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it out and knelt, facing the ocean. For him, silence wasn’t only lack of sound. His ability to reach souls was a blessed one, most of the time, but he needed to turn it all off once in a while. He needed peace to replenish his own soul.
    He wouldn’t complain about his abilities. Others had far worse gifts. Cemil could feel humans’ pain miles away, powers even reaching over phone lines. Not a power he wished to possess.
    Then there was Cyrus Rowan. No one’s gift seemed more of a curse. Other retro-cogs could see the past while the items remained within their touch. Once they let go, the images disappeared as fog does when summer sun reaches high into the sky. Only one born every millennial shared Cyrus’ gift. When he touched an item, he could see its history back to its creation, and when he let go, the images remained in his mind. If he touched an assassin’s sword, every event the blade had ever been involved in stayed with him, haunted him. He’d once compared the experience to little movies running constantly within his head, ones without an off button.
    When everything went bad for Cyrus, it had gone seriously bad. After the assassin who killed his sisters turned his attention to him, he broke. The Syndicate called Shade in to assess the state of Cyrus’ soul. It had taken no more than a couple minutes in Cyrus’ company for him to make his diagnosis. Walking into the council’s high-ceilinged chamber room, Shade informed the three women their vessel could no longer be used.
     
    “Is he fixable?” The elf high priestess whispered.
    “Doubtful.”
    “That bad.” The shifting high priestess, voice filled with concern.
    “Worse. I think, if he suffers one more trauma, his soul will shatter.”
    Silence. Shade sensed they waited for more information, but when dealing with the three, one gave the information they requested, nothing more.
    The elf spoke again. “What is your assessment of what would happen then?”
    “He would die or he would turn.”
    “We cannot afford to have our secrets out to our enemies,” the vampire queen and oldest council member said in her gravelly voice.
    “He is our responsibility. We take care of our own,” the elf asserted.
    The shifter, most empathic of the trio, asked in a soft voice, “What do you feel he needs?”
    “Seclusion, rest, and most of all security. He cannot heal if he doesn’t feel he and his family are safe.”
    “There is an island, small at the moment, but with the ability to grow to adjust to the needs of its owners. The land has been unused for some time, but there is a good-sized German château left by its prior occupants. Might suit his needs,” the vampire said.
    “It’s extremely hard to get to and would provide rest and seclusion,” the elf concurred.
    Nails tapping their marble desk echoed through the domed room before the shifter spoke. “Security we can supply, but it’s the sense of security he needs. It is not something easy to come by—”
    “He needs to feel his loved ones are safe. I can think of only one who can give the Rowans everything they need. One who Cyrus trusts above all others,” Shade said.
    “Rekkus,” the three chorused.
    “I believe so.”
    “And how do you propose we get the black-tiger prince to agree? He is uncompromising on his best days and not a fan of this council,” the elf said.
    Shade’s tension eased as his plan fell neatly into place. “I propose we leave it to Cyrus himself. If we let Rekkus believe this was not a Syndicate decision, he will bend to the needs of his friend.”
    “Having Rekkus away on an island will prevent an uprising by his hands.” The vampiress’s tone held a great deal of satisfaction. The Syndicate would relieve themselves of the Rowans while seeming to take care of their own. But it wouldn’t be that easy.
     
    Taking a deep cleansing breath, Shade glanced at his watch. His meditation had lasted longer than he’d thought. Standing, he stretched and pulled a