"Hunter didn't seem to be concerned," Gideon replied. "Said he had the situation under control."

Lucan grunted, wry despite the weight of the discussion previously under way. "Where've I heard that line before? Famous last words from more than one of us over the course of the past year and a half."

"Yup." Gideon cocked a brow over the rims of his pale blue shades. "Usually followed not long afterward by a call from the field that the situation so assuredly under control has gone suddenly and totally FUBAR."

Lucan himself wasn't above blame on that score, nor was Tegan or Gideon, for that matter. Still, this was Hunter they were talking about.

Tegan seemed to pick up on his line of thinking. "If I hadn't seen that male come back bleeding on occasion from some of his nastier missions, I'd say he was made of steel and cables, not muscle and bone. He's a machine, that one. He doesn't fuck up - it's not in his DNA. There won't be any surprises from Hunter."

"There better not be," Lucan replied. "We've sure as hell got our hands full enough as it is."

With that, the three of them turned their attention back to the plans Lucan had spread out on the table. The blueprints were something he'd been working on privately for the past few months, soon after he began to realize how vulnerable the compound was becoming the longer Dragos eluded the Order's grasp.

It was the design for an all-new headquarters.

He'd already procured the land - a two-hundred-acre tract in Vermont's Green Mountains - and the plans were nearly complete for a sprawling, high-security, state-of-the-art bunker that could house a small town in its many underground chambers and specially designed facilities. It was immense, incredible, exactly the kind of place the Order needed now that Dragos knew the compound's location.

The only problem was, a facility of that size and scope was easily a year or more out of reach.

They needed something today, not down the road.

"Maybe we need to think about splitting up," Gideon suggested after a while. "None of us is without money or holdings of our own. I mean, none of our properties are as secure as this compound is - rather, as secure as it was. But we're not without options. Maybe the smartest, fastest thing would be for each of us to take our mate and move to other locations."

Tegan's green eyes glittered darkly as he slid a grave look at Lucan. There was no need to ask what the other Gen One warrior was thinking. Lucan and he, although historically not always on the best of terms, were the last of the Order's founding members. For some seven centuries -

since the Order's inception - they'd fought side by side, lived through numerous personal hells and triumphs. They had killed for each other, bled for each other ... sometimes even wept for each other. Only to arrive at this place together.

Together, not divided.

Lucan saw a raw, medieval ferocity in Tegan's gaze now. He understood it. He felt it too.

"The Order will not splinter," Lucan replied, terse with fury for what Dragos was forcing them to consider. "We are warriors. Brethren. We are kin. We will not let anyone scatter us in terror."

Gideon nodded, solemn and silent. "Yeah," he said, meeting their gazes. "Fuck me, right?

Total crap idea. I don't know what the hell I was thinking."

They shared a tense chuckle, all of them acutely aware that the rest of the compound had entrusted them to decide the fate of everyone. And their choices were damned few. Dragos had them trapped like fish in a barrel now, and at any given moment he might start shooting.

"Reichen and Claire have properties in Europe," Gideon pointed out. "I mean, not that it would be ideal in terms of vacating the compound here and relocating abroad, let alone at a moment's notice."

Lucan considered the option. "What about the tech lab? We can't afford to take the heat off Dragos, even if we do clear out of here. How quickly would you be able to set up shop in another location?"

"It wouldn't be totally seamless," Gideon replied. "But anything's possible."

"What about Tess?" Tegan's question dropped on them like a hammer. "You really think she'll be up to the kind of move you're talking about? For that matter, do you think Dante is willing to take that risk?"

Tegan shook his head, and Lucan knew he was right. They couldn't ask Tess and Dante to jeopardize her health and well-being, or that of their soon-to-arrive son, on a relocation effort of that magnitude.

Not to mention the fact that Lucan had his doubts about the viability of setting up the Order's new headquarters so far away from Dragos's presumed base of operations. It would be a hell of a lot easier to keep the pressure on the bastard from close range.

As Lucan grappled with the impossibilities of the situation, he caught a movement in his periphery and noticed Lazaro Archer walking past the glass walls of the lab. The Gen One civilian paused at the doors and lifted his hand in a gesture of permission. Lucan glanced to Gideon. "Let him in."

Gideon leaned over to his workstation and pressed a button, releasing the tech lab's doors with a soft hydraulic hiss.

Lazaro Archer strode in, six foot five and formidable, his first-generation genes giving him the look of a warrior even though he'd lived his many hundred years away from combat and bloodshed.

Until Dragos set his sights on Archer's family, that is.

"How is Kellan?" Lucan asked, seeing the stress of all that had happened showing in the somber Breed elder's eyes.

"He is getting better by the hour," Archer replied. "It was the device that was making him so sick, apparently. He's a strong boy. He'll come through all of this, I have no doubt."

Lucan gave him a slow nod. "I'm glad for you both, Lazaro. I regret that your family was caught in the middle of the Order's war with Dragos. You didn't ask for it. You sure as hell didn't deserve all that you've been through."

Archer's dark eyes went a bit sharper as he walked up to the table to join the warriors. His gaze fell briefly over the unfurled blueprints before coming back up to look at Lucan. "Do you remember what I told you, that night, after my Darkhaven was reduced to ash and rubble, my only son, Christophe, gunned down beside me in the vehicle where we waited for word of Kellan's rescue? I made you a pledge."

Lucan did remember. "You told me that you wanted to help destroy Dragos. You offered your resources to us."

"That's right," Archer replied. "Whatever you need, it's yours. The Order has my utmost loyalty and respect, Lucan. All the more so now, after what happened today with Kellan. My God, when I think that all of you are in far worse jeopardy simply for having come to our aid - "

"Don't," Lucan interrupted him. "There is no blame here. Not against you or the boy. Dragos used you. He will pay for all he's done."

"I want to help," Archer said again. "I'd heard from some of the women that you were in here discussing plans to move the compound."

Lucan's glance traveled from Tegan and Gideon back to Archer. "We had hoped to be able to, but it may not be feasible at this time."

"Why not?"

Lucan gestured to the blueprints. "We have plans in the works, but they can't be implemented in time to make a real difference. Our only other option is to relocate our operations overseas, but with Dragos focusing his efforts here in New England, as far as we can determine, pulling up stakes to run a few thousand miles away isn't exactly our best choice."

"What about Maine?"

Lucan frowned. "We have a handful of acres here and there, but nothing that could work as a viable base for the entire compound, temporary or otherwise."

"You don't," Archer replied slowly. "But I, on the other hand, do have just such a place."

Chapter Eleven

Chase roused slowly, a sickly sweet, smoky stench drifting up his nostrils and pulling him out of the darkness of a thick, heavy sleep.

His eyes refused to open. His body was sluggish, limbs weighted down, leaden where he sprawled facedown on the cold hard surface that had apparently been his bed. He groaned on a parched throat, nothing but cotton dryness in his mouth. With effort, he managed to lift one eyelid and peer into his fetid surroundings.

He was in an old railcar. Rusted out in places, small holes had eaten through the metal and now emitted blinding white light from outside.

Daylight.

Rays shone in from above his head where the roof was little more than delicate lace, some of it haphazardly patched over with scrap wood and plastic sheeting. Not enough cover for him. One bright nimbus of sunlight was aimed directly onto the back of his bare hand. It had seared an ugly burn into his skin - part of the stench that had woken him.

"Holy fuck." Chase hoisted himself up and scrambled on his haunches into a shaded corner.

That's when he saw the other source of the railcar's foul odor. A dead human male lay nearby where he'd been sleeping. The man's army green parka had been wrested off his shoulders, his face twisted in horror, ghastly white. His throat had been punctured and torn in numerous places. "Savaged" seemed a better way to describe the grotesque evidence of Chase's frenzied feeding.

He remembered his raking thirst. He recalled slipping inside the occupied shelter of the railcar, sending the homeless addicts screaming when they saw his glowing eyes and bared fangs. As the humans fled their makeshift shelter, he'd grabbed the slowest of the bunch, culling the easiest prey from its herd.

The big man had gone down fighting, but he'd been no match at all. Nothing could have stopped the feral need that had been spiraling so dark and deep inside Chase as he'd thrown the human to the filthy floor of the railcar and fed.

He'd drained him.

Killed him.

Shame for that engulfed Chase as he looked at what he'd done. He had crossed a line here, broken an immutable tenet of Breed law. He had trashed his own sense of honor, the one thing he'd clung to so steadfastly through all his years of life.

And there was the matter of the Order. He had squandered their trust. Last night when Dante and Kade had spotted him, gone after him out of concern, he'd cowered in the shadows of the rail yard like vermin. They had known he was there, using his talent to conceal himself, deliberately ignoring their calls. If they'd had any faith left in him at all, he'd smashed it to bits by refusing to face them.

It hurt to shut them out - Dante, especially - but it would have hurt him even more to let either of his fellow warriors see him in the state he'd been in. He'd been hunting all night, had already fed once but it hadn't been enough to sate him. Thirst had driven him down into the squalor of the industrial area near the river, where whores and addicts - failures, like him - tended to cluster. His thirst had known no shame, only craving and need. Chase craved still, despite having clearly drunk more than his fill only hours ago. He glared at the dead human, offended by the sight and stench of it. He needed to get out of there. With a fresh, needy ache blooming in his gut, Chase stripped the corpse of its coat, then pulled off the heathered gray sweatshirt and baggy jeans. His own clothes, the black fatigues he'd worn when he left the Order's compound the night before, were blood-soaked and revolting from careless feedings. He took them off, then put on the human's clothes. The jeans and sweatshirt were on the small side for one of Chase's kind, and probably hadn't been cleaned since their former owner had picked them up at Goodwill.

Chase didn't care, so long as he didn't draw undue notice by walking around looking like he'd murdered someone. Taking his ruined fatigues in one hand, he walked to the partially ajar door of the railcar. He pushed it wider and stared out at a sight few of his kind would ever willingly witness.

Sunlight beat down from a bright blue midmorning sky. It illuminated the ground below, glinting off the dirty snow and frozen mud of the rail yard. Despite the ugliness of his immediate surroundings, there was a beauty in that moment - that first glimpse of daylight on a crisp new dawn - that defied the squalor around him.

It defied even the urgency of his thirst, making him pause where he stood and simply look at the miraculous world he inhabited. The one he felt slipping through his fingers with every throbbing pulse through his veins.

Chase lifted his arm like a visor to shield his hypersensitive eyes from the impossible glare. He tipped his face up and let the unfamiliar, glorious heat of morning warm his face. It started to sting.

Before long, it started to sear.

How long would it take for the sun to bake him crispy? Probably half an hour, he guessed, savoring the acid burn as his skin across his cheeks and brow grew hotter. Thirty minutes, and there would be no more hunger. No more shame. No more struggle to keep himself out of the abyss that seemed so welcoming, so blessedly dark and endless.

He considered the notion for a long, excruciating while, testing his will. But he failed, even in that.

With the talons of his thirst sinking deeper into him, Chase stepped off the edge of the railcar and dropped to the ground below. He crossed the tracks and pitched his ruined warrior's garb into the smoldering belly of a smoking rubbish barrel.

Then he slunk off quickly to find shelter to wait for nightfall, when he could begin his hunting once more.

* * *

They had arrived in New Orleans in the dark early-morning hours and took a taxi from the airport to a hotel in what Hunter assumed was the heart of the tourist area. Street noise and music had echoed up from below their fourth-story window until long past daybreak, creating a racket that had kept his senses on full alert, anticipating the slightest hint of trouble. Not that he'd had any intention of sleeping. He hardly needed rest; an hour or two at most each day. It was how he'd been trained, a discipline that kept his body ready for any situation, his mind prepared to engage with hair-trigger response.