Page 77 of Edge of Darkness (Night Prowler 4)
Katharine flipped through the consent and information forms she’d had September fill out prior to leaving and noted the name of her last—admitted—psychiatrist, a Dr. Kensington in New Mexico.
Then she logged onto the Internet to see if she could find a telephone number.
Christian stood outside Ember’s apartment building, gazing up at her fifth-story window. No lights were on inside, which meant she wasn’t home, which—considering she hadn’t been home all day yesterday, either—he found very worrying.
Just as worrying as her disconnected phone had been.
He’d lasted all of two minutes after hearing the recorded message before barking an order at Corbin to get the car. He’d come here first to find no one home, then he’d gone to the bookstore and seen an older brunette, attractive in a severe, femme fatale kind of way, standing behind the counter. He guessed from his conversations with Señor Alvarez this was her stepmother, Marguerite.
He watched through the windows from across the street, but Ember never appeared. Corbin drove him back to Ember’s apartment building, but she never showed up there, either.
He went home. He paced. He spent the night in a fitful, nightmare-riddled sleep.
Now, empty-handed more than twenty-four hours later, he was determined to find out what was happening, even if it meant breaking into her apartment to do it.
He took the stairs three at a time. As soon as he hit the fourth floor landing, he stopped dead.
It sizzled through him with the electrifying intensity of a lightning strike. First it was a ripple of power, still palpable though it was hours old. Then he caught the scent—a complex bouquet of forest floor, masculine musk, and spices—and an involuntary growl rose in the back of his throat.
Ikati. Male. More than one. They’d been here, and recently.
Hackles raised, ears straining for any hint of danger, he eased silently up the next flight of stairs. At the top of the landing he paused, listening, testing the air, but only that slight pulse of power and the fading aroma of hot-blooded predator in the air belied their recent presence. Whoever it was had been here since he’d last been here. And might, even now, be on their way back.
He looked at Ember’s apartment door and a flash of pure rage crackled through him.
What did they want with her? How the hell had they found her? And where the hell was she?
A noise from inside the apartment across the hall snapped his head around. His eyes narrowed and his muscles tensed, but he relaxed a fraction when he heard whistling, then a muffled thump and a low curse as someone behind the door bumped into something. A chair, judging by the way it skittered across the floor. Then a man’s voice, chastising himself for his clumsiness in an aggravated mutter.
“Good job, knucklehead, walk right into the kitchen chair! Is it time for new glasses?”
Asher. Of course, he lived right across the hall.
Christian didn’t waste any time applying his knuckles to Asher’s door.
“Jesus Christ, what’s the emergency? Is the building on fire?” came Asher’s annoyed voice as he approached.
Apparently he’d knocked a little harder than he realized.
He heard the sound of a chain being unlatched and a lock being turned. Then the door swung open and Asher said, “This better be good, Dante, I’m right in the middle of—”
He froze when he caught sight of Christian. His mouth snapped shut, his eyes narrowed, and his jaw went tight.
“It’s not Dante.”
Asher gave him a slow, assessing once over, taking in his livid face, the tension in his muscles, his stance, which undoubtedly telegraphed his readiness to break something.
“Clearly,” he said. His expression hovered somewhere between wariness and irritation. “You look in a lovely mood. Did the beauty salon run out of your favorite conditioner?”
Christian growled, “Where is she?”
Asher crossed his arms over his chest and drawled, “She?”
He hissed a slow breath through his teeth, realizing this wasn’t going to be easy. He’d forgotten how viciously Ember’s guard dog protected her. “You know who I’m talking about. Where. Is. She?”
They stared at one another for a moment—fleeting but arctic—until Asher snapped, “She moved! And don’t bother asking me where, because I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want to see you.”
Moved. Okay—she was safe. For the moment. Something loosened in Christian’s chest, but tightened again when he absorbed the last part of the sentence. It became slightly harder to breathe.
