Kiss of Crimson (Midnight Breed 2)

"I don't know. Worth a look, though."

Dante rubbed at a cold spot that had settled behind his sternum, a strange void that was squeezing his lungs, making it hard to breathe. The sensation was more visceral than physical, a hard tweaking of his instincts that put his senses on full alert. He hit the window control next to him, watching the dark glass slide open as he inhaled the cold night air.

"Everything cool?" Tegan asked, his deep voice drifting over from across the dim cockpit of the SUV. "You heading for a repeat of what happened earlier?"

"No." Dante gave a vague shake of his head, still staring out the open window, watching the blur of lights and traffic as the downtown buildings fell behind them and the old neighborhoods of South Boston came into view. "No, this is... something different."

The damn knot of cold in his chest was boring deeper, becoming glacial even as his palms began to sweat. His stomach clenched. Adrenaline dumped into his veins in a sudden, jolting flood.

What the hell?

It was fear running through him, he realized. Shell-shocked terror. Not his own, but someone else's.

Oh, Jesus.

"Stop the car."

It was Tess's fear he was feeling. Her horror reaching out to him via the blood connection they shared. She was in danger out there. Mortal danger.

"Tegan, stop the fucking car!"

The warrior hit the brakes and dragged the steering wheel hard to the right, coolly skidding the Rover onto the berm. They weren't too far from Ben Sullivan's apartment; his building could be no more than half a dozen blocks' distance--twice that if they had to navigate the maze of one-way streets and traffic lights between here and there.

Dante threw open the passenger door and jumped out onto the pavement. He dragged air into his lungs, praying he could get a tack on Tess's scent.

There it was.

He locked on to the cinnamon-sweet note braided among the thousand other mingled odors carrying on the chill night breeze. Tess's blood scent was trace, but growing stronger--too much so.>Chase swore roundly. "I had to let the human go. I had no choice."

"Wrong answer," Dante snarled, bringing that hellish blade up under his chin. "The Crimson dealer would do me no good if he was locked up at the compound. I need him on the street, helping me look for someone--my nephew. I let him go so he would help me find Camden, my brother's son."

Dante scowled, but the blade eased up a little. "What about the others who've gone missing? All those kids Ben Sullivan has been feeding with his drug?"

"Getting Camden back is what I care about. He's been my true mission from day one."

"Son of a bitch, you lied to us," the warrior hissed.

Chase met the accusing amber glare. "Would the Order have bothered to help me if I'd come around asking for you to find one missing Darkhaven youth?"

Dante cursed, low and furious. "You'll never know, will you?"

He wondered now, having come to understand some of the warriors' code--having seen firsthand that, despite their ruthless methods and the efficiency that made them such a mysterious and deadly force among the Breed and humankind alike, they were not without honor. They were merciless killers when needed, but Chase suspected that every one of them was, at heart, a far better man than him.

Dante abruptly released him, then pivoted around to stalk back toward the waiting Rover. Across the lawn, Tegan let Elise go as well, the warrior's steady green gaze lingering on her as she anxiously stumbled away from him, rubbing at the places where he had touched her.

"Get in the truck, Harvard," Dante said, indicating the open back door with a look that promised hell to pay if Chase didn't cooperate. "You're going back to the compound. Maybe you can persuade Lucan that we ought to let you keep breathing."

Chapter Twenty-seven

Cold sweat trickled down the back of Ben Sullivan's neck as he finished up the first sample of his new batch of Crimson. He hadn't been lying about not having the recipe committed to memory; he did his best to re-create the drug in the absurdly short time he'd been allowed. With barely a half hour to spare, he collected a dose of the reddish substance and carried it over to his test subject. The young man, dressed in filthy blue jeans and a Harvard sweatshirt, slumped against the restraints that held him prisoner in a wheeled office chair, his head down, chin resting on his chest.

As Ben neared him, the door to the makeshift basement lab opened and his dark employer strode inside, walking between the two armed guards who'd been supervising Ben's progress the whole time.

"I didn't have a chance to vacuum-filter the moisture out of the stuff," Ben said, making excuses for the cup of pasty goo he'd produced and hoping to hell he got the recipe right. "This kid looks like he's in rough shape. What if he can't chew it?"

There was no reply, only measuring, deadly silence.

Ben blew out a nervous breath and approached the kid. He knelt down in front of the chair. From under the fall of unkempt hair, listless eyes opened to heavy slits, then closed again. Ben peered up into the drawn, sallow face of what had probably been a good-looking kid at one time--