Sighing deeply and theatrically, Cyrus spread his hands. “Look, I’m very sorry for any wrong I’ve committed, intentionally or accidentally, against any member of your pack or kennel or whatnot. I mean that truly and sincerely, from the very core of my being. But I’m tired. Please imagine what it’s like to be raised from the dead by a deranged vampire-motorcycle-gang-religious cult, only to be dragged across the country in a van driven by your ex-lover and fledgling who hates you and no longer sympathizes with the human need for waste elimination. I have neither the energy nor the inclination to write a ten page statement officially apologizing for the evils of my past, and if you expect me to, kindly throw yourself beneath the wheels of a moving train.”

When he’d begun to speak, the words didn’t sound so bad. They weren’t tactful, but they didn’t seem confrontational in his mind. Apparently, the vampire had a different perception of things. This time, he lunged forward, only to be held back by his woman. “Don’t talk to her that way!”

“I’ll talk any way I please.” Cyrus’s patience, worn thin by grief and too many hours without sleep, had reached its limits. “I’m not here by choice. If I had it my way, I’d walk out that door and never see any of you again.”

Except Carrie. He’d already lost her once. Since being with her again, he felt too keenly the heartbreak that had still been with him when he’d died. But if she’d have let him, he would have stayed with Mouse, in the desert, until death came to him again.

It seemed death was the only time he had a moment’s peace.

“No one’s stopping you,” the vampire growled, his face shifting to take on the fearsome snout and snarling teeth that marked his true identity.

For a moment, the werewolf stepped back. As if feeling her horror himself, Max shook his features back to a more human visage. Then, apparently aware she’d hurt his feelings, she laid her hand on his arm. “We need him to help us, Max. He is tired and he has been through much. We cannot expect him to react any differently. He is only human.”

The words were intended to wound him, but Cyrus was glad he no longer fit into the bizarre, parallel reality they inhabited. He picked up the book and dropped into an armchair, flipping the pages without really seeing them.

It was strange and uncomfortable to be here, in Nolen’s personal home. Here and there, photographs in cheap frames cluttered the bookshelves and end tables. Some of them depicted Ziggy, the young man Nolen had called son.