s private mansions, Throe unlocked his bedroom door and leaned out into the hall. After looking both ways, he slipped out and relocked things with an old-fashioned brass key.

As he started for the first floor, he had the Book pressed to his chest like a bulletproof shield—and he told himself he had become paranoid.

Then stopped to look over his shoulder.

Nothing was in the corridor behind him … except for the console tables with their silk floral displays. The brocade drapes pulled closed over windows. The portraits that hung in the centers of the molding pattern between the entrances to the bedroom suites.

Resuming his stride, he found it ironic that after he had ordered the deaths of all the doggen who had worked upon the estate, he now wished he were not alone beneath the great house’s roof.

He stopped again. Checked the hallway behind once more.

Nothing.

The grand staircase in the front of the mansion had a gracious turn to it, the better to show off the females of the bloodline as they came down in gowns to formal dinners. No gowns tonight. No formal dinner, either. And unlike the shellans and daughters who sought attention, he flattened himself to the wall and debated the merits of sneaking this way as opposed to using the staff stairs in the back. But he’d decided the latter were more troublesome because they were a narrow space for conflict.

He had a gun hidden in the folds of the smoking jacket he’d put on over his fine dress shirt and slacks.

When his monogrammed house slippers finally hit the black-and-white marble tile at the bottom, he looked around. Listened. Listened … even harder. There was nothing that seemed threatening: The heating vents at floor level offered whistles as warm air was forced up through the cellar’s ducts. A creaking sound that was deep inside the walls suggested January’s cold had gotten into the bones of the old house.

Water was running.

In the kitchen.

Throe palmed the gun inside the pocket and proceeded through the formal dining room. In the far corner, there was a flap door for staff to bring out food and drink during service, and he kept out of sight of its small, eye-level glass window, putting his back to the panels.

When he was ready, he quick-shifted over so he could see through it into the kitchen.

One of his shadows was at the sink washing dishes, its balloon-like form split on the top half so it could do its work.

That was when he smelled the turkey.

The shadow had prepared the dinner he had ordered the night before. Just as instructed.

This was good, Throe told himself. This was … as it should be.

No more independent thinking.

Pushing his way into the kitchen, he was prepared to shoot—even though he had seen that bullets had little effect on his ghostly soldiers. Still, what other weapon did he have if they turned against him?

“Stop,” he ordered.

The shadow didn’t hesitate. It froze where it was, bent over a deep-bellied sink full of soapy water.

“Resume.”

The shadow went back to work, cleaning the roasting pan with its pair of arm-like extensions. The food that it had cooked was laid out upon the butcher block counter that ran the length of the industrial kitchen, the fine porcelain serving dishes covered with their lids, the turkey under a large cloche. The tray that was to be taken up to his bedroom when he called for it was set with his favorite Herend dishes, a sterling silver fork, knife, and spoon, and a linen napkin that had been folded and pressed.

The bottle of wine he had requested was chilling.

There was a wineglass and a water goblet yet to be filled.

The shadow brought the roasting pan up out of the suds and rinsed it with the sink’s hose. Then it set the pan aside on a drying rack, water dripping from its translucent form, falling unimpeded through the lower half of its body onto the floor.

His soldier, born of his own blood from that incantation, turned to face him and waited for an order. Nothing but a vessel for his will. Utterly obedient.

Mayhap he had been mistaken, he thought as he lowered the Book. These entities of his, deadly or docile upon his command, surely had no independent thought.

So why had he assumed they had snuck up upon him?

“Others,” he said out loud. “Come hither!”

In a lower voice, he said to the one before him, “You shall protect me against any threat. From no matter the source. Do you understand?”

The shadow nodded its upper half, the movement causing its buoyant form to bounce a little as it hovered over the kitchen floor.

“No matter what the other three do, you must always protect me. This is your sole purpose.”

As the entity bowed to him again, he pivoted around and backed up against the still warm stoves. He didn’t know exactly what he was worried about, however, as he brought the Book into place once again over his vital organs.

Like it was a bulletproof shield.

But these shadows had no will of their own, he reminded himself as one by one the three entities entered the kitchen and stopped obediently. Patiently.

Stupidly.

These translucent smoky killers were his creations, to do with as he pleased. The Book had promised him this army for his ambitions—and it had delivered. Everything was going to be all right.

Surely he had been mistaken about what had transpired at his desk.

He must have been wrong about them sneaking up on him.

Murhder tracked his prey down two streets and into an alley, zeroing in on the slayer without a sound, his senses and his brain working together to adjust for wind direction, change of his position, change of the lesser’s, so that his scent did not give him away. In pursuit, he was a mortal mechanism, his muscles and blood, his very bones, thickened by a surge of hormones that made him more animal than civilized.

Rounding the final corner, he entered a lane formed by the back end of a skyscraper and the building behind it—

Shit. Humans were performing some kind of municipal night work two blocks down, the glow from their spotlights and clanking from whatever they were doing spilling through an intersection.

His eyes adjusted in the darkness as wind abruptly came around and pushed against his back.

Immediately, the lesser halted and pivoted, clearly called by what was carried down to him on the cold gust.

It was young, both in terms of when it’d been turned and how long it’d been under the command of the Omega. Lessers lost their pigmentation over time, whatever skin, hair, and eye color they possessed prior to their induction paling out until their bodies were as their souls became: an existential blank.

Just killing machines.

This one had its dark hair still, and its skin had yet to become Kleenex white. It was also dressed badly, and not as in sartorial style. Its leather jacket was ripped and stained, its jeans ragged, its boot laces loose and trailing. It was more orphan than squad leader—

Over at the construction site, a high-pitched, metal-on-metal screech pierced the ambient noise of the dozing city, some grinder set upon something that offered resistance.

It was the perfect bell for round one.

Murhder sank into his thighs and brought his hands up. Focusing slightly to the left of the slayer, as his peripheral vision was the sharpest, he wanted to make sure there was only one. The scents on the wind suggested so, and with the gusts at his back, he would catch anything behind him.

But you could never be too sure.

Murhder tracked where the lesser’s hands were: Out in front. And that leather jacket was zipped up tight. Harder to get at a weapon—which made Murhder conclude that the slayer was as unarmed as he was. Even with humans so close, knives didn’t make much noise. Nun-chucks. Guns with suppressors.

No, this one was young. Ill-equipped.

And unsure.

Something has changed, Murhder thought as he leaped forward.

The slayer snapped out of its immobility just as Murhder tucked into a mid-air roll and then sailed parallel to the ground boot-first, the soles of his size fourteens targeting that chest like there was a bull’s-eye on it. The kid twisted to deflect, but Murhder had enough agility to shift as well, the impact nailing the slayer in the upper arm and blowing it off its feet. As they both hit the ground, it was a case of who grabbed who first, holds clamping on arms and legs, the grappling game on.

Murhder wrestled around in the snow with the enemy, that leather jacket riding up and revealing no gun holster, no knives at the belt, nothing bulky in the jeans pockets. Before long, Murhder gained control, flipping the slayer on its back and mounting its body as he locked his dagger palm on its throat and pressed down with all his strength.