Stay the Night (8 page)

“Several times. He cannot be hiding there.” Valentin's voice softened with sympathy. “I know you are deeply worried about John, my lady, but you should leave this matter to me and my men now.”

She had done just that by accompanying Michael to London, where the six other Kyn seigneurs were gathering along with Richard Tremayne, the Darkyn high lord, to hold an important tribunal that Michael referred to as
le conseil supérieur
. Alex had no reason to feel guilty about abandoning the search for her brother, either. She had spent months walking the streets of Chicago, questioning every hooker, junkie, and homeless wretch she could find. She knew her brother; if he intended to take refuge anywhere, it would be among the lost souls on the street. She'd shown them John's photo over and over, and compelled them with
l'attrait
to tell her the truth. No one had seen him.

All the evidence pointed to two conclusions: Either her brother didn't want to be found, or John was dead.

Alex still couldn't accept either answer. “If there's a sighting, or any new leads—”

“Of course I shall contact you at once. You have my word on it, my lady.”

“I appreciate it, Val. Give Liling my best.” Alex switched off the mobile phone and handed it to Michael's seneschal, Phillipe. “No luck with the last of the church people.”

“Do not worry so, Alexandra.” Phillipe pocketed the phone and spoke to her with the same gentle sympathy that Valentin had. “If your brother is still in Chicago, Suzerain Jaus will find him.”

“Assuming he's still alive.”

Ever since John had vanished, Alex had been having nightmares about standing over her brother's body, sprawled in an alley, and watching rats feed on his gaunt corpse. She knew why she was having the bad dreams, too. At the time of his disappearance, John had been suffering serious complications from a strain of malaria Alex had been unable to identify. John disliked doctors and hospitals, and without treatment his chances of surviving the disease were almost nonexistent.

Alex glanced back at the gate leading to Cyprien's private jet, which would remain on standby until they were ready to return to the States. “How long do I have to stay at this thing?”

“As long as the master does.” Phillipe took her arm in his in a familiar, comforting manner. “If you go back alone, it will hurt you both. You know how it will be. The last time was very bad.”

The reminder made Alex's throat tighten. She had just recovered from some frightening physical and mental after-effects of being kidnapped and separated from Michael. The bond she shared with him as his
sygkenis
, or life companion, went much deeper than she had ever suspected. They had a dependency on each other that defied explanation. Being away from Michael had made her vulnerable to other Kyn in ways that still haunted her. If she returned to America by herself, she had no doubt they'd both go through hell again.

“I'm not interested in giving myself Michael withdrawal,” she assured Phillipe. “I was just wondering if we could somehow, you know, cut this short.”

Phillipe gave her a wry look. “Kyn do not do short.” He glanced at Michael, and his expression grew serious. “What happens at the tribunal is important to him, to you, to all of us. He needs you here, Alex.”

Michael had told her that the Kyn leaders were holding
le conseil supérieur
in order to decide what action to take against the Brethren, a radical group of religious zealots that had been secretly warring with them for centuries. Recently their ancient enemy had been conducting widespread arson attacks against Kyn
jardins
in France and Italy, and even now were moving into Spain.

Aside from avoiding any more bond-straining issues, Michael also wanted Alex with him to report to Richard on the experiments she had been conducting on Kyn blood. Alex's interviews with some of the early refuges escaping the Brethren persecution in Europe had prompted her to test how Kyn blood reacted to heat. Although the Kyn had long believed that fire was one of the few things that could kill them, Alex had proven otherwise, and that it might be possible for the immortals to heal from even the worst burns.

Alex didn't think she was the only one who had discovered these facts, either. After reviewing many arson reports prepared by the European police, and learning that no Kyn remains had ever been recovered by authorities, she theorized that the Brethren might be using fire not to kill but to capture and disable the Kyn.

Michael agreed that her findings were troubling, but he was more concerned with managing the consequences of the Brethren's latest campaign of terror. He now ruled over most of the survivors of the arson attacks, as nearly all of them had fled to America. He also felt strongly that actions had to be taken to safeguard the refugees and redistribute them in Europe and Asia to create new strongholds rather than concentrating their numbers on one continent.

Then there were the rumors of a growing desire among the Kyn to launch a counterattack against the Brethren and wipe out the order once and for all. Michael had no love for the zealots, but as Alex had often pointed out, to declare war on the Brethren in this day and age might finally expose the existence of the Darkyn to the rest of humanity. If government and military leaders learned of the race of immortals secretly living among them, immortals who could heal spontaneously and whose individual talents rivaled that of comic-book superheroes, the Brethren would be the least of their problems.

Michael joined them. “We have cleared customs.”

Alex couldn't help the slightly jaded look she sent his way. “What you mean is, you used your talent to lift the memories of our coming through here from the guy's mind.”

He shrugged. “That is how we go through customs,
chérie
.” He studied her face. “Do you wish to rest before we call on Geoffrey?”

Alex knew she could fake exhaustion, avoid meeting Geoffrey, the suzerain of London and host of the gathering, and spend the day in one of the luxurious hotel suites the Kyn kept leased and ready for visitors. Being alone with Michael would definitely soothe her bruised soul. But Geoffrey was expecting them, as was Richard, and this time she had serious business to put on the table.

Alex knew she couldn't keep dodging her responsibilities. Technically speaking she was no longer a human being. After years of research, trial and error, she was beginning to believe that nothing short of a divine miracle would ever reverse her condition. Being infected with the Kyn pathogen didn't change the fact that she was still a physician, sworn to save lives. The Darkyn were her people now, and she had to start taking care of them.

“I'm not that tired,” she told Michael. “Let's get this show on the road.”

Chapter 4

C
hris opened her eyes, saw the plaster sunflower medallion in the center of the ceiling above her, and wondered why she'd expected to see a painting of tree branches making lace out of a blue sky. Then her body reminded her, from the ache between her thighs to the tenderness of her lips, of the other bed in which she'd spent a good part of the night.

With Rob
. . . She put her hand over her face. She'd done things with him that weren't even mentioned in the Kama Sutra, but she hadn't bothered to ask him his full name.
Why the hell didn't I just go jogging?

Three sharp knocks startled her up into a sitting position.

“Agent Renshaw?”

That was her new partner's voice, which meant she'd overslept. “Give me a minute, Agent Hutchins.”

She shoved sheets away and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She swore softly as she saw that she was still wearing her clothes from last night.

At the academy Chris had learned how to dress and prep in two minutes or less. She changed her jacket and skirt, slid on a new pair of stockings, and pinned up her hair in less time than it took most other women to put on lipstick. A glance in the mirror assured her there were no telltale marks or abrasions on her face and neck from last night's workout. Her mouth appeared slightly redder and fuller, but no more so than that of someone who had used a lip plumper.

Then Chris saw that she still wore her pink scarf, bundled and knotted like a blindfold, around her neck. His voice came back to her, a brush of invisible velvet.

Close your eyes
.

I have to protect you
.

Chris untied the scarf, grabbed another from her drawer, and tied it as she walked out.

She found Special Agent Ray Hutchins in the kitchen, where he stood pouring coffee from a thermos into two cups. His pale gray chauffeur's uniform, which he wore as part of his cover, emphasized the darkness of his skin and eyes. Her new department chief had told Chris that Hutchins had played college ball as a lineman before giving it up to join the bureau, and he still had the broad, heavy build and lightness on his feet that had made quarterbacks quail.

Chris didn't know Ray Hutchins well, but she liked what she knew of him. “Morning.”

“Agent Renshaw. I guess I should have mentioned that we all have keys to this place.” He offered her a mug. “Did you turn down the AC last night? It feels like a meatpacking plant in here.”

She frowned. “No one mentioned where the thermostat is, so it wasn't me.”

“Dennis probably fooled with it. He's from South Dakota, and anything over sixty degrees is Death Valley to him.” He subjected her to a swift but frank inspection. “You look a little frayed about the edges. Bad night?”

“Trouble sleeping. The bed in there is a little too soft.” She sipped from her mug. “This is great.”

“Starbucks. You might try out the guest room. Resources put a brand-new Sealy in there.” He added a generous amount of creamer and sugar to his cup. “What did you think of the bar? Good place for our boy?”

“It's a pickup palace.” And didn't she know it. “I doubt he goes there at all; he's older, and he'd stand out too much among the regulars and the hotel trade. The Magician likes to blend. We've never been able to get a description of him, even from people who should have been eyewitnesses.”

“You're the expert.” He regarded her for a moment. “How'd you end up pulling this kind of duty?”

“The Chicago office first tagged me to work with Interpol on the Poleteze case,” she said. “They set up my identity as a fine-art expert and dealer, and had me infiltrate the counterfeiting ring as a buyer's rep. Luckily my cover was never compromised, so they've used me a couple dozen times since then to run the same sort of game.”

“You do look the part.”

Chris noted the time—she'd overslept by thirty minutes—and quickly finished the coffee. “A/V are supposed to be finishing wiring the gallery showrooms this morning. They'll need us for voiceprints.”

“I'd like a word with you before we go.” Hutchins pulled out one of the dainty little chairs encircling her bistro table, carefully lowering his bulk onto it. When Chris sat down across from him, he said, “The doorman keeps a log for us. He said you breezed in here around five thirty a.m.”

She waited. Sometimes saying nothing was more effective than offering excuses.

“We all got lives. Chief would say, ‘As long as it doesn't interfere with the op, what you do on your time is your business.' ” He turned the coffee cup between his massive hands. “I don't agree. You want to bust the Magician because he killed your partner. I get that. But there's more riding on this. Half the cops in the world are counting on us to make this collar.” He paused to inspect her face. “I guess what I'm saying is, I'm your partner now. What you do at any time is my business.”

“The Magician didn't kill DeLuca.” Chris kept her voice bland. “He committed suicide.”

“
Something
happened in that bank,” Hutchins insisted. “Something that put every hostage to sleep, wiped out their memories, and let the Magician leave the building while it was surrounded by SWAT and every cop in the metro area. An hour later your partner writes you a note, tells you the Magician pulled the job, and then blows his head off. That'd be enough to make me walk the floors all night.”

Chris wondered if he'd heard any of the rumors running around the Chicago office. They'd ranged from Chris sleeping with DeLuca to her setting him up because she hated him. All of them blamed her for making him crazy enough to eat his gun. “This isn't my personal crusade, Agent Hutchins—”

“Losing a partner is as personal as it gets,” he told her bluntly. “You wouldn't have taken a permanent transfer down here if it wasn't. But you're on point with this, and we need you sharp. If you're tired, you could slip up and blow your cover. Have you thought about that?”

“I know what I'm doing.”

“Do you?” Hutchins shook his head as if to answer his own question. “This guy has moved two billion dollars plus in stolen art over the years. He's wanted in twenty-two countries besides this one. We take him down and make it stick, we're going to be legends.”

“That's not important to me.” She needed closure for DeLuca, and justice for all the victims the Magician had robbed over the years. “What I want is to put him away. For good.”

“Then you get yourself some pills, drink some warm milk, or whatever it takes to stop walking the streets until dawn,” Hutchins said. “If you don't, you're going to crack up or flame out. Assuming you don't get jumped some night by one of our fine, upstanding young crackheads.”

Chris relaxed a little. “All right, partner.”

“You don't argue much; I'll give you that.” He held out his hand. “My partners call me Hutch.”