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roll, he lay in a limp heap, breathing into his pillow, sweat and other stuff drying on his skin.
    Nice wake-up call. Nice little exercise sesh. Nice way to kill some time. But ultimately hollow.
    For no particular reason, his eyes wandered and settled on the bedside table. If he were to open the drawer, which he never did, he would find two things: a bloodred box about the size of a fist and an old leather diary. Inside the box was a heavy gold signet ring bearing the crest of his lineage as the son of the Black Dagger warrior Darius, son of Marklon. The antique journal contained his father’s private thoughts from a two-year period of his life. Also given as a gift.
    John had never put on the ring and he had never read the entries.
    There were a lot of reasons, but the main one for shutting both away was that the male he considered his father was not Darius. It was another Brother. A Brother who had been MIA for eight months now.
    If he was going to wear any ring, it would be one with Tohrment, son of Hharm’s crest on it. As a way to honor the male who had meant so much to him in such a short time.
    But that wasn’t happening. Tohr was likely dead, no matter what Wrath said, and in any event had never been his father.
    Not wanting to sink into a mood, John pushed himself up off the mattress and lurched into the bathroom. The shower helped focus him, and so did getting dressed.
    The trainee class wasn’t meeting tonight, so he was going to log some more hours down in the office and then meet up with Qhuinn and Blay. He was hoping there was a lot of paperwork to do. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing his best friends tonight.
    The three of them were going across town to the . . .God, to the mall.
    It was Qhuinn’s idea. As most of them were. According to the guy, John’s wardrobe needed a style injection.
    John looked down at his Levi’s and his white Hanes T-shirt. The only flash he sported was his running shoes: a pair of Nike Air Maxes in black. And even they weren’t very flashy.
    Maybe Qhuinn had a point that John was a fashion victim, but come on. Who did he have to impress?
    The word that popped into his head had him cursing and rearranging himself: Xhex.
    Someone knocked on his door. “John? You there?”
    John quickly tucked in the T-shirt and wondered why Phury would be seeking him out. He’d been keeping up with his studies and doing well on the hand-to-hand. Maybe it was about the work he did in the office?
    John opened the door. Hi , he signed in American Sign Language.
    “Hey. How’s you?” John nodded and then frowned as the Brother switched into ASL. I was wondering if you might do me a favor.
    Anything.
    Cormia is . . .well, she’s had some challenges being on this side. I think it would be great if she had someone to spend a little time with, you know . . . someone who’s tight in the head and low-key. Uncomplicated. So, do you think you could do the honors? Just talk to her or take her around the house or . . . whatever. I’d do it but . . .
    It’s complicated, John finished in his head.
    It’s complicated, Phury signed.
    An image of the silent blond Chosen popped into John’s mind. He’d watched Cormia and Phury studiously not look at each other for the past few months, and had wondered— like everyone else, no doubt—whether they’d sealed the deal.
    John didn’t think so. They were far, far too awkward still.
    Would you mind , Phury signed. I figure she must have questions or . . . I don’t know, things to talk about.
    Truthfully, the Chosen didn’t seem as if she wanted to be hung out with. She always kept her head down at meals and never said a thing while she ate only food that was white. But if Phury asked, how could John say no? The Brother always helped him on his fighting stances and answered questions outside of the classroom and was the type of person you wanted to do nice things for because he was kind to everyone.
    Sure , John replied. I’d be happy to.
    Thanks.