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Across a white carpet the size of most people’s front lawns, C.P. pushed herself up higher on a king-sized bed that was draped with a monogrammed duvet. The parallels to a luxury hotel ended there. At the headboard, padded panels had dropped away to expose hospital-grade monitoring equipment, and surrounded by all the hi-tech machinery, the woman seemed tiny. And very fragile.
Her voice was steady as ever, though: “You want to tell me where you went?” she said briskly. “And Lydia, please don’t look at me like that. I appreciate the sympathy, but I can’t deal with it right now, I really can’t.”
Lydia cleared her throat and brushed a stray hair out of her eye. “Of course. I’m sorry—I mean…”
Daniel stepped forward—and had to take Lydia’s hand before she was willing to follow him. As they approached their hostess, those doors eased closedwith a whisper that only Lydia’s wolven ears picked up on.
At least she assumed neither of the humans with her could hear the quiet sound.
When they reached the foot of the bed, she tried not to stare—and failed. C.P. was pale as her floor and walls, but her hair was freshly washed, and for once, she wasn’t wearing Gus’s fleece. A silk dressing robe was wrapped up tight to the base of her throat, and her hand played with the lace lapels, the nervous twining more desperate trembling than any conscious movement.
That fleece was next to her on the bed, though. Folded precisely on the monogrammed pillowcase.
“We need to ask you about something,” Daniel said. “Privately.”
C.P.’s busy hand stilled. Then she called out, “Georgina, give us a minute. Would you.”
From around a corner, a red-haired nurse Lydia recognized leaned in and gave a wave. “I’ll just be in the back. Hit the button if you need me.”
“Thank you.”
The nurse ducked away, and then a door closed sharply, like she wanted to announce her departure to all involved. After that, C.P. stared up with a professional composure, as if they were in her office or her boardroom—
“I’m so sorry,” Lydia blurted. “About the baby.”
As C.P. flinched, Lydia realized what she’d said and slapped a hand over her mouth. But before she could apologize again, and likely mess things up further, the other woman shook her head.
“It’s all right,” she whispered. “Miracles come… and miracles go. Don’t they.”
Abruptly, Lydia glanced over at Daniel. As he switched his cane to his other hand, he looked utterly spent.
“Yes,” she heard herself reply. “They do.”
TWELVE
Club Basque
Market Street and 27th Avenue, Caldwell, New York
AS MUSIC BUMPED,loud as bombs being dropped in sequence, and a herd of humans milled around the alcohol trough of the bar, Xhex spotted tonight’s problem through the shifting bodies. It wasn’t that the man was pushing at people or grinding on them without permission. He wasn’t drunk or twitchy from coke or meth. And in his black sweatshirt and black jeans, he might have been a little casual and covered up, but he wasn’t dressed in a particularly standout fashion.
It was the way the guy stood alone on the periphery of the other patrons, a statue by the hall to the bathrooms.
As the head of security for the club, with years of being in charge of all kinds of venues under her belt, Xhex had a radar for trouble—and that was before you threw in hersymphathshit.
The fact that he didn’t move from his position was what had first gotten her attention and made her assess him. He wasn’t that tall, he wasn’t thatbroad, and with his brush-cut hair and stubble, he was very forgettable—in a calculated way. Like he wanted to project an image of being just another twenty-ish man in a part of the city where there were thousands of them.
Even so, she might have dismissed him—if it hadn’t been for the way he was looking around with such a pointed lack of emotion. If somebody was searching for someone specific, like if they’d lost the buddy or the date they’d come with, they got frustrated after a while. If a person was after sex, they were greedy as they focused on the objects of their desire. If they were giving up because they’d been ghosted or nobody wanted them, they were depressed.
Not this guy. He was like radar, sweeping back and forth with only his eyes moving, as if he didn’t want anyone to know who he was focusing on. Law enforcement undercover? No. They checked in with her as a courtesy—and anyway, his attention was too diffused, even in its intensity. He was searching for a type, not an individual. A vibe. Something that was inside of him sparked by someone outside of him.
He would know it when he saw it.
The way any predator can pick out the weakling in any group.
And when he found what he wanted to take, then he would move. He would start to track—
A couple who were arm-in-arm passed by her, cutting off her field of vision. As soon as they were clear, she looked back to see if the man was still—
