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Claire continued on for another couple of blocks before she paused in front of a brick-and-limestone building that looked like any of its neighbors. A trio of concrete steps flanked by delicate wrought-iron railings led up to an unmarked, unnumbered door.

“This place belongs to Roth?” Reichen asked as they reached the top step.

She nodded. “One of several private offices he keeps in the city. Will you be able to open the locks?”

“If not by will, then by brute force,” he said, moving in front of her to direct a mental command at the double dead bolts on the door. He hit them hard with his mind, careful not to wake the fire that still lurked at the edge of his control, waiting for the excuse to burn again. With a series of metallic clicks, the dead bolts twisted free and the door inched open. When Claire started to pass him and walk inside, Reichen held her back with a look. “Wait here while I look around. It might not be safe.”

He recognized the irony in his protectiveness as he stepped into the dark building and searched for any signs of trouble. Running into more Enforcement Agents would be a definite problem, but he was by far the worst threat to Claire’s safety. Especially in his current hungered state.

“All right,” he told her when he was certain the quiet building was empty. He flicked on a light switch for her as she entered.

Roth’s tastes in this place were an incongruous mix of Old World and modern minimalist. Slick chrome-and-glass pieces competed with exquisite antiques. The art on the walls were beautiful masterworks, yet every painting depicted a scene of horrific brutality. Death scenes appeared to be a favorite, whether the subject was men, women, or animals. Apparently Roth didn’t discriminate when it came to his appreciation for violence.

“How often does he stay here?” Reichen asked, not missing the fact that there was a bedroom loft occupying the entire upper floor.

“Often. At least, from what I understand,” Claire said quietly but without any bitterness as she walked over to a computer workstation and turned on the machine. As it fired up, she opened one of the desk drawers and began sifting through its contents. “I do know that his work for the Agency has also taken him to Berlin from time to time.”

Reichen looked up at her, seeing the doubt in her soft brown gaze. She may not want to believe his accusations against her mate, but Claire was wrestling with at least some measure of uncertainty about Wilhelm Roth.

“How is your wound?” she asked, looking remorseful where she had no reason to be.

Reichen shrugged his good shoulder. The bullet had passed through cleanly; once he fed, the healing would speed even faster. “I’ll live,” he said. “Long enough to do what must be done.”

He could see her throat work as she swallowed. “When will you stop all of this, Andre? How many more people have to die?”

His answer was grim and resolute. “Just one.”

She held his hard stare. “What will you do if your accusations against him turn out to be false?”

“What will you do if they turn out to be true?”

She didn’t say anything as he came over to where she stood, just backed away a few paces and gave him access to the computer and the handful of business cards and receipts that she had emptied onto the desk. Reichen brought up Roth’s e-mail and started searching his records—looking for precisely what, he wasn’t certain. Clues of Roth’s activities, his contacts. Leads on his current whereabouts. Anything.

What he needed to do was focus on his reasons for being there in the first place, not the inescapable awareness of Claire standing so near him, a warmth and presence that he felt straight into his marrow. He was working so hard to ignore his visceral response to her that he looked at the mess of business cards on Roth’s desk three times before his eye lit on the one made of silver vellum with elegantly simple black type.

He plucked the card out of the collection and read it, despite that he knew the name and address listed on it by heart. Even though