"Shit."
Maybe he should have tried the library first, instead of checking for her at home. But even as he considered how quickly he could make it across town to look for her there, he was gripped with a sinking feeling of dread.
Savannah wouldn't have left Boston...would she?
That had been her intent last night, after all. He thought he might have convinced her to stay and let him help her, but what had he given her to hold on to? A heated kiss and a vague promise that he could somehow, miraculously, make everything better?
Fuck. He was an idiot to think she'd stick around on that flimsy incentive. He couldn't blame her if she finished packing her bag and took off for Louisiana as soon as he crept out of her bed twelve hours ago.
He couldn't have lost her so easily.
He wouldn't let her go so easily, damn it. And that claim had less to do with the Order's objectives or Darkhaven protocol than he cared to admit, even to himself.
If Savannah left, he was going after her.
Gideon took hold of the doorknob in death grip. Locked.
He was strong enough; he could have torn the damn thing off in his fist. But he was also Breed, and that meant he didn't have to resort to caveman tactics when he had more stealth tools at his command.
He mentally freed the two deadbolts from their tumblers. The door sprang open, and Gideon slipped inside the apartment. A quick scan of her bedroom told him his worst suspicions were correct.
Savannah's suitcase was gone. In the cramped little closet, a bunch of empty hangers.
"Damn it," he growled, stalking out to the living room where he'd kissed her just last night, held her in his arms while she slept against him on the sofa. He sent his gaze all over the place, looking for anything--a clue that might lead him to her.
He zeroed in on a memo pad lying next to the kitchen phone. He flashed across the room, more than walked, to pick up the note. In loopy, vibrant cursive handwriting, someone had jotted down South Station, followed by a number and a time. A bus schedule.
Savannah's departure for New Orleans.
She was leaving.
And if the schedule was accurate, she was already on her way.
Gone, more than twenty minutes ago.
Gideon flew out of there anyway, determined to catch her. He took off on foot, his Breed genetics carrying him much faster than any manmade vehicle could.
He was nothing but cold air on the humans he passed, his feet flying over pavement and through clogged traffic in the streets, speeding toward South Station.
Savannah parked her suitcase next to the paper towel dispenser in the empty restroom and stepped into the middle stall. She slid the wobbly lock into place, hearing the soft whoosh of the swinging entry door as someone came into the ladies' room a few seconds behind her. Hopefully someone who wouldn't think her battered American Tourister suitcase looked worthwhile to steal.
She was about to unzip her jeans, until the room echoed with the sudden sound of metal scraping heavily on concrete. As though someone were dragging the overflowing trash bin across the restroom floor. Was it the janitor coming in to clean?
"Hello? Someone's in here right now," she called out.
And then wished she'd kept her mouth shut because no one answered.
The room went very still, nothing but the soft trickle of water dripping into one of the clogged white sinks outside the stalls. Savannah froze, every animal instinct she had going taut with alarm.
She listened, hoping for the sound of someone's voice--an awkward apology for the intrusion, a request that she leave soon so the restroom could be maintained. She heard nothing. She was in there alone.
No, not alone.
There was a rasp of open-mouthed breathing from somewhere on the other side of the shaky metal door. Heavy boots scuffed on the filthy concrete floor. They stopped in front of her stall.
Savannah recognized them instantly.
It was the homeless man who'd been sleeping in the terminal outside.