Edge of Dawn(65)

As for Kellan, although he knew he’d recognize Rooster’s signature hairstyle on the spot, he’d never had direct contact with him, always filtering messages and intel by way of Vince. Now he regretted that lack of connection. Finding the bastard would have been much easier if he’d been able to call Rooster and personally threaten his sorry life if he didn’t cooperate in locating Vince. Not a good way to avoid the murder charge he had no intention of inviting.

But while Kellan’s frustration level was steadily climbing toward lethal fury, Mira wasn’t deterred by the lack of success thus far. She charged forth with her usual stubborn-headed determination, dragging him along to Boston’s old North End, to the club and cage-fighting arena where she’d last seen Rooster a few nights ago.

“Since we’re down here anyway,” she said as the neo-Gothic silhouette of the converted church rose up into the night sky ahead of them. “It’s early, so if he’s not inside the club somewhere, our next best bet is a crackhead who calls himself Billy the Kid. He and Rooster did a stretch together in Bridgewater for possession a while back. From what I’ve heard, they’re still tight.”

Kellan grunted, impressed with her as usual, and finding it far too easy to fall back into the rhythm of seasoned patrol partners. He had to remind himself that this was not an op shared by fellow warriors. He was not a member of the Order, and Mira was risking her life just being with him—not because of the danger of what they were undertaking here but because of who he was, of who he’d become over these past eight years.

Fortunately, he’d been careful to keep a very low profile. His name, Bowman, might be uttered in dark rooms and back alleys from time to time, but he could practically count on one hand how many people had ever seen his face. Most of those people were back at the base in New Bedford. And now one of that number was dead.

Heavy bass throbbed, grinding guitar chords screaming, as Mira strode for the vestibule door of La Notte’s main entrance and pulled it open. Kellan walked in alongside her, surveying the place with a judicious eye. Although the club was crowded for the early evening hour, most of the clientele gathered in front of the head-banging, five-man group looked like kids out of the suburbs and assorted tourist types. Primarily human, although Kellan noted a trio of Darkhaven youths skulking in the far corner, eyes trained on a clutch of big-haired, scantily clad young women who had a table full of empty glasses and seemed more than ready to keep the party going.

“The cage matches don’t start until close to midnight,” Mira told him, leaning in close to avoid having to shout over the din of music and chatter in the room. “This is just the warm-up.”

Her breath beside his ear went through him like a lick of flame, unbidden but hard as hell to ignore. He narrowly resisted putting his hands on her, his head suddenly full of images of her naked in his bed, in the shower. But then Mira put her hand on his forearm, and her fingers bit in as she tugged him into the crowd. “Come on. Rooster’s not here. Let’s move.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, pivoting his head on a scowl to scan the area behind the bar, where she’d been looking just before she grabbed him away. His gaze lit on a pair of males—one of them unmistakably Breed, with long blond hair pulled back in a braided leather tie, accentuating cheekbones that would have looked more in place on a female, if not for the killer coldness of his pale-blue eyes. He stood with massive arms crossed over his chest, listening to the other male who faced him, his back to Mira and Kellan.

“That’s Syn,” she said, nodding toward the Breed giant. “He’s one of the newer fighters. That human he’s talking to?” Her chin lifted, gesturing at the equally tall but less bulky man who was dressed in head-to-toe black leather that sported gleaming buckles and bristling spikes. His silver-white hair was shorn in a smooth wedge that rode his skull like a halo. Not that there was anything remotely angelic about him. “That’s Cassian, the owner of this place. We shouldn’t let either of them see us in here.”

Neither one of the men looked happy. Nor did they break the focus of their intense conversation as Mira led Kellan to a shadowed back stairwell. They descended the flight of steps into what appeared to be the bowels of the old church. At the bottom, they emerged into a basementlike walkway illuminated by sparsely placed dim bulbs, aged brick walls tunneling ahead of them and foot-worn stone at their feet.

“This was once used as a crypt,” Mira informed him. “Now the fighters’ private dressing rooms are down here, along with the arena.”