as Gabrielle sped into the thick cover of trees separating
the property from the road.
Her car was on the side of the quiet stretch of pave-
ment, right where she had left it. With trembling hands,
Gabrielle fumbled with the locked door, petrified that G.I.
Joe on steroids might catch up to her yet. Her fear seemed
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irrational, but that didn’t stop the adrenaline from pouring
through her. Dropping down into the leather seat of the
Mini, Gabrielle slammed the key into the ignition and
turned over the engine. Heart racing, she threw the little
car into drive, stomped on the gas pedal, and ripped out
onto the road, making her escape in a screech of spinning
tires and burning rubber.
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Six
At midweek in the height of the summer tourist season,
Boston’s parks and avenues were clotted with humanity.
Commuter trains sped people in from the suburbs, to
workplaces and museums, and to the countless historic
sites located around the city. Camera-toting gawkers clam-
bered onto excursion buses and horse-drawn carriages to
putter around town, while others lined up to board over-
priced, overcrowded charter tours that would haul them
by the hundreds out to the Cape.
Not far from the daytime bustle, secreted some three-
hundred feet beneath a heavily secured mansion outside
the city, Lucan Thorne leaned over a flat-panel monitor in
the Breed warriors’ compound and muttered a ripe curse.
Vampire identification records scrolled up the screen’s
display with machine-gun speed as a computer program
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searched a massive international database for matches
against the photos Gabrielle Maxwell had taken.
“Anything yet?” he asked, slanting an impatient look at
Gideon, the machine’s operator.
“Zip, so far. But my search is still clocking. IID’s got a
few million records to scan.” Gideon’s sharp blue eyes
flashed over the rims of sleek silver shades. “I’ll get a lock
on your suckheads, don’t worry.”
“I never do,” Lucan replied, and meant it. Gideon had
an IQ that was off the charts, compounded by a streak of
tenacity that ran a mile wide. The vampire was as much
relentless bloodhound as he was flat-out genius, and Lucan
was damned glad to have him on his side. “If you can’t
flush them out, Gideon, no one can.”
Beneath his crown of cropped, spiky blond hair, the
Breed’s computer guru bared a cocky, confident grin.
“That’s why I get the big bucks.”
“Yeah, something like that,” Lucan said, drawing away
from the screen’s nonstop roll of information.
None of the Breed warriors who had signed on to pro-
tect the race from the scourge of the Rogues did so for any
kind of payback. They never had, not from the first form-
ing of their alliance in what was mankind’s medieval era to
now. Each warrior had his reasons for choosing this dan-
gerous way of life, and some of them were, admittedly,
more noble than others. Like Gideon, who had worked
the field independently until seeking out Lucan after his
twin brothers—little more than children—were killed by
Rogues outside the London Darkhaven. That was three
centuries ago, give or take a few decades.
Even then, Gideon’s skill with a sword had been rivaled
only by his rapier-sharp mind. He had slain many Rogues
in his time, but much later, devotion and a private pledge
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to his Breedmate, Savannah, had made him give up com-
bat in exchange for wielding the weapon of technology in
service to the Breed.
Each of the six warriors who currently fought beside
Lucan had their personal talents. They had their own per-
sonal demons as well, though none of them were the
touchy-feely types looking to have Dr. Phil crawl up their
ass with a flashlight. Some things were better left to the
dark, and probably the only one of them who felt that
more than Lucan himself was the Breed warrior called
Dante.
Lucan acknowledged the young vampire as he strode
into the tech lab from one of the compound’s numerous
chambers. Dante, wrapped in his standard basic black at-
tire, was wearing biker’s leathers and a fitted tank that
showcased both his inked tattoos and his more elaborate
Breed markings. His thick biceps were banded with intri-
cate scrollwork, which, to human eyes would seem oddly
abstract, a series of interlocking symbols and geometric
designs rendered in deep henna hues. Vampire eyes would
see the symbols for what they truly were: dermaglyphs, natu-
rally occurring marks inherited from the Breeds’ forebears,
whose hairless skin had been covered in the changeable,
camouflaging pigments.
Glyphs typically were a source of pride for the Breed,
unique indications of lineage and social rank. Gen Ones
like Lucan bore the marks in greater numbers and deeper
saturation. His own dermaglyphs covered his torso, front and
back, stretched down onto his thighs and along his upper
arms, with still more running up the back of his neck and
onto his scalp. Like living tattoos, the glyphs changed hues
according to a vampire’s emotional state.
Dante’s were currently deep russet-bronze, indicating
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satiation from a recent feeding. No doubt, once he and
Lucan had parted company after hunting Rogues the
night before, Dante had gone on to find the bed—and the
ripe, juicy vein—of a willing female Host topside.
“How goes it?” he asked, dropping into a chair and
putting one large booted foot up on the desk in front of
him. “Figured you’d have those bastards bagged and
tagged for us already, Gid.”
Dante’s voice held the trace accent of his eighteenth-
century Italian ancestry, but tonight the cultured tone bore
a rough edge that said the vampire was restless and itching
for action. As if to make the point, he drew one of his ever-
present signature curved blades from the sheath at his hip
and began idly toying with the polished claw of steel.
Malebranche, he called the arced blades, a reference to
demons inhabiting one of the nine levels of hell, though
sometimes Dante wryly adopted the word as a surname for
himself whe
n he was out among humankind. That was
about all the poetry the vampire had in his soul; everything
else inside of him was unapologetic, cold, dark menace.
Lucan admired that about him, and had to admit
watching Dante in combat with those ruthless blades was a
thing of beauty, enough to put any artist to shame.
“Nice work last night,” Lucan said, well aware that
praise from him was rare, even when it was deserved. “You
saved my ass out there.”
He wasn’t talking about the confrontation with the
Rogues, but what had happened afterward. Lucan had
gone too long without feeding, starvation being something
almost as dangerous to their kind as the addictive
overindulgence that plagued the Rogues. Dante’s look said
he understood the meaning, but he let the fact slide with
his usual cool nonchalance.
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“Shit,” he replied, drawing the word out around a deep
chuckle. “After all the times you’ve had my back? Forget it,
man. Just returning the favor.”
The lab’s glass entry doors slid open with a smooth hiss
as two more of Lucan’s brethren strode in. They were
quite a pair. Nikolai, tall and athletic, with sandy hair, strik-
ingly angular features, and piercing ice-blue eyes a shade
colder than the winter of his Siberian homeland. The
youngest of the group by far, Niko had come of age during
the height of the humans’ so-called Cold War. A gear-
head right out of the cradle, he was a high-octane thrill-
seeker and the Breed’s first line of defense when it came to
things like guns, gadgets, and everything in between.
Conlan, by contrast, was soft-spoken and serious, a
consummate tactician. He was as graceful as a big cat next
to Niko’s brash swagger, a wall of bulky muscle, his copper
hair shorn beneath the black triangle of silk that wrapped
his skull. The vampire was late generation Breed—a youth
by Lucan’s standards—his human mother the daughter of
a Scottish chieftain. The warrior carried himself with a
bearing that was nothing short of regal.
Hell, even his beloved Breedmate, Danika, affection-
ately referred to the highlander as My Lord a lot of the
time, and the five-eleven female was hardly the subservient
type.
“Rio’s on the way,” Nikolai announced, his mouth
widening into a sly grin that put twin dimples in his lean
cheeks. He gave Lucan a nod of his head. “Eva said to tell
you we can have her man only after she’s done with him.”
“If there’s anything left,” Dante drawled, holding out
his hand to greet the others with a smooth grazing of
palms, then a knock of briefly connected knuckles.
Lucan met Niko and Conlan with like respect, but he
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settled in with mild annoyance at Rio’s delay. He didn’t be-
grudge any vampire his chosen Breedmate, but Lucan per-
sonally saw no point in strapping himself down with the
demands and responsibilities of a blood-bonded female. It
was expected of the general population of the Breed to
take a woman to mate and bear the next generation, but
for the warrior class—those select few males who willingly
shunned the sanctuary of the Darkhavens in favor of a life
of combat—Lucan saw the process of blood-bonding as
sentimental at best.
At its worst, it was an invitation to disaster if a warrior
was tempted to put feelings for his mate above his duty to
the Breed.
“Where’s Tegan?” he asked, his thoughts leading natu-
rally to the last of their number at the compound.
“Not yet returned,” Conlan answered.
“Has he called in his location?”
Conlan exchanged a look with Niko, then gave a slight
shake of his head. “No word.”
“This is the longest he’s been MIA,” Dante remarked
to no one in particular, running his thumb over the curved
edge of his blade. “What’s it been—three, four days?”
Four days, going on five.
But who the hell was counting?
Answer: they all were, but no one spoke up to voice the
concern that had been running through their ranks of late.
As it was, Lucan had to work hard to stifle a surge of
venom that rose in him when he thought about the most
reclusive member of their cadre.
Tegan had always preferred to hunt alone, but his se-
cretive nature was beginning to wear on the others. He was
a wild card, more and more lately, and Lucan, frankly, was
finding it hard to trust the guy, not that mistrust was any-
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thing new when it came to Tegan. There was bad blood
between the two of them, no question, but that was an-
cient history. It had to be. The war they had both pledged
themselves to so long ago was more important than any
animosity they held for each other.
Still, the vampire bore close watching. Lucan knew
Tegan’s weaknesses better than any of the others could; he
wouldn’t hesitate to make a move if the male stepped so
much as a toe out of line.
The lab’s doors whisked open again and in came Rio at
last, tucking the loose tail of a sleek, white, designer shirt
into tailored black pants. Some of the buttons were miss-
ing from the crisp silk, but Rio wore his postsex dishevel-
ment with the same air of cool that hung over him in
everything he did. Under the hank of thick dark hair that
swung over his brow, the Spaniard’s topaz-colored eyes
danced. When he smiled, the tips of his fangs glimmered,
not yet receded after the passion with his lady had drawn
them out. “I hope you saved a few Rogues for me, my
friends.” He rubbed his hands together. “I’m feeling good,
ready to party.”
“Have a seat,” Lucan drawled, “and try not to bleed all
over Gideon’s computers.”
Rio’s long fingers went up to the crimson rosebud mark
at his throat where Eva had apparently bitten him with her
blunt human teeth and sipped from his vein. Even though
she was a Breedmate, she was still genetically Homo sapi-
ens. Despite the long years that she and others like her
would share through the blood-bond with a mate, none
of her kind would grow fangs or take on any other traits
of the vampire males. It was a widely accepted practice
that a vampire would feed his mate from a self-inflicted
gash on his wrist or forearm, but passions ran wild in the
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ranks of the Breed
warriors. And in their chosen women.
Sex and blood were a potent combination—sometimes,
too much so.
Grinning, unrepentant, Rio threw himself into a loose
sprawl in one of the swivel chairs and leaned back, prop-
ping his big bare feet on the clear Lucite console. He and
the other warriors began reviewing the previous night’s
tallies, exchanging laughs as they one-upped one another
and discussed the finer techniques of their profession.
While hunting their enemies gave some of the Breed
pleasure, Lucan’s own drive was based in hatred, pure and
simple. He didn’t try to hide it. He despised everything
that the Rogues were and had vowed, long ago, that he
would eradicate their kind, or die trying. Some days, he
didn’t really care what came first.
“Here we go,” Gideon said finally, when the records
scrolling on his monitor came to a stop. “Looks like we hit
pay dirt.”
“What’ve you got?”
Lucan and the others turned their attention to an over-
sized flat-screen panel above the lab’s bank of micro-
processors. The faces of the four Rogues slain by Lucan
outside the nightclub came up on the display next to those
of Gabrielle’s cell phone images of the same individuals.
“IID records have all of these down as missing persons.
Two from the Connecticut Darkhaven last month, another
out of Fall River, and the last one is local. They’re all cur-
rent generation, the youngest wasn’t even thirty years old.”
“Shit,” Rio said, whistling low. “Stupid kids.”
Lucan said nothing, felt nothing, for the loss of young
lives gone Rogue. They weren’t the first, and they sure as
hell wouldn’t be the last. Living in the Darkhavens could
seem pretty dull to an immature male with something to
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prove. The allure of blood and conquest was deeply in-
grained, even in the later generations, who were the fur-
thest removed from their savage forebears. If a vampire
went looking for trouble, particularly in a city the size of
Boston, he generally found it in spades.
Gideon punched a quick series of commands on his
computer keyboard, bringing up more photos from the
database. “Here are the last two records. This first individ-
ual is a known Rogue, repeat offender here in Boston, al-
though he’s apparently been keeping low under the radar
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