Even the powerful needed protection sometimes.

When you were the son of evil, there was little you couldn't do, own, or kill, and yet her mortal self was an elusive trophy he could touch, but not put on his shelf. This made her rare. This made her precious. This made him...love her.

Qhuinn took a step forward, with the intention of stepping in, in the event the Brother locked hands on the SOB’s skinny neck: Someone should probably catch the head before it bounced all over their hosts’ rugs. And the deadweight of the body. Seemed only hospitable.

Indeed, the human mind appeared to suffer from a crippling need to fabricate in the absence of concrete proof.

You are perfect the way you are." Blay's voice was strong. "There is nothing wrong with who and what you have always been. I'm proud of you. And I love you. Now ... and always." Qhuinn's vision got wavy. Hard-core. "I'm proud of you. And I love you," Blay repeated. "Always. Forget about your old family ... you have me now. I am your family.

Stop it. Do not feel safe with him. The Stockholm Syndrome is not your friend.

Unfortunately, beer was only a short-term answer. And head transplants had yet to be approved by the FDA.