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But then, as far as this evening was going, shocking revelations were practically a given.
It was not unusual for a Breedmate to have at least one extraordinary or extrasensory ability--a gift that also typically passed down to her Breed offspring. Whatever the genetic anomaly was that made the rare human's womb capable of accepting a vampire's seed and her aging process halt with the regular ingestion of his blood, it also made her something more than her basic Homo sapiens sisters.
For Dante's mother, the talent was a terrible precognition. For Gideon's mate, Savannah, it was psychometry, the talent to read the history of an object--more specifically, she could also read the history of the object's owner. Gabrielle, the Breedmate who'd only recently come into the Order's fold as Lucan's woman, had an intuitive vision that drew her to vampire lairs and a strong mind that made her all but impervious to thought control, even by the most powerful of Dante's kind.
For Tess, it was the amazing ability to heal a living creature with her touch. And the fact that she had been able to heal Dante's leg wound meant that her restorative talents extended to those of the Breed as well. She would be such an asset to the race. God, when he thought of all the good she could bring--
Dante clipped the idea before it could take shape in his head. What happened here didn't change the fact that he was living on borrowed time or that his duty was, first and foremost, to the Breed. He wanted Tess shielded from the pain of her past, but it seemed unfair to ask her to leave the life she was building for herself. Even more unfair was what he'd done by taking her blood that very first night, linking them inextricably to each other.
Yet, as he lay there beside her, caressing her skin, breathing in the cinnamon-sweet scent of her, Dante wanted nothing more than to scoop Tess up and carry her away with him, back to the compound, where he knew she would be safe from all the evil that might touch her topside.
Evil like the stepfather who'd given her so much anguish. Tess worried that killing the bastard had made her as bad as him, but Dante had only respect for what she'd done. She'd slain a monster, sparing herself and who knew how many other children from his abuse.
To Dante, Tess had proven herself a warrior at that tender age, and the ancient part of him that still subscribed to things like honor and justice wanted to shout to the entire sleeping city below that this was his woman.
Mine, he thought fiercely, selfishly.
As he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her delicate shoulder blade, the phone in her kitchen began to ring. He blasted the device with a sharp mental command, silencing the ring before it could wake her completely. She roused, moaning a little as she murmured his name.
"I'm here," he said quietly. "Sleep, angel. I'm still here."
As she drifted off again, nestling tighter against him, Dante wondered how long he had before dawn would drive him away. Not long enough, he thought, astonished that he could feel that way and knowing that he couldn't blame his feelings on the inconvenience of the blood bond he had unintentionally forced on them both.
No, what he was beginning to feel for Tess went a lot deeper than that. It went all the way to his heart.
"God damn it, Tess. Pick up!"
Ben Sullivan's voice was shrill, quivering, his entire body shaking uncontrollably from trauma and a fear so intense he thought he might pass out from it.
"Fuck! Come on--answer."
He stood in a nasty pay phone booth in one of the worst areas of town, the chewed-up, crusted-over receiver gripped in his bloody fingers. His free hand was clamped at the side of his neck, sticky from the horrific bite wound inflicted there. His face was swollen from the savage pounding he'd taken, the back of his head screaming with pain from a goose-egg-size lump he'd gotten from the window of the SUV.
He couldn't believe he wasn't dead. He had thought for sure he would be killed, based on the fury with which he'd been attacked. He'd been stunned when the guy--Jesus, was he even human?-- ordered him to get out of the vehicle. He'd thrust the photograph of the kid he was looking for into Ben's hand and let him know that if this Cameron, Camden, whatever, turned up dead, Ben would be held solely responsible.
Now Ben had been enlisted to help find him, to make sure the kid got home in one piece. Ben's life depended on it, and as much as he wanted to hightail it out of town and forget he ever heard the word Crimson, he knew the lunatic who attacked him tonight would find him. The guy had promised he would, and Ben wasn't about to test his rage in a second round.
"Damn it," he grumbled, as the call to Tess's apartment went into voice mail.
As bad off as he was now--as deep in the shit as he'd landed tonight--he felt a moral obligation to warn Tess about the guy she'd been messing around with lately. If his buddy was a psychotic freak of nature, Ben was betting that the other one was just as dangerous.
God, Tess.
When the voice-mail greeting left off with a beep, Ben rushed through the night's events, from the surprise ambush at his place by the two thugs to the attack on him a short while ago. He blurted out that he'd seen her with one of the guys the other night and that he worried she was risking her life if she continued to see him.
He could hear the words spilling out of him in a breathless stream, his voice pitched higher than normal, fear edging on hysteria. By the time he'd gotten it all out and slammed the phone back down onto the chipped cradle, he could hardly breathe. He leaned back against a graffiti-tagged panel of the phone booth and bent over, closing his eyes as he tried to calm his rattled system.
A barrage of feelings came at him in a giant swell: panic, guilt, helplessness, bone-deep terror. He wanted to take it all back--the past several months, everything that had happened, everything he'd done. If only he could go back and erase things, make them right. Would Tess be with him, then? He didn't know. And it didn't fucking matter, because he couldn't take any of it back.
The most he could hope to do now was survive.
Ben dragged in a deep breath and forced himself to stand. He pushed out of the phone booth and started walking down the darkened street, looking like holy hell. A homeless person recoiled from him as he cut across the road and hobbled toward the main drag. As he walked, he dug out the picture of the kid he was supposed to look for.
Glancing down at the snapshot, trying to focus on the bloodstained image, Ben didn't hear the approaching car until it was nearly on top of him. Brakes screeched and the vehicle was thrown into an abrupt stop. The doors opened in tandem, a trio of unfamiliar bouncer types pouring out.
"Going somewhere, Mr. Sullivan?"
Ben jolted into flight mode, but he didn't even get two steps on the pavement before he was seized by all of his limbs. He watched the photograph land on the wet asphalt, a large boot trampling it as the men started carrying him back to the waiting car.
