The only clue came from the drug trade that was apparently used to sustain the camp’s infrastructure and population. Drug-product packaging that had been found in the underground site was now starting to turn up on Caldwell’s streets again. The second Trez had found the iron cross trademark back in circulation, they’d alerted the Brotherhood.
Was it possible someone else was using the branding? Sure. Likely? Nah.
And as if they had anything else to go on.
Whatever. One way or another, the prison camp was going to be located—and Wrath was going to establish a proper penal system for the vampire race, one that would be far fairer than the aristocracy’s secret racket. But when you were as impatient as V was? Everything took too long.
On that note, he moved two steps back into the shadows, double-checked that there were no eyes on him, and up-up-and-away’d himself, ghosting off to Rhage’s coordinates.
Just another night in Caldwell, vampires moving through a city choked with humans, with the latter being none the wiser.
Which was one thing that could never change.
Rio stepped back out into the thunderstorms twenty minutes after she delivered Spaz through the doors of the Our Lady of Lourdes Shelter for the Homeless. Hopefully the guy would stay longer than the night, but she really didn’t expect him to.
She was going to take care of one of his problems personally, however.
Mickie was going to back off the guy. And she’d confront the fucker now, except she was really frickin’ late.
Even though the drug world didn’t necessarily run to schedule, she went into a hustle, jogging back for where she’d been standing under that fire escape—
Her phone went off, the subtle ringing rising above the rustle and creak of her leather jacket. Stabbing her hand into an inner pocket, she pulled the cell out. When she saw that it was a blocked number, she pulled up short and answered in a whisper.
“Hello?”
The male voice was immediately recognizable. “Rio, you’re in danger—”
“Are you out of your mind calling me on this number?” She looked around. “You want to get me killed—”
“Listen, I’m not anywhere near you, and I can’t go into it right now, but your cover is blown. I’m—”
“I can’t talk about this right now. And don’t call me on—”
“—sending something to you outside of normal channels—”
“I gotta go,” she hissed.
“Rio! You have to pull out. You’ve been compromised—”
“No, I haven’t—”
A lightning strike burst through the night, attracted by the rod on the top of the One State Street Plaza building, which was just a couple blocks to the east of her. The flash was blinding, and the crack and sizzle of impact had her cringing back and lifting her arm over her face like a vampire. As her direct report continued to talk into her ear, she cut the call, shoved the cell in her pocket—
Up ahead, the supplier stepped out from under the fire escape.
And he was the size not so much of a football player, but an entire defensive line.
Zipping up her jacket, she pushed one hand through her short hair as the other burrowed in and locked on the grip of her hidden gun. Good thing she was wearing Kevlar under her fleece.
Rio strode forward, knowing she had to get her shit together. Everybody involved in the trade was rat smart and always reading any room they walked into or up to. She needed to get her affect strapped tight and her energy projection right. There was no way her undercover status had been compromised. There were only two people in the Caldwell Police Department who knew what she was doing, and her fake background was ironclad because she’d come over from the FBI—which had erased everything about her.
She was a ghost, floating through the streets at night, stringing together a case so that Mozart’s stranglehold on the Caldie drug scene could be severed with a lifetime set of iron bars.
“You Luke?” she said crisply.
The man’s golden eyes seemed to glow like candle flames, and as another bolt of lightning skipped above them, his face was briefly highlighted. Well . . . hello, sailor. He had the high cheekbones of a model, the mouth of an Italian lover, the jaw of a fighter, and the streaked hair of a nineties-era John Frieda ad.
Also, a strange scar that ran around his throat.
That last one was probably the only thing about him that made sense. There were all kinds of reasons people in the big-money sectors of the drug business ended up with things that lingered in their skin, a road map of brutal, bloody sin.