If she let Hunter find him first, Vachon was as good as dead. But if she could somehow intercept that meeting, bargain for Vachon's mercy with whatever meager means she had left, perhaps there was a chance she might find her child. It worried her, the thought of putting herself back within the reach of one of Dragos's loyal followers. But then, if Henry Vachon had indeed been present the night she was abducted, then she had already seen his worst. She had faced his depraved cruelty once and survived; she would face him and Dragos both all over again if it might lead her to her son.
It was a desperate plan. A foolish one, which could be tantamount to suicide. But she was desperate. And she was willing to risk everything she had on the hope of reuniting with her boy.
She glanced at Hunter, standing near the glass sliding doors, his big body silhouetted by the moonlight and the glow of streetlamps on the boulevard below. Music hummed in the air outside the hotel, the soft wail of a saxophone, someone playing the blues. She drifted toward the glass too, drawn as always to the soothing sounds of poetry conveyed in notes and chords. She listened for a while, watching the old man on the opposite corner of the street play his battered brass horn with all the passion of someone less than half his age.
"When will you leave to begin looking for Vachon?"
Hunter lifted his head and met her glance. "As soon as possible. Gideon is searching for records on Vachon's properties, old building plans, security schematics, things that will assist with my reconnaissance. If he is able to turn up any useful data within the hour, he will call me with it."
"And if he doesn't find anything to help you?"
"Then I will proceed without it."
Corinne nodded, unsurprised by his frank reply. He didn't seem like someone who would let obstacles stand in his way, even if it meant stealing into an enemy's camp with nothing more than his wits and whatever weapons he happened to have on his body. "Do you think Vachon will tell you where Dragos is?"
Hunter's face was grimly confident. "If he knows, he will tell me."
She didn't want to guess how he would go about making sure of that. Nor could she hold his piercing gaze for longer than a moment when he was standing just a couple of feet away from her.
Being this close to him, feeling the palpable weight of his golden stare, only reminded her of how startled she'd been to find him watching her while she'd bathed that afternoon. She'd been more than startled. She had been astonished - utterly shocked by the heat that had smoldered in his otherwise inscrutable stare. A rush of warmth raced through her when she relived it now, all the worse when there was no door to close between them. She should have been affronted that he'd seen her, if not afraid. Then, like now, Hunter's gaze unsettled her. Not from the fear she expected she should feel but from her own sense of awareness. The stoic warrior hadn't looked at her as some object he needed to protect or pity, but as a woman.
At least, until he'd seen her scars.
The outward evidence of what she'd endured was ugly enough, but the more terrible wounds she bore inside. There was still a raw and wounded part of her that hadn't come out of Dragos's nightmarish prison, a part of her that might never make it out to the daylight. She'd left so much of herself behind in those dank laboratory cells, she wasn't sure she'd ever be whole again.
It was that part of her that had seized up at the idea of being shut in such a small space as the hotel room's tiny bathroom. She'd left only the smallest gap in the door, just enough to reassure herself that she could see beyond the small enclosure, that she had the power to walk out at any time. That she wasn't locked in or helpless, waiting for her next round of torture by the one who held the key.
Even now, just thinking about confined spaces and barred doors seemed to make the four walls contract inward on her. Pulse quickening, throat clenching up in the rising swell of her anxiety, Corinne turned to face the wide sliding door that looked out over the city from the small balcony. She put her hands out, palms pressed against the cool glass as she simply focused on breathing and tried to will her heart to calm.
It wasn't enough.
"What's wrong?" Hunter asked, frowning as she sucked in a couple of quick, hitching breaths. "Are you ill?"
"Air," she gasped. "I need a ... air - "
She fumbled with the mechanism on the glass door, finally yanking it open and all but stumbling out to the balcony. Hunter was right beside her as she clung to the wrought-iron railing and drew in gulp after gulp of the cleansing, open night air. She felt his presence like a wall of heat at her side, the large shape of him looming close, watching her in silent concern.
"I'm okay," she murmured, everything still spinning around her, lungs still caught in a vise. "It's nothing ...
I'm all right."
He reached out and took her chin gently in his hand, turning her face toward him in the dark. His scowl was deeper now, those probing golden eyes searching beneath the furrowed line of his brow. "You are not well."
"I'm fine. I needed some fresh air, that's all." She drew back slightly and he let his hand fall away. The warmth of his touch lingered. She could feel the broad lines of his fingers ghosted on her skin as she exhaled a shaky breath.
He stared at her, watching her tremble even though it was barely cold in the sultry New Orleans night. "You're not well," he said again. His voice was softer this time, but no less firm.
"Your body needs more rest. You need nourishment."
His gaze went to her mouth as he spoke. It lingered there, putting a new kind of clamor in her veins.
"When was the last time you had a meal, Corinne?"
God, she didn't even know. Probably more than twenty-four hours by now, since the last thing she'd eaten was at the compound in Boston before they'd left for Detroit. She gave him a vague shrug. She'd long become accustomed to the empty feeling of hunger during her time in captivity. Dragos had fed her and the others only frequently enough to keep them alive. Sometimes, when her rebellion had landed her in solitary confinement, she'd been allowed to eat even less than that.
"I'm okay," she said, uncomfortable with Hunter's probing scrutiny and concern. "I just needed to be outside for a little while. All I need is a bit of air."
Looking none too convinced, he cast a measuring glance over the balcony to the street below. Sounds drifted up on the pleasant night breeze: people talking and laughing as they strolled by, vehicles rumbling over cobblestones on the adjacent avenue, the musician on the nearby corner segueing from one soulful tune to another. The aromas of roasting meats and spicy sauces put a traitorous growl in Corinne's stomach.
Hunter looked back at her then, his head cocked in question.
"Okay," she said. "I could eat something, I suppose."
"Then come with me," he replied, already stalking back toward the room. Corinne followed, part of her simply eager to be down on the vibrant street outside, back among the living. A more cautious part of her understood that if she was to put her plan in motion tonight - seeking a way to contact Henry Vachon on her own - then she had better fill her stomach and gird herself for the desperate mission that lay ahead of her.
Chapter Fourteen
They ended up at a small restaurant a few blocks from the hotel and away from most of the tourist traffic.
It didn't look like much to Hunter. A dark cave of a place with no more than twenty tables corraled on the opposite side of a modest, rough-hewn stage and postage-stamp-size dance floor. The trio onstage was playing something slow and sultry, the female singer pausing to nod appreciatively at the man on the piano and another who blew a string of mournful notes from a short brass trumpet.
The air was clouded with the mingled odors of greasy food and strange spices, grill smoke and perfume, and far too many human bodies for his liking. But Corinne seemed more than pleased to be there. As soon as she'd heard the music pouring out into the street, she had homed in like a missile and insisted it was where she wanted to eat.
Hunter had no stake in the matter. As it was her body that required sustenance, he'd been more than willing to let her decide where they would go.
As for his own needs, it had been a few days since he'd fed. He'd gone longer, but it was unwise to push his Gen One metabolism much closer to a week without sating its thirst. He felt the twinges of that thirst quirking in his veins as he sat at the corner table with Corinne, his back to the nearby wall, his gaze perusing the crowd of humans who filled the cavernous old establishment.
He wasn't the only Breed male visually sifting the throng of Homo sapiens. He'd spotted the pair of vampires as soon as he and Corinne had walked in. They posed no threat at all, just a couple of Darkhaven civilians idly evaluating potential Hosts the same way he was. As soon as they noticed him watching them from across the way, they retreated into the hazy shadows like a couple of minnows that had just gotten a whiff of a shark in their pool. After the young males disappeared, he glanced across the little table at Corinne.
"Is your meal sufficient?" he asked.
"Incredible." She set down her drink - some kind of clear, alcohol-based concoction that had been poured over ice cubes and a fat wedge of lime. "Everything is or, rather, was delicious."
He'd hardly needed to ask, based on how quickly - and enthusiastically - she'd attacked the plate of almond-crusted fish and steamed vegetables. And that had been after she'd already had a bowl of spicy soup and two crusty rolls from the basket perched at the edge of the table. Even though she clearly enjoyed the food, she seemed to grow quiet, pensive, the longer they sat there. He watched her run her fingertip along the rim of the short cocktail glass. When her gaze met his across the candlelit table, he found himself snared in her exotic dark eyes. The glow of the small flame played with their color, darkening their usual greenish blue to deep forest green. There was a hauntedness to Corinne Bishop's eyes, her most painful secrets walled behind an impenetrable thicket of changeable green.
He didn't think she would tell him her thoughts. And as much as he found himself curious, he didn't think it his place to ask. Instead he sat in silence as she closed her eyes and swayed with the music coming from the stage. Above the din of voices and serving clatter, he heard Corinne humming softly along with the singer's sorrow-filled words. After a long moment, her lids lifted and she found him looking at her. "This is an old Bessie Smith song," she said, regarding him expectantly, as though he should know the name.
"It's one of her best."
He listened, trying to understand what Corinne enjoyed about it. The sound was pleasant enough, a lazy stroll of a song, but the lyrics seemed mundane, almost nonsensical. He shrugged.
"Humans write songs about strange things. This singer seems overly affectionate toward her new kitchen appliance."
Corinne had her glass to her lips, in the midst of finishing the last swallow of her drink. She stared at him for a long moment before a smile broke over her lips. "She's not singing about a kitchen appliance."
"She is," he countered, certain he hadn't misheard the lines. He studied the singer now, then gave Corinne an affirming nod when the lyric came around again. "Right there. She says after her man left her, she went out and bought the best coffee grinder she could find. She says it more than once, in fact." He scowled, unable to find logic in any of the words. "Now she's moved on to some apparent affection for a deep-sea diver."
Corinne's smile widened, then she laughed out loud. "I know what the lyrics say, but that's not what they mean. Not at all." Her eyes still dancing with amusement, she cocked her head at him in question. Studying him now. "What kind of music do you like, Hunter?"
He wasn't sure how to answer. He'd heard some of the stuff the other warriors played at the compound, but he had no particular affinity toward any of it. He'd never thought about music one way or the other, never paused to consider if any of it appealed to him. What would be the point in that?
Now he looked at lovely Corinne Bishop, sitting just an arm's length across from him, bathed in candlelight and holding him in her beautiful, smiling gaze. He swallowed hard, struck by just how exquisite she truly was.
"I like ... this," he replied, unable to drag his gaze away from her. She was the first to break eye contact, looking down as she took the crisp white napkin from her lap and dabbed at the corners of her mouth. "It's been so long since I've had a wonderful meal like this. And blues music, of course. I used to listen to this kind of music all the time ... before."
"Before you were taken," he said, seeing her expression grow reflective, haunted. He knew she'd been very young when Dragos had abducted her. He'd heard she had been full of life, always laughing and ready for adventure. He could see traces of that in her now, as she unconsciously swayed with the more lively tune that was coming from the stage, her foot tapping out a quiet beat beneath the table. "Brock has mentioned to me that he used to accompany you out to dance clubs when he knew you in Detroit."
"Accompany me?" When Corinne's head came up, she wore a wry half-smile. "If that's what he told you, he was just being polite. I was an insufferable pest when Brock bodyguarded for me. I used to drag him out to every jazz club in a fifty-mile radius of the city. He didn't approve, but I think he knew that if he refused to take me, I'd find a way to go on my own. I'm sure there were many times he must have hated having to watch over me."
Hunter shook his head. "He cared for you. He still does."
Her answering smile was soft, reassured. "I was very glad to see that he is happy. I'm glad he's found a mate in Jenna. Brock deserves all the good in life."
