“Don’t try to play innocent. Did you think no one would notice that you couldn’t keep your eyes off the dragon’s granddaughter last night? I nearly handed you my handkerchief at one point and told you to wipe your chin.”
“I was prepared to ignore it and simply avoid stepping in the puddles when I left the table,” Cristos said, eyes twinkling.
Quinn flicked them each a two-fingered salute. “You can both feck off. I behaved with a great deal of civility and restraint.”
“Sure, if you want me to give you credit for not stripping her bare and leaning her arse up over the end of the table.”
Quinn ignored Richard’s sarcasm and kept walking. “Thank God, the grandmother didn’t notice. As it was, she gave me a tongue-lashing for having the temerity to state an opinion contrary to her own.”
“Did she? I must have missed that.”
“She cornered me just before we left the Council chambers. Accused me of holding a sword over the neck of the Council leader. Can you imagine anyone holding a sword on that one?”
Cristos laughed. “Did she try to tell you we could take ourselves to the Devil, but the Americans wouldn’t follow?”
“Exactly.”
“Mad old hen,” Richard snorted. “As if the Yanks would have any choice once we Unveil. Does she think humans are so stupid they’d believe Others had never discovered the New World?”
Cristos shrugged. “She is not insane, Richard, merely frightened.”
“And her fear gives her the right to ignore good judgment? That’s idiotic.” They reached the impressive historic edifice of the club, and Richard stalked up the steps to ring the bell. “That’s like someone who can’t swim jumping into a lake to avoid a bee.”
“Perhaps she is allergic to bees?”
Quinn rolled his eyes. “Why, in all the years I’ve known you, have I not killed either of you?”
Cristos gave an incredibly Latin shrug. “Because you are . . . ah, what’s the word . . . a chicken-shit?”
“Listen here, Paddington—”
“Children.” Richard stepped between snarling Lupine and grinning Ursa and held them apart. “We might want to consider scrapping about this a bit later on. That is, if the two of you will kindly get your heads out of your asses and stop behaving like idiots.”
“But we have the act down so smoothly now, don’t you think?”
“Cris, bugger off with that smart mouth of yours before I decide to let Quinn have at you.”
“The two of you have entirely lost your sense of fun, you know.”
The three men handed their coats to the butler who admitted them, and accepted check slips in return.
“On the contrary,” Quinn said. “We’d have a lot of fun kicking your ass, boyo.”
“No ass-kicking in the hallway, please.”
Quinn looked over his shoulder and saw the American Council leader propped negligently against the wall.
De Santos gave them one of his lazy grins. “I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you by asking you to return this morning, gentlemen, but we have a lot of work to do and can’t afford to waste time. If you’ll follow me?”
“You won’t need to apologize if you can manage to produce a very large pot of tea.”
De Santos laughed and pushed away from the wall. “I’ll see what we can do, Mr. Maccus.”
The Felix led the way into a moderately sized and inviting room, lined from floor to ceiling with books. The walls were a deep brick-red where they weren’t covered by woodwork, and a faded but elegant carpet covered shining chestnut floors. Two large, multipaned windows shone light onto a massive and decidedly masculine desk without a single bit of clutter on the surface. It made a lovely library, Quinn thought, but it didn’t look like anyone’s personal study.
De Santos closed the door behind them and gestured for the men to sit. “I’ve reserved this room for the rest of the morning. The kitchen will send up tea and coffee. Have you gentlemen eaten? We can easily arrange breakfast as well.”
Quinn grinned. They had, in fact, eaten before they left the hotel, but Quinn never passed up an offer of food. His Lupine metabolism easily burned seven or eight thousand calories a day, and that was if he did nothing but sit on his arse.
“I wouldn’t mind.”
“That would be most appreciated,” Cristos echoed, his Ursa metabolism much the same. Unlike his animal counterpart, a werebear never hibernated.
Richard shook his head. “The tea will do for me. Leave the food to these gluttons.”
After a quick call on a discreet house phone, De Santos crossed in front of the desk and opened the large doors of a built-in cabinet. They tucked neatly away to expose a large, flat-panel monitor, some impressive speakers, and what looked like a state-of-the-art teleconferencing system, including a small video camera. Taking a conference phone from the shelf, the Felix stretched out the cord until he could set the device on the low coffee table in the center of the room.
“I hope you don’t mind if we start before the food arrives,” he said, settling onto the opposite end of the sofa from Quinn. “Gregor asked that we call as soon as we could. It’s just past sunset Moscow time.”
“No. The sooner, the better.”
While De Santos dialed, a nearly silent waiter entered the room with a tray bearing the tea and coffee. He deposited it on the desk and disappeared as Cristos rose from the closest chair and started to pour. By the time the phone had given its third ring, the cream and sugar were on the coffee table beside the phone and the four men were sipping gratefully.
A click and a brief silence signaled someone had answered. “Kasminikov mestozhitel’stvo.”
“Rafael De Santos for Gregor. He’s expecting the call.”
The voice switched to English. “One moment, please.”
Quinn heard another click, and a new voice echoed over the line. This one was heavy and deep and decidedly unhappy.
“About time you call, you son of a rabid Himalayan.”
“It’s a pleasure to speak with you as well, Gregor.” De Santos spoke in a mild voice, eyes sparking with humor. “And I have with me the sons of a rabid teddy, walrus, and Pekingese.”
Cristos smothered a laugh, but Richard did not look amused. Quinn just rolled his eyes and leaned closer to the conference phone receiver. “Hello, Gregor. How are you holding up?”
“How do you think, Quinn?” the Russian snapped. “I have not slept in two days, and I still cannot work this . . . this camera contraption.”
There was a quiet murmur in the background and De Santos picked up a small remote control, aiming it at the monitor in the cabinet. “Let Vasili take care of it. I’ve just turned ours on. You should have an image as soon as you’re up and running.”
There was more muttering, several curses Quinn was happy not to be able to translate, and a series of muffled thumps before the video flickered to life. He winced at the image that appeared. Compared to the last time he’d seen Gregor Kasminikov, the huge Cossack of a vampire looked like shite. He was disheveled and glowering, his heavy, sandy-brown brows were pulled low over dark eyes, and his normally ruddy cheeks looked pale and drawn.
Richard spoke first. “Damn it, Gregor, you haven’t been eating.”
“I have had no appetite,” he bit back, “and we have been a bit preoccupied over here.”
De Santos played peacemaker once again. “Why don’t you give us an update, Gregor? Then we can decide on our next move.”
“I have very little to tell.” And he didn’t sound happy about that. “Ysabel is still missing. My men found one witness who said he thought he saw someone shove her into a big, black car, but he remembered no identification numbers.”
“Still no demands from the fanatics?”
“That is not how they operate. These humans do not want anything from us but our deaths. It is a philosophy passed down from their leaders in Germany. Each cell might operate independently, but they all share the same hatred. And the more they
learn of us, the more they hate.”
De Santos looked into the camera. “I confess I don’t know much about them, but how much could they know about us? We have become great keepers of secrets over the years.”
Gregor snarled. “They know too much and too little. Most of their ‘facts’ are little more than the same legends that have been passed among peasants for centuries, but they are always striving to find the proof that will support their insane jihad against us. I fear Ysabel may unwittingly give them that proof.”
Quinn frowned. “Has anyone from the local pack tried to scent out her trail?”
“We are not idiots! Of course we tried. The wolf found nothing past a few feet from where she entered the car.”
Quinn was disappointed, but not surprised. As keen as a Lupine nose might be, it had been designed to track living prey, not hunks of metal. Unless a car had a distinctive mechanical problem, a werewolf wouldn’t be able to tell the path of one from another. And if the car’s windows were kept closed, Ysabel couldn’t produce an airborne trail to follow, either.
“Okay, so a direct trail isn’t going to work. What’s been done to trace her down the back end? Do you have any idea where the local Lighthead cell likes to operate?”
The vampire snarled into the video camera in Moscow, and even in Manhattan, they could see the glint of fang he exposed.
“My men raided what was supposed to be a photography shop this morning. I wanted to do it myself, but we did not dare wait for sunset for fear they would already have moved.”
“Had they?” Richard asked.
“Not quick enough. Ysabel was gone, but we took two of the bastards and brought them here. One was not very cooperative.”
“What did he do?”
Gregor’s mouth compressed into a tight line. “He killed himself. Poison.”
“And the other?” Quinn held his breath.
“Gave me a mobile phone number. He said it is the one he and his co-conspirators used to contact the mastermind of the kidnapping plot. We traced it, of course.”
“To who?”
“To what, actually. It is registered to a corporation. V.R.A. Lumos Enterprises. An American company.”
Quinn felt a surge of excitement. “I don’t suppose you came up with an address?”
Gregor shook his head. “No. But I was able to . . . persuade the representative of the telephone service provider to tell me where the last calls made on the mobile were placed from.”
“And?”
“New York, New York.”
De Santos sat forward on the edge of the sofa, his air of lazy relaxation gone for the first time since he’d greeted the European delegation’s arrival. “You’re saying the American cell of the Light of Truth may be operating out of my city?”
“So it would seem.”
The Felix uttered something succinct, accurate, and obscene. Quinn heartily agreed.
“You need to go back to that bastard and find out the name of their contact,” he bit out. “I don’t care what it takes, Gregor, but we need something more to go on.”
The vampire’s face went blank, his eyes black and shuttered. “I’m afraid that will not be possible.”
“Shit. Don’t tell me—”
“He’s dead.”
“More poison?” Richard asked.
“No. I killed him.”
Quinn opened his mouth to roar his outrage. What could Gregor have been thinking? Didn’t he realize how important an inside source could be for them? Did he not understand how little they had to go on and how quickly time was ticking away? Then he looked back at the image on the monitor, and his jaw snapped shut. The frozen, remote expression and harsh lines at the corner of the vampire’s mouth spoke volumes. He thought Ysabel might already be dead.
Instead of railing at the Russian, Quinn took a deep breath. “All right. Did you get anything else before he died?”
“Not from him,” Gregor said stiffly, as if he knew what Quinn had wanted to say. “But my men seized a carton full of documents from the shop they raided. They said much of it is financial records and correspondence.”
“And that’s the kind of trail I know how to follow.” De Santos sounded as if he relished the chance. “Gregor, you’ll need to get me copies. Fax them, scan and e-mail them, overnight-mail them. Send them by bloody carrier pigeon, but get them here as soon as possible.”
“I will.” The vampire paused and Quinn saw the muscles in his jaw jumping. “I appreciate all the help you can give me. I would very much like to see Ysabel returned, if it is possible.”
The four men on the other end of the video conference looked at each other, their expressions grim. No one had to say out loud that the chances of that were slim and diminishing rapidly.
“We’ll do what we can, Gregor.”
He squared his shoulders. “Thank you. And no matter what happens, I want to find the ones responsible. They will not be allowed to get away with touching what is mine.”
De Santos looked as if he knew exactly what the Russian was feeling, but he only nodded and terminated the connection. “I think we have our work cut out for us, gentlemen. I’ll begin sorting the documents Gregor sends as soon as they arrive, but it would be best if we didn’t concentrate all our efforts on one lead.”
Richard gave a harsh laugh. “Do we have any others?”
“We know the American cell is here in the city,” Cristos offered. He had been silent during the call, but Quinn knew his sharp mind had worked overtime. “If that is true, there must be a way to find them.”
“There are—what?—eight million people in New York City? Shall we start knocking on doors?”
“I don’t think we’ll need to employ measures so drastic,” De Santos said, some of his amusement returning. “A bit of old-fashioned detective work might be required, but I have every confidence Quinn will prove up to the challenge.”
Quinn started. “I will?”
“Of course. With a bit of assistance from Cassidy Poe.”
Now that didn’t sound so bad.
“Why the girl?” Richard asked, his eyes full of mischief. “I don’t see why Quinn should have to work with her. She’s not a private investigator or a police officer. How would she be able to find these lunatics?”
Quinn shot his friend a quelling glare, but the Selkie only smiled back.
“As we discussed last night, Ms. Poe is an expert on fringe groups and their operation,” De Santos explained, his own face reflecting suppressed mirth. “She should be able to assist with insights on how they will be operating, where they might choose to establish themselves, how they will go about recruiting members. I have great confidence in the pair of you.”
“Which is more credit than most of that lot last night were willing to give.”
De Santos heard Richard’s sotto voce grumble and quirked an eyebrow. “Do you refer to anyone in particular, Mr. Maccus?”
“Richard, for Christ’s sake. And aye, a name or two springs to mind. Along with a sharp tongue and airs I’ve not seen since the summer I passed through Balmoral during the queen’s visit.”
“Ah, yes. The inimitable Dame Berry.” De Santos’s mouth curved in a rueful smile. “She’s been a force on this council for at least fifty years. While that may not be impressive to some of our less mortal members, the force of her personality does impress them, as does the reputation of her family.”
Cristos looked intrigued. “The Berry family has been around for very long, then?”
“Not the Berrys specifically. Adele’s mother’s name was Spencer, I believe. And the mother before that was . . . Chancellor? No, Chalmers.”
Quinn noticed he didn’t mention any men. “Are they some sort of matrilineal clan? That’s unusual among werekin. At least among the predatory races.”
“Ah, but Dame Adele is not werekin at all.”
Frown deepening, Quinn searched his recollection. He’d skimmed through files on all the members of the Council’s Inner Cir
cle before coming to the States, but it had been the kind of bare-bones information that distilled the species of each member down to “shifter,” “magic-user,” “changeling,” “vampire,” or “other.” He distinctly remembered Adele Berry being listed as a shifter. “Isn’t Cassidy Poe the dragon’s granddaughter?”
“She is.”
“Then she’s werekin,” Quinn insisted. “I saw the granddaughter shift into a red fox.”
“I won’t ask how you managed that,” De Santos said, though curiosity underlined his lazy air. “Not this minute, anyway. But the fact that you saw the girl shift does not make her werekin.”
“Bloody hell,” Richard breathed, realization dawning. “D’you mean she and the dragon are Foxwomen?”
De Santos nodded. “Not the only ones I’ve ever met, but among the few. The very few.”
Quinn racked his brain for the information he knew was in there somewhere. It didn’t take him long to find it. “I remember hearing some sort of Native American story, female shifters who used magic to transform instead of DNA. And I think there was something about it being maternally inherited—always women, no men. I thought they were a myth.”
“Does Dame Adele look like a myth to you?”
“But I saw her change.” Quinn shook his head. “There was no chanting or hand waving or . . . glittery dust in the air. How was that magic?”
De Santos winced. “Keep your voice down if you’re going to mention glittery dust and magic in the same breath. My wife is wandering about the club somewhere, and that’s not the type of terminology I want her to overhear. She’s a bit sensitive about those magic stereotypes.”
The door opened to reveal a laden catering cart and an exceedingly feminine blonde with tousled gold curls, big blue eyes, and a wicked smile. “As long as it isn’t coming from your mouth, kitten, you’re perfectly safe.”
Quinn saw the Felix close his eyes for a split second before he smiled and held his hand out to the intruder. “Sweetheart. Come in and meet my guests.”
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She wore a pair of hip-hugging jeans and a snug, V-neck sweater the color of ripe berries. All four occupants of the room raked their gazes over her in the habit of men, and then did it again, for which they could hardly be blamed. Her clothes happened to cling quite enticingly to an impressive little body. The curvy kind with hips that swayed as she stepped farther into the room. She had a sort of Marilyn Monroe look to her. Not in her features, but in the air of bone-deep sexiness about her. The smiling red lips and curly blond hair didn’t hurt, either. Combine that with the look of keen intelligence in her baby-blues, and a man couldn’t help but appreciate her.
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