“Quen took an experimental genetic treatment to block the vampire virus,” he said, his voice flat, its usual grace and subtle flavors lost in the tight grip he had on his emotions. “It makes it permanently dormant.” His gaze met mine. “We’ve tried several ways to mask the virus’s expression,” he added tiredly, “and though they work, the body violently rejects them. It’s the secondary treatment to trick the body into accepting the original modification that your father died from.”

I softly bit the scar inside my lip, feeling anew the fear of being bound. I had those same vampire compounds sunk deep into my tissue. Ivy protected me from casual predation. Quen’s scar had been tuned to Piscary, and since poaching would lead to a nasty second death simply on principle, Quen had been safe from all but the master vampire. Piscary’s death effectively turned Quen’s bound scar into an unclaimed scar that any vampire, dead or undead, could play upon with impunity. The risk must have become intolerable for him. He could no longer protect Trent in anything but an administrative way. Quen took the eleven percent chance, preferring that to a desk job that would slowly kill him. And since Quen had been bitten while saving my butt, Trent blamed me.

I sank to sit on the edge of the seat as the lack of food hit me. “You can get rid of the vampire virus?” I said, hope striking me, quickly followed by alarm. Ivy was looking for this. She might risk an eleven percent chance to be free of it. Not her. I can’t do this with her. I know I couldn’t survive it again. Not after watching Quen suffer.

Trent’s lips pressed together. It was the first show of emotion he’d let slip through. “I never said it got rid of the virus. I said it masks its expression. Makes it dormant. And it works only in still-living tissue. Once you’re dead, it doesn’t work anymore.”

So even if Ivy took it, it wouldn’t eliminate the virus and she would become an undead upon dying. It wasn’t a cure for Ivy, and a knot of worry eased. But still…Why had my dad risked it?

The leather chair was cold, and I couldn’t seem to think, my brain fuzzy from the early hour and too little sleep. My dad had been bitten by Piscary. Was that it?

My head came back up to find Trent staring at nothing, his hands clenched with a white-knuckled strength. “Piscary bound him? My dad?”

“The records don’t say,” he said softly, not paying attention.

“You don’t know?” I exclaimed, and his focus sharpened on me, almost as if he was irritated. “You were there!”

“It wasn’t an issue at the time,” he said, angry.

Why the blue blazes wouldn’t it be an issue?