very things that awaited him in Boston—both the pursuit of the Enforcement Agent who’d fled the club in Chinatown and the rooting out and destruction of Dragos and his untold number of homegrown assassins.
But still …
Suspicion nagged Hunter as he got out of the vehicle and strode toward the corporate jet inside the private hangar. Ahead of him, at the lowered steps of the Cessna, one of the pilots came out and greeted him with a polite smile.
“Mr. Smith,” murmured the human. He and his copilot were part of a discreet charter service kept on permanent retainer by the Order. Hunter knew little about the arrangement, other than that the humans who operated the private jets exclusively for the Order were top of their class and paid a good sum to ask no questions of their typically late-night clientele. “We are cleared for taxi and takeoff as soon as you are ready, Mr. Smith.”
Hunter gave a faint nod of acknowledgment, his instincts still prickling as he put his foot on the first step. It was then that the realization hit him.
Something Victor Bishop had said.
What of your abductor? he’d demanded of Corinne.
Good God, please tell me the bastard who stole you from us is dead .
Although neither Corinne nor Hunter had mentioned any details about where she’d been or who had held her, Victor Bishop spoke as if he knew the blame for her capture rested on a single individual.
An individual who had the Darkhaven leader visibly anxious. “Paranoid” was the word that sprang to Hunter’s mind when he recalled the hurried orders that sent Bishop’s guards in a scramble to batten down the hatches of the estate and to hustle Bishop’s mate and Corinne into the mansion. Now that Hunter thought about it, Victor Bishop had been acting like a man on the verge of a coming siege.
The question was, why?
“Is anything wrong, Mr. Smith?”
Hunter didn’t answer. He pivoted off the plane’s staircase and stalked across the concrete floor of the airport hangar, his boots thumping hard with every long stride. He got back into the car and turned on the engine.
The black sedan roared to life, tires screaming as he punched the gas pedal and headed back to confront Victor Bishop and whatever secret he was hiding.
C orinne sat with her mother at the dining room table, watching in a state of quiet distraction as Tilda brought out the last of the serving platters from the Darkhaven’s kitchen. The food looked wonderful, smelled even better, but she had no appetite. Her gaze kept straying toward the adjacent foyer just outside the formal dining room, to the closed doors of her father’s study.
“I’m sure he’ll be finished any moment, darling.” Regina smiled at her from the seat at her right. “He wouldn’t want us to wait for him and let Tilda’s delicious meal go cold.”
At the head of the table, her father’s chair sat empty. A place had been set for him, but the china and crystal were there only out of tradition; none of the Breed consumed human food or drink. Corinne made no move to begin eating. She stared at the vacant mahogany chair, trying to will Victor Bishop away from his business and out to his place as the provider—the protector—of his family.
“How about we start with some soup,” Regina said, lifting the cover from the large silver tureen that sat on the table between them. Aromatic steam wafted up from the deep bowl. She dipped a ladle in, then served the soup to Corinne. “Doesn’t it smell delicious? It’s a very delicate beef consommé with shallots and wild mushrooms.”
Corinne knew her mother was only trying to take care of her, trying to bring some sense of normalcy to a situation that was anything but normal. She watched her bone china bowl fill with savory soup and vegetables and she wanted to scream.
She couldn’t eat right now. She couldn’t do anything until she’d spoken with her father and heard him assure her that no one—not even a sadistic monster like
But still …
Suspicion nagged Hunter as he got out of the vehicle and strode toward the corporate jet inside the private hangar. Ahead of him, at the lowered steps of the Cessna, one of the pilots came out and greeted him with a polite smile.
“Mr. Smith,” murmured the human. He and his copilot were part of a discreet charter service kept on permanent retainer by the Order. Hunter knew little about the arrangement, other than that the humans who operated the private jets exclusively for the Order were top of their class and paid a good sum to ask no questions of their typically late-night clientele. “We are cleared for taxi and takeoff as soon as you are ready, Mr. Smith.”
Hunter gave a faint nod of acknowledgment, his instincts still prickling as he put his foot on the first step. It was then that the realization hit him.
Something Victor Bishop had said.
What of your abductor? he’d demanded of Corinne.
Good God, please tell me the bastard who stole you from us is dead .
Although neither Corinne nor Hunter had mentioned any details about where she’d been or who had held her, Victor Bishop spoke as if he knew the blame for her capture rested on a single individual.
An individual who had the Darkhaven leader visibly anxious. “Paranoid” was the word that sprang to Hunter’s mind when he recalled the hurried orders that sent Bishop’s guards in a scramble to batten down the hatches of the estate and to hustle Bishop’s mate and Corinne into the mansion. Now that Hunter thought about it, Victor Bishop had been acting like a man on the verge of a coming siege.
The question was, why?
“Is anything wrong, Mr. Smith?”
Hunter didn’t answer. He pivoted off the plane’s staircase and stalked across the concrete floor of the airport hangar, his boots thumping hard with every long stride. He got back into the car and turned on the engine.
The black sedan roared to life, tires screaming as he punched the gas pedal and headed back to confront Victor Bishop and whatever secret he was hiding.
C orinne sat with her mother at the dining room table, watching in a state of quiet distraction as Tilda brought out the last of the serving platters from the Darkhaven’s kitchen. The food looked wonderful, smelled even better, but she had no appetite. Her gaze kept straying toward the adjacent foyer just outside the formal dining room, to the closed doors of her father’s study.
“I’m sure he’ll be finished any moment, darling.” Regina smiled at her from the seat at her right. “He wouldn’t want us to wait for him and let Tilda’s delicious meal go cold.”
At the head of the table, her father’s chair sat empty. A place had been set for him, but the china and crystal were there only out of tradition; none of the Breed consumed human food or drink. Corinne made no move to begin eating. She stared at the vacant mahogany chair, trying to will Victor Bishop away from his business and out to his place as the provider—the protector—of his family.
“How about we start with some soup,” Regina said, lifting the cover from the large silver tureen that sat on the table between them. Aromatic steam wafted up from the deep bowl. She dipped a ladle in, then served the soup to Corinne. “Doesn’t it smell delicious? It’s a very delicate beef consommé with shallots and wild mushrooms.”
Corinne knew her mother was only trying to take care of her, trying to bring some sense of normalcy to a situation that was anything but normal. She watched her bone china bowl fill with savory soup and vegetables and she wanted to scream.
She couldn’t eat right now. She couldn’t do anything until she’d spoken with her father and heard him assure her that no one—not even a sadistic monster like
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