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Sergei Yakut had been less than enthusiastic to get involved. He feared no one, and he had his own personal clan to protect him. He’d declined the Order’s invitation to come to Boston and talk, so Nikolai had been dispatched to Montreal to persuade him. Once Yakut was made aware of the scope of the current threat—the stunning truth of what the Order and all of the Breed were now up against—Nikolai was certain the Gen One would be willing to come on board.

First he had to find the cagey son of a bitch.

So far his inquiries around the city had turned up nothing. Patience wasn’t exactly his strong suit, but he had all night, and he’d keep searching. Sooner or later, someone might give him the answer he was looking for. And if he kept coming up dry, maybe if he asked enough questions, Sergei Yakut would come looking for him instead.

“I need to find someone,” Nikolai told the four Breed youths. “A vampire out of Russia. Siberia, to be exact.”

“That where you’re from?” asked the soul-patched mouthpiece of the group. He’d evidently picked up on the slight tinge of an accent that Nikolai hadn’t lost in the long years he’d been living in the States with the Order.

Niko let his glacial blue eyes speak to his own origins. “Do you know this individual?”

“No, man. I don’t know him.”

Two other heads shook in immediate denial, but the last of the four youths, the sullen one who was slouched low in the booth, shot an anxious look up at Nikolai from across the banquette table.

Niko caught that telling gaze and held it. “What about you? Any idea who I’m talking about?”

At first, he didn’t think the vampire was going to answer. Hooded eyes held his in silence, then, finally, the kid lifted one shoulder in a shrug and exhaled a curse.

“Sergei Yakut,” he murmured.

The name was hardly audible, but Nikolai heard it. And from the periphery of his vision, he noticed that an ebony-haired woman seated at the bar nearby heard it too. He could tell she had from the sudden rigidity of her spine beneath her long-sleeved black top, and from the way her head snapped briefly to the side as though pulled there by the power of that name alone.

“You know him?” Nikolai asked the Breed male, while keeping the brunette at the bar well within his sights.

“I know of him, that’s all. He doesn’t live in the Darkhavens,” said the youth, referring to the secured communities that housed most of the Breed civilian populations throughout North America and Europe. “Dude’s one nasty mofo from what I’ve heard.”

Yeah, he was, Nikolai acknowledged inwardly. “Any idea where I might find him?”

“No.”

“You sure about that?” Niko asked, watching as the woman at the bar slid off her stool and prepared to leave. She still had more than half a cocktail in her glass, but at the mere mention of Yakut’s name, she seemed suddenly in a big hurry to get out of the place.

The Breed youth shook his head. “I don’t know where to find the dude. Don’t know why anyone would willingly look for him, either, unless you got some kind of death wish.”

Nikolai glanced over his shoulder as the tall brunette started edging her way through the crowd gathered near the bar. On impulse, she turned to look at him then, her jade-green gaze piercing beneath the fringe of dark lashes and the glossy swing of her sleek, chin-length bob. There was a note of fear in her eyes as she stared back at him, a naked fear she didn’t even attempt to hide.

“I’ll be damned,” Niko muttered.

She knew something about Sergei Yakut.

Something more than just a passing knowledge, he was guessing. That startled, panicked look as she turned and broke for an escape said it all.

Nikolai took off after her. He weaved through the thicket of humans filling the club, his eyes trained on the silky black hair of his quarry. The female was quick, as fleet and agile as a gazelle, her dark clothes and hair letting her practically disappear into her surroundings.

But Niko was Breed, and there was no human in existence who could outrun one of his kind. She ducked