The Omega let out a high-pitched howl that was so loud, it knocked out Butch’s hearing and went straight down his spine.

But he did not look up. Did not stop. Did not slow down.

It was his only shot . . . to save his brothers who were going to come running, regardless of that all clear he’d sent.

Syn re-formed a block away from the coordinates that had been sent out by Qhuinn, but the instant he resumed his physical form, he received a contradicting message that all was clear from Butch.

Flaring his nostrils, he scented the air.

The stench of lesser was so loud, it could only be explained by a juicy kill. So maybe Qhuinn had brought one down, but been worried about backup on the slayer side or something? Only to have Butch take care of round two?

Beneath his skin, his talhman surged, and it was the need for bloodshed that sent him forward at a jog—just like it was the need for a kill that had made him get up from that table at the bar, when he hadn’t wanted to leave Jo. He was desperate to release his inner burn, however. Overdue to let his bad side express itself.

Maybe there was something left over for him to play with. Maybe there would be others. Maybe this wouldn’t take long and he could go back and find Jo—

Syn came around a tight corner and stopped dead.

Even as his eyes focused on the figure in dingy white robing, and his instincts told him what it was, his brain refused to believe the conclusion he drew.

Yet the draped figure with evil spilling out from under its hems could be one, and only one, entity. And the Omega was in attack mode, its form reared back as if it were gathering strength to throw something . . . at Butch.

Who was inhaling a slayer like he was trying to draw a tire through a straw.

Syn didn’t hesitate.

With a powerful surge, he bum-rushed the evil, taking three huge strides and throwing all his body weight at the damn thing. And the Omega, for all its omnipotence, didn’t seem to notice him—at least not until Syn was on the entity, his body tackling the master of all lessers off its feet.

Or whatever held it up off the ground.

Everything went in slow motion at that point. As whatever spell or magic the Omega had been aiming at Butch went haywire and blew a car off its tires, Syn was aware of a horrible feeling swamping through his body, waves of sickness and death and toxic, snarling pain going through him. And then Butch looked up from the slayer and yelled something, his arms reaching out as if he were trying to save someone.

Probably Syn. But no time to think about that.

The Omega slung Syn away like he weighed nothing, and the landing was rock hard as he bounced on his pecs and his palms, just barely keeping his face from being his tarmac as he went head-first toward a brick wall. Putting his hands out, he front-bumper’d the building just before he got his skull cracked open.

After which . . . silence.

Syn tried to lifted his head, but he was curiously weak, his body lax as a damp towel. The best he could do was roll over and try to get his eyeballs to work properly—and that was how he discovered that the alley had only two people in it.

Well, three if you counted the hot mess of the slayer Butch was still straddling.

No Omega.

Before Syn could say anything or check for injuries, his own or Butch’s, he was overcome with nausea. Turning back onto his stomach, he propped his hands and threw up what he’d eaten with Jo—and then kept going until he was dry heaving and seeing stars.

Hands reached out to him. Someone talked to him—Balz, his cousin. And then there were lots of people around.

He couldn’t hear anything, though, the rushing of the blood in his ears like nothing he’d ever experienced before. And meanwhile, his heart was doing bad things in his chest, its rhythm uneven and way too strong. As his awareness zeroed in on what was going on behind his sternum, he had an image of a boulder bouncing down a rocky hillside, boom!, ba-boom!, ba-ba-boom!—and then dizziness came on him like it was a physical force with three dimensions. As the world spun so badly he keeled over onto his side, he got a terrific close-up of his cousin’s shitkicker.

From a vast distance, he watched Balthazar holler at somebody, and Syn had a thought that his cousin was a good male, in spite of the thief stuff. Sure, the bastard might have a more narrow conscience than most, but that didn’t mean—

A dark-haired guy in surgical scrubs came running over and crouched down.

Well, this was handy. It was Dr. Manny Manello, the human surgeon mated unto Payne, V’s sister.

Syn was so knocked out, he almost greeted the healer. Which was a strange impulse as he was more of a Fuck-off than Cheerio-ol’-chap kind of person. Then again, he wasn’t in his right mind at the moment, and the doctor seemed to agree, shaking his head and holding up his hands as if there was nothing he could do.

Huh, Syn thought. Looked like he might be dying.

Driven by an impulse he couldn’t deny, he forced his arm out and slapped the pavement in front of Balz’s shitkicker. The male’s face immediately came down to level.

Syn started talking. At least . . . he thought he was talking. He still couldn’t hear anything—his cousin’s ears seemed to be working okay, though. The male’s face went from worried . . . to confused . . . to shocked.

Whatever. All that mattered was . . .

From out of nowhere, the brightest light Syn had ever seen coalesced right in front of him, and even in his delirium, he knew what it was. It was the Fade, arriving to claim him, and somehow, that was the biggest surprise of all. He had assumed he would go unto Dhunhd.

Then again, having just made the acquaintance of the Omega, maybe the evil didn’t want his sorry ass—

As he was bathed in the heavenly illumination, the relief that suffused his body was so complete it was unfathomable. It was as if the sickness inside of him was erased, and in its absence? An exhausted peace and calm, like he had come to the end of a long trial.

But that had been his life. A slog that had seemed infinite on a good night, and a curse on a bad one.

Giving himself up to the death, he waited for the door he had heard about to come through the light unto him . . . the door that ancient wisdom said you opened and stepped through, finding yourself in an eternity with your loved ones. Would his mahmen be there?

Would Jo be allowed there as a human?

Panic shot through him. He was leaving his female undefended; his death was not going to get her out of danger. Gigante would send someone else to kill her—

All at once, the light retracted, Syn’s vision cleared, and his ears came back online. Looking up, he wasn’t sure what he expected to see . . . but the Brother Vishous kneeling down with a torch was not it—

Wait. That wasn’t a torch. It was the male’s hand, the one that always had that black leather glove on it.

Maybe the illumination hadn’t been the Fade.

Maybe those rumors about V being the born son of the Scribe Virgin weren’t bullshit.

Maybe he should be nicer to the motherfucker, assuming he didn’t want to be turned into a s’more.

Syn pushed himself off the pavement, and as he cautiously got up on his feet, he expected the world to go around in circles again. It did not. And that was when he realized the Brother must have done to him what he did to Butch.

“You tackled the Omega?” V said. “What the fuck were you thinking, you crazy sonofabitch.”

Vishous punched Syn’s shoulders—and then Syn was being yanked forward against that huge chest, the embrace as unexpected as the Brother breaking into song with “Achy Breaky Heart.”

’Cuz V didn’t like anybody.

Guess if you saved his best friend’s life, it got you on his Good Guy list.

Syn felt himself get set back, and then both of his cousins were talking to him. Everyone was talking to him, the Brothers who were on site and all the other fighters. It was a blur, and he had some thought that they were making a hero out of him for no good reason. He just wanted to kill something, anything, and he wanted a good fight. The Omega was tailor-made for that shit.

“Where’s Syn?” he heard somebody demand. “Is Syn okay?”

Butch broke through the rugby huddle that had formed, and the former cop, former human, seemed to fall back into his role as civil servant. He was all about the Good Samaritan as he approached.

“Jesus, that was brave and stupid. But thank you. I’m serious.”

Syn met the hazel eyes of the Brother and shook his head.

Butch nodded, as if he knew what Syn was thinking, but Syn could guarantee he did not.

And to cut any further gratitud-inal shit, Syn tried to walk in a circle to get a sense of how steady he was. Yay. He didn’t weave. He didn’t throw up again. His body and strength were, like, five on a scale of ten.

Whereas before V had showed up with that searchlight of a palm? Try not even on the damn scale.

“Where are you going?” Butch asked.

Am I leaving? Syn wondered.

“I’m on rotation,” he heard himself say. “I’m going out to fight.”

Dr. Manello jumped in like he had a chip in the back of his neck that alerted him to dumb decisions. “Nope. You’re taking the rest of the night off.”

“I’m not injured,” Syn said as he motioned down his body. “And I’m not sick anymore. You have no reason to deny me.”

As V lit up a hand-rolled, the Brother looked over the cup of his hand. “Let him go. He’s more than earned the right to fight if that’s what he wants to do. Besides, I took care of him. There isn’t anything of the Omega left in him.”

Syn pegged the doctor in the eye. “I’m just going to go out anyway. No matter what you tell me.”

More conversations, especially as another round of Brothers arrived, Tohr, Z, and Phury needing to catch up on what had happened with the Omega.

Hoping to dematerialize out before his part in the story got more airtime, Syn took a step back from the crowd. And another. When Balthazar glanced over like he was going to put the brakes on the retreat, Syn glared at his cousin and dared him to get involved. When the guy just lit up one of V’s homemade cigarettes and cursed, it was clear the message was received.