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all the agony he had endured at Bishop’s hand over allowing his twin to be killed in his place had been worth it, because at least he had taken something away from Micah and had left him just as empty. Apostle knew how shit worked for mated male vampires, and Micah was as good as dead without Sam.
    Which made his desire to go back to Chicago about nil. His job there was done, as far as he was concerned. No use tempting fate. But now Bishop had told him he wanted Apostle to return there. Why?
    Probably because he was absolutely livid over Deacon’s death and wanted a slice of his own payback against the Chicago bloodsuckers. A fact Apostle knew all-too-well, because he had lived through Bishop’s immediate fury over Deacon’s death. His itching, swollen flesh made him feel like he was on fire and near death himself. What was with the scorpions? When had Bishop become so enamored of those vile creatures? Apostle swatted his arms like he was having a seizure just from the thought of those tiny stingers piercing him and pumping his body full of poison.
    Were the scorpions simply used for torture or were they a part of some larger experiment?
    Apostle knew that in addition to producing the mother lode of cobalt for distribution around the globe, Bishop conducted genetic experiments in his underground laboratory here in Arizona, but Apostle had never been involved in that side of the family business. He had been in charge of distribution, based in Chicago, which was an ideal location for shipping within the United States. So when it came to the Dr. Frankenstein shit Bishop had going on, Apostle was relatively clueless.
    His twin, Deacon, had been in charge of the lab and the production facility, but when Apostle had to travel outside of Chicago for any length of time, Deacon usually filled in for him to keep up appearances in the Windy City. That was why Deacon had been in Chicago two months ago. He had been there to pose as Apostle while Apostle traveled to New York to deal with mafia entanglements and a rising turf war over cobalt distribution. He had only been gone a day.
    In Chicago, Apostle had posed as a police officer. What better role to play to get cozy with the criminal element responsible for pushing product? And being a police officer had lots of helpful perks, such as doing pretty much what he wanted, when he wanted, and to whom.
    Yes, the persona known as Officer John Apostle, Apostle’s human visage, had been on the take. Big time. None of the humans he had worked with knew he had been anything other than another human named John. They had never seen him in his dreck form: Blue skin, blue blood, blue-black hair, gaunt features, fangs…real horror movie kind of stuff.
    As such, he and the other members of his team, drecks who had also posed as cops, had received a hero’s funeral. He hadn’t seen the TV broadcast of the funeral personally, because he had been chained to the floor, but Bishop had told him about it between litanies of profanities. Bishop’s anger over Deacon’s death had since cooled, but those first few days back had been brutal, both physically and mentally, as well as audibly.
    Which brought his thoughts full circle. Because it hadn’t been Apostle the police force of Chicago had mourned. It had been his brother. Deacon had only needed to stand in for Apostle for one shift, but it had proven to be one shift too many.
    The door opened and the overhead light flipped on, causing Apostle to cringe and blink rapidly against the sudden pain. You knew you were fucked up when just light hurt you.
    “You’re still not cleaned up?” Bishop sauntered in, one of those goddamn brown cigarettes between his fingers.
    In the weeks Apostle had been here, he had grown to hate the smell of those shit-assed stink sticks.
    Bishop approached him. “We have work to do, Apostle, if we’re to get you up to speed so you can take Deacon’s place.” Under his breath, he added, “Not that you’ll ever be as