“That’s her,” Dylan said, pointing to the woman with the maternal smile and sheltering arms. “Sister Margaret.”

“And she is?” Jenna asked, unable to hold her curiosity in check.

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 to talk to.”

“Someone who’s been around the shelters for a long time and might be able to identify past residents from a basic sketch,” Savannah said, gesturing to the hand-drawn faces tacked to the walls.

Jenna nodded. “Those sketches represent women who’ve been in area shelters?”

“Those sketches,” Alex said from beside Jenna, “are Breedmates being held by Dragos as we speak.”

“You mean they’re still alive?”

“They were a couple of months ago.” Renata’s voice was grim. “A friend of the Order’s, Claire Reichen, used her Breedmate talent for dreamwalking to locate Dragos’s headquarters. She saw the captives—upward of twenty of them—locked in prison cells in his laboratory. Although Dragos relocated his operations before we could save them, Claire has been working with a sketch artist to document the faces she saw.”

“In fact, that’s where Claire is right now, she and Elise both,” Alex said. “Elise has a lot of friends in the Breed civilian community here in Boston. She and Claire have been working on a couple of new sketches, based on what Claire saw that day in Dragos’s lair.”

“Once we have faces of the captives,” Dylan said, “we can start looking for names and possible family members. Anything that can help bring us closer to who these women are.”

“What about databases for missing persons?” Jenna asked. “Have you compared the sketches to profiles listed with groups like the National Center for Missing Persons?”

“We did, and we’ve come up empty everywhere,” Dylan said. “A lot of these women and girls in the shelters are runaways and orphans. A lot of them are throwaways. Some of them are walkaways, who deliberately cut all ties with family and friends. The end result is the same: They have no one to look for them or miss them, so there were no reports filed.”

Renata grunted softly in acknowledgment and seemed to speak from some experience. “When you have no one and nothing, you can vanish and it’s like you never existed in the first place.”

From her years in Alaska law enforcement, Jenna knew how true that could be. Folks could disappear without a trace in big cities or small interior communities alike. It happened every day, although she never would have imagined it happened for the reasons that Dylan, Savannah, Renata, and the other women were explaining to her now. “So, what’s your plan once you have identified the missing Breedmates?”

“Once we have enough of a personal link to even one of them,” Savannah said, “Claire can try to connect via dreamwalking and hopefully bring back some information about where the captives have been moved.”

Jenna was used to quick digestion and comprehension of facts, but her head was starting to spin with everything she was hearing. And she couldn’t stop her mind from searching for solutions to the problems being laid out before her. “Wait a second. If Claire’s talent led her to Dragos’s lair once, why can’t she just do it again?”

“For her talent to work, she needs some kind of emotional or personal link to whomever she’s attempting to find in the dream state,” Dylan answered. “Her link before wasn’t to Dragos but to someone else.”

“Her former mate, Wilhelm Roth,” Renata put in, all but spitting the name like a curse. “He was a vile individual, but next to Dragos, his cruelty was nothing. No way could we ever let Claire try to tap into Dragos personally. It would be suicide.”

“Okay. So, where does that leave us?” Jenna asked, the word us slipping out of her mouth even before she realized she’d said it. But it was too late to take it back, and she was much too intrigued to pretend differently. “Where do you see things going from here?”