“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. So sorry.” The woman had stopped halfway down the final flight of stairs.

“Get outside!” Tighe called to her. “We’re right behind you.”

Through the front windows of the apartment building, Tighe could see the flashing lights of fire trucks, yet the firefighters had yet to race into the building. What was taking them so damn long? What if there were others trapped like this child had been?

Thunder. Since when did he care what happened to humans?

The hobbling woman finally reached the lobby and made her way to the front door, Tighe and the child close behind her. The moment they were outside, the woman held out her arms. Tighe had to force himself to release the little girl, but he did, allowing her to dive into her mother’s arms.

“Thank you.” The woman’s eyes shone with tears. “You’re an angel.”

Tighe nodded, uncomfortable with the praise and still reeling from the barrage of raw, painful memories.

Tighe. Look out!

Hawke’s voice sounded in his head at the same instant his warrior’s instincts caught the quick, furtive movements and the glint of metal.

“Freeze! FBI!”

The child had distracted him. He’d walked right into a trap. A trap set, no doubt, by a woman with dark fathomless eyes.

Six armed SWAT members ran at him from both sides.

“Hands in the air!”

Behind the men, he saw her. Delaney stood, watching him, her jaw set, a plea in her eyes. To what? Forgive her? Give up? Like hell.

The last thing he could afford to do was get trapped by human law enforcement. He turned and ran back into the smoky building as two shots rang out behind him. One hit him in the thigh. The other went straight through his heart.

Jesus. He’d survive it. If he could get to a healer…in time.

He stumbled down the hall and fell through the first open doorway, shifting into his tiger. No. He couldn’t remain a tiger.

Hawke. I’m heart-shot.

Where are you?

First-floor apartment. Second or third on the right. Not sure. Fading fast, buddy.

We’ll get you. Hang on.

Using what strength he could gather, he managed to change his form once more, to that of a house cat. He lay there, his feline eyes glazed, his chest on fire from the gunshot, yet aching in an entirely different way.

Amalie’s tear-streaked face faded to be replaced by the face of another female, a woman with hard warrior’s eyes. She’d slept in his lap and said she was beginning to trust him, yet clearly she never really had. He’d known it. He’d been a fool to turn his back on her.

She’d won this battle, but the war between them was far from over.

If he lived long enough to fight another day.

Delaney clutched her chest as she watched the blood bloom on Tighe’s retreating back, right at the level of his heart.

Blast it. Blast it.

He shouldn’t have run!

Blast it, Tighe.

“Was he the one?” Phil asked, coming to stand beside her.

“He wasn’t the killer, but the brother. The killer may still be inside, though he’s probably long gone.”

“We’ve got the building surrounded. The fire will flush him soon enough if he’s still in there. As soon as we haul the brother out, we’re letting the fire department in, or they’ll never get the blaze contained.”

A tall dark-haired man with sharply arched brows pushed his way through the front doors, a dead cat in his arms. An orange-striped tabby that looked a lot like the one she’d been talking to in her apartment. Right before she realized Tighe was there.

Her teeth clenched beneath the force of her anger. Damn Tighe. He’d chosen death over interrogation. And just what did that say about his lack of innocence? Plenty.

Tears burned her eyes, and she blinked them back harshly. He’d kidnapped her. He’d drugged her. He was one of the bad guys. She was being ridiculous to care what happened to him.

But she did care. He was a complex man. Without a doubt, he went beyond the law, but she didn’t believe he was evil. Not evil.

He’d shown her more tenderness, more care, than anyone since her mom died. And the passion…

She turned, pretending to scrutinize the area as she swiped away a traitorous tear before her boss saw it.

Tighe shouldn’t have died like this. But, dammit, it was his own fault. If he’d allowed himself to be taken in, this wouldn’t have happened.

She fought back the emotions, struggling to pull her FBI persona around her like a sturdy, comfortable cloak. When she turned back to Phil, no tears glistened in her eyes. Despite her less than professional attire, she was Agent Randall through and through.

“I need a blood sample taken, Phil, ASAP.”

Phil’s brows drew together with worry. “What happened, Delaney? You’re not here by accident.”

“It’s a long story.”

Phil’s expression turned grave. “Are you okay?”

“I think so.” She ran not-quite-steady fingers through her tangled, smoky-smelling hair. “There’s more going on here than a madman with a penchant for killing. I was kidnapped and drugged.” It sounded so sinister, yet he’d never hurt her. Instead, he’d given her such pleasure. Delaney sighed. “The sooner we get a blood sample, the better the chance the lab can figure out what he used on me.”

“I’ll take you to the lab myself.” His gaze went back to the building. “What in the hell is taking them so long? I saw the bullet pierce his chest. There’s no way he’s still walking.”

As Phil ushered her toward his car, her stomach cramped, and she feared she was going to be sick. She shouldn’t feel this awful, wrenching regret. It went against everything she believed in. Tighe had not been one of the good guys.

Yet the thing that had distracted him was the child in his arms. A child he’d clearly saved.

Her eyes burned. Remorse grew and thickened inside her until she could barely breathe around the pulsing grief. He shouldn’t have died.

She blinked hard, clenching her teeth as she struggled to keep the unacceptable tears from falling. Her hand went to the gun still tucked into the back of her pants, the solid weight against her palm grounding her, easing her inner turmoil.

Long ago she’d sworn an oath to uphold the law. She would not feel guilty over doing just that. Tighe had given her no choice.

What she’d done was necessary. It was right. And if she had it to do over again, she’d do exactly the same.

Even if she feared Tighe’s face would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Chapter Eleven

In the nearby Virginia suburbs, Paenther snapped his cell phone closed and shoved it into the inside pocket of his leather duster as he and Foxx strode through the doors of the Tysons Corner Grand Peerage Hotel. Late-afternoon sunshine ribboned across the plush oriental-style carpeting. Crystal chandeliers hung at regular intervals, illuminating the business-suited guests mingling in small, professional gatherings.

“What did Lyon have to say?” Foxx asked, as they started across the lobby, heading for the dark-paneled Roosevelt’s at the far end. The bar was one of a dozen watering holes the Ferals frequented in that part of the county. A favorite of Vhyper’s. And Paenther was damned well going to find him.

“Lyon’s called a meeting in the war room in two hours. This is going to have to be our last stop.”

“How’s Tighe?”

“They got the bullets out of him. He’ll live.” For now. If Tighe didn’t find that clone of his soon, it was going to be another matter. His hands fisted at his sides as worry for his friends twisted and braided with the barely controlled rage that lived in his bones and had for centuries. He refused to lose two friends to that sadistic bitch, Zaphene. Refused.

Lyon and the others were helping Tighe. It was his job, his and Foxx’s, to track down Vhyper. Maybe, maybe, they’d find Vhyper downing a scotch at the bar. Yeah, and what were the chances?

“Any word from that gut of yours, Cub?” Paenther’s gaze pinned the youngest Feral, walking silent and morose beside him. Foxx had fancied himself in love with Zaphene, not realizing she was a witch who’d enchanted him and used him to breach the Ferals’ stronghold.

But it was neither pity nor sympathy that spurred Paenther to bring him along on the search. No, for the past year or so, Foxx’s Feral talents had been starting to come online. He’d been showing some impressive talent as an intuitive.

With any luck, that intuition would eventually guide them to Vhyper. And if that didn’t work, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. Other than continue to haunt Vhyper’s usual hot spots in hopes of eventually stumbling upon him.

The young Feral shook his shaggy head of red hair. “Gut’s saying nada. Actually, my gut’s saying it wants a couple of beers, then some dinner.”

“That’s not helpful,” Paenther muttered.

As they passed through the lobby, businessmen moved out of their way, eyeing them warily. One small pack of well-dressed women watched them with a level of interest bordering on hunger.

Paenther ignored them all. The men, humans all, were harmless. The women were of no interest. Like any man, he had needs, but he took care of them with a willing Therian female at one of the enclaves. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had actually turned his head. Lust rarely broke through the surface of the ever-present torment that filled his body thanks to another Mage witch who’d ensnared him centuries ago. Even if, by some miracle, he stumbled upon a woman who interested him, he’d ignore her. All that mattered was finding Vhyper.

As they walked through the bar’s entrance, through a thin haze of cigarette smoke, Paenther did a quick, fruitless scan. No Vhyper. Dammit.

Dull sunlight filtered into the dimly lit room through bare-branched trees. Only a handful of patrons sat at the polished-wood tables, most apparently deep in business discussions. Behind the bar, the local news lit the television screen, a video of a raging apartment fire. The same fire that Tighe, Hawke, and Kougar had gotten involved with that morning? Maybe.

Tearing his gaze from the television, he glanced at the bartender, recognizing the thin, balding man who’d served him a few times before. The bartender was missing his usual friendliness, his eyes wary as he eyed their approach.

“Scotch and a Bud?” he asked, as they slid onto a pair of barstools. Clearly, he remembered them. Then again, few people forgot a long-haired six-foot-six Indian with clawlike scars across one eye and a thick tribal tattoo on his neck. Or his redheaded sidekick. “I’ll need to see your IDs.”

“I haven’t gotten any younger since the last time I was in here,” Foxx grumbled, but he pulled out the license that gave a fake name and address and handed it to the man.

The bartender kept it and opened an unsteady hand to Paenther. His gaze tried to rise to Paenther’s face, but faltered somewhere around the tattoo on his neck. “Both of them,” he said bravely.

Paenther lifted one disbelieving brow. Humans. He supposed he admired the man’s courage for insisting, especially when Paenther towered over him by close to a foot. He pulled out his own fake ID and handed it to him.

“Be right back. Got to get my glasses.”

As the bartender moved off, Paenther watched the door, praying Vhyper would walk in. Everything pointed to Vhyper’s joining forces with the Mage, but goddess, it couldn’t be true.

The rage bubbled under his skin, burning his nostrils. The Vhyper he knew would never help the Mage. Never.

And that was the problem, the thing that scared Paenther the most. The possibility that the Vhyper he knew was gone.

A muscle began to twitch under his eye, his jaw clenched iron-tight as he breathed through his nose. He would save him. Just as Vhyper had saved him from a Mage captivity that had nearly destroyed him, body, mind, and soul, two and a half centuries ago.

But he had to find him first.

“Ease up on the Dirty Harry look, dude,” Foxx said, his voice vaguely amused. “You’re clearing the place again.” Foxx nudged him with his elbow and nodded at the television. “Look.” The volume had been muted, but damn if that wasn’t Tighe’s face plastered across the screen, right above the words, D.C. Vampire.

Shit.

His gaze snapped to the bartender only to find him hurriedly writing something down, his cell phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear, one of their IDs tight in his hand.

“Dammit to hell,” he growled. He rose from the barstool and strode menacingly toward the traitor.

Walking behind the bar, he grabbed the cell phone off the man’s shoulder, dropped it on the floor, and ground it beneath his heel.

“Hey!” the bartender cried.

Damned camera phones. The last thing they needed was two more pictures plastered across the television beside Tighe’s. Paenther snatched up the two IDs, nodded to Foxx, and started for the lobby.

“I didn’t get my beer,” Foxx complained.

“Tough shit.” As they started across the lobby, a flashing light outside caught his attention. His jaw set. “Walk calmly and follow me.”

“Why?”

“There’s a cop cruiser pulling up in front.” He turned down a side corridor. “We’ll shift if we have to, but I’d like to avoid it.”

As they ducked out the back, Paenther knew their chances of stumbling upon Vhyper had just taken a nosedive into the toilet. Because Vhyper was going to have the same problem they were. He’d be instantly recognized as a friend of Tighe’s in any of the many places they’d frequented together.

A friend of the D.C. Vampire’s. A person of interest. Guilt by association.