Curran opened the door for us and walked away, while we entered the room.

A lone bed flanked the wall next to a small dresser and a desk cluttered with metal. The place didn’t look lived in—no personal items on the furniture, no loose clothes. A heavy punching bag hung from the ceiling and I wondered if that was standard equipment for Keep’s rooms. Nick went to the desk, while I sat on the bed.

He had been loaded for bear when the shapechangers took him. A dozen shark-teeth gleamed on the table, next to a 9mm Sig Sauer, a .22, a shotgun, several clips, and boxes of assorted ammo. A long chain lay coiled by the shotgun. Silver, judging by the color of its metal. A short gladius-shaped sword lay on the side, flanked by several sharp dirks and a crescent-shape serrated blade designed to slice the throat. A tangle of cord and wooden parts occupied the corner of the desk—a garrote. There was a utility belt, two leather bracers, designed to hold the shark teeth, a back sheath, an r-kit, and bandages.

Nick stripped to the waist, displaying a hard scarred torso. His left shoulder was bandaged. He pulled the bandages off, exposing a raw, jagged wound, and slapped the r-kit onto it. Taking a fresh roll of gauze from the table, he began to dress the shoulder. I got up, stood behind him, and passed the bandage over his back.

We worked in silence until the wound was dressed. He put the shirt back on and strapped the utility belt over his waist.

“How long have you been tracking him?” I asked.

He didn’t look at me, his attention captured by the metal on the table. “Four years.” He slid the shark teeth one by one into their places on the bracers. “First Quebec, then Seattle. Tulsa.”

I touched the desk. “Nothing here will kill him.”

He thrust the gladius into his belt. It didn’t matter that he had nothing. He would still try.

“How did you know the upir would attack the kid?”

“The kid’s been bound to you. A natural target.”

“I’m a better target.”

“No. He wants you alive. To breed.” He stepped toward me and touched my arm. Pale luminescence shimmered on his fingertips and vanished. “Power,” he said. “Draws him like a moth to a flame.”

He didn’t need demonstrations of power. He could tell by touch. I tried to remember if he had touched me back in Ted’s office. We’d brushed against each other.

“You took responsibility for the kid,” he said. “You let him be taken.”

He was right. “Coming from a man who let himself be captured by the Pack and strapped to a bed, that doesn’t carry much weight. Tell you what, come back to me with the upir’s head and then you can judge me.”