“We don’t know what it is,” Sylvan said, hoping that the appearance of cooperation would quell Drake’s concerns. “We only know what it does. It kills nearly a hundred percent of the time, and quickly. Once the fever starts, it escalates within hours—sometimes even faster. We don’t know if the fever is the cause of the cellular breakdown or the consequence, but most of the infected suffer system-wide collapse. Seizures, bleeding, endocrine storm.”
“And those who don’t succumb immediately?”
“Almost all become rabid and eventually die too.”
Drake frowned. “What’s the cause of death if not the cellular breakdown?”
Sylvan’s eyes narrowed, the blue shifting to gold. She pictured Misha, struggling alone, while she stood by doing nothing. Her wolf clawed at her insides, raging at her impotence. “We execute them.”
“Jesus Christ,” Drake whispered. “Who decides that?”
“I do.”
Drake breathed out slowly, trying to wrap her mind around the idea of killing a sick patient. Not just a patient, someone who was like family. She wouldn’t have the guts.
“Still think we’re not animals, Doctor?” Sylvan asked bitterly. She wasn’t sure why the shocked expression on Drake’s face bothered her so much. She didn’t expect a human to understand the threat of a rabid wolf to the Pack. She wasn’t even sure why she tried to explain.
“I think we need to find a cure,” Drake said vehemently, surprising Sylvan yet again.
“Don’t you think we’re trying?” Sylvan snapped. “Seventy-five percent of the resources at Mir Industries go to this research.” Her frustration broadcast and Niki rose abruptly, stepping toward them with a rumble. Sylvan raised her hand a fraction and telegraphed, Stand down, Imperator. All is well.
Niki rumbled again and slowly returned to her seat.
“Of course, I’m sorry.” Drake rubbed the back of her neck. “What about humans? Similar symptoms?”
Sylvan said nothing, in total agreement when her wolf howled a warning. Some things the humans could not know, because if they did, they would surely try to destroy her and all like her.
“Should you suspect you have a case of Were fever, I and the Timberwolf Pack will be in your debt if you call us before you do the police.” Sylvan stood, telegraphing Niki to get the bill. “I appreciate your desire to help us, Dr. McKennan, but I’m afraid you can’t.”
Drake rose as Niki put money on the table. She met Sylvan’s eyes.
“Thank you for breakfast. I’ll get it the next time.”
“I’m afraid there won’t be another time.” Sylvan watched Niki and Andrew pacing agitatedly nearby. Her wolf was so close to the surface, so ready to fight, she was in danger of driving her guards to lose control. She was out of time. “Good-bye, Doctor.”
Chapter Nine
Sylvan and Niki climbed into the Rover’s rear cargo compartment. Andrew got in front next to Jonathan, a wiry blond male just out of his teens who sat behind the wheel. Sylvan leaned forward between the front seats. “Drive to Nocturne.”
“Yes, Alpha,” Jonathan said crisply and edged away from the curb into early morning traffic.
“There aren’t enough of us to protect you there.” Niki’s displeasure filled the too-small space.
“It’s daylight. Francesca is the only one who will be awake.” Sylvan glanced out the tinted window and saw Drake McKennan on the sidewalk in front of the diner, watching them pull away. Her wolf stirred, growling softly as if telling her she had unfinished business.
Sylvan ignored the tug in her groin. She’d take care of that her way.
Her wolf snarled.
“First the human, now this,” Niki snapped. “You take chances, Alpha. We can’t afford to lose—”
Sylvan bounded across the small space. If she didn’t know how close Niki was to breaking, she would have forced Niki onto her back, under her. Instead, she grabbed her and pulled her close, tucking Niki’s head beneath her chin. “Everything will be fine.” Niki rubbed her cheek against Sylvan’s neck, breathing deeply.
“At least let me come with you.”
“No.” Sylvan stroked Niki’s hair. “I trust you with my life, with the lives of our young. Trust me on this.”
“Always, Alpha,” Niki whispered.
Club Nocturne, a one-story, flat-roofed building with opaque black windows and flat black paint on its plywood front, sat on the waterfront in the middle of a cracked concrete parking lot with foot-tall weeds growing in the crevices. During the day, the place appeared abandoned despite a few cars and motorcycles parked haphazardly in the enormous lot. It didn’t look much better at night, when a few spotlights tucked under the eaves threw just enough light to point the way to the front door. No flashing neon signs indicated that this was the most popular nighttime hangout in the city for Vampires, their blood hosts, and other beings, human and otherwise, looking for sex or more dangerous thrills.
When Sylvan walked into the murky interior, a couple of human bikers in dirty denim and dusty leather perched on stools at the bar, drinking beer at eight in the morning. The bartender was Francesca’s human servant—a balding ex-professional wrestler named Guy. He wore a leather vest over bare skin to show off the tats that covered his chest and arms, but mostly to display the puncture marks in his neck and nipples. Francesca or whoever she’d most recently loaned him out to had been very hungry and Guy was obviously proud of his service—the Vampire who had fed from him would have healed the punctures unless Guy had requested that they not.
“She’s busy,” Guy grunted. Like many Vampires, he didn’t care for Weres. The two predatory species disagreed as to who was at the top of the food chain. Vampires liked feeding from Weres, claiming that the Weres’ wild blood gave the Vamps a greater high and triggered more intense orgasms than human blood. Some Vampires seemed to think that made Weres prey. Considering that Weres were the only species that could tear a Vampire’s heart out bare-handed, Sylvan didn’t think so.
“Tell her I’m coming down.” Sylvan didn’t break stride as she leapt over the bar and into the alcove behind it. By the time she reached the hidden staircase to Francesca’s lair, Guy must have communicated with the Mistress of the City, because Sylvan heard the faint hiss of multiple locks sliding open. Sylvan shouldered through the door and loped down the stairs into the elaborate chambers below. The door locked behind her.
Like all master Vampires, Francesca did not become catatonic during daylight hours and could usually be found at work or play in her suite beneath the club. The door to her private quarters slid open and a naked man and woman exited. The woman sagged against the man, who stumbled slightly as the pair turned and staggered away down the hall. Both wore a glazed look that Sylvan assumed was related to the fresh punctures in their necks. Francesca had been feeding, to their obvious pleasure.
Francesca lounged on a divan in the sitting room adjoining her boudoir. Like all Vampires, she was slender and painfully beautiful, with an etched porcelain air of delicacy that belied her incredible strength. Her full, rose-tipped breasts were clearly visible and barely contained beneath a diaphanous dressing gown open down to her navel.
Her lustrous eyes were deep turquoise, her scarlet hair falling in artful tangles over milk white shoulders.
“What a nice surprise.” Francesca had closed the door to her bedchamber, but the blood scent was rich and fresh.
Sylvan was not attracted to human blood or Vampire blood. She was there for one reason. Francesca would willingly meet her most urgent needs, at least temporarily, and without the risk of developing any kind of attachment to her. Theirs was a mutually beneficial relationship completely devoid of emotional complication.