Worthy didn’t enter into it. The idea of my brother on a permanent vampire power trip was a really bad one. I felt sick, and anxious, and afraid; whoever was biting him had to be feeding him a line of bullshit. The vamps didn’t like to turn new recruits. It was some kind of a risk to them, and a burden. Michael had been the first one turned in a very long time, though there had been some complications to that. Nobody had been made a vampire since.

Why Jason, of all people?

“I know you don’t believe this,” I said, “but I do care about you. I always have. You scare the shit out of me, but I think deep down you know this is wrong. You still want to be … better. I know you can do it, I’ve seen it. You helped people. You even saved our lives. Why do you want to—to become this?” Not a vampire, but something worse.

Something truly without a soul.

He stared at me for a long second, then picked up the shotgun he’d laid aside and began slotting cartridges in with solid, even thunks. “Because it doesn’t hurt as much,” he said, and racked the shotgun with one hand. “Time to go, sis. Reunion’s over.”

He meant it, and I was acutely aware of what that shotgun he held could do to me, to fragile human flesh and bone. I didn’t think he’d do it, but I didn’t know. I didn’t really know him at all anymore.

“Who is she?” I whispered. “God, just tell me.”

I didn’t think he would. Maybe he didn’t think he would, either. But finally, as I was leaving, he said, “Naomi.”

I forced myself to keep going.

But walking out of that room, leaving my vampire-to-be brother making weapons of vampire mass destruction, made me feel sick and helpless and—worst of all—guilty.

Again.

I found that blond vamp-bitch talking to Oliver, in his office. And it was on.

They both heard me coming, of course, and whatever serious conversation was under way was cut off before I heard a word; I didn’t care, at all, because bloodsucking politics was the least of my concerns or interests at the moment. Oliver had guards, and one of them stepped into my path. He was big.

I didn’t care.

“You!” I yelled, and pointed around him at Naomi. “Blondie. Get your room-temperature ass out here!”

“Well,” Oliver said, “this is an interesting development. By all means, Naomi. Go. I assure you, we’re quite done with our conversation.”

She glared at him. I was used to seeing the nice, mannered Naomi, the one who seemed so sweet and buttery-soft; this one looked almost dangerous. “You’re a fool,” she told him. “We’re far from done. You can pretend to the throne all you like, but you’re nothing but a usurper, and always were even in your breathing days. You’re no king.”

“And I assure you, I know your origins as well. Amelie was generous with you, and kind, but rest assured that I will not be so well mannered.” He smiled the thinnest smile I’ve ever seen, and maybe the most dangerous. “Come near her again and I will end you. See to your noisy little … guest.”