Page 62

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Our office is where the computer is that will let me get in touch with Uncle Garrett,” he explained, gesturing back and forth with both hands. “If you’re going to tell us everything we need to know, you’re going to do it for both of us together.”

“Garrett,” Dominique growled. Just the mention of the name made his flesh crawl with the remembered agony of the torture that despicable man had inflicted on him.

Jackson eyed him carefully. “What? You didn’t expect me to run a raid operation by myself, did you?”

Dominique hadn’t thought anything at all about the details. He’d been too desperate to find a way out for Cassidy at any price. Now that price would include having to rely on his tormentor. “Merde.”

“Do I detect a problem?”

“Your uncle”—he intoned the term with great contempt—“is a savage. I fully expect to die if you are successful, but if your uncle feels the need to sacrifice Cassidy to annihilating my sire, you know he will do just that. In which case, the result is the same no matter what I do—she will die—and I have no reason for being here, much less following you up there.”

The tension that rode Jackson’s shoulders seemed to ease along with the snide belligerence. “Never thought I’d say this, but I actually agree with you.” His hands stopped clutching at the carved-wood rail. “But I still can’t do this by myself, and if we can’t convince Garrett that what you’re offering is legit, he won’t lift a finger to help.”

Dominique watched Jackson’s grip tighten on the rail again. “Do you believe what I’m offering is…legit?”

A grudging nod. “I do now.”

Now? What had changed his mind? “What about Cassidy?”

“I will do everything I can to get her out of there in one piece and let Garrett worry about the rest.”

He still didn’t like it, but he felt a warm resonance of sincerity against his ear. This was the only chance Cassidy had, and he couldn’t stand in its way because he feared one of the potential outcomes.

Resolved to his path, he moved up the steps.

Jackson waited for him on the landing at the top. When Dominique joined him in the tiny space, the skin on his face and hands prickled with uncomfortable heat. He lowered his head, only to have the sensation crawl down the back of his neck.

“Oh, yeah. Forgot about the light,” Jackson said. “That’s a full—”

Dominique jabbed his fist through the offending bulb in the low ceiling. The landing plunged into semi-darkness, and hot shards rained over them both.

“Well, it was a full-spectrum bulb,” Jackson finished, brushing the glittering glass out of his short hair.

“I assume there will be more of them?” If there were, he’d stop right here.

The hunter pressed his thumb to a reader embedded in the wall. The red light beside it turned green with a cheerful warble. “No,” he said, and pushed the door open.

The room inside, Striker Foundation headquarters, was lined with bookcases carved of solid wood and loaded with thousands of meticulously ordered volumes. Time oozed from the masses of yellowed paper and worn leather covers, and streamed out the door on a cool, dusty dry current of air. Interspersed between the stacks, covering every bare piece of wall, were portraits of regal men. Jackson shared his square-jawed, fierce-eyed countenance with most of them, his forebears.

The lights brightened. There was no hint of heat. Still, Dominique hesitated. With no other doors or windows, this room had “trap” written all over it. There was no telling what manner of devious devices it hid in the ornate furnishings and recessed lights.

Jackson waited, calm as any hunter waiting for his prey to make a fatal mistake.

Dominique kicked off his shoes. With two solid whacks, he crammed them between the frame and the door, jamming it open.

Jackson let out a sharp breath but didn’t comment.

Barefoot, Dominique crossed the parquet to a massive weathered desk in the room’s center. Two wide, curved displays sat at the ends, streaming data, images and snippets of video. This was the Grid, the nerve center of a world-wide network, constantly collecting and analyzing information for any clue of blood-drinker activity. God help the hapless immortal who triggered it.

“Stay back for now,” Jackson directed as he sat and brought up the encrypted video app on one monitor. The call rang six times before it connected. The sleep-mussed visage of a middle-aged male wobbled into focus on the cinematic curve of the display. A rumpled, empty bed took up most of the background.

“Do you know what time it is here, kid?” Garrett Striker said by way of hello, his unshaven face scrunched up and lined with the imprints of linen wrinkles. He smoothed his dark hair over his scalp with one hand and glared at the web cam.

A soft, involuntary growl vibrated in the back of Dominique’s throat at the sight of this human who made most blood-drinkers look like angels of mercy. If not for Cassidy, he would have already killed him. Though if he had, there would be no hope for her now. “All is as it must be,” Serge often said, and in this case, Dominique could not disagree.

“We have a target I’ll need your help with,” Jackson said without preamble. “An ancient.”

Garrett reached for something out of frame, slid a pair of reading glasses on his nose, and squinted down. “I didn’t get any alerts from the Grid.”