He heard movement behind a closed door down the hallway. He stalked toward it and kicked the thing in, smashing it off its hinges. As the splintering wood showered down onto the richly hued rug of a sumptuous bedroom, he caught a glimpse of a retreating figure disappearing into an adjacent bathroom. Hunter followed, flashing there in less than an instant. Henry Vachon cowered on the marble floor between the gold-trimmed toilet and a deep, sunken tub. He had a cell phone in his hand, fingers typing madly over the tiny keypad. Hunter let the bloodied blade in his fist fly, taking off one of Vachon's fingers in the process. The vampire hissed in pain, eyes wild with surprise and fear. The cell phone slipped from his hand, smashing into pieces against the unforgiving polished stone floor.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Vachon demanded, his voice shrill and grating.
"What do you want from me?"
Hunter cocked his head. "I'm sure you know. I want information."
"You're a fool if you think I'll give anything to you," he shot back, cradling his ruined hand. Blood bloomed like an opening flower against his chest, staining the front of his white silk shirt and tailored gray trousers. "My loyalty won't be broken by the likes of you. I'll take it to my grave."
Hunter took a step forward, unfazed by the challenge. "I know more than a hundred ways to inflict maximum pain on a body short of killing it. A hundred more will make you wish for death. One of them is sure to loosen your tongue."
Vachon clumsily rose to his feet in the corner, his socks sponging up blood, sliding on the glasslike surface of the floor. "Is the Order worth the price you will pay for crossing Dragos?
You're putting a very large target on your back by betraying the one who created you, assassin."
Hunter shook his head. "Dragos is no creator. He is a destroyer. He is a coward and a madman, one who murders innocents and tortures helpless women and children. Dragos and all those loyal to him will soon be dead. As for you, Henry Vachon, I will take more than a little satisfaction in personally ending your worthless life."
The male's expression faltered a bit, a crease pressing into the center of his brow. "Me?
What have I done to you?"
"Not to me but to her," Hunter replied, finding it strangely difficult to keep the anger from his voice.
"The Bishop chit?" Vachon seemed genuinely taken aback, but only for a moment. His smile was perverted, a profane twist of his mouth. "Ah, yes. Been sniffing around her skirts, have you? A male would have to be blind and dumb not to crave a sample of that. Even a male like you, raised to be more machine than flesh."
Hunter felt a hot flare shoot into his bloodstream but he refused to be baited. Let Vachon think what he would about him; his opinion, like his very existence, was meaningless. "Dragos is intending a strike against the Order. You will tell me when and where and how this attack is to be carried out."
Vachon only stared at him, a disturbing glint in his dark eyes. "Have you f**ked her, assassin? Or do you merely long to?"
"There was a beacon forced into the stomach of a civilian," Hunter went on, ignoring the jabs even though the idea of this offal speaking about Corinne so crudely set his jaw on edge. "If Dragos means to use this beacon to lead him to the Order's headquarters, does he intend to invade the compound or execute some manner of destruction?"
"She's a fine piece of ass, that one," Vachon purred. "Believe me, I can understand how a female like that might scramble a male's head, make him forget who - and what - he truly is. How much discipline would it take to resist crawling inside something so hot and tight and - "
"Do not speak of her," Hunter snapped, astonished by the surge of rage that was arrowing up his spine. His eyes were hot in his skull, his vision burning with amber fury. He tried to speak and was surprised to feel the full presence of his fangs, the tips like razors against his tongue. He glared with murderous rage at Henry Vachon. "You are far beneath her. Too far to even mention her name, you disgusting son of a bitch."
"Beneath her?" Hunter didn't like the amused chuckle that spilled from between Henry Vachon's thin lips. "I've been on top of her and behind her. More than once. Dragos and I both took our turns the night we grabbed her out of that club in Detroit. Spirited little hellion. She fought like a demon. Fought as hard as she could for years after he locked her up with the others, for all the good it did her."
The ugly words - the hideous truth of what he was hearing - snapped the fragile, last thread of Hunter's control. He leapt on Henry Vachon, knocking the male against the wall and cracking the polished marble with the force of their impact. He didn't realize how blind with hatred he was in that moment.
He didn't realize how lost he was to the explosion of his rage until he tasted blood on his tongue and saw that he had Vachon's neck caught between his teeth and fangs.
Chapter Twenty-two
With a raw cry, Hunter sank his jaws deeper around the vulnerable flesh and tendons. He shook his head, tearing out the vampire's throat and silencing his offending words for good. Blood was everywhere - in his eyes, in his hair. Running down his chin. He tasted it like bitter poison sliding down his esophagus.
He stared down at the desecration, at the savaged horror of Vachon's twitching, dying body, still held upright in his bloodied hands. His head went a bit hazy for a second. Images flashed into his mind.
Vachon, with his hand caught tight and fisted in Corinne's long dark hair, holding her down as he raped her. It was so vivid, so goddamned real.
Fury roared up on Hunter. He tipped his head back on his shoulders and bellowed as a fresh round of images crowded into his vision: Vachon and Dragos, observing the Ancient who was restrained and drugged on a long laboratory table. Not far away, there was a cage of roughly two dozen women, all of the imprisoned Breedmates screaming and weeping as one of them was dragged out by a Minion and walked toward the table like a sacrifice heading for the altar. Hunter groaned, sick with the realization of what he was witnessing. But how was it possible?