The sharp turn of the lock punctuated his exit. Then Kellan and Mira were standing alone in the passageway once more.
"Let's get out of here," Kellan said, taking her by the hand to make their way back up the stairwell to the club at street level.
They had no sooner cleared the back stairwell and were on their way through the noisy crowd, heading for the door, when a low voice sounded from behind them. "Thought you got the message a few nights ago when you were in here causing trouble, warrior."
Kellan and Mira slowed to a halt, then together turned to face Cassian, La Notte's proprietor. His eyes were the color of peridot, shrewd and hawklike beneath his dark brows and snowy crown of short-cropped hair. No small man in stature or build, he stood with arms crossed over his leather-and-buckle-clad chest, his long legs braced in a commanding stance.
"In case there was any doubt, you're not welcome in my club." His mouth curved in a smile that bordered on profane. "Or are you in here slumming with your friend?"
He wasn't looking at Kellan when he said it, but Kellan's hackles rose at the sight of the guy. Tension seeped into his limbs, tightened his grasp on Mira's hand.
"We were just leaving," she replied.
"Who's this with you?" Cassian asked now. "New recruit?"
Kellan lowered his head as the man strolled toward them, moving with a rolling, pantherlike smoothness that belied that rough edges of the rest of his demeanor. Cassian's bright green eyes pinned Kellan in a hard stare. "I know you."
"Don't think so," Kellan growled, certain he'd never met the human. He would have recalled the arrogance and the none-too-subtle undercurrent of menace that vibrated around him.
That shock of silvery white hair seemed glacial under the swirling, colored lights from the stage behind them. A huge Faceboard monitor on the opposite wall flashed live coverage of a bloody human boxing match, no doubt meant to be an appetizer for the real fights set to take place later that night in the club's basement. The monitor's images illuminated Cassian's angular face in harsh relief and shadows. "Yes," he said, letting the word out slowly, almost a hiss. "It's been some years, but I have seen you somewhere once before."
Kellan dropped Mira's hand because his were suddenly fisting of their own accord at his sides. "And I said you're mistaken."
"Let's go." Mira took his arm in both her hands as though she were prepared to drag him away from the confrontation with La Notte's owner.
Cassian chuckled. "She likes you, wants to protect you. That's intriguing. Figured she might've gone the other way . . . not that I didn't find that thought intriguing too."
The man had the poor judgment to take a step toward Mira, and Kellan's hand shot out like a viper, blocking him. The chest that flattened against his palm was rock solid, unyielding. And where Cassian's gaze was ice, his body was hot like coals beneath the leather, radiating a power Kellan could hardly reconcile.
As he held the man in place, physically keeping him from getting close to Mira, Kellan's psychic gift roused awake inside him. It reached out through his touch on Cassian, searching for the truth of the human's intentions.
And came up blank.
Utterly unreadable.
How the f**k could that be?
Cassian held his gaze for a second longer than Kellan liked, then the man simply stepped aside and strode toward the bar, where a group of inebriated, pretty young women were having trouble staying upright on their spiked heels.
Kellan was still trying to process what he'd just experienced, and he was surprised Mira didn't have something to say about Cassian's sudden lack of interest in them and their business at his establishment.
But Mira wasn't looking at the man anymore.
She stared transfixed at the Faceboard monitor across the expanse of the place. Kellan followed her gaze. All the blood seemed to drain out of his head.
The monitor was no longer displaying the boxing match. On-screen now was a JUSTIS Department news alert, barely audible over the din of the crowd and the band still playing its set onstage. But the ticker scrolling across the huge monitor told Kellan all he needed to know.
Laboratory explosion in western Massachusetts today claims life of renowned scientist Jeremy Ackmeyer . . .
Second body recovered on-site, identified as Vincent DeSalvo, ex-convict with established ties to Boston area militant and rebel organizations . . .
Global Nations Council calling for thorough investigation into what it's calling an act of conspiracy and premeditated murder . . .
"Kellan," Mira murmured, her body unmoving, seeming frozen in place, even after he took her hand in his. "Oh, my God, Kellan . . . Jeremy Ackmeyer is dead."
Chapter Seventeen
THE GRIM MOOD AT THE ORDER'S D.C. HEADQUARTERS HAD not improved in the hours since word of Jeremy Ackmeyer's death at rebel hands had made headlines all over the world. As leader of the Order and the de facto public head of the Breed nation as a whole, Lucan Thorne's mood was darkest of all those gathered.
Now, at sometime past midnight, most of the Order's elder mem-bers based in the United States were present along with their mates, the group gathered in the drawing room of the mansion, situated just a few miles from the GNC headquarters at the National Mall. It was an odd juxtaposition: half a dozen long-lived, lethal Breed warriors more accustomed to combat gear and high-powered weapons, now seated in fancy, velvet-upholstered settees and delicate neoclassical armchairs.
Lucan wasn't a particular fan of the frou-frou furnishings, but it made his Breedmate happy, so he'd been obliged to go with it. Gabrielle had insisted they preserve the architectural authenticity of the place, which included a small fortune in eighteenth-century artwork and Asian porcelains gifted to the mansion's original owner, who'd served as a U.S. ambassador in the early 1900s.