"Not at all," Dragos replied smoothly. Although his voice was calm and professional, his pulse spiked with the promise of a baited snare about to spring tight on unsuspecting prey. "And please, sir, call me Drake."
"Well, thank you, Drake," said the former university professor who was currently just one heartbeat away from arguably the highest seat of power in the world. He had also been a longtime friend and mentor to Robert Clarence, and the weight of his grief was evident in the faint rasp of the aging human's voice. "A terrible, terrible thing, what happened to Bobby. Our country lost a true patriot, one of the best. And I think you should know that he spoke very highly of you."
Dragos gave a mild chuckle before effecting a suitably sober tone as he spoke of his Minion. "The senator and I had a meeting of the minds, if you will. We shared a common dream for this country. Indeed, for all the world."
"I don't doubt that," the vice president agreed. "I realize you didn't know Bobby for very long, but you made quite an impression on him, Drake. You were practically all he talked about lately, especially in the last few days. He felt it was very important that you and I have the chance to sit down together and discuss how our interests for the country might mesh. Hell, the kid pretty much insisted that I make room for you on my calendar, so who was I to refuse?" "Bobby could be quite persuasive when it came to campaigning for what he believed in," Dragos said. "But then, wasn't that part of his charm?"
The human chuckled. "Right you are, Drake. Right you are. Listen, I wanted to apologize that we weren't able to connect last night as Bobby had arranged for us to do before he was ..." The voice trailed off for a moment. "Obviously, a lot has changed over the past couple of days." "Of course. No need to apologize." But Dragos wasn't about to let the face-to-face meeting with the important politician slip through his fingers. "I wouldn't think of imposing on your time, sir, especially after you've just lost a close friend." He paused as if to compose himself. "You and I both have lost a good friend. Business can wait for another time."
"Actually," the human hedged, "I'm planning to be in Boston tomorrow afternoon for Bobby's funeral. Perhaps you and I could find some time to talk following the service."
"Certainly," Dragos said, working to keep the eagerness from his voice. All he needed was a few minutes alone with the human and he would own him completely. Dragos's lips parted with his growing smile, fangs filling his mouth in anticipation of the triumph soon to come. "Until tomorrow, sir."
CHASE STOOD IN FRONT of the bathroom sink in the Darkhaven's master suite, sewing up the last of his gunshot wounds from the other night. Spent cotton balls and gauze littered the deep black basin of the sink, all of it soaked and reeking of antiseptic and blood. It had been roughly seventy-two hours since he'd been injured at the police station. The wounds should be healed by now. That they still lingered wasn't a good sign at all.
Nor was the gnawing ache that rattled deep in his marrow, compelling him to hunt. To feed. To fill the void that would soon be endless, unquenchable.
His fingers shook around the drugstore sewing kit needle. His vision blurred at the edges of his sight, making it hard as hell to focus under the yellow glare of the bathroom lights. He blinked away the annoying jangle of his senses, gritting his teeth as he pushed the needle and quadrupled mending thread through the frayed skin above his left pectoral muscle. He tugged the last stitch tight, then made a rudimentary knot to tie the sutures off.
As he bit the tail of the thread free, he caught his reflection in the mirror. Haggard, dark- ringed eyes stared back at him in the glass. Sallow skin and gaunt cheeks aged him - not quite to the hundred-plus years of his true age, but easily a decade beyond the vibrant thirty that was his normal appearance as an adult member of the Breed. He looked tired and worn, on the verge of defeat.
Hell, he felt it too.
With a muttered curse, he tossed the needle into the sink with the rest of the rubbish. His breath was ragged as he pulled in a long breath, then pushed it out on a low growl. What the f**k was he doing, holing up in this godforsaken place, keeping a woman against her will in the other room? Even if she did prove to be something more than she seemed - even if she proved to be connected in some way to Dragos himself - who was he to be her judge and jury? He wasn't a part of the Order anymore. He hadn't been part of the Enforcement Agency in a long time either. From where he stood now, it wasn't that difficult to see himself through Tavia's frightened eyes. He was deranged, dangerous ... a monster.
For what wasn't the first time, his eyes strayed to the small silver vial that rested on the edge of the black granite countertop. He'd found it in the bedroom, lying on top of his old desk with a handful of printed snapshots from the time when he'd called this Darkhaven home. He'd been unable to resist picking up the slender container with its damnable contents sealed inside. Even now his hand moved toward it as though drawn by an invisible tether.
Chase palmed the vial, the metal cold against his skin. The red wax that sealed the cork stopper felt smooth under the pad of his thumb. Inside the silver capsule was all that remained of a manufactured substance that had destroyed many lives the autumn before last - including that of his nephew, Camden.
The lab and the human who'd created the drug were long gone, but Chase had saved this last dose as a reminder to himself of the evil he'd helped destroy. And looking at it now, he had to acknowledge that he'd saved the poisonous sample for another reason too. It was his final out. His guarantee that if his struggle to resist Bloodlust became too much for him to bear, he could end it in a single moment.