The scribe virgin had control issues.

Which was not a bad thing when you were a goddess and had created a whole world within the world, a history within the universe's history.

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Really. It was not a bad thing.

Well, mayhap it was a good thing... in measure.

The Scribe Virgin floated over to the sealed sanctum in her private quarters, and at her will, the double doors eased open. Mist poured out of the room beyond, billowing like satin cloth in a wind. Her daughter was revealed by the condensation's recession, Payne's powerful body suspended inanimate in the air.

Payne was as her father had been: aggressive and calculating and powerful.

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Dangerous.

There had been no place among the Chosen for a female such as Payne. No place in the vampire world, either. After that final act of hers had come to pass, the Scribe Virgin had isolated here the daughter who would not fit anywhere, for everyone's safety.

Have faith in your creation.

The Primale's words had been ringing e'er since he had spoken them. And they exposed a truth that had been buried in the deep earth of the Scribe Virgin's inner thoughts and fears.

The lives of the males and females whom she had called forth from the biological pool by a single gift of will could not be shelved in separate sections like books in the Sanctuary 's library. The order was appealing, true, as there was safety and security in order. Nature, however, and the natures of living things, was messy and unpredictable and not subject to binding.

Have faith in your creation.

The Scribe Virgin could see many things to come, whole legions of triumphs and tragedies, but they were mere grains of sand within a vast shore. The larger whole of fate, she could not envision: As the future of the race she had borne was tied too closely with her own destiny, the thrive or demise of her people was unknown and unknowable to her.

The only totality she had was the present, and the Primale was right. Her beloved children were not flourishing, and if things stayed as they were, soon there would be none of them left.

Change was the only hope they had for the future.

The Scribe Virgin lifted her black hood off her head and let it fall down the back of her robing. Extending her hand, she sent a warm rush of molecules scampering through the still air toward her daughter.

Payne's ice white eyes, so like her twin brother Vishous's, snapped open.

"Daughter," the Scribe Virgin said.

She was not surprised at the reply.

"Fuck you."

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