“It was a perfect opportunity to monitor the changes that take place in a vampire’s body chemistry at the onset of blood rage,” Chris said. “We’ll need that information if we want to have a shot at coming up with a medicine that might lessen the symptoms.”
Matthew frowned. “Lessen the symptoms? We’re looking for a cure.”
Chris reached down and picked up a folder. He offered it to Matthew. “The latest findings.”
Both Hubbard and Jack had been swabbed and given blood samples. They’d been rushed through processing, and their genome report was due any day. Matthew took the folder with nerveless fingers, afraid of what he might find inside it.
“I’m sorry, Matthew,” Chris said with heartfelt regret.
Matthew’s eyes raced over the results, flipping the pages.
“Marcus identified them. No one else would have. We weren’t looking in the right place,” Chris said.
Matthew couldn’t absorb what he was seeing. It changed . . . everything.
“Jack has more of the triggers in his noncoding DNA than you do.” Chris paused. “I have to ask, Matthew. Are you sure you can trust Jack around Diana?”
Before Matthew could respond, the front door opened. There was none of the usual chatter that accompanied Jack’s appearance, or Gallowglass’s cheerful whistling, or Andrew’s pious sermonizing.
The only sound was Lobero’s low whine.
Matthew’s nostrils flared, and he leaped to his feet, the test results scattering around him. Then he was gone, moving to the doorway in a flash.
“What the hell?” Chris said behind him.
“We met someone while we were out walking,” Gallowglass said, leading a reluctant Lobero into the house.
20
“Move,” Baldwin commanded, holding Jack by the scruff of his neck. Matthew had seen that hand tear another vampire’s head clean off.
Jack hadn’t witnessed that brutal episode, but he knew he was at Baldwin’s mercy just the same.
The boy was white-skinned and wide-eyed, with enormous black pupils. Not surprisingly, he obeyed Baldwin without hesitation.
Lobero knew it, too. Gallowglass still held the leash, but the dog circled the Gael’s feet with eyes fixed on his master.
“It’s okay, Mop,” Jack assured his dog in a whisper, but Lobero was having none of it.
“Trouble, Matthew?” Chris was so close that Matthew could feel his breath.
“There’s always trouble,” Matthew said grimly.
“Go home,” Jack urged Chris. “Take Mop, too, and—” Jack stopped with a wince. Blood suffused the skin on his neck where Baldwin’s fingertips were leaving a dark bruise.
“They’re staying,” Baldwin hissed.
Jack had made a strategic error. Baldwin delighted in destroying what other people loved. Some experience in his past must have shaped the impulse, but Matthew had never discovered what it was.
Baldwin would never let Chris or Mop go now. Not until he got what he came for.
“And you don’t give orders. You take them.” Baldwin was careful to keep the boy between him and Matthew as he pushed him toward the living room. It was a devastatingly simple and effective tactic, one that brought back painful memories.
Jack is not Eleanor, Matthew told himself. Jack was a vampire, too. But he was Matthew’s blood, and Baldwin could use him to bring Matthew to heel.
“That stunt you pulled in the square will be the last time you challenge me, mongrel.” Baldwin’s shirt showed teeth marks at the shoulder, and there were beads of blood around the torn fabric.
Christ. Jack had bitten Baldwin.
“But I’m not yours.” Jack sounded desperate. “Tell him that I belong to you, Matthew!”
“And who do you think Matthew belongs to?” Baldwin whispered in his ear, quietly menacing.
“Diana,” Jack snarled, turning on his captor.
“Diana?” Baldwin’s laugh was mocking, and the blow he gave Jack would have flattened a warmblood twice his size and weight. Jack’s knees met the hard wooden floors. “Get in here, Matthew.
And shut that dog up.”
“Disavow Jack before the de Clermont sire and I’ll see you to hell personally,” Hubbard hissed, grabbing at Matthew’s sleeve as he went past.
Matthew looked at him coldly, and Hubbard dropped his arm.
“Let him go. He’s my blood,” Matthew said, stalking into the room. “Then go back to Manhattan where you belong, Baldwin.”
“Oh,” Chris said in a tone that suggested he finally saw the light. “Of course. You live on Central Park, don’t you?”
Baldwin didn’t reply. In fact, he owned most of that stretch of Fifth Avenue and liked to keep a close eye on his investments. Recently he had been developing his hunting ground in the Meatpacking District, filling it with nightclubs to complement the butcher shops, but as a rule he preferred not to reside where he