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Dylan glanced over at her. “Right now, assuming she’s still alive, this woman is possibly our best bet for finding out more about the Breedmates who have gone missing or ended up dead at Dragos’s hands.”

Jenna gave a small shake of her head. “I’m not following.”

“Some of the women he’s killed—and probably many that he’s still holding prisoner now—came from runaway shelters,” Dylan said. “See, it’s not unusual for Breedmates to feel confused and out of place in mortal society. Most of us have no idea just how different we are, let alone why. Besides our common birthmark and shared biology, we’ve all got some kind of unique extrasensory ability, too.”

“Not the stuff you see on TV talk shows or commercials for psychic hotlines,” Savannah interjected. “Real ESP talents are often the surest way to spot a Breedmate.”

Dylan nodded. “Sometimes those talents are a blessing, but a lot of times they’re a curse. My own talent was a curse for most of my life, but fortunately I had a mother who loved me. Because I had her, no matter how confused and scared I got, I always had the security of home.”

“But not everyone is that fortunate,” Renata added. “It was a string of Montreal orphanages for Mira and me. And, from time to time, we called the street home.”

Jenna listened in silence, counting her own blessings that she had been born into a normal, relatively close-knit family, where her biggest childhood problem had been trying to compete with her brother for approval and affection. She couldn’t imagine having the kinds of problems females born with the teardrop-and-crescent-moon birthmark had to bear. Her own issues, as incomprehensible as they were, seemed to diminish a bit as she considered the lives these other women had lived. To say nothing of the hell the ones who were dead or missing had been made to endure.

“So, you believe that Dragos is preying on young women who end up in these kinds of shelters?” she asked.

“We know he is,” Dylan said. “My mom used to work at a runaway shelter in New York. It’s a long story, one for another time, but basically it turned out that the shelter she worked at was being funded and directed by none other than Dragos himself.”

“Oh, my God,” Jenna breathed.

“He’d been hiding behind an alias, calling himself Gordon Fasso when he moved within human social circles, so no one had any idea who he truly was … until it was too late.” Dylan drew in what seemed to be a fortifying breath. “He killed my mom after he realized he’d been unmasked and the Order was closing in on him.”

“I’m sorry,” Jenna whispered, meaning it completely. “To have lost someone you love to that kind of evil …”

The words drifted off as something cold and fierce bubbled deep inside her. As a former police officer, she knew the bitter taste of injustice and the need to right the scales. But she tamped the feelings down, telling herself the Order’s fight against their enemy, Dragos, didn’t belong to her. She had battles of her own to face.

“I’m sure Dragos will get what’s coming to him in the end,” she said.

It was a lame sentiment, knowingly offered from an emotional arm’s length. But she hoped she would be proved right. Sitting with these women now, having gotten to know them all a bit better in the short time she’d been at the compound, Jenna prayed for the Order’s success against Dragos. The thought of someone as perverse as he being loose on the world was beyond unacceptable.

She picked up the image printout and glanced at the warm expression of the nun who stood like a good shepherd next to her vulnerable flock. “How do you expect this woman—Sister Margaret—might be able to help you?”

“Staff turnover is high at youth shelters,” Dylan explained. “The one where my mom worked was no exception. A friend of hers who used to work with her there just gave me Sister Margaret’s name and that photograph. She says the sister retired a few years ago, but she’d been volunteering in several New York shelters since around the 1970s, which is just the kind of person we need