The nightmares were back. Damali sat up in bed with a jolt. Her damp nightgown clung to her body. Her breaths were ragged as she sucked in air through her mouth, shuddered, and placed her hand over her heart. She peered down at Carlos, who hadn't moved during her turbulence. That was odd; he slept like the dead whenever she had these dreams. Other times, he slept like a cat; always ready to spring awake. Her hotel bed felt like a tomb. The Sankofa tattoo on her back eerily tingled.

She glanced at Carlos's neck where he'd received the invisible marking of a male Neteru. Just like the identical one on his base that she'd once revered on the sensitive underside of his manhood, it hadn't glowed silver since Philadelphia, not even when they made love lately. Hers never came alive any more, either.

It also no longer sent guiding messages through her system, only vaguely throbbed or tingled like a pinched nerve when the night terrors swept through her. The tattoo almost seemed to sputter in a broken neon pulse, struggling to communicate with her chakra system to no avail. She wondered if either of their marks would keep her from conceiving when lit. not that that was an issue, it seemed, given the infrequency of their lovemaking these days.

Damali touched the small of her back, feeling for the symbol, hoping that it would raise beneath her skin as it should, would move to let her know that it was still alive. But her hand touched the smooth, flat surface of her damp skin. It was as though all that was Neteru was slowly dying.

Suddenly, there wasn't enough air in the room.

Full daylight filtered through the windows, but didn't chase away the lingering shadow of terror. The sensations evaporated so slowly that she could almost reach out and touch them. The nightmare was always the same.

The ground near her feet would yawn open, allowing Lilith to slither away and escape. Then billowing black clouds would gather beneath the hem of The Chairman's robe where Lilith had descended back into the pit. It would crawl up his body as though a living entity, caressing his face and entering his nose. He would breathe it in and open his mouth. Blood gurgled in the opened, fanged, black hole in his face, bubbling, spilling over his thin lips and chin, spilling down his throat and the front of his robe as though there were an endless fountain of the thick crimson substance within him.

She would raise her Isis long blade-but it always felt too heavy, requiring her to hold onto it with both hands. Moonlight would glint off the silver. The Chairman would smile. She would try to rush forward, but it felt like she was standing in waist-high water wearing concrete boots. She moved in slow motion, but she would not be stopped until his head rolled.

Damali looked down at Carlos and stroked his tussled hair. New tears rose to her eyes, and she shut them tightly as the end of the dream attacked her psyche. She would raise the blade, swinging the heavy metal until it connected with demon flesh, bone, gristle, cartilage, sending a black blood geyser into the air, on her, spraying the terrain until she almost couldn't see. The Chairman would laugh as the last of the tissue was severed, then he'd wink, and his face would become Carlos's stunned, dead, glassy eyes. flickering silver, then going brown, a haunting question of 'why' left in them.

Another horrible shudder ran through her. Marlene and Father Patrick had said it was post-traumatic stress syndrome; something all warriors dealt with and it would pass. Big Mike and Berkfield, who had been to 'Nam, confirmed their diagnosis, and the others admitted having similar after-battle nightmares, too. She could only tell Carlos about the first half of the dream, the last part feeling so frighteningly real that, she couldn't speak it to him while looking into those same questioning eyes. He'd told her that he still had sleep terrors from time to time, taking him back to his old vampire existence or his torture, but it would soon pass. just like her nightmare of The Chairman would.

He no longer woke up screaming, wiping non-existent blood from his mouth, or cringing away from whatever sunlight entered the room. So, why was she still so freaked out? Why was the dream the same, over, and over, and over again, like her mind was a CD with a nick on it? And why did it take her so long to warm up in her man's arms these days? Why did this horror while sleeping always feel so real?

She had to get the team to the Native American lands Jose owned. Sanctuary, hallowed earth; perhaps that would allow her to claim momentary peace. But the dreams still attacked her, whether in a cathedral or hotel bed. As long as Carlos slept beside her, she was tortured to near hysteria day or night. When she slept alone, peace swaddled her mind.

What did this mean? Dear God, what did this all mean?



Carlos waited until he was sure she wouldn't rouse, and silently crept into the bathroom at daybreak, watching Damali finally drift off into a fitful slumber. He shut the door with care and latched it behind him. Why did Father Patrick have to choose now to go back to Rome? He needed someone to confide in, a man of the cloth, the one who took him to his heart like a son.

A stability factor was needed. Father Pat was definitely that. But every man had his limits; maybe Father Pat found his after Lopez bought it. Who knew? But who could blame him, if that's what had gone down. Enough was enough, and the shit they'd all gone through was more than anybody should have had to deal with at any age. It was ridiculous.

Bottom line was, every man that had been a force in his life had walked when he'd needed them most. Outside of the aged cleric, who'd been a ground wire for a while, who had ever really been around to guide him? He wasn't complaining about it, wasn't crying. That was just a fact. All his life lessons came from the school of hard knocks. The way of the world, alive or dead.

He ran his palms down his face and breathed in deeply, then let the air out of his lungs in a rush as utter defeat claimed him. Father Patrick could not leave the order, not now.

Weary of the thoughts that besieged his mind, Carlos sat down on the closed toilet seat, hung his head, and shut his eyes to the blue-gray dawn.

"Forgive me Father for I have sinned," he whispered to the elderly priest in abstentia. "It's been who knows how long since my last confession."

Carlos kept his voice to a low murmur, battling for composure and using slow, deep, inhales and exhales to steady his voice as his thoughts raged. "I can't get Padre Lopez's death out of my mind. I'm so sorry about that, I don't know what to say. They were seeking my essence, my vamp line. and Lopez had him in it, surrounded by clerics, as well as . that image of Juanita I'd poisoned him with, before I knew better." Carlos swallowed hard.

"If I hadn't, then maybe. he was just a kid, really. They didn't come after Jose like that, so there had to be a reason, a cause, a link with more juice than Jose had in him, so you can't tell me it wasn't my fault. I got serious debt behind that. I know it. And they honed in on that foul shit to see him in that clerical van, thought he might have been me because of the heart chakra connection he and I shared, and they." Carlos stopped speaking as the mucous thickened in his mouth and he made the sign of the cross over his chest. "They took his heart, man. How am I gonna live with that?"

Silence and the slow drip from the sink faucet was his answer. Two huge tears rolled down Carlos's cheeks and he let them fall, splashing his thighs as he leaned forward with his face in his hands. "I know you said it was fate, he had fulfilled his purpose without breaking his vows to the Covenant, which was eminent, but how come that don't make me feel it's okay?"

Again, silence responded in the echoing faucet drip. It pounded in his ears and added to the ever-present throbbing headache he nursed. Drawing a shaky breath, he pressed on with his complaint in the eerie quiet, hoping Father Patrick would hear him in his mind and send some sign, something, anything, maybe a little salvation for him to cling to.

"Everything is falling apart, Father. The team is in disarray. Our mother-seer is all jacked up, so my woman can't even go to her for any support while I get my head together. Kamal left his men, is hanging out nearby trying to get a private convo going with Mar, and the brother can't get Marlene or shape-shifting out of his system. although he needs to take his horny ass back to Bahia, but can I blame the man? Who am I to cast judgment? But it's left my serious brother, Shabazz, all fucked up. The situation with Rider and Tara, aw, man, no words. Yonnie, that's my boy, too-so, shit, what can I do? Plus Juanita is back and Jose is acting funny? The young bloods are about to square off over Krissy, and Big Mike is all caught up in Inez and unfocused. My claw of Heru ain't working no more than Damali's stones can give up a charge so she can do a shift; none of our powers are stable, and our reaction time is slow. Bad position for everybody to be in."

He breathed out hard and raked his hair as his voice faltered. "Father Pat, this is too much shit going on at the same time with all the newbies to train when I ain't even ready for whatever myself."

Carlos drew in another shuddering, ragged breath and let out a rushed exhale of frustration. He took his time, framing his next statement. There was something he had to get off his chest that he could never tell another living soul, could never tell another man. but Father Patrick was somehow different, in a different category than a Guardian brother, or a friend. But even sitting alone in the privacy of the bathroom, which had been turned into his tiled confessional, just forming the words in his mind gave him a chill. Saying it out loud would give it energy and reality, and then he wouldn't be able to neatly tuck it away to ignore it. However, it had gnawed away at his brain so long that it nearly bled, and he had to get it out and said.

"Father Pat," he whispered, his voice barely audible to his own ears. "I'm scared, man. I can't lead this team. What if I fail? What if I really fuck it up this time and get somebody else killed? My powers ain't fully back, been dwindling since the battle in Philly."

The words had come out in a panicked rush of emotion. A repressed sob held back more of the truth for a moment as Carlos began rocking and speaking to the cold bathroom floor. "I know this ain't your department, but, even with my woman. you know what I'm saying. things ain't right." He clutched his hands together as his forearms rested on his thighs, studying the blurring mortar between the tiles.

I can't sync up with her, he murmured within his mind, unable to even verbalize this deeply personal pain. "I hope you can hear this part, man," Carlos whispered, talking as much to the absent Father Patrick as to himself. "I can't even say it." He glanced toward the window as the walls in the bathroom felt like they were closing in on him. Just thinking about it, much less mentally stating it, made him want to get up and go take a long walk. He needed fresh air. "I'm a Scorpio, what do you want from me, hombre?" he muttered with a sad chuckle, trying to joke it off. It didn't work; it just made him feel worse and made the truth barrel into the forefront of his mind.

"All right," Carlos sighed, "no games." He focused on the small clerical cot and wooden chair that used to be the only furniture in the old safe house room where he and Father Pat had some of their deepest discussions. Then he jarred the lid to his very personal thoughts, the real dark and scary portions that he shared with no one, and mentally told the truth.

At first, when I got marked by Ausar. I thought I'd been, you know, messed up-permanent. Then I found out, I wasn't. And I'm not, but it's complicated. My silver ain't firing on all cylinders. Comprende?

Carlos let his shoulders drop and intensely studied a single tile on the floor.

When I go to touch her, she pulls back, almost like she's afraid of me, or doesn't want... There's no heat, you know what I'm saying? Half the time I don't even feel like it, when we. There was a time when I'd give my eyeteeth just to get with could get a mind lock going to make her hit high notes in three-part harmony. Now. I can't explain it. We don't even lock any more. It's like we're just roommates.

Carlos stopped breathing for a moment, and then pulled in another hard inhale through his nose and let it out quickly through his mouth.

No wonder she's lukewarm about getting married and ain't ready to tie the knot legally on hallowed ground. I felt it before, but I know it now. She don't even wanna live with me, man-is getting her own place. Can I blame her? She's waited all her life for this? You think she might be blaming me about her losing the baby? Or, maybe it was the way. like that last time we were together in Philly could still be in her head-I was angry, she was angry, and I ain't never touched her like that in my life. nothing's been right since that. I don't even know where to begin to make that up to her. Or maybe it's The Light being too done, after Lopez, and they decided to just make her turn away from me. I don't know. Maybe it's all of it, or none of it. I don't know what to do, and she won't talk to me. keeps everything to surface bullshit. At the same time, I'm just as guilty, 'cause I can't talk to her about this.

Carlos closed his eyes and allowed his head to hang back. "What's wrong with me, man? I've never dealt with nothing like this in my life." Me, I could always count on, if I couldn't count on nothing else. now.

He looked at the door, wishing his vision could bore through it to see Damali like the old days. The old nights, to be more precise. damn. when a throne gave him absolute power and control over everything in his world. A time when he could walk through walls, bulk to beat down any predator, step to any challenge. with strategy like a razor, game to the bone. Variables, not a problem-he could work four corners of a room with unparalleled mastery, because he was a master. Could blow Damali's mind and show her some shit she had never seen before, and leave an echo print on her soft skin that would make her holla just from the heat of his breath against it. Those nights were gone. He had to suck it up and deal with his new reality, or new sentence.

Good memory was a bitch, and he knew he was nursing the past like an old drunk nursed a drink in a run down bar. thinking back on the good old days or nights and mentally editing out the bad parts about it. Yeah, he knew that's what he was doing, but that still didn't make it any better. His past was a complicated blend of the horrible and awesome. Bitter irony. Perhaps karma, as Shabazz would say. But he'd never breathe any of this to his seasoned Guardian brother. The shit sounded weak, pitiful. Soft.

He wasn't about to divulge to another man beyond a priest that all he had left was his hard outer shell, and some of his pride-illusion caster, that he'd once been. It was the law of the jungle; you never showed anyone or anything your soft underbelly, lest you get it ripped open. and that wasn't an option in the joint, in the 'hood, or in Hell. Never. And no woman wanted a soft man. Forget that. Natural law. Yeah, he'd suck it up and figure this out alone. Father Patrick didn't have no advice for something like this.

But how did he begin to deal with the fact that now, he was always two steps behind her, instead of leading the charge. Damali had taken to The Light like a fish took to water; he'd been dragged into it kicking and screaming and was currently drowning in it. The Light had blessed her with radiant beauty and unstoppable power; it had stripped his ass bare and bled him out, as far as he was concerned. Fair exchange. His baby had rolled on Level Six, pure gansta. He'd seen her do that cold-blooded shit with his own eyes, which had left him both proud of her, but fucked up behind it. The combination was unsettling. Somehow that was different than what she'd done in McGuire's castle, because at the end of the night, then, he was still Councilman Rivera. owned all the territories in the world, and had worn her beautiful ass out lovely in the desert.

"I'm not feelin' this shit at all, man," Carlos whispered between his teeth.

He just shook his head. Damali had actually gone down to square off with the Chairman like he should have. ran the team better than he probably ever would. Knew Neteru code cold. Had met with her queens and they'd offered her swift guidance, when his kings had simply marked him and left him to figure life out on his own.

Plus, she'd shape-shifted so smooth that it gave him chills when she went from black adder to panther, and had held Hell in check until she hit multiple targets with authority. Damali was moving up in skill and rank, while he was on the bottom rung of becoming whatever he was supposed to be. Rank busted. What was he supposed to do with that-more important question: what would she wanna do with that? With him?

No doubt about it, she was evolving into something more spectacular than she'd already been and was in full control, total command, just like he used to be. He was proud of her, but the joy was bittersweet. just like she'd crooned to all the masters in Sydney, it was a bittersweet transition, from time to time.

Even up in Gabrielle's establishment, Damali had to show him how to get back on his horse and ride. and the way she'd bent light up his spine and had him close to pure ether. no words. Girlfriend was bad. She had to be simply tolerating his ass these days.

That was unforgivable; not her actions, but his. No wonder she didn't feel like it, all their love notwithstanding. Love familia was something real different than love Eros, any fool knew that. So when she says, 'I love you, baby'. what does she really mean? Which kind? General, like family, or specific, like you're my man? But that was a stupid mental question, because what had he put down with authority, lately?

Skills all fucked up, head jacked, powers shaky. shit, he couldn't stand his damned self, why would his woman. So, no, it was better that they didn't try to mind lock. Maybe they both had enough sense to know that they might find out some real deep shit that neither of them was ready to address.

Out of reflex, Carlos ran his tongue over his teeth-something he still did when thinking hard, or pissed, or both. "Old habits die hard," he said with a crisp tsk of his tongue against a normal canine, and then stared at his hands. "Fuck it."

He didn't miss the blood, the torture, or the twisted darkness, but there were some things he had to secretly admit his soul ached for. He tried to tuck all that away and back into his mental black box before he left the bathroom to go back to bed; he couldn't even tell Father Patrick about that part. He was a priest and definitely wouldn't understand.

But strangely, all the stuff he'd pulled out of the box seemed to mysteriously expand on its own and didn't go back into it as neatly as it had fallen out. Nothing was crisp and folded as it spilled out.

"Ain't that always the way," Carlos absently muttered, trying to military roll everything he'd been thinking about into a tidy bundle.

Yet, a jumbled, tangled pile of thinking lay at his feet. He might as well have dumped his dresser drawers and tried to quickly shove everything back into them. Same process. Once everything was out, one had to deal with every individual item, carefully lift, handle, and fold each piece, if the furniture was too overstuffed from the get go. His was. He hated cleaning out his box as much as he hated his turn doing team laundry.

Carlos glimpsed the white porcelain toilet with sudden disdain and stood. The mundane had claimed him. He had been given the gift of life, but from all indicators, he was still trapped in another world, one of mediocrity, filled with senseless struggles that caused nothing but heartbreak. Yeah, he was still serving time, more like marking it than living it. Cool. He'd figure it would go that way-maybe he'd traded a living hell for a dead one. He'd amassed enough debt for either side to make said point.

"Es decepcionante." Very disappointing, indeed. Carlos glanced in the mirror and briefly stared at his image. What he had now were spotty powers that worked when they felt it, and a family to care for when he couldn't half take care of himself.

And what about the vamp females that would inevitably come out of the shadows when he apexed for real? What then? He was supposed to be this millennium's male Neteru, but wasn't even sure he could take down one vicious vamp female and dust it, if it rolled up on him in the midnight hour; but he knew Damali could. Seen her nearly smoke four vamp bitches with their masters present. So now Damali was his body guard?

It wasn't supposed to be like this. He couldn't even look in the mirror right through here, and abruptly trained his line of sight on the window, remembering the freedom of wingless flight. Mist. Smooth exit. Except that wasn't an option this morning.

To his mind, there was just a certain way things should be done. The complex problems really had simple solutions, but the whole issue of souls and their metric weights added variables that frankly seemed to cause more confusion. The angels knew everybody in Hell was double-dealing, so why didn't they just come down, go prang, and fix this shit with the quickness? He knew The Light had awesome veto power, but the way they used it just strung his brain out.

That was something he definitely had to ask Father Pat one day. He had questions like, why all the riddles, intrigue, mayhem, and choice drama? Lucifer had aces and nonsense up his sleeve, so the other side, to his thinking, should just do the damned thing and straighten out the madness. Zap that bastard, too, while they were at it, and be done.

He'd had this partial conversation about the use of power when The Covenant had first rolled up on him in a parking lot at Nuit's building, what now felt like a long time ago-seemed to be a simpler time, too. Just whack one slimy mofo and save his woman angst. But even then The Covenant couldn't negotiate directly with him to cut a deal. They had to take it higher up, and wait for a long decision. Whereas, the side that shall remain nameless seemed to work on a different timetable. Instant gratification.

Like, in the old nights, he could have solved Rider's problem with one feral elevation nick, and made him a master so his woman would never stray again. Rider was drinking and smoking himself to death anyway-there were viable options. if one wanted to get technical. It wasn't his first choice, but he was sure if he was in a position to make a tender offer to a man slowly losing his mind over something like that, hey. The thing would be simple. He knew Rider well enough to know that, if the shoe were on the other foot, hombre would be down to do whatever needed to be done. That's what he liked about Rider-the man was practical, a realist, said what others were too chicken shit to say. He respected that.

They could have discussed it over Jack Daniels, shook on it, and the deal would have been done. It wasn't about allowing a respected amigo to suffer. Rider was grown; one allowed a grown man to choose his own way out. At least that's how it was done where he was from. East L.A., by way of Mexico, and a small pit stop along the way. But topside or sub, you didn't leave your tight homeboy to twist and have his heart butchered slowly by memory Harpies, or his guts pulled out by shit too hard to digest. A favor was in order, for a real good friend caught between a rock and a hard place. De nada. Same night. Right on the spot when he and Rider stood up from their bar stools.

How different was what he proposed than watching a fellow soldier blown half to bits, still alive, guts lying everywhere. no chance of recovery, and begging for a bullet in the temple to stop the pain? Done quietly on the battlefield every day with honor.

Carlos shrugged, and glanced up. No answer. His solutions spiraled darker as he continued to think about it all.

To keep the peace, since they were family now, and a strong family was a necessity in any realm, he would have given Yonnie enough playmates to take the sting out of the loss. he'd get over Tara with the replacements he could have made for his main man. Then, by rights, he woulda backed Kamal up to an appropriate distance so Kamal could get his head straight and go home, and Marlene could relax enough that Shabazz could stand down without losing face. Respect for the family's Aikido master, and their philosopher extraordinaire coulda stayed chill. That was power.

There was a way to do everything, and a way not to. That's how he saw it. Light, regardless, this was all sloppy. "I ain't trying to offend," he said quietly. "I just don't understand."

'Cause he mighta been able to share a little suave with Dan, so the young buck could go pull a superfine babe older than Krissy, get laid on the regular by a double-D cup blonde, and stop wigging every time Berkfield's underage daughter was near J.L. See, that was the thing to do to de-escalate a potential nuclear situation. It didn't have to be all this.

He would have just taken Bobby out into the night, too, while his Momma wasn't looking, and gotten him sho' nuff straight. Marj was worried about home schooling her boy. sheeit, he woulda schooled the boy right, and all would have been very copasetic. She could tell Krissy whatever, and let her daughter eventually grow into her own.

Carlos chuckled. J.L. just would have had to deal until then, like he did. He loved the brother, but J.L. wouldn't die from having his nose wide open, would just feel like he was gonna, but hey. He'd waited for Damali, and had lived. well, kinda sorta. Survived was more accurate. Still. Her daddy was in da house, was a good man that he owed, so even in his old life, he wasn't gonna fuck with certain protocols. Peace.

That's right. Besides, he mighta been able to have a little convo with Juanita to make her go on and be with Jose, no past haunting thoughts allowed. He'd wipe the slate clean. Jose deserved that level of man-woman lock without side her glances toward an old flame, and in that very brief platonic discussion he coulda made Juanita think hombre walked on water. Sheeit, and for his brother, 'Nita would have been the alpha and the omega. Problem solved. No more drama.

Yeah. If he was back on his old block, back on a throne, he woulda given Jose a double dose of some mad-crazy shit, 'cause he owed his line brother his life for watching his back. woulda given him all he wished he could have given Lopez to make up for the fallen. That woulda been a fair exchange, even in his old world.

Coulda then put them all in an off da meter lair with every convenience, but built like Forte Knox. Wouldn't have turned nobody but Rider, all Guardian souls would have been in-tact, minimal losses. Everybody happy. There were a lot of things he used to be able to do without breaking a vein. The Light would have lost only weary soul in the transactions, Rider's, one that's quickly slipping from their grasp any ole way, if they don't give the man a break and some immediate relief. "He's only human," Carlos said, his voice tight from anger. Who knows, since it would have done for love, maybe The Light coulda worked a deal for Rider, too? Shoulda. Maybe they wouldn't have been too salty with him for doing it, since it woulda been a mercy nick? Moot point. He no longer owned the equipment to do anything like that.

Regardless, in his old nighttime splendor, and under his protective seal, within his heavily fortified lairs, they would have all lived like the royalty they were, not been fugitives livin' on the run. What good was money when you couldn't spend it to the max? Screw the police inquiries about where he might have gotten phat paid, and fuck the feds, whoever, his shit would have been all vamp. Untraceable. Situation smooth.

That would have chilled out Marj, therefore Berkfield-cool people, who deserved some respite from worry, like everybody else. Fam. He woulda taken care of his peeps, all of them. That's what he'd tried to do before he'd been turned. It was still in his DNA. Serve and protect, but he preferred to do the shit with style.

Carlos laughed quietly. "Yeah, but don't worry, I would have also given a healthy tithe on the down low to you, Father Pat-wild as that sounds. I would have been discrete for both of us to stay politically correct."

He had to get out of his own head before he lost his mind like Rider. Because, if he'd had it his way, after all that, then he woulda stepped to the Chairman mano-y-mano in Hell, like it should have been done. handled his business for both he and Damali-snatched a bone out that old bastard's ass, then come home to his woman, righteous, and laid down V-point so hard she woulda walked away with twins. Carlos smiled. One day. Maybe one night.

Then, all would be right in the world, and nothin' would have dared to slither up into his domain topside to make any of the teams ever have to go to war again. Shit, after that, he mighta even been so bold to have taken the Chairman's throne, fair exchange, almost, given the blues the sonofabitch had levied on him. but there would never be enough to repay what he'd done to Damali.

However, the shit woulda been cool, until he said it wasn't. That was power. Being able to protect his family with unquestioned authority and to make their world sweet. Paradise. No static. Plush environs. To know what they wanted before they even had to ask. Ultimate provider. Stone cold soldier that nobody fucked with, thus no one dared fuck with his people. That was how a man was supposed to handle his bizness.

He, as the man, was supposed to have that burden solely on his shoulders; his family was supposed to live, laugh, relax, be taken care of, all needs met. Bam. Consider it done. Every man's secret dream was to be able to do that.

Carlos stared at his palms. "Is that so wrong?" he whispered.

His woman wasn't supposed to have to do shit, unless she wanted to. and he was supposed to hook her up so lovely that she didn't wanna necessarily do jack but chill. His baby could just sing and leave her blade at home. Talk about a dream come true.

She wasn't supposed to have to go to Hell and back and be worried about being attacked all the time. too scared to even think about carrying their next child, too stressed to sleep at night, too nervous to make love to make another one. Wasn't supposed to be buggin' about being his wife or tying the knot legal. talking crazy shit about living by herself to have space to think. Think about what, after all they'd been through? If he was on the job, there'd be no decision. Be no arguments. The word no about everything lately would be banished.

The shine had gone out of her gorgeous eyes under the strain. No wonder her silver never lit, the girl was exhausted. Beyond fatigued. He'd allow that to happen to her on his watch, was off the job, so she had to pick up the damned slack. Isn't that how his mother grew old fast, dealing with his father's pitiful bullshit? God, don't let that happen to him.

Naw, this was not supposed to be the way it was. Damali deserved the world, and at one point, he'd been able to give her that. His state of affairs had become a travesty, and yet his woman tried her best to make it all seem like it was okay. It wasn't. He knew it; she knew it. That's what she had to think about, most likely. But that she'd made the attempt only made him love her more. and equally more determined than ever to fix this bull fast.

"This ain't me by a long shot." Carlos sighed heavily and looked at his hands, then snapped hard once. "Power used to jump off with a pop, just like that," he whispered, enraged. "So, if I'm the male Neteru, where's the serious juice that comes with the new title? I got a woman and a family to take care of. Y'all listening? How am I gonna take care of my kids, when we have 'em?"

By any man's standards, especially his, if the truth be told, his old throne was something hellacious to be reckoned with by comparison to what he was dealing with now. It was about resources and the broad definition thereof. Always had been, he'd told Father Pat that from night one. It might not be what The Covenant wanted to hear, but he was being honest in the silent morning hour.

Facts mentally dissected in the cold light of day weren't always pretty. He had his reasons for doubt, issues that had not been addressed, a legitimate argument, and nobody was giving up answers that made sense, to his mind. All of it tumbled in on him like a ton of loose pyramid bricks.

To him, his soul was tethered to his understanding of manhood by steel cable. Period. It felt like C4 had been rigged to that definition, then exploded, and his soul had caught the shrapnel, took the impact as the blast whipped up the tie line; it had snapped and was strangling him.

He knew he was tripping since Philly, but couldn't help it, or stop himself as his tortured soul began working on his embattled mind, unraveling it as what was left of his soul clawed to survive, until his body had gotten involved and simply malfunctioned. All aspects of the dilemma were unacceptable to him. The Light needed to get with that.

This new life had disintegrated everything he believed a man should be. At this juncture, he wasn't sure if he cared if The Light took his thoughts the wrong way. So what they had issues, he did, too. Yeah, he'd work for them from either side, did before-if it ever came down to that, again. He knew the deal in spades by now, aces wild. His woman and her family needed the table slanted to the good just to grant them peace. No problem. But not being able to do that for them the way he felt it efficiently needed to be done. torture. Was it wrong for a man to dream? Was ambition with good intent a sin? Not hardly. Not where he was from.

Carlos stared in the mirror again and set his jaw hard. "Show me something, then," he said quietly through his teeth, "that'll make me know what to do from this point forward, 'cause right now, I don't. All I know, that works, to get the job done, is power. And so far, it's only been shown to me, for real, from a throne that had a lineage arc to it that was no joke. Serious kick. Feel me?"

The bathroom was silent. Now, so was he. Dawn fully crested. He was too disgusted for words. The good old nights had to go back where they belonged, inside his mental black box. He'd let them stay there until they begged for another private review with a non-judgmental audience-him. Carlos closed his eyes and steadied himself for a Joe normal day. The old nights whispered goodbye like an unhappy lover and slipped back into the shadows of his thoughts. It had been real.

Quiet as kept, he missed all of that.