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Not that this was a compound, exactly. Or anything close to a viable command base, least of all now, when the Order needed every tactical advantage it could get in this war with Dragos. He looked around him, at the borrowed Darkhaven in the middle of a secluded forest, the cozy great room with its fireplace and soaring rafters and the enormous pine that stretched up toward them, fragrant with the evergreen scent of the outdoors. He looked at the people who stood around him there, most of his brothers in arms and their beloved mates. The family he'd never wanted but had somehow ended up having anyway.
And then he looked at Gabrielle.
She was his irresistible beacon. His greatest strength, and his most vulnerable weakness. She was his heart. And it was there that he felt a tightness growing as he watched her stroke the velvety cheek of the baby in Tess's arms. She leaned her face down and kissed the infant's delicately rounded brow, and the pure beauty in that single instant made the fist around Lucan's heart squeeze even tighter.
He didn't want to acknowledge this thing that was infiltrating his body. This queer ache deep inside him that could mean no good, especially now.
It was a relief to hear the sudden, long stride of boots pounding in the hallway. The urgent beat thrust him into battle mode in an instant, even before Tegan appeared, trouble written across the warrior's stern face. "More bad news out of Boston."
"Chase?" Lucan asked, dreading the answer as the rest of the room fell into an equally grave silence.
Tegan nodded. "Gideon just got wind of it on an Internet news-feed. Senator Clarence is dead, Lucan. Brutally attacked and killed in his home, along with several of his security detail. And guess who vanished without a trace from the police station last night?"
Lucan's veins erupted with fury. "Son of a bitch. What the fuck is wrong with Harvard?" But he didn't really need to ask that, and Tegan didn't bother to answer. They'd both brushed shoulders with the addiction that Chase was suffering from now. And if it turned out that Bloodlust had driven him to kill - especially so blatantly, and such a highly visible individual whose death could have irrevocable consequences for all of the Breed nation - then Chase had effectively just signed his own death warrant.
CHAPTER NINE
CHASE FLICKED UP the collar of his coat as he rounded a corner off a dark side street in the city and headed deeper into the evening crush of pedestrians and rush-hour commuters. His gunshot wounds were bleeding again. He could feel the liquid heat of his own blood seeping through the fabric of the baggy jeans and lumberjack flannel shirt he'd pinched from a church thrift shop box overflowing with holiday donations. His tan construction boots were too tight by a full size and the dark wool-blend coat carried the faint smell of mothballs, but he was warm. Too warm, in fact. His skin felt fiery, stretched too tight around him.
He knew it was the hunger calling him.
It had started as a prickling annoyance about an hour ago, his body's way of telling him that night was falling and it was time to feed.
Head pounding, veins jangling more insistently than an alarm clock, he'd woken up in an abandoned mill in Malden, where he'd gone after paying his unannounced visit to the Minion senator's house. He'd been lucky to find the shelter last night. Luckier still that his exhaustion had overwhelmed his addiction's greed. He wouldn't be the first of his kind to get stupid from Bloodlust and end up ashing himself in the morning.
But he hadn't fallen into that abyss yet.
The way his stomach was twisting on itself, he had to wonder if the plunge into blood madness wasn't actually a relief in the end. God knew, fighting it off every waking second was its own brand of hell.
The blood he'd taken from the nurse had given him the boost he needed to escape the infirmary and take care of Dragos's mind slave, but he was paying the price for it now. Like a neglected lover suddenly shown a brief but passing interest, his blood thirst demanded all of his undivided attention. It sent him prowling the street, back into the bustle of the city more out of selfish, slavish need than out of any sense of righteous purpose or duty.
His hooded gaze slid from one human to another, temptation everywhere as he strode among them like a wraith. Without intending to, he found himself falling in behind a group of young women toting shopping bags and long rolls of wrapping paper. He casually followed them as they made their way up the street, chattering and laughing with one another. While his hunger urged them to head for the poorly lit parking lot at the end of the block, the women instead hung an abrupt right and entered the din of an Irish pub.
As they disappeared into the crowded establishment, Chase slowed his pace outside. His fangs were sharp against his tongue, and under the low tilt of his head, he could see the faint glow from twin points of amber reflecting his gaze back at him in the pub's garland-draped, light-festooned window.
Shit.
He had to get a grip, get this thing under control. He knew where it was leading him, of course. He'd seen it happen to better men than he. Had seen it all too recently in his own family, in a promising young kid with the whole world ahead of him. Lost to Bloodlust and taken for good in a single, damning action that had haunted Chase ever since.
Camden.
Jesus, had it really been more than a year since his nephew's death?
It felt like a matter of days sometimes. Other times, like now, with his own feral reflection staring back at him, it felt like centuries had passed.
Ancient fucking history.
And he could hardly afford to stand around rehashing the past. Keep moving; that's the best thing he could do. And if he wanted a snowball's chance of beating back his hunger tonight, he'd better get his ass away from the general human population and find someplace to sweat it out alone. The way he was hurting - and the way his wounds were lingering, his body's healing in need of fresh red cells - it wasn't wise for him to be anywhere public.
Chase started to turn away, but through the pub windows, a flash of movement on one of the wall-mounted TV screens caught his eye. Behind a yammering blond news reporter covering a story from earlier that day, he caught a glimpse of silky caramel brown hair and a pretty face he recognized instantly.
Tavia Fairchild, being escorted out of a Boston office building by several police officers and federal agents sometime that morning.
Chase stared at her image on the screen. Her cheeks were slack, gaze stricken with shock and grief as law enforcement hurried her toward a waiting vehicle outside the government building. A ticker at the bottom of the news video confirmed the senator's killing and a suspect still at large. The video went split screen to show his mug shot, but Chase only glanced at it. His attention was fixed on something else - something that made his blood run cold in his veins. He peered closer at one of the cops who was taking Tavia out of the building. Not the detective from the station but another man - a uniformed officer with dark hair and the flat gaze of a mind slave. Holy hell. Just how deep did Dragos's reach go?
And what did it mean for Tavia Fairchild if his Minions were keeping her close in their sights?
It couldn't be good.
