Wicked Embers
Author: Keri Arthur
Date: 2015-07-07 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Urban Fantasy; Paranormal; Fantasy; Romance; Fae; Magic; Adult; Vampires; Shapeshifters; Supernatural
Description: Crimson Death, the plague like virus spawned from a failed government experiment to isolate the enzymes that make vampires immortal, continues to spread. Emberly and her partner, Jackson Miller, are desperately seeking the stolen research for a cure before the virus becomes a pandemic. But their mission is jeopardized by another threat uncovered in Emberly’s prophetic dreams. A creature of ash and shadow has been unleashed on a murdering spree. Now Emberly must summon all her gifts and investigative knowledge to put an end to this entity’s brutal rampage—even if it means placing herself in har
Publisher: Berkley
Rights: Copyright &#169; Keri Arthur, 2015

Keri Arthur won the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award for Urban Fantasy and has been nominated in the Best Contemporary Paranormal category of the Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Awards. She’s a dessert and function cook by trade, and lives in Melbourne, Australia.

Visit Keri Arthur online:

www.keriarthur.com
www.facebook.com/AuthorKeriArthur
www.twitter.com/kezarthur

Praise for Keri Arthur:

‘Keri Arthur’s imagination and energy infuse everything she writes with zest’

Charlaine Harris, bestselling author of the Southern Vampire Mysteries

‘Keri Arthur is one of the best supernatural romance writers in the world’

Harriet Klausner

‘This series is phenomenal! It keeps you spellbound and mesmerized on every page. Absolutely perfect!’

FreshFiction.com

By Keri Arthur

Dark Angel Series:

Darkness Unbound

Darkness Rising

Darkness Devours

Darkness Hunts

Darkness Unmasked

Darkness Splintered

Darkness Falls

Riley Jenson Guardian Series:

Full Moon Rising

Kissing Sin

Tempting Evil

Dangerous Games

Embraced by Darkness

The Darkest Kiss

Deadly Desire

Bound to Shadows

Moon Sworn

Souls of Fire:

Fireborn

Wicked Embers

Damask Circle Series:

Circle of Fire

Circle of Death

Circle of Desire

Spook Squad Series:

Memory Zero

Generation 18

Penumbra

Nikki & Michael Vampire Series:

Dancing with the Devil

Hearts in Darkness

Chasing the Shadows

Kiss the Night Goodbye

Ripple Creek Werewolf Series:

Beneath a Rising

Moon Beneath a Darkening Moon

Myth and Magic Series:

Destiny Kills

Mercy Burns

Copyright

Published by Piatkus

ISBN: 978-0-349-40418-9

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 Keri Arthur

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Excerpt from Flameout © Keri Arthur, 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

Piatkus

Little, Brown Book Group

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ
www.littlebrown.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk

Contents

About the Author

Praise for Keri Arthur

By Keri Arthur

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Flameout

I’d like to thank all the usual suspects: my lovely editor, Danielle Perez; copy editor Jane Steele; publicist Nita Basu for getting the word out; and the totally amazing Tony Mauro for the cover art.

A special thanks to Miriam Kriss, agent extraordinaire; my crit buddies and best mates, Robyn, Mel, Chris, Carolyn, and Freya; and finally, but by no means lastly, my gorgeous daughter, Kasey.

CHAPTER 1

In the still darkness of this dream, Death was hunting.

Her scent filled the air, as heavy as the fog was thick.

I had no sense of where I was. There were no identifiable buildings here, no street signs, nothing that could provide a clue. Not even people.

Just me, the foggy darkness, and the huntress who stalked this place somewhere up ahead.

The night eddied around me but brought with it no sounds. Unease swept through me. In the hundreds of years I’d been dreaming of death, there’d never been one like this—one in which there was absolutely nothing that would enable me to pin down a time or location. And while I may have very recently sworn to stop interfering with fate and just let death take its natural path, I’d made that same vow dozens of times over the centuries, and it had never resulted in a dream like this.

The night continued to slide past me, gelatinous and uneasy. The sensation of Death was growing stronger, but I could neither see nor sense what form she was wearing.

And I had no idea why.

Usually when my prophetic dreams hit, I was not only given a clear image of the time and location, but I was also shown how that death would occur. But here, there was no such clarity. Some sorcerers and witches had the ability to hide their presence from either dreamers or astral travelers, but I was a spirit rather than a being born of flesh—even if I wore human form most of the time—and I could generally sense such magic being employed. But there was nothing here beyond the thick night and that steadily growing certainty of wrongness. It was almost as though my inner dreamer was having trouble pinning down the source of this death—and that in itself suggested whatever lay behind it was something I had never come across before.

It was a scary thought, given the many years and many lives I’d had.

Gradually, a sound that reminded me somewhat of the click of nails against stone began to echo through the fog. Loud at first, it grew ever softer, as if the source was moving away. And yet Death was nearer, not more distant. I frowned, confused, but I had little choice other than to keep moving. I knew from past episodes that the dream would not release me from its grip until the very end. It was an end I could stop if I chose to, but only if I was shown enough details.

The soft sound of nails continued to grow fainter, until it was barely audible again. But every intake of breath was filled with the foul presence of evil, and if I could have stopped, I would have. But the dream drew me on. Ever on.

Something flickered through the darkness ahead. It was little more than a deeper patch of night, but I had no doubt it was the giver of death.

I drew closer. The shape of the creature was fluid and oddly disconnected; it seemed to be made of embers rather than mere shadows, and it flowed from one form to another with ease. Sometimes it looked like a cat, at other times like a large bat that made the night eddy and flow around it with every sweep of its wings. Gradually, though, it settled into the form of a monstrous black dog.

A black dog whose paws were on backward.

And even though I was close enough to see it now, the noise of its stained yellow nails hitting the surface under its paws was still oddly distant. It was as if there was a weird disconnect between reality and sound in this place; it made me wonder whether there was some form of magic at work even though I had no sense of it.

I followed in its wake, and gradually the darkness gave way to forms and shapes. A dark street stretched ahead of us, silent and empty. The road surface was slick with rain, though I was immune to its touch. The creature ahead was not, and the scent of wet fur soon filled my nostrils.

There were no cars parked in this street and no footpath. Butting up against the two old bluestone drains that lined either side of the road were varied fences—some were brick, some were wood, and some were little more than metal roller doors. Many were almost hidden by the old roses that scrambled over them, and tall trees—their tops lost to the darkness and the rain—towered above us.

The creature stopped and looked around. Its eyes were large, bloodred, and filled with hunger. It raised its long snout and sniffed the air, as if searching for a scent. Finally, it snarled, revealing canines that were needle fine and razor sharp. Then it leapt over the nearest fence and disappeared.

The dream quickly followed, giving me little chance to do anything more than glimpse the graffiti that littered the old redbrick fence.

The yard beyond was small and strewn with rubbish. A clothesline that was little more than several strands of wire strung between two wooden T-pieces dominated the right-hand side of the yard, and to the left was a large lemon tree laden with fruit. As the creature moved up the concrete steps to the tiny house’s back door, its shape became fluid again. With little effort, it slid underneath the gap between the door and the floor.

The dream forced me to do the same. The air inside the house was thick with the scent of garlic and meat, and it was so hot, the fires within my soul burned to life, as if eager to draw in the richness of it.

The creature slunk through the house; its movements were cautious, wary, but its hunger was now so strong it filled the heated air and made my stomach turn. This death would not be a good one …

Not that any of them ever were.

As I drifted in its wake, I studied our surroundings, trying to find something—anything—that would clue me in as to where we were. The kitchen was small and neat, although a pot on the stove was beginning to smoke. If it wasn’t turned off soon, a fire was likely. But I doubted that was the reason I was here. I might be a phoenix, with fire mine to control, but this dream was about the strange creature and its intentions rather than about a house blaze.

A newspaper lay on the edge of the kitchen counter, and the date leapt out at me. August 25—today’s date. But was the dream showing me a real-time event—something no other dream had ever done—or was it once again showing me the future, even if only a few hours from now? I had no idea, because I could see no clocks in this place. Even the one on the oven was out of focus.

We moved into a small hall. A stand holding several coats lay sideways on the floor—an indication, perhaps, that someone had left in a hurry. On the small table nearby were several unopened letters. Mr. James Hamberly, one of them read. Forty-two Highett Street, Richmond.

I finally had a location.

Now I just had to see the death and decide whether I should interfere. Most of the time, it was better not to—I’d learned that the hard way—but even so, there were some deaths I just couldn’t walk away from, no matter the risk to my personal safety. Which was the reason why in this lifetime my back had become a mass of scars after I’d saved a child from a burning car, and why my heart had gotten all bruised and hurting again after I’d saved my ex’s grumpy ass.

The creature paused and lifted its nose, then looked over its shoulder, its eyes bloody fire in the darkness. I wondered if it had some sense of my presence, but it made no move to flee and, after a few more seconds, it turned and went through the door on the left.

Inside was a dead man.

Shock hit me, its force so fierce and cold it briefly calmed the heat in the air and the fires in my soul. Why was the dream showing someone who was already dead? It wasn’t even a particularly fresh death, because Death herself was nowhere to be seen.

So why was I here?

No answers came, but then, they rarely did. I watched as the creature slunk to the bed, its backward paws making no sound on the wooden floorboards. As it neared its prey, it seemed to grow, until it was almost the height of a tall human. It sniffed the covered form, then raised a paw and pulled the blankets back, revealing the man’s flaccid form to the night and the heat. The creature sniffed him from head to toe, and the scent of anticipation filled the air. My stomach roiled and the heat grew, but I had no flames in this dream state and no way to stop what was about to happen.

The creature’s tongue flicked out and, almost lovingly, it licked the man’s rotund belly. I shivered again, despite the growing heat, guessing what was coming and not wanting to see it. But it wasn’t as if I had a choice.

Again the creature’s tongue flickered out, this time centering on the area above the liver. It was almost as if it was marking its spot for penetration.

It was.

With very little fanfare, the creature bared its teeth and pierced the exact spot it had marked. The cuts were small and precise, and it made no move to enlarge the wound. It didn’t need to.

It was syphoning the man’s liver through its teeth …

The dream finally dissolved, but the heat did not. I thrust up into a sitting position, suddenly aware that the flames in my soul not only danced across my skin but also across the sheets and blankets. It was a sensation that was thick and warm and luscious, but it was also very dangerous, considering my bedroom had no special protection against the heat that was mine by nature.

But even as I started to draw it back into my body, the door opened and Rory burst in, his red hair burning in the light of my fire. He was a phoenix like me, but he was also my life mate—the spirit to which I was bound forever, and the being who meant everything to me, because neither of us could be reborn without the other’s help. And yet, while I loved him, I wasn’t in love with him. It was an unfortunate fact that paired phoenixes had been cursed with the inability to find emotional completion with each other, even though we could have children only with our decreed partner.

Of course, the other half of the damn curse was that love, for us, never ended happily—and it was something we’d both cursed more than once during our many lifetimes.

He didn’t say anything, just sat down beside me, pulled me into his embrace, and drew the remaining heat and flames into his body. And though desire stirred between us, he did nothing more than simply hold me.

“It must have been a bad one this time,” he said, his warm breath tickling my ear. “It’s rare for your prophetic dreams to end in flames like this.”

“It wasn’t bad. It was just weird.” I pulled free from his arms and swept the hair out of my eyes. Like Rory’s, mine was red, though it strayed toward the copper end of the spectrum more than was usual for phoenixes. “This time the victim was already dead.”

He frowned. “Why on earth would you see that?”

I snorted softly. “Why on earth do I even get them? It’s not like it’s an ability found in any other phoenix we’ve ever come across.”

He half smiled. “True. But then, you always were a little different. It’s what attracted me to you.”

“Like you even had a choice in that.”

My tone was dry, and he acknowledged the point with a wider smile. When a phoenix hit sixteen years old, a ritual was performed to reveal his or her partner and, from that moment on, the two were bonded—whether they liked said partner or not. Thankfully, I’d never heard of a bonding in which the partners hated each other, but it would certainly be a horrible situation to be in, considering that each phoenix in the pairing relied on the other for rebirth.

I swung my legs past him and rose. The carpet was thick and warm under my toes as I padded across to the chair, grabbed my jeans, and pulled them on.

“I take it you’re going to investigate this death, despite being able to do nothing to prevent it?” His tone held an edge that was both amused and resigned.

“Yes.” I grabbed a sweater, gave it a sniff, and tugged it over my head. “I don’t think the death was the reason I was there. I think it was the creature.”

Surprise flickered through his amber eyes. “What creature?”

I sat down and tugged on socks. “It was some sort of shape-shifter, but nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

“Given the number of shifters we’ve come across over the centuries, that’s saying something.”

“Yeah.” I grabbed my boots. “This thing had multiple shapes, but the form it seemed to settle on was a big black dog with backward-facing feet.”

“Backward feet? How did the damn thing even walk?”

“Without any problem, from what I saw.” I stood up. “I have to see what is going on, Rory. I need to know why I was shown that thing.”

He sighed and pushed to his feet. “I know. But please promise me you’ll be careful. I would really love to get through one lifetime without either of us being killed before our hundred years are up.”

I smiled as I walked over to him. While every phoenix could be reborn with the help of his partner, his life span each time totaled one hundred years precisely. I had no idea why or how that number of years had been allotted to us, but neither of us had ever gotten to that magical figure. The closest I’d ever come was ninety-eight.

I draped my arms around his neck and kissed him. It was a gentle thing, but the promise of fire ran beneath it. We both had other partners sexually, but it never erased our need for each other. In fact, phoenix partners had to combine energies every couple of days or we risked fading and could die—which was just another nail in the coffin when it came to finding happiness with whomever we fell in love with each lifetime.

“I’ll promise to be careful if you promise to get your butt out of bed and actually make it to work on time this morning.”

“Hey, my butt has made it to work with five minutes to spare on three occasions this week.”

I grinned. “Then go for four—hell, even five. The fire chief will think all his Christmases have come at once.”

“I just might, even if only to show you both it’s entirely possible.” He ran a finger lightly down my cheek before his touch settled on my lips. “I mean it. Be careful. I really don’t like the sound of this dream, and I like the thought of your investigating it alone even less.”

I kissed his fingertip, then said, “I know, but Jackson doesn’t get back from the job in Sydney until tomorrow afternoon.” I’d met Jackson only five weeks ago, after I became involved in the investigation into my boss’s murder. We’d gotten on so well that he was now not only my lover but also my business partner, as he’d offered me a fifty percent share in Hellfire Investigations, his PI agency. But he didn’t know about my dreams, and I really preferred to keep it that way. It was bad enough that I endangered my own life investigating them; there was no way I was going to risk someone else’s.

And it wasn’t as if we didn’t have plenty of other problems at the moment without my adding to them.

Rory’s concern deepened. “You haven’t told him about the dreams, have you?”

Jackson knew I was a phoenix because my fire had helped saved his life, but I hadn’t mentioned the dreams because there’d been no reason to. “No, but—”

“Em,” he cut in softly, “don’t make the same mistake with Jackson that you made with Sam.”

“It’s hardly the same thing,” I snapped back. “Damn it, you know very well why I didn’t tell Sam I was a phoenix, and he certainly didn’t give me a chance to explain why I need you in my life.”

“I know.” He grimaced, caught my hands, and squeezed them lightly. It only made the anger flame higher. “Believe me, I know. But I was just thinking the other day—what if it’s about honesty?”

“What?”

“The curse. What if it’s all about honesty?”

“No one is sure if the curse theory is even true.” I pulled free from his grip. “And it’s not as if we haven’t been honest. For fuck’s sake, Rory, how many times has one of us been killed or burned because of honesty?”

“Too many.” His voice was grim. “But we’ve never been honest with our partners from the very beginning, and maybe that’s the point of the curse. Until we are, maybe we’ll never find happiness.”

“It’s hardly practical to be honest when humans fear the unknown.” I walked back to the chair to grab my leather jacket.

“I know, but baby steps and all that. Tell Jackson about the dreams, Em. Besides, if one hits when you’re with him, he needs to be prepared.”

“Maybe,” I muttered, not convinced. “I’ll think about it while I go investigate this creature.”

He snorted softly. “In other words, no.”

I didn’t say anything—there was little point. We’d been together for a very long time, and he knew me very well. “I’d better go. The dream didn’t pinpoint a time, so there just might be a chance of stopping this thing before it starts anything major.”

“Maybe I should come—”

“No,” I cut in instantly. “Remember our rule, Rory.”

That rule—only one of us could ever step into a dangerous situation at a time—had been made for a damn good reason after a particularly nasty event had almost taken us both out several lifetimes ago. I might be getting a little weary of endless centuries of heartbreak, but I certainly wasn’t tired of life itself.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, leaving several bits sticking up at odd angles. “Okay, but take my bike. It’s not like you’re going to get public transport at this hour, and it probably wouldn’t be wise to catch a cab in case you have to leave in a hurry.”

I nodded and followed him into the kitchen. After grabbing the keys from where he’d dumped them on the counter, he tossed them over to me and added, “Just don’t scratch her.”

I grinned. “I think you worry about that bike even more than you worry about me.”

“Well, it is a classic, and a brand-new purchase besides.” Amusement teased his lips. “Give me a call once you figure out what is going on.”

“I will.”

I blew him a kiss, then grabbed my handbag and headed out of our apartment. Lights came on as I strode toward the elevator even as the shadows reclaimed the area behind me. They’d begun replacing all standard lighting in the building’s public areas—except for the lobby, which was manned with security twenty-four/seven—with movement-activated ones nearly a year ago, but it was only in the past few days that they’d finally gotten up to our floor. I rather liked the idea of them, if only because they gave advance warning that someone was approaching. A handy thing, considering that we were now on the outs with the sindicati, the vampire equivalent of the mafia, and definitely not an organization anyone with any brains would want to be on the wrong side of.

But it wasn’t like we’d had much choice. They’d not only kidnapped both me and Jackson, but they’d held him ransom in exchange for the missing notebook that held my boss’s research on the cure for the deadly red plague virus. It was a virus that had the potential to turn the human race—and some supernaturals—into insane pseudo vamps, and even with Jackson’s life at stake, there’d been no way I was about to let the sindicati get their grubby mitts on something like that. While I had no doubt that the sindicati, who had their fingers in just about every level of criminal activity imaginable, were a major headache to law enforcement, they’d be nigh on unstoppable if they got hold of a drug capable of changing the human race—and some nonhuman ones. Because they would use it to threaten and control.

So I’d arranged a little subterfuge of my own, and the exchange had gone off without a hitch. Almost. But at least the sindicati would find no joy in the notes, as the virus that had been placed into the computer that held them would activate the next time the device was booted up, and everything on the hard drive would be rendered unreadable and unrecoverable.

We were expecting reprisals, and the fact that they hadn’t responded, several weeks later, was scary. But then, vampires did have all the time in the world to plot revenge.

A soft chime announced the elevator’s arrival. I stepped inside its warm interior and pressed the basement button. The door closed, and, in no time at all, I was astride Rory’s fierce black Norton Commando and thoroughly enjoying being able to stretch her out in the near-empty Melbourne streets.

Highett Street looked nothing like what I’d seen in the dream. For a start, the street was wider, with two lanes of traffic as well as room for cars to park along either side. And there were not only footpaths but big old plane trees that cast deeper shadows across much of the street and the nearby houses.

James Hamberly’s house was hidden behind a six-foot green metal fence, and if the number of weeds and bushes scrambling over it was any indication, the front yard was as wild as the back. I parked the bike, took off my helmet, and immediately heard it—the electronic shrieking of a fire alarm. I swore and ran for the house.

“Is Jamie all right, then?”

I jumped and half swung around. The voice had come out of the darkness that enclosed the house to my right and, after a second, a woman appeared. With her white hair, pale skin, and the overly large dressing gown that flapped loosely in the slight breeze, she almost resembled a ghost.

I took a deep breath and walked on. “I don’t know, because I’m not in there yet.”

My somewhat offhand reply obviously didn’t please her, because her voice was sharper as she said, “You know him, then?”

“Old friends.” I paused to unlatch the rickety metal gate. “Could you go inside and call the fire brigade? That’s the fire alarm going off.”

I didn’t wait for her answer, just ran up the old wooden steps and headed for the front door … and discovered it was open. Just a crack, but since the creature hadn’t entered the house this way, James Hamberly was either lax about security or, as I’d suspected earlier, someone had left in a hurry.

I pulled a sleeve over my fingers and carefully pushed the door open. Even without entering the house, I could feel the dance of fire; the heat of it washed across my senses, stirring the embers within my soul to life and making me hungry to taste its sweetness.

I stepped warily into the house. Air brushed heat past my face, and I glanced up, seeing a vent several feet away. The heating was not only on but turned up. Hamberly had probably cranked it up when he’d gotten home, just to take the chill off the air, but why would he then go to bed and leave a pot to burn on the stove?

Again the heat of the flames washed across my senses, but I ignored its siren call and headed into the bedroom I’d seen in my dream.

The creature was gone. Only the dead man it had dined on remained.

I swore yet again, then spun and headed for the kitchen; I needed to take care of the fire before I did anything else. The pot on the stove had caught alight, and flames raced up the walls and across the ceiling, fierce and bright against the darkness. I stepped closer, flung my arms wide, and called them to me. The fire reacted instantly; thick fingers of flame leapt from both the ceiling and the walls and flung themselves at me. It spun around me, the intensity of the fire increasing until it was a maelstrom that roared with heat and power. For several seconds I simply enjoyed the close dance of the storm that didn’t touch, didn’t burn, but only fed.

Gradually, though, I became aware of approaching sirens. With a regretful sigh, I drew the maelstrom into my body, and, god, it was glorious. And it made me wish Rory were here to share the heat and the passion that such a moment always created.

But that was not what I was here for, and time was running out.

With darkness once again in control of the kitchen, I rummaged through the kitchen drawers until I found a lid that fit the pot. After calling a sliver of fire to one fingertip, I seared the inside of it to replicate what would have happened had I actually capped the pot with it and dropped it into place. Then I grabbed the pullout mixer tap and quickly sprayed water across the walls and ceiling. With everything drenched and the real reason the flames had been so quickly doused covered up, I grabbed my phone and called the cops to report the death as I spun on my heels and ran back to the bedroom. The fire brigade would be here within minutes, so I needed to discover whatever clues the creature had left before then.

As in the dream, James Hamberly lay on the bed with the blankets pulled back and his body exposed. But what I hadn’t noticed earlier was that—if the dents in the pillows beside his were anything to go by—someone had recently shared his bed.

So who was that person, and why had that person left in such a hurry as to have knocked over the coat stand and left the front door ajar?

I had no idea—but I had a feeling it would be very worthwhile to find the answers to both those questions.

Hamberly was a short, overweight man with steely gray hair and features that were not unpleasant. Death might have caught him unaware, but at least he’d died with a smile on his face.

My gaze dropped back to the area the creature had pierced with its teeth—only it hadn’t done it once, but twice. There was another cut in his chest, right above his heart. There didn’t seem to be any other marks on his body, however, and I wondered if the creature had simply come here to dine on those two organs, or whether its actions had been interrupted by the fire alarm. It certainly seemed like a whole lot of effort to go to for such a small gain, but until I knew for sure what this creature was, there was no way to know what it had really intended to do here tonight.

I stepped back and studied the rest of the room, looking for anything else that might provide some clue as to what I was dealing with. There were droplets of water on the wooden floor, but they could have dripped off my coat as easily as off the creature.

I closed my eyes, envisaging where it had stood, then looked for that spot on the floor. Other than the droplets, there didn’t seem to be any other giveaway clues. Not even hair.

So why did the damn dream bring me here if not to uncover some way to track this creature down? I spun around. If the nearness of the sirens was anything to go by, I had maybe three minutes—if that—before the fire crew arrived. I tugged a sleeve over my hand, walked across to the beautiful old mahogany wardrobe, and carefully opened the door. One set of clothing, not two. Hamberly’s partner either didn’t live here, or she kept her clothes in another room.

I closed the door, then turned and scanned the bedroom again, just in case I’d missed something. Nothing appeared to be out of place; the creature really had come here to dine on a dead man. I shivered and wondered how it had even sensed the death when it obviously hadn’t come from around here; then I thrust the question aside. The hows and whys were not important right now. But as I turned to walk out, an odd scent caught in the back of my throat. I frowned and took a deeper breath. Again that scent tickled my throat—foul and almost chemical in its taste. After several more breaths, I realized it was coming from Hamberly’s direction. Confused, I walked back over and leaned closer to the wound above his heart. It was definitely some sort of chemical smell, and it was coming from the wounds themselves. Maybe the creature had injected some kind of liquid through its teeth to dissolve both the liver and the heart before it had sucked them out. It would certainly explain how it had managed to do so through teeth that, while sharp, were also needle fine.

I shuddered and walked out. The creature might have become little more than shadow and ash to get into this place, but it had regained dog form once it had. Maybe there was a clue somewhere else.

I investigated the other rooms as I passed them, but found nothing to suggest anyone else lived here. I walked through the kitchen, then into the little laundry. There was water here, too, and several puddles that vaguely resembled paw prints. I got out my phone and took a photo and, in the brief flash of light, caught sight of something floating in one of them. I flicked on the flashlight app and squatted next to the puddle. It was a hair—a short dark one. There was no certainty it belonged to the creature; for all I knew, Hamberly owned a cat or maybe even a dog. Hell, it might even belong to whoever had recently shared the bed with him. But there’d been no sign of animals in the dream, and there wasn’t a litter box anywhere inside the house. It might prove to be nothing more than a random hair from a previous visitor, but it was better than nothing. And while I had no way of investigating whether the hair did belong to the creature, Jackson just might. I knew he had a secret source and, given the type of information he’d gotten from her recently, I very much suspected it was a cop.

I thrust upright, ran back to the kitchen, and grabbed a spoon and a sealable plastic bag. Once I’d claimed my prize, I shoved the bag deep into my purse and walked out of the house to wait for the fire crew and the police.

Several hours of questioning followed—not only from the fire chief and the police but also from the overly nosy neighbor—so it was almost dawn by the time I was allowed to leave. Rory had already gone to work when I got home, so I dumped his keys back on the kitchen counter and went to have a shower.

One of the many good things about becoming Jackson’s partner was that I could now walk to work. Hellfire’s offices were situated in West Melbourne, only a fifteen-minute walk from where Rory and I lived at Waterfront City. Once dressed, I grabbed my coat and bag and headed out. Though cold, the wind coming off the nearby sea brought with it the aroma of freshly baked bread. My stomach rumbled a reminder that while the spirit might have dined out on fire, the flesh had yet to feed, so I grabbed a couple of croissants and munched on those as I walked through streets that were surprisingly empty. Usually by eight in the morning, the place was packed—though admittedly, at this end of the city there was more car than foot traffic.

Hellfire Investigations was located on Stanley Street, and that was not only currently filled with early-blooming blossoms and wattles but also contained an eclectic mix of light industrial and old Victorian buildings. It was close to both the Queen Victoria Market and the Flagstaff Gardens, and the rent, I’d discovered, was horrific. But it had one major advantage that many other—cheaper—locations didn’t: It was situated right next to a blacksmith’s. Jackson was a fire Fae and, like most of the Fae, he had to be near his element regularly; otherwise he risked fading and, eventually, death.

Our building was a rather pretty, blue-painted double-story Victorian that was little more than two windows wide. I grabbed the mail out of the letter box, then opened the old wrought-iron gate and bounded up the two steps to the door.

Only to realize it was slightly open.

And it hadn’t been that way when I’d locked up and left the night before.

Someone had broken into our office.

CHAPTER 2

I warily pushed the door open. Sparks danced across my fingertips, a weapon that was ready to ignite at the slightest hint of danger. The long, thin room that was our office appeared empty, but there was plenty of evidence that someone had been here, because the place was a mess. They’d ransacked our desks and filing cabinets and scattered paper everywhere. It almost looked as if the place had been hit by a snowstorm. The three computers were missing, although the screens and keyboards were still present and looked somewhat forlorn among the mess.

My gaze went to the spiral staircase that sat to one side of the lounge area at the far end of the room, and the tension running through me increased again. Just because I couldn’t immediately see or sense anyone on this level didn’t mean they hadn’t hightailed it to the next. I pressed the door all the way open to ensure no one hid behind it, then quickly stepped to the other side.

Still no sense or sign of anyone.

I placed my bag on the floor¸ then clenched my fist to contain the sparks. The last thing I needed right now was to inadvertently set fire to anything. I cautiously moved forward. Paper crunched under my feet or whispered away in the breeze of my passing, but nothing else stirred. Nor was anyone hiding under the desks, although the drawers, like everything else, had been ransacked. Several had even been smashed, as if to ensure there were no secret compartments. Whoever had done this was either a little paranoid or just very thorough.

I continued on until I reached the staircase. Thankfully, the paper storm hadn’t quite reached this end of the room, although there were a number of plastic cups in a nearby bin that hadn’t been there yesterday evening. The bastards had obviously made use of Jackson’s industrial-sized coffee machine while they’d ransacked the place—and that suggested a well-timed, well-planned raid rather than a spur-of-the-moment event. Just as the fact that they’d left the cups behind suggested they had no fear of being traced through their fingerprints.

I looked up to the next floor. Nothing registered on the sensory radar, but that didn’t mean someone couldn’t be up there. The senses of a phoenix, while far better than a human’s, were nowhere near as sharp as those of a werewolf or vampire.

There was only one way I was going to find out whether the fear twisting through me was justified or simply the product of an overactive imagination, but I just couldn’t force my feet onto the first metal step. Not in this form, anyway.

I glanced at the front door to ensure there were no passersby, then called to the fires within. They surged through me, flinging me from flesh to fire spirit in an instant. No longer constrained by physical limitations, I swept up the staircase and into Jackson’s living area. The light of my flames danced across the room, lending warmth to the shadows and leaving nowhere to hide. Like the floor below, the area up here was one big expanse. The kitchen was centrally located, with the bedroom to the left and the living area on the right. There was no one or nothing up here; nothing beyond the usual dust and unwashed dishes, anyway.

I moved across to check the bathroom—which was the only separate room in this entire area—but again, there was nothing. I reclaimed my flesh form and finally relaxed.

While this area had escaped the paper storm, it had nevertheless been searched. They’d stripped the bed, pulled the mattress away from the base, emptied out cupboards, and upended the couches. It had been a very thorough search and, for that reason alone, I suspected the persons behind it were connected to the sindicati. They had to be, because who else had any reason to snatch the computers? None of Jackson’s other cases—or at least, none of those he’d updated me on—warranted such action. The sindicati, however, didn’t have access to the research notes they’d been promised, and no doubt suspected we had to have backups hidden somewhere.

Only we didn’t—I’d given the only other copy of the notes to Sam Turner, who was not only my ex but also a cop working for the Paranormal Investigations Team, a specialist squad of humans and supernaturals who worked outside the regular police force to solve crimes that involved paranormals.

We’d neither seen nor heard from anyone at PIT since we’d handed over the notes. They even appeared to have pulled the tail they’d had on me. While I’d never been happy about being followed around, it had nevertheless been somewhat reassuring to know there was someone close who could come to my aid if things got ugly. Which they had, of course, and, in the end, the tail hadn’t really been of much use. Maybe that was why it had been pulled.

I studied the room for a moment longer, then headed back downstairs. After calling the cops, I made a pot of green tea, then sat down to watch the security tapes while I waited for them. What the tapes revealed were raiders in dark clothing wearing black masks. Which wasn’t exactly helpful, as the raiders had no doubt intended.

The cops weren’t exactly helpful, either, when they finally arrived. They basically took notes, collected the security tapes, and disappeared. But then, other than write up a report, take a few photos, and dust for prints, what else could they do? If the sindicati were behind the break-in, the nearby neighbors wouldn’t have spotted them. Not when vampires could wrap the night around their bodies and all but disappear to human eyes.

With the police gone, I closed—and locked—the door, then got down to the business of cleaning up. I was only halfway through the mess when the alarm on my phone went off, reminding me it was time to go meet Jackson at the airport.

I headed back upstairs to grab the keys of the car Jackson had rented until PIT released his truck—though why they even had it, I had no idea. The sindicati might have rammed it to snatch me, but I doubted there was a whole lot PIT could glean from the wrecked vehicle beyond the fact that the van that hit me was black—and they knew that from witness reports. And the longer they had it, the more likely it was that they would discover the three USBs I’d hidden under the seats. Given the trouble I went through to get the damn things, I’d be seriously pissed if they were taken before I’d even had a chance to look at them.

I found the car keys under an upended kitchen drawer and went back downstairs to reset the security cameras. Then I grabbed my handbag and headed out.

There was very little traffic on the Tullamarine Freeway, so it didn’t take long to get to the airport. I parked in the short-term area, then walked across the bridge to the terminal. After checking the boards to see where his plane was coming in, I headed through security and walked down to the lounge. It was packed, so I found a pillar to lean against while I waited.

Thankfully, the plane arrived on time and, as people began to disembark, I straightened, my gaze, scanning the crowd of people exiting the air bridge. Not that Jackson was in any way hard to spot. He was a big, lean man who radiated sexuality and heat, and he towered over those nearest him by a couple of inches. If there was one thing literature and movies had gotten wrong when it came to the Fae, it was their stature. They were neither small nor winged, and the only ones who were ethereal in any way were the air Fae.

His grin, when his gaze met mine, was easy and delighted, creasing the corners of his emerald green eyes.

I moved forward to meet him. He dropped his carryall, then caught one hand and pulled me close. His body was not only delightfully muscular but deliciously warm. Fire Fae had core temperatures that ran a lot hotter than most humanoids, which, in many ways, made them almost perfect partners for beings made of fire. But Jackson was also perfect in one other respect: Fire Fae didn’t do commitment, and Jackson was never going to want anything more than a good time from me—which was just as well, given Sam was this lifetime’s heartbreaker.

“You,” Jackson said, his voice gravelly and sounding as if it were coming from the general direction of his boots, “are a sight for sore eyes.”

A smile teased my lips. “Don’t try to tell me there were no seduction opportunities up in Sydney, because I won’t believe you.”

“It’s true, whether you choose to believe it or not.” His expression was woebegone, although the effect was somewhat muted by the amusement creasing the corners of his bright eyes. “The stakeout was in the middle of goddamn nowhere; the nearest I got to any sort of female was watching my target get picked up in the local pub.”

“A chance encounter, or a deliberate one?”

“Oh, the latter most definitely. It was artfully done, but once they were back in her hotel room, it was all business rather than sex.” He shook his head sadly. “Which was a total waste of a good bed and woman, if you ask me.”

I grinned. “I’m gathering you ran a trace on the man she met?”

“Woman,” he corrected. “And she’s a courier for the sindicati. But, for the moment, that is unimportant, because I seriously need to kiss you.”

And with that, he did.

It was a long, slow, and extremely sensual kiss, one that was filled with desire and heat. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed my body even closer, enjoying all his luscious heat even as I fought the desire to draw it into my own body.

“Oh, for god’s sake, get a room,” a woman muttered as she brushed past.

Jackson chuckled, the sound vibrating lightly against my lips. “That is a damn good idea,” he murmured. “Shall we race over to the hotel and grab one?”

“You have a perfectly good bed at home.” Or, at least, he would when it was put back into place. “Besides, you might not feel so amorous when you discover what happened last night.”

“It’d have to be a pretty dire event to stop a fire Fae from feeling amorous.” His tone was dry. “But what happened?”

“We got raided.”

His amusement faded. “By whom? PIT or the vamps?”

“I suspect the latter, if only because of the thoroughness of the search and that it happened at night. Besides, if PIT wanted something from us, they’d openly come and take it.”

“And woe betide us if we, in any way, objected.” He thrust a hand through his dark gold hair. “What was taken?”

“Besides the three computers, I’m not entirely sure. I’m only halfway through the cleanup.”

He picked up his carryall, then tucked a hand under my elbow and guided me forward. “Did the security cams reveal anything?”

“Yeah, men in dark clothes wearing ski masks.”

He grunted. “If it was the sindicati, I’m guessing they were looking for the notes.”

“And once they realize they’re not on any of the computers, they’ll be back.”

“We knew something like this was going to happen.”

“Yeah, but I was hoping we’d have more time.” Even if more time would have only caused more anxiety. But at least now that they’d made their first move, we had a clearer path forward.

His expression was grim. “Well, I can tell you one thing—those bastards are not getting their hands on me again. Not without a major battle.”

An understandable sentiment, considering the last time he’d been taken had resulted in a broken arm and leg. That he was walking now was only due to my having become spirit, allowing him to not only siphon my flames but use them to heal his body. It was something I’d never done before, and I had no idea whether there would be consequences for either of us. So far, it appeared not, but then, it hadn’t been all that long since it had happened.

“We could install a better security system—”

“It wouldn’t be of much use,” he cut in. “We’re talking about a crime syndicate, remember. I doubt there’s a system out there they couldn’t get around if they really wanted to.”

His point was well proven. Not only had they gotten into both the Chase Medical Research Institute, where I’d worked before my boss had been murdered, and Rosen Pharmaceuticals, the company that had hired Jackson, but they had also hacked into their computer systems and erased everything related to the research into the red plague virus.

“Besides,” he added, “I doubt the next attack will involve our building. It’ll be against us directly, and it’ll be someplace dark and secluded.” His gaze met mine, green eyes concerned. “Since dark and secluded are part and parcel of an investigator’s job, we’d better start carrying.”

I grimaced as we stepped onto the escalator and headed down to the bag collection and exit area. “My investigator’s license hasn’t come through yet, so that option is out for me. And my fire is a better weapon than any gun you could give me.” Besides, it wasn’t like a gun was going to stop a vampire attack—not when the bastards could move as fast as the wind.

Jackson must have been thinking along the same lines, because he said, “A gun might be useless against the speed of a vampire, but if you manage to get the drop on them, you can certainly blow their fucking brains out. But I wasn’t actually thinking about that sort of gun.”

I raised my eyebrows as we headed across to the parking lot. “What other sort of gun is there?”

Amusement touched his lips. “A water gun.”

“A water gun?” I stared at him for a second. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Totally.” The amusement so evident on his lips warmed his bright eyes and had my pulse rate skyrocketing again. Not that that was a surprise, given both the desire he was still radiating and the fact my hormones were still physically unsatisfied after the delight of ingesting Hamberly’s fire. “A small plastic gun loaded with holy water can make as big a mess of any vampire as any regular gun—and you have the advantage of being able to hold down the trigger and spray it in a wide arc.”

I dug the parking ticket out of my pocket, paid the fee, and led the way across the lot to the car. “Why hasn’t anyone ever developed this idea commercially? At the very least, the police would find a weapon like that extremely handy.”

Hell, anyone would. Vampires might be more civilized these days—and attacks on humans few and far between—but that didn’t mean they never happened.

“Oh, both the police and the military have developed such a weapon. They just don’t use it during day-to-day operations.” He dumped his bag into the trunk of the car, then climbed into the passenger seat. “Could you imagine what would happen if it became common knowledge it existed? There’s enough trouble on the streets now with the antisupernatural squads without feeding them the knowledge that holy water really is an effective weapon against vamps.”

That was true enough. While humanity had reacted far better than anyone had really expected when vampires and werewolves had revealed their existence during the height of Hollywood’s love affair with all things supernatural, there were still pockets who believed nonhumans were a threat that needed to be eradicated—and who were willing to back this belief with action. Nightly “hunting” parties were becoming a real problem, and while they might be illegal, it didn’t seem to stop anyone. Of course, it didn’t help that some police and politicians who sympathized with the hunters were more than willing to turn a blind eye to their actions.

Which was the main reason why the rest of us hadn’t come out. Heaven only knew how the paranoid would react if they ever actually discovered just how many other nonhuman races were living among them.

“It’s hard to believe no one’s ever realized it, though.” I started up the car and headed out of the parking lot. “I mean, holy water is such a literary stable. Vamps might have spent years debunking the myth, but I would have thought someone, somewhere, would have tested it out anyway.”

“They undoubtedly have, but remember, holy water burns rather than kills outright. If you hit a body part other than the face, you’re basically dead meat. The vamp will be on top of you before you can scream.”

“True.” I paused to shove the ticket into the exit gate. “But that’s also a problem that applies to both of us.”

“Well, yes, except that we’re both faster than humans, and we have other weapons at our disposal.”

I glanced at him. “I have, but you need a source of fire before you can shape it.”

“I have you.” He shifted in his seat and gave me a wide grin. “Not only are you the best source of flame I’ve ever encountered, but you come wrapped in a very luscious package.”

I snorted softly. “I’m being serious here—”

“Oh, so am I.” He reached over and placed a big hand on my thigh. “You really are a luscious woman.”

“Concentrate on the sindicati and what we’re going to do to avoid them,” I said, ignoring not only his compliment but the warmth of his touch and the desire it stirred. “Because any plans you have for seduction might just depend on whether we can remain out of their grasp.”

“I know.” He sighed and removed his hand, though the heat of his touch lingered. “But the truth of the matter is, if they want us, they’ll get us. We both know that. We can’t run either the business or our lives around what they might or might not do—not indefinitely, anyway. All we can really do is watch each other’s backs as much as is practical.”

I mulled over his words as we merged into the traffic heading toward the city. While the reason Jackson had offered me the partnership in the first place was simply so that we could protect each other, he was right; it wasn’t going to be enough. The sindicati had to have been watching us to know when to make their raid, and yet we’d had no sense of them. No sense of being watched at all. And as much as I’d promised Rory I would be careful, I’d lived long enough to know that, sometimes, the best defense was offense.

“What if we take the fight up to them?” I said eventually.

“It’s certainly an interesting premise, although I daresay a dangerous one.”

I glanced at him. “And this worries you?”

He grinned. “I’m a fire Fae. We live for danger.”

“And here I was thinking you lived for sex.”

His grin grew. “And you don’t think sex can be dangerous? Darlin’, you obviously haven’t lived long enough.”

“I’m a phoenix. I’ve had more rebirths than you’ve had years.” My tone was dry. “And when it comes to sex, I’ve seen more and probably done more than you could ever imagine.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” His expression was decidedly wicked. “I can imagine a whole lot.”

“Well, just stop doing so right now, and concentrate on the matter at hand.”

“A hard thing to do when my hand is itching to reacquaint itself with all your lovely curves.”

Which was certainly something I wouldn’t have objected to … I mentally swatted away the images that rose with the thought, deciding I’d better take my own advice and concentrate. “We can attack them from two angles; we can go after Henry Morretti—”

“We were warned off the sindicati—and Morretti specifically—by your ex,” Jackson said. “I don’t think he’d take it all that well if we ignored that warning.”

“But they’ve pulled my tail—”

“You only think they’ve pulled the tail,” he cut in again. “Just because you can’t sense them doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Meaning you don’t want to go after Morretti?”

“No, I’m just pointing out the probable consequences. The next time your ex catches us interfering, he might do a whole lot more than merely give us a drug-enforced warning.” He hesitated. “And, just for reference, no air or fire Fae can survive jail time.”

I couldn’t, either, and for similar reasons. I might not need to be immersed in my element regularly, but I certainly needed time with Rory. But jail time was the threat we were currently under if we didn’t give up investigating the death of Mark Baltimore—my former boss at Chase. Somewhat oddly, though, Sam had not offered the same warning when it came to investigating the disappearance of Professor Wilson, the other scientist involved in the research into the red plague virus. His notes, like those of my boss, were missing, and no one had any idea where they’d gone. Except, maybe, Amanda Wilson, who was both the professor’s wife and a telepath for hire. She was also the woman who’d given me the USBs stashed in Jackson’s truck. And if Sam had found them, she might be our only hope of uncovering what had happened to either Wilson or his notes. And Sam wouldn’t stop us going after her—he’d told me she was of little interest to PIT. The trouble was finding her, as she was currently in the hands of one of the warring sindacati factions—but which one, we had no idea.

That there were two factions was something I hadn’t even known when Mark Baltimore had been murdered and all hell had broken loose in my life. I still had no idea which faction we’d been snatched by, because we had only one name—Morretti. Whether he was the current power or the would-be power, I didn’t know, and I certainly had no clue as to who his opposition was. Though I very much suspected the cool-voiced, ultrapolite vampire who’d been in charge when I’d exchanged Jackson for the laptop containing the research notes might have been it. And if that was true, it also meant I’d managed to annoy both factions. Because not only did I plant a virus on the laptop that would have destroyed the notes the minute he tried to access them, but we’d also foiled his plans to kill us. Although whether the kill plot had been his idea or that of the man in charge of the red cloaks—the nickname given to those infected by the red plague virus—was anyone’s guess.

After merging into some more traffic, I said, “What if we don’t go after him directly?”

I might fear Sam’s threat, and had no desire to anger him any more than he already was, but there was a part of me—the very same part that had gotten me into more trouble than I could remember over the centuries—that couldn’t walk away completely. Not only had my boss been murdered, but I’d been kidnapped, threatened, and drugged—and not just by the bad guys. I was pissed off, and I wanted answers.

Jackson half smiled. “I suspect your ex still wouldn’t be pleased by a sideways approach, but I do so love your thinking. Who do we hit first—Amanda Wilson, Denny Rosen, or Lee Rawlings?”

Rosen was the man behind Rosen Pharmaceuticals, and Lee Rawlings was the vamp Morretti had hired to pick me up the first time I’d been snatched. Unfortunately for Morretti, things had not gone according to plan—I’d not only escaped and interrogated Sherman Jones, the initial bagman, but we’d intercepted and paid out Rawlings in exchange for information.

“Given the sindicati have Amanda, and it might take a bit of time to find Rawlings, why don’t we tackle Rosen? You’re due to report to him anyway, aren’t you?”

Jackson grimaced. “I very much doubt he’ll be able to tell us much about the sindicati.”

“It’s still worth a shot.”

“Maybe. And he did call when I was in Sydney, enraged that I haven’t handed in an update for several days.” A smile flirted briefly with his kissable lips. “His bluster died somewhat when I told him PIT had become involved in the investigation.”

I frowned. “Surely he had to be aware of that? I mean, they would have spoken to him when Wilson and his research went missing.”

“They may not have identified themselves as PIT.” His gaze met mine. “Or they may have simply read his mind from a distance. PIT aren’t afraid of bending the rules or stepping on civil liberties, remember.”

“But not everyone can be mind read—you said that yourself.”

Certainly neither Jackson nor I could be, but then, neither of us was human. And while that rule didn’t apply to all supernaturals, it had certainly saved our butts whenever we’d landed in PIT’s grasp.

“And yet,” he said, “according to Amanda Wilson, Rosen is something of an open book.”

“Remember who made that statement,” I said drily. “It’s possible she was lying through her teeth.”

“It’s also possible she wasn’t.”

I acknowledged the point with a shrug. “But if she wasn’t, then it might also mean anything he could tell us will have been investigated and/or dismissed by Sam and his people.”

“True, but if she was, then PIT would have had to read him with specific parameters in mind. Few telepaths have open access to anyone’s mind, remember.”

And thank god for that. “It’s highly unlikely that PIT would ask the same questions we would.”

“This is PIT we’re talking about. They were probably aware that Rosen was selling company secrets to pay off his gambling debts well before we ever knew.”

I frowned. “But if they know that, surely they would have taken steps to have him removed from his position?”

“Why would they, when he’s perfect bait to catch everyone else in the chain?”

“One of which is Radcliffe.” Or, more precisely, Marcus Radcliffe III. He not only owned a string of secondhand stores that were little more than a front for a roaring trade in black market goods and information, but he also happened to be the man who owned Rosen’s gambling debts.

“Precisely,” Jackson said. “But who is he selling them to? He’s not the end user—he’s not that clever.”

“He’s clever enough to avoid the damn police.” Or, at least, he was until I’d lured him into a hotel bedroom, and Sam had promptly stormed in and snatched away our prize. “I don’t suppose you know if PIT ever released him?”

“No, and it’s not a question I can ask my source, either.” He shrugged again. “I guess the only way we’ll find out is by asking at the casino if he’s been back.”

“It’s worth a shot.” If Radcliffe was the high roller we’d been led to believe, then he either had to risk illegal games or venture back to Crown, as it was Melbourne’s only casino. And it wasn’t like I could ask Sam what Radcliffe was doing. Aside from the fact he wouldn’t tell me, the only number I had for him was a central number that collected the message and passed it on. “Speaking of your police source—”

“I never said she was police,” he interrupted, his tone mild.

“You never denied it.”

“No, and I won’t ever confirm or deny it. It’s too risky, especially now with your ex and PIT on the scene.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“I know,” he cut in again. “I trust you, or I wouldn’t even have mentioned her, but this is her decision, not mine, and I have to respect that.”

“Which is fair enough.” Especially if she was a cop. She was risking her career by feeding Jackson any sort of information. “Do you think either she or someone she knows might be able to get a DNA analysis done on a black hair I found?”

“Possibly.” He studied me for a minute. “Did you find it at the office? Because, honestly, it could belong to any of at least a half-dozen recent clients.”

“It’s not from the office.” I paused, still reluctant to tell him about my dreams, even if I knew deep down that Rory was right. Jackson needed to be prepared in case it happened when he was with me. “I found it in the house of a dead man last night.”

“Which begs the question, what the hell were you doing in the house of a dead man? It wasn’t one of our clients, was it?”

I half smiled. “No, fortunately. A dream sent me there.” I gave him a brief explanation of the dreams, the problems they’d caused over the centuries, and what this particular dream had led me to find.

“So this hair may or may not belong to the creature,” he said, “and it might be the only way of tracing it?”

“Unless I have another dream, yes.”

“It’s a hell of a long shot,” he said. “You may get DNA from the hair, but you’re not going to get a name or location.”

“I know, but DNA will at least give me some idea of what I’m dealing with, and that, in turn, might give me some idea of a location.”

Because just as different human nationalities tended to gather in certain areas, so too did supernaturals.

“There is no me in this equation,” he commented. “And I’ll pass the request on to my source. It really is a long shot, though.”

“I know.” I shrugged. “So, back to the office, or shall we go visit Rosen?”

“As much as I’d love to drag you up to my bedroom and prove just how dangerous sex can be, I’ve got a feeling we’d better go interrogate Rosen.” Though amusement touched the corners of his lips, little of it reached his emerald eyes. “The sooner we can uncover who has Wilson’s research, the more chance we have of getting everyone off our backs.”

“Somehow, I don’t think it’s going to be that simple.”

He shrugged. “It’s a start.”

And it wasn’t like we had many other options right now, anyway. “So which is the easiest way to get to Rosen Pharmaceuticals from here?”

“Continue down CityLink and get off at Barkley Street.”

I did so. Rosen Pharmaceuticals, it turned out, was situated in busy Power Street in a rather plain-looking four-story building with a café dominating one side of the ground floor and a lawyer’s office on the other. It was very different from the dedicated building inhabited by their opposition—the Chase Medical Research Institute, which just happened to be owned and run by the ex whom Rosen hated.

“You might want to turn right onto Lynch Street,” he said, “because there’s no parking in front of the building.”

“Oh yeah?” I slowed down and flicked on the blinker. “Obviously no one told the dipstick in front of us.”

He grinned. “Maybe I should have said there’s no legal—” He paused and leaned forward suddenly. “That’s Rosen.”

I glanced toward the building’s entrance. A tall, somewhat weedy-looking but impeccably dressed man was exiting the building, accompanied by two other men. All three were heading toward the illegally parked sedan.

“Well, I guess he figures it’s okay because he owns the joint.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think he owns the car,” Jackson growled. “And I certainly don’t think he’s going willingly.”

“What?” Instead of pulling out, I moved closer to the curb and stopped—and then saw what Jackson had already seen.

One of the two men accompanying Rosen was a werewolf we’d met once before—when we’d rescued Amanda Wilson from his not-so-tender ministrations. His companion was even bigger, with thick hairy arms and thighs so large, he walked like an ape. We knew the first wolf worked as a thug for hire, and I was betting the second man did, too.

I had no idea where they were taking him or what they intended, but one thing was very obvious—Denny Rosen was in serious trouble.

CHAPTER 3

“What are we going to do?” I asked.

“Rescue him, of course,” Jackson said. “But if we try it around here, someone’s bound to call the cops. We don’t exactly need that right now.”

“Calling the cops might be the only way we’re going to beat those bastards.” Hell, I’d barely survived tackling the werewolf the last time we’d met, and I had no desire for a rematch. I might now be at full strength and more able to defend myself, but the bastard was big. And his friend was even bigger.

“You forget whom you’re traveling with.” Jackson twisted around and pulled a slender wooden box from underneath the car’s backseat.

Amusement ran through me. “Don’t you go anywhere without an armory as backup?”

“Well, I can’t always rely on having a pretty lady made of fire at my disposal now, can I?” He pressed his thumb into the little scanner, and the case opened. “What would you like? The sawn-off shotgun or Glock semi?”

“I thought semiautomatics were illegal.”

“It’s a common misconception; they aren’t, though there are strict ownership criteria to contend with.” He got out the double-barrel shotgun and studied it for a minute. “I think even a werewolf built like a brick shit-house will respect this baby.”

I wasn’t so sure about that, given there were two of them. “I’ll keep to my fire. I think it’ll impress them more than a gun.”

“It’ll impress Rosen, too, so unless you want to out yourself as something more than human, you’d better take the Glock.”

“Good point.” He loaded both weapons, ensured the safeties were on, and shoved the wooden box back under the seat. Up ahead, Rosen was pushed none too gently into the rear seat of the car. Man-Mountain One squeezed in beside him while the other ambled around to the driver’s seat. The car started up, but instead of pulling out into the traffic, the driver waited until there was a gap in the flow and did a quick U-turn. I did the same but kept several cars between us.

“Do you think this snatching means the sindicati believe Rosen might know more than Amanda uncovered?” I said.

“That depends on which sindicati faction employed Amanda and who has her now. It could be either the incumbent faction or the opposition, depending on who has what.”

“Which suggests the people behind this are the ones who haven’t got Wilson or his notes,” I commented.

“Or maybe they have, and they’re just being ultra-cautious and getting rid of evidence.”

“Which again points to the possibility that Rosen knows something.”

“Or that they realize he’s a loose cannon and don’t want to risk him talking to the cops or PIT.” He shrugged.

“As you said earlier, if PIT thought he knew something, he’d be under watch. I can’t see anyone else following that car right now.”

“Doesn’t mean they’re not there. There are winged shifters, remember.”

“Yeah, but if Sam and PIT still believed Rosen could be of any use to them, he would have warned us away from him, along with Morretti.”

“Possibly.” He glanced at me. “But PIT does like playing its little games.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Meaning you’ve crossed swords with PIT before?”

“Once or twice.” He shrugged again, his expression somewhat grim. “As I’ve said, the police in this town and I do not see eye to eye.”

“You just get more and more interesting.”

He grinned, though it failed to lift the shadows in his eyes. “There is more to me than my sexual prowess.”

“I wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t.”

“I’m so glad to hear that.”

Up ahead, the big black vehicle put on its blinker and swung into the right-hand turn lane. Not wanting to pull up right behind him and risk Man-Mountain One looking back and recognizing us, I instead stopped on the left side of the road and waited. Only once the lights changed and the right-turn lane got the green arrow did I begin following him again.

We drove down Swan Street, then over the Yarra River, around past the Art Centre, and through several backstreets until we reached an area I recognized—Port Melbourne.

“Well, well,” Jackson murmured. “Another industrial area. Imagine that.”

An industrial area was where Morretti had wanted me delivered—and was probably where I’d been when the ultrapolite vamp had given me the option of exchanging Jackson’s life for the research notes. If they were taking Rosen somewhere similar, I felt a little sorry for him. He was a gambler and a seller of secrets, and I very much suspected whoever was behind this action wouldn’t be as considerate or as polite to him as they had been to me.

“We can’t let them get to the location; not if we want any hope of rescuing Rosen.”

“There’re still too many possible witnesses around at the moment to take any sort of action. We really have no choice but to wait.”

“I hate waiting.”

“Says the woman who’s lived for more centuries than I’ve had years.”

“Patience doesn’t come with time, let me tell you.” And impatience had gotten me into trouble more than once over the years.

One of the two cars between our quarry and us turned left, leaving us with very little cover. Our rental car might have been a plain white sedan, but even the densest of drivers would surely have thought it suspicious that he kept seeing the same one practically right up his rear end.

Jackson obviously reached the same conclusion, because he got out his phone and Googled our location. “Okay, pull over to the side of the road. We’ll see where they go at that roundabout.”

I did so. The black car cruised on through the roundabout and kept going. I glanced at Jackson. “And?”

“Keep following, and hope they turn down Lorimer Street.”

“Why?”

“Because at the very end of that street is one Sardine Street, which leads into an old transport depot.”

“Abandoned?”

“Abandoned. If they go there, then it’s to kill him, not question him.” He flashed me a grin filled with both excitement and anticipation. “At least the odds are even; two against two.”

“That’s presuming there’s no one else at the depot waiting for them.”

“There won’t be. I’m certain of it.”

I wished I shared his confidence. Wished we could leave Rosen to his fate. But we couldn’t, if only because he might know something useful.

The car ahead turned onto Lorimer Street, just as Jackson had hoped. We followed suit a few seconds later but remained well back. There were plenty of warehouses along this stretch of road, and plenty of cars and people about, too. But as we drew closer to the CityLink overpass, the warehouses became rattier-looking, or were in the midst of being demolished. There wasn’t anyone about down this end of the street; even the demolition site was empty of life. The black car finally turned again—onto Sardine Street, as Jackson had hoped.

“Stop here,” he said.

I did a U-turn and parked under the trees that lined the small parkland between the road and the Yarra River, then climbed out. Although there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, the breeze coming off the water was cold, and I shivered. I could have very easily ignited my inner fires to warm myself, but if things went wrong in the next few minutes, I was going to need every ounce of heat and flame I could muster.

Jackson handed me the Glock, then led the way onto Sardine Street. We kept to the left, walking in the shadows between the old gum trees that lined the rubbish-filled parking bays. On the right-hand side, the wide concrete supports of the overpass dominated, and the roar of traffic was constant and unending. It would, I thought grimly, go a long way to covering the sound of any gunshots if we were forced to use our weapons. Down the far end of the street was a high metal fence, but the old gates lay on the ground and had been there for some time, if the weeds growing through the links were any indication.

The black car had stopped close to a couple of old shipping containers. Even as we approached the gates, Man-Mountain One climbed out of the backseat, then dragged Rosen out. Rosen wasn’t screaming, wasn’t fighting, wasn’t doing much of anything. When the werewolf released him, he simply fell to his knees and bowed his head.

Accepting what was to come, I thought. It said a lot about the state of his life if death was a better option than fighting.

With very little fanfare, Man-Mountain One pulled a gun out from behind his back and pointed it at Rosen’s bowed head.

We’d officially run out of time.

I stopped, flicked the safety off the Glock, and fired off four quick shots. The first smashed into the car’s rear window, the second pinged off the bumper, the third hit the tarmac near Man-Mountain One’s boots and sent bits of asphalt spinning into the air, and the fourth smashed into his hand and sent his gun flying.

He roared, the sound one of fury more than pain, and lunged for the fallen weapon.

“Don’t,” Jackson warned, his shotgun aimed and ready even as he walked closer to the werewolf and Rosen—who, interestingly enough, hadn’t reacted to the gunshots. Maybe he was drugged rather than simply resigned to his fate.

The werewolf froze, but the man still in the car took off so fast, the tires smoked. He didn’t go far; he simply spun the car around and accelerated straight at us.

Jackson swore and fired the shotgun, the sound so close and loud that my ears rang. The car’s windshield shattered, but the second went wide as the driver wrenched the car sideways. I raised my gun and fired, aiming for the tires, and getting one of the rears on my third try. It blew out, and the car spun widely.

Another bellow cut through the air; I looked around and discovered Man-Mountain One barreling at me.

I swore and fired, but I missed as he threw himself sideways. He was up and running at me again with incredible speed, a wide grin of anticipation stretching his lips. I stepped back and squeezed the trigger again, only to discover I was out of rounds.

The werewolf laughed and lunged at me. I spun away from him and raised a hand. Fire leapt from my fingertips, forming a wall so fierce and hot that no sane person would risk traversing it. The werewolf might be furious with me, but he was sane. He propped and turned left, obviously intending to run around the firewall. I flicked my hand, twisting the fire into thick rope, and flung it at him. Again he threw himself sideways, hitting the asphalt hard before rolling onto his feet and running again, this time away. I hooked my flaming rope after him and lassoed his legs, causing him to stumble and fall. He cursed and fought, trying to free himself from the fiery strands that held him tight without burning. But as I twined my rope up the rest of his body and pinned his arms, he froze. His gaze, when it met mine, promised death. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen that particular expression on his ugly mug, but it nevertheless sent a shiver of fear running down my spine. I’d just turned hate into obsession, and it was going to get nasty.

I thrust the thought away and spun around to see how Jackson was doing. And realized that shooting the car’s rear tire out hadn’t stopped the thing; it was now barreling straight at Jackson. He seemed totally unfazed by this turn of events; he simply raised the shotgun and rather calmly sighted.

And waited.

The car continued to speed toward him; even from where I stood I could see the wide grin of anticipation stretching across the driver’s face as he fought to keep the car in a straight line. Jackson didn’t move, and he didn’t fire. At the very last moment, when it seemed totally impossible for the car to miss him even if he had fired, he simply leapt up and over the vehicle, landing elegantly and in complete control behind it.

And only then did the driver—and I—realize he’d been standing in front of another old shipping container. The driver slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel, but he was going far too fast for a car that was already unstable thanks to the shredded rear tire. It flipped, rolling once before landing on its roof and sliding driver’s side first into the container.

Jackson ran toward it, the shotgun held at the ready. Metal groaned and the engine roared, but there was no sign of movement from inside the car. The airbag had gone off, however, and I had no doubt Man-Mountain Two was alive and well. It’d take more than a high-speed rollover to take out someone his size. My gaze went to Rosen. He still hadn’t moved; in fact, he showed absolutely no awareness that anything untoward had gone on around him.

Frowning, I glanced back at the werewolf and wondered what in the hell the pair of them had given Rosen. The wolf returned my gaze balefully but remained mute. Of course, he didn’t actually need to say anything, because his eyes promised plenty—and none of it was good. Thankfully, my flames were still holding him tight, so I followed Jackson across to the car. The farther away I moved from my fire, the more it tugged at my strength, but that was better than Jackson facing the bigger man when armed with only a shotgun.

“What, you don’t trust my ability to cope with someone his size?” he said, clearly amused.

“In situations like this, it’s sometimes better to play it safe than be sorry.” I stopped beside him and squatted to have a look inside the car. Man-Mountain Two glared back at me. He had blood in his hair and dust and abrasions over his face, but otherwise he seemed intact. “He’s awake, aware, and not happy.”

“Can he get out?”

As Jackson asked the question, the big man growled and flicked the seat belt catch. It didn’t retract. He growled again, then reached down into his boot and withdrew a knife. I narrowed my gaze and, a heartbeat later, fire erupted around the shiny blade and melted the metal before he could use it. Man-Mountain Two was not impressed by this; he roared again and threw himself against the seat belt in an effort to get free. He got nowhere fast.

“If you don’t want to meet the same fate as your knife,” I said conversationally, “throw out any other weapons you might have, as well as your wallet and cell phone.”

“Go fuck yourself,” he snarled. “I’d rather—”

I didn’t let him get any further; I simply sent more fire his way, this time letting the front of his shirt smolder for several seconds before snuffing it out. His gun, wallet, and cell phone appeared in pretty quick succession. Big, but not dumb.

“Okay, he’s pinned tight and safe for the moment.” I rose and kicked the three items farther away from the car. “Shall we go question Man-Mountain One?”

Jackson snorted as he secured the shotgun. “Maybe this time we should ask the bastard his name.”

“He’ll probably just lie.” I walked back over to the wolf and stopped in front of him. “You can’t trust thugs who hire themselves out to the highest bidder.”

Said thug hawked and spat. The globule landed inches from my toe.

“Hasn’t anyone told you it’s not polite to spit at a lady?” Jackson squatted next to the wolf, grabbed a fistful of shirt, and dragged him closer. “Do it again, and I’ll relieve you of whatever teeth you have left after our last encounter.”

The wolf snarled, revealing canines that were decidedly sharper than they should have been. The bastard was beginning to shift shape. Thankfully, despite what humans might believe, it wasn’t an instantaneous process.

Jackson shook him—hard. “Go any further into your change, and the flames that bind you will burn you.”

As he spoke, one of my flames crawled up the front of the wolf’s shirt and danced across his chin. The smell of burned flesh and seared hair caressed the air. Jackson’s doing, not mine.

The wolf gritted his teeth and hissed as sweat popped along his forehead. But after a moment, he said, “All right, all right; what do you fucking want this time?”

“Your name would be a good start. And don’t attempt to lie.” Jackson withdrew the fiery sliver, but it still danced across his fingertips.

The wolf glared at it, me, then Jackson in quick succession, and said, “What the fuck are you two?”

“Firestarters,” Jackson replied. “And you have one second more …”

“My name is Theodore Hunt.”

Theodore seemed entirely too posh a name for someone his size and shape.

“And your employer?”

He hissed again, though it was a sound more of frustration than anger. “Radcliffe.”

Jackson glanced at me. “You believe that?”

I crossed my arms and half shrugged. The werewolf had nothing to gain by lying, but I suspected lies fell off his tongue a whole lot easier than the truth.

“I agree.” He let the thread of fire tease Hunt’s chin again. “Try again, wolf.”

“Okay, okay, it was Morretti. He wanted Rosen put away, and we were employed to do it.”

“Why?”

“How the fuck do I know? The sindicati aren’t in the habit of explaining the why of jobs. They just expect them done.”

“Meaning you’ve just landed on their shitlist again,” I commented. “Somehow, I can’t be sad about that.”

Hunt’s gaze narrowed, but after a quick glance at the fire that still danced across Jackson’s fingers, he wisely refrained from saying anything.

“How were you supposed to be paid?”

“Via an exchange this evening.”

“When, where, what, and who?” Jackson said.

“Seven p.m., the Grey Street fountain, and the bastard’s left hand.”

His left hand? That seemed an oddly specific choice. Why not his right? Or even his head? I shivered and rubbed my arms, though it wasn’t entirely in horror. The fire was beginning to tug at my strength, and while I was a long way from being anywhere near depleted, I still didn’t want this situation to go on for much longer. We had no idea when the sindicati would strike next, and there was no way I was going to get myself into the same situation as I had last time—out of fire, unable to shift into spirit or bird form, and left with only those skills that came with my flesh form to depend on.

Jackson glanced at me, eyes narrowed, then said softly, “Stop feeding the flames. I can keep them active.”

Shock ran through me. He was reading my thoughts—or at least, reading some of them. He had to be … but how? Neither Jackson nor I was telepathic, and it was certainly something that had never happened before now. Only it wasn’t just now—when I actually thought about it, he’d been answering unspoken thoughts ever since I’d picked him up at the airport.

He blinked, as if suddenly realizing what he’d done, and half smiled. “Interesting,” he said, then returned his attention to Hunt. “You forgot the who.”

“Because I don’t fucking know. It’ll be just another courier. The sindicati never put themselves in any situation that might bring down interest from the cops.”

Which made their kidnapping of us all the more unusual—although it was blindingly obvious from their actions at the exchange that they hadn’t actually intended to release us.

“And the payment?”

His breath hissed out. “Ten grand.”

For murdering someone? Either these two worked cheap, or Morretti figured Rosen wasn’t worth much anymore.

“You’re not going make that meeting, I’m—”

“Fuck the meeting,” Hunt growled, his gaze cutting to mine. “The third time’s the charm, sweetheart. And the next time, the shoe will most definitely be on the other foot.”

“If there is a next time,” I retorted, “I’ll burn your ass to hell and back.”

And if I’d done precisely that when we’d stopped the bastard murdering Amanda Wilson, not only would I have saved myself future problems, but, considering how close he’d come to killing me, I probably could have claimed self-defense and gotten away with it.

I’d barely finished speaking when Jackson swung his fist; the blow snapped the wolf’s head back and rattled his teeth. He was out of it before his bloody spittle hit the asphalt.

The flames binding him were immediately doused, leaving Hunt’s clothes smoking slightly but his skin untouched.

With the bastard finally unconscious, I relaxed. “We’d better lock these two up if we want to make that meeting tonight.”

Jackson pushed upright. “Wonder if Morretti intended to get rid of two birds with one stone and use Rosen’s death to draw us into their net?”

“And do what? Kill us? I doubt they’d go to such lengths when we haven’t exactly been hiding out. Besides, he’s more likely to want Hunt dead than us.”

“That’s probable since Morretti doesn’t take failure lightly, but I doubt he actually wants to kill us. Even vampires can’t get answers out of the dead.”

No, but the leader of the red cloaks could—if the victim had been infected with the virus before the death had occurred, that is. “As I said, if he wanted to question us, there were easier ways to go about it.”

“Which is where the two-stones theory comes in. Why else would Morretti use someone we’d instantly recognize? Had anyone else escorted Rosen to that car, it’s doubtful we’d have reacted.” He toed the unconscious werewolf lightly. “Besides, the only reason this bastard isn’t in jail right now has to be because someone with enough pull kept him out.”

“Given the legal system’s soft-sentencing tendencies on criminals, he probably just walked from court with a slap on the wrist.” I frowned. “But Morretti couldn’t have known we’d decide to visit Rosen—”

“Couldn’t he?” he cut in. “They’re obviously aware of our movements. In fact, given who they are, I wouldn’t put it past them to be tracking the car.”

“Great,” I said, my tone heavy. “So from now on, no major discussions inside the car until we check it.”

“That’s if the car is bugged. As I said, it’s probably just a tracker.” He shrugged. “I’ll check it. But it might still be wise to use a different mode of transport if we go to this meeting tonight.”

“And to go fully armed.” Especially if this whole thing was all part of a grander scheme.

Jackson nodded. “I’ll dump Hunt in one of the shipping containers. Then we’ll grab Rosen and take him somewhere safe.”

I glanced toward the upturned car. Man-Mountain Two appeared no closer to getting free, but he had, at least, turned off the engine. “What about the other one?”

Jackson half smiled. “He can sit there and rot for all I care, though I daresay Hunt will free him eventually. The containers will hold a wolf of his size and strength for only so long.” He bent and, with a grunt of effort, hauled the unconscious wolf at his feet upright. “Why don’t you go prepare a cage for our hairy friend?”

I jogged over to the two containers near Rosen. The rods on the first one had been bent at right angles and didn’t have any sort of lock. The second one looked no less rusty than the first, but the rods were in place, as were the lock handles that opened them. I unlatched the right door, then moved across to the left and repeated the process. The doors swung open easily enough. Inside was a pile of putrid rubbish and what looked to be human remains. At least Hunt would have some company while he was locked in here.

Jackson dumped him inside, and then went through his pockets until he’d found Hunt’s phone. He crushed it under the heel of his boot and left the remains for Hunt to find.

“Right,” he said, closing the right-hand door after he’d exited. “Let’s grab Rosen and get out of here.”

I locked the left door, checked both were secure, then followed Jackson across to Rosen. He still wasn’t responding to external stimuli, and his blue eyes had a glazed, no-one-is-home sort of look.

“Definitely drugged,” I said.

“Yeah.” Jackson seized Rosen’s arm and hauled him upright. “Come on, let’s get you somewhere safe.”

“Okay,” Rosen said.

Meaning he could see and hear; maybe whatever he’d been given simply made him pliable. It would certainly explain why he’d walked so willing into the arms of certain death.

We made it back to the car without incident. Jackson shoved Rosen in the rear seat and told him to sit still and be quiet—to which he got another soft “Okay.”

After Jackson had done a quick search for bugs and discovered nothing, I started up the car and reversed out. “Where to?”

He leaned forward, turned on the radio, and said, his voice barely audible over the music, “We can’t risk taking him back to either his house or the office. Once Morretti realizes things haven’t gone as planned, they’ll be the first places he looks.”

“And for the very same reason, we can’t take him back to our office.”

“No.” Jackson studied the road ahead for a second. “What about we all stay at that hotel we used after I rescued you from the sewer?”

“Good plan, except for the minor fact that we can’t register in our own names because that’ll also make finding us easier.”

His sudden grin was wide and cheeky. “Did I register in either of our names the first time?”

“Well, no.” I glanced at him. “That’s one hell of a good friend you’ve got if you’re still running around with his credit card.”

“It may be his card, but I’m paying the bills, never fear.” He shrugged. “Besides, as I explained, I saved his wife. He’s come out and said, more than once, anything I want, I can have.”

“And this is the first time you’ve asked for anything?”

He nodded. “I don’t believe in abusing my client’s gratitude. It’s not a great way to get return business or recommendations.”

“With that I agree, but many wouldn’t.”

“Which is why Hellfire survives whereas many other agencies don’t.” He twisted around in the seat and added, “Rosen, why did those men grab you?”

“They said Radcliffe wanted to talk to me.” His reply was monotone, without life.

Jackson glanced at me, eyebrow raised. “Indeed? What about?”

“Gambling debts.”

“Just how much do you owe Radcliffe?”

Rosen shrugged. “Eight, ten million, something like that.”

“You don’t know?” I couldn’t help the surprise in my voice. While I’d never been much of a gambler, there had been times over the centuries where I punted more than I should have and paid the price for it. But I’d been fully aware of how much I owed, even if I kept digging the hole deeper in an effort to get out of it.

“What do a few million matter?” Rosen replied absently. “The company is worth billions.”

Jackson snorted. “It’s not going to be worth anything if you get caught selling company secrets.”

“It’s my company, and I pay my scientists good money to uncover those secrets. Why should I not be allowed to use them as I please?”

I shook my head, unable to believe what I was hearing. “They’re not your secrets when it’s the government paying you to do the research.”

And I have to admit, I’d been surprised when I’d first discovered that. But—according to Jackson—it was part of a deep-level government initiative to outsource certain projects. Apparently, there were too many management types and too much red tape that came with government labs. Over the years, they’d discovered it was far easier to have a black slush fund and get certain projects done under the radar.

Rosen didn’t say anything. Maybe he just wasn’t willing to admit what he was doing was wrong.

“Has Radcliffe ever sent those two men to collect you before?”

“No.”

“And you didn’t think to check with him, just to ensure they were from him?”

“No, because he rarely sends the same people. It’s safer that way.”

“Undoubtedly.” Jackson glanced at me. “So, was our massive friend telling the truth or spinning a yarn?”

I shrugged. “I think lying is a natural state for Hunt, but I really couldn’t guess whether he was or not with us.”

Jackson grunted, then glanced back to Rosen. “What do you know about the disappearance of Wilson’s research?”

“Nothing more than the police have told me. The bastard got himself murdered, and persons unknown took his notes and erased the information off our hard drives.”

“And you didn’t have backup?” Somehow, I found that very unlikely. After all, Lady Harriett (who owned and ran the Chase Medical Research Institute, and whom Rosen had no doubt hoped to piss off when he’d started up his own company after their divorce) not only had a backup system, but her chief researcher (my now-dead boss) also had his own backup system. Maybe Wilson had as well.

“Of course I had backup.” Rosen managed to sound indignant despite the compliancy in his tone. “The bastards found it.”

“But did they find Wilson’s backup?”

“No,” Rosen said at the same time as Jackson said, “What?”

I stopped at a pedestrian crossing and, as several schoolkids scooted across, said, “Baltimore once told me the reason he backed up all his notes was because he’d once had his research stolen, and he wanted to be able to prove, beyond doubt, it was his. It’s possible Wilson was similarly paranoid.”

“If he was, wouldn’t Amanda have known? And surely she would have mentioned it to Morretti.”

“And yet, Rosen said no.” The lights changed again, and I drove on.

“So he did.” Jackson glanced back at the man. “Do you know where he hid his backup?”

“If I had any clue, would I have hired you to find them?”

Amusement briefly touched Jackson’s lips. “You hired me to uncover who stole his notes, not find the backup ones.”

“I was hoping the latter would be part of the process.”

“Unlikely, given that up until now I didn’t even know the things existed.”

“Well, what sort of investigator are you?”

“A pissed-off one at the moment,” Jackson said rather mildly. “And that’s not something you want, considering that, right now, we’re all that stands between you and death. Did Wilson have any clubs, special friends, or places he went to regularly?”

Rosen shrugged. “I’m his employer, not his keeper. Ask that flirtatious wife of his.”

“That flirtatious wife,” I commented, “was a telepath working for the sindicati.”

“Bitch.” It was so mildly said, it was almost comical. And yet, anger practically vibrated off him. Maybe the drug was starting to lose a little of its influence—which was logical, since they’d really only need to give him enough to keep him pliant until they reached the kill zone.

“So, if you have no idea where Wilson kept his notes, why are you so certain they haven’t been found?”

“Because people keep asking about them.”

“People?” Jackson’s gaze sharpened. “What people?”

“Radcliffe, PIT investigators, some damn investigative reporter.” He shrugged. “I showed him the door quick smart, I tell you. Never did take a shine to vamps of his sort.”

Something twisted in my gut. Whether it was instinct or a premonition, I couldn’t say, but it nevertheless had me saying, “Describe him.”

“He was tall, with close-cut gray hair and old-fashioned rimmed glasses that were perched rather absurdly on the end of his nose. He had an air about him—one that reminded me of a rabid dog.”

Aside from the rabid-dog description, it was almost an exact match for Professor Heaton, whom Lady Harriet had supposedly employed to replace Professor Baltimore. Only trouble was, he’d been a vampire who’d had Lady Harriet under telepathic control, and my orders—to show him down to the labs and provide him with any help he required—had undoubtedly come as a direct result of his control over her. I’d chosen the safer option—running.

The lights ahead changed from green to red. I used the moment to grab my phone from my purse and bring up the picture I’d taken of Heaton. “Is this him?”

“Yes,” Rosen said.

I threw my phone back into my purse and glanced at Jackson. “I’m guessing Heaton read Rosen’s mind and discovered he didn’t know anything new about the notes.”

“Which is why it makes no sense for either Morretti or Radcliffe to have ordered him killed. Why waste a good future resource?”

I had no idea. But then, I wasn’t a crime boss or a black marketer, and never had been, so it wasn’t like I was coming from any level of understanding their thought processes. I turned onto Dorcas Street and swung into some underground parking near the hotel. If we did have a tracker attached to the car somewhere, parking here would at least make the sindicati’s time finding us a bit tougher. Jackson ordered Rosen out of the car, then handed him over to me while he opened the trunk and retrieved not one but two largish carryalls.

“You’ve taken to carrying spare clothes with you?” I said, amused.

“After all the shit with the sindicati and whatnot, I thought it wise.” He slammed the trunk closed. “I’ve got toiletries in here for you, but nothing in the way of clothes, I’m afraid.”

I caught Rosen’s arm and guided him toward the elevator. “Hoping, no doubt, that I’d run around naked.”

“I always hope that, and I am constantly disappointed.”

I snorted. “No fun and games during working hours. Your rules, not mine.”

“Rules can occasionally be broken.”

“Well, that isn’t going to be one of them.” Even if I had kissed him rather ardently at the airport. “For this partnership to truly work, there do need to be boundaries between our working and social lives.”

He glanced at his watch, then flashed me a dangerous and downright sexy grin. “So at precisely one minute past five, I’m free to seduce you?”

“If we worked regular office hours, sure. We don’t. Besides, we have a passenger in tow, remember? We can’t protect him if we’re doing the horizontal tango.”

“You’re a hard taskmaster, Emberly Pearson.”

I just grinned and led Rosen into the street. Five minutes later, we were walking into the hotel’s lobby. The vibrancy of the red feature wall behind the desk made me blink, just as it had the first time we’d been here, but at least this time I had more of a chance to look around—not that there was much to see. Other than the feature wall, the rest of the lobby was rather bland, even if it was clean and comfortable. Jackson strode over to the desk to organize accommodation and, in no time at all, we were once again in the elevator and heading for the tenth floor. As before, we didn’t have a room but rather a suite, this time with two bedrooms as well as a generous living area, separate bathroom, and a small kitchen.

“Right,” I said, leading Rosen into the smaller bedroom. “Lie on the bed and rest until the drug wears off. We’re in the living room if you need us.”

Rosen did as he was bid. I spun around and found Jackson peering out the living room window. “Problem?”

He shook his head. “Just scoping the street out of habit.” He pulled the curtains closed. “If we’re going to make this our base of operations, we need, at the very least, a computer.”

“Since I also need clothes, I’ll head back home and grab Rory’s laptop.” I still hadn’t replaced mine after handing it over to the sindicati.

“Just be careful coming back. We know the sindicati have replaced at least one of your building’s security guards with their own man; they might also have someone ready to follow you now that their office raid didn’t net them the desired result.”

“I’ll be careful.” I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him. It was long, slow, and totally wonderful.

Jackson groaned when I pulled away. “Damn it, woman, you don’t play fair.”

“Consider it a teaser for a later point when we have some alone time.”

“With the way my luck has been running, Rosen will be with us for days on end.”

I raised my eyebrows. “And why is that a problem?”

“Aside from the fact I’ll be as frustrated as hell, I don’t think the bastard can be trusted to behave himself for that long.”

I frowned. “Surely if we explain the situation to him, he won’t do anything stupid. I mean, he doesn’t seem the type to have a death wish.”

“He’s a gambler,” Jackson said heavily. “One who is so hopelessly locked into his addiction, he’s stealing from his own company. You can never trust someone like that to do the right thing—even if it’s something as simple as staying put to save his life.”

“Well, we can’t guard him twenty-four/seven—not if we want to find answers.”

“True.” He dropped a quick kiss on my lips, then stepped back. “You’d better go, before my hormones override my control.”

“A fire Fae with so little control.” I shook my head sadly. “What is this world coming to?”

“Neither it nor I are coming,” he growled, but with amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “And that is the whole problem.”

I grinned but grabbed my purse and keys and headed out. Jackson’s caution was catchy, however, because I checked the street carefully, looking for anyone who seemed out of place before I headed back to the parking lot. And I double-checked the car—more thoroughly than Jackson had—but got exactly the same result. No bugs. So maybe they were following us. I hadn’t spotted a tail, but then, if the sindicati worked with werewolf thugs, why would they not also employ shifters? As Jackson had noted, it would be easy enough for a winged shifter to follow us, and it certainly wasn’t something we’d notice. Nor was it something we could do anything about.

Except, maybe, constantly change cars. Or steal them.

I glanced around and noted the security cameras. Stealing wasn’t a possibility here, but it might be at another, less watched, location. I jumped into the car and headed out into the traffic. It was nearing rush hour, which meant it probably would have been quicker to walk home than to actually drive there. I found a parking spot a block away from our apartment and walked the rest of the way.

And discovered, as I walked into the lobby, Sam waiting for me.

CHAPTER 4

I stopped abruptly, my gaze locked on his and my stupid heart dancing about like a crazy thing. Just for an instant, the beautiful blue depths of his eyes warmed, and it would have been very easy to believe he was truly happy to see me. But the warmth disappeared all too quickly, cloaked by the shadows that seemed so much a part of him these days.

He uncrossed his legs and rose languidly from the chair, a big, lean man who exuded a dark sensuality—one that had somehow gained depth and power in even the brief time since I’d last seen him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” It came out a little huskier than I might have wished, but then, how could it not when every intake of breath was filled with his warm, woodsy scent? I was a being of fire, not stone.

Yet that same delicious scent now held an even deeper, more dangerous edge than before, and it was one that allured and repelled in equal amounts.

“I need to question you about last night’s events.” He stopped several feet away and shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. I had an odd feeling they were clenched and that he was fighting the desire to reach for me. Wishful thinking, surely. He and I were over, thanks to his refusal to believe that Rory was a necessity in my life; while my heart couldn’t move on, his obviously had. He’d made that more than clear during our recent meetings; hell, he’d drugged me, for god’s sake and, as a result, had restricted my ability to use my fire and had almost gotten me killed. Why would he do that if even the slightest bit of caring remained?

“Why?” I said. “I told the cops everything I saw last night. I can’t add anything else.”

“You might have told them everything you saw at the scene, but I doubt you told them everything you know.” His voice was as flat as ever, but much of the coldness that had been so evident in our recent meetings was absent. “I know you, Red. It wasn’t by chance that you were in that neighborhood.”

Was his use of my nickname just a slip of the tongue? Or was it, perhaps, an indication that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as filled with hate for me as I’d presumed? I couldn’t help hoping it was the latter even if I suspected it was the former. We might not ever be what we once were, but I’d like to think we could at least be friends. “And why would you think that?”

“Intuition.” He waved a hand toward the doorway. “Shall we take this discussion to Portside?”

Portside was the small café not far away from my apartment building, and a place we’d retreated to several times in the past few weeks. I stepped to one side and motioned him forward. Something flashed in his eyes—amusement or annoyance, I wasn’t sure which. Then he strode past me and out into the crisp afternoon air. Once again he chose a table overlooking the marina but as far away from the other customers as possible. Not that there were many about at this hour; it was too late for the lunch diners and far too early for the dinner crowd.

I pulled out a chair and sat opposite him. Not only because it put as much distance between him and me as was possible on a round table but because the wind was behind my back rather than his, taking his scent away from me.

He picked up a menu and studied it for several seconds. Frustration swirled through me, but I knew from past experience that he wouldn’t be hurried. He would say what he’d come here to say in his own good time.

That he was even here was odd, given his vow to stay well away from me. It wasn’t as if he were just an ordinary, everyday PIT investigator; everything he’d said and done since we’d come into contact again led me to believe he was fairly high up in the organization. Surely if he’d wanted to avoid me, he could have.

Unless, of course, everyone else was out chasing mad humans infested with the red plague virus.

The waitress came over. After she’d taken our orders and retreated, he put the menu away and interlaced his fingers on the table. His gaze, when it met mine, was steady and determined. The dangerous darkness had, for the moment, retreated, even if it hadn’t gone too far. I could still sense it, deep within him; it was a thick knot of shadows that stained his soul but hadn’t consumed him. Not yet, anyway.

Whether those shadows were the aftermath of his having had to kill his own brother after Luke had been infected with the red plague virus and it had made him mad, a result of his job at PIT, or something else entirely, I couldn’t say. All I knew was that the darkness was to be feared.

And I hoped like hell that whatever it was, he didn’t let it win.

I leaned back in my chair and returned his gaze steadily. If he wanted answers, then he’d better ask his damn questions. Rory’s theory was all well and good, but Sam was holding just as many secrets these days as I was. I wasn’t about to volunteer information unless he returned the favor.

But what if it’s not just about truth? that annoying inner voice said. What if it’s our actions as much as our words in this lifetime that affect what happens in the next?

It was a somewhat depressing thought, if only because I doubted anyone could ever be totally honest in thought and deed his entire life. Everyone made mistakes. Everyone lied—sometimes for good reasons, sometimes for bad. It was the one truth that hadn’t changed, not in all the centuries of my life. If our happiness did depend on achieving such a high goal, then we truly were cursed.

“Why were you really in that neighborhood last night?” he said eventually. “I’ve done a background check on Hamberly, and he’s certainly not someone you’d normally associate with.”

“Maybe these days he is,” I replied evenly. “Maybe I’ve suddenly gained a hankering for paunchy, middle-aged men since you and I split.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

Amusement briefly touched my lips. “What is this about, Sam? Why has PIT stepped into what should be a regular homicide investigation?”

“Because it’s not a regular homicide, and it’s not the first time this murderer has struck.”

I sat upright abruptly. “What?”

“Your reaction,” he all but drawled, “is something of a giveaway.”

It certainly was. But, damn it, if this wasn’t the first time the creature had struck, why hadn’t I dreamed about it before now? Generally, when the prophetic dreams hit, it was because a life hung in the balance—a life I could save if I so chose. That wasn’t an option here. And if it was the creature I was supposed to stop, why didn’t I see it when it first struck?

“How many others has this thing feasted on? And did it just take the liver and heart of those victims, or were other internal organs missing?”

“And just how,” Sam said, the shadows in his soul becoming a little more evident, “did you know this thing had a penchant for inner organs? There was very little evidence of such an invasion on Hamberly’s body.”

I hesitated, but it wasn’t really practical to hold back the truth in this particular case. Sam worked with PIT. They not only had vamps, weres, and shifters on their payroll, but all sorts of psi-gifted humans. If anyone could accept the reality of my dreams, it was he and PIT.

Even if, that inner voice whispered, he hadn’t been able to accept the reality of phoenixes.

Or rather, I amended silently, the reality that, as a phoenix, I could never be entirely faithful to the man I loved. Not if I wanted to spend an entire lifetime with him.

Of course, he hadn’t actually given me the chance to explain I had no choice but to be with Rory. And as much as I understood his anger, it still hurt that he’d chosen to wipe me from his heart rather than simply listen to my explanation.

“I want the truth, Red,” he said softly. “Not lies.”

You can’t handle the truth. The immortal movie line jumped onto my tongue and begged to be spoken, but I somehow kept it inside. Because the real truth was, anyone discovering the person they loved was apparently having an affair would have reacted the same way. Like it or not, our breakup was as much my fault as his, even if I’d spent a long time denying it.

“I saw the creature in a dream,” I said. “I saw it enter Hamberly’s house and watched as it began to dine on his body. I went there simply because I thought there was a chance I could stop it before it attacked anyone else.”

Sam studied me for a minute, his expression closed and his body still. He reminded me somewhat of a predator about to pounce; there was the same sense of coiled readiness about him.

And yet it wasn’t, in any way, aimed at me. Which was odd, considering that nearly every other time we’d met, he’d seemed too close to the edge; that at any second, the darkness within him could have reached out and killed me as easily as it would any villain.

Something had changed in the weeks since I’d last seen him. The darkness was still there; it was still very dangerous and very much to be feared, but it was—for the moment at least—controlled.

“And these prophetic dreams—this is how you knew I was in danger?”

I nodded. “I generally see events before they happen. Sometimes I interfere, but I’ve learned over the years it’s often better not to.”

“So why rescue my butt? We both would have been far better off if you hadn’t.”

There was an edge to his voice, a bitter anger so deep and desperate, it brought tears to my eyes. And again, it wasn’t aimed at me. Hell, if the blankness in his eyes was any indication, he wasn’t even seeing me right at this particular moment, but rather, something deep within.

Something that had changed him forever.

His brother, that internal voice whispered. But not the shooting.

Which made about as much sense as vampires suddenly gaining wings and flying.

“No matter how much I might have hated you at the time of our breakup,” I said softly, “I never wished you dead. I still don’t, even if you’ve been the world’s biggest bastard.”

He blinked and life returned to his eyes; life and darkness. “You can hardly expect tender treatment when so many lives have been put at risk thanks to this virus—especially when your behavior and dogged refusal to be sensible were hampering investigations.”

“You almost got both Jackson and me killed when you gave us the drug that restricted my abilities and made us obey your order not to pursue Morretti. Nothing we did justified that, Sam.”

“Almost getting you killed wasn’t our intention,” he bit back. “We simply meant to get you out of the way.”

“It might not have been your intention, but it certainly was the result.”

“As I said, unintended.” He paused. “Although we can hardly take all the blame—if you and Jackson had done as ordered and stepped away, you might not have fallen afoul of the sindicati.”

I snorted. “Nothing I did would have stopped them coming after me, and we both know it.”

Because they’d wanted the last of my boss’s notes—notes that I’d inadvertently lost when I’d run into the coffee table in the middle of the night, sending the pile of them scattering to all corners of the room.

But if I hadn’t, then the last of those notes would be in sindicati hands right now rather than in PIT’s, because the bastards had broken into my home and stolen the rest of them before any of us really realized what was going on.

“Perhaps.” Sam waved a hand, as if the matter were of no consequence. And I guess it wasn’t to him. “What was so different about Hamberly’s death that you decided to interfere?”

I shrugged. “In all honesty, I think it was simply that Hamberly was already dead. I’ve never had a dream in which I couldn’t change the outcome, not in all the centuries I’ve been alive. It had to mean I was there for the creature, not the victim.”

He leaned forward. Just for a moment, his scent spun around me, warm and enticing. But that still darkness was stronger with his closeness, and it instantly chilled the sparks of desire.

“Creature? Can you describe it?”

I hesitated. “It’s a shifter of some sort. It’s little more than shadow and ash, but it seems able to alternate between a cat, a bat, and a monstrous black dog with backward-facing feet.”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

I nodded. “The closer it got to its victim, the farther away the sound of its footsteps, so I suspect some sort of magic is involved. But I’ve never come across its like before, and I have no idea what it is or what it might be capable of.”

Sam scrubbed a hand across his jaw, his expression thoughtful. In the late-afternoon sunlight, his black hair gleamed with rich blue highlights, but his face was far leaner than it ever had been. It was almost as if every ounce of fat had been burned from his body, leaving only muscle and perfection.

“It certainly doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever read about,” he said eventually. “Do you know if it has a human form?”

“It never took a human form when my dreams followed it, but that doesn’t mean it can’t.”

He grimaced. “And you can’t tell us anything else about it?”

The waitress came back with his coffee and my tea and carrot cake. I dumped the bag of green tea into the little pot, then picked up the spoon and scooped up some cake.

“Not really,” I said in between mouthfuls. “I did notice a really weird chemical smell when I examined Hamberly’s body, and I think the creature might have injected something into the wounds to dissolve Hamberly’s organs before it sucked them up.”

“Your sense of smell is damn good if you picked that up.”

I shrugged. “I’m not human, Sam. I don’t suffer the same sort of restrictions.”

“When you’re wearing flesh, you’re as human as anyone else. That much I do know.”

Our gazes locked and memories rose. Everything that we’d been, everything that we’d shared; all the love and the laughter, all the heat and desire. It was right there, hovering between us, a ghost that flaunted the magnitude of what we’d lost.

Fate, I decided, was a bitch. It didn’t need to bring this man back into my life. Didn’t need to remind me how far I’d fallen from love everlasting in this lifetime, because I was more than aware of it.

I pushed the remainder of my cake away, poured myself a cup of tea, and then leaned back. It gave me time to recover, to think.

“That’s true in some respects, not so much in others.” I shrugged and directed the conversation back to slightly safer waters. “So how many times has this thing struck?”

He contemplated me over his coffee cup for a moment, then took a sip and said, “Hamberly was his third victim. The first attack occurred in a morgue, and the second was a junkie who’d overdosed.”

I frowned. “So he’s restricting his actions to dead people? That really is weird.”

“The problem is, there’s no guarantee he’ll remain content with dead people.”

“He’s taken three now. With any other killer, that would be considered a pattern, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, but in this case, each victim has been progressively closer to life. The first had been dead a day, the second twelve hours, and Hamberly barely one hour. His actions are escalating, and we fear that the next time, he’ll actually kill his victim.”

It was certainly possible, given the fast-dropping timeline. “How often is it feasting?”

“They started nine days ago. There were five days between victim one and two, and four days between two and Hamberly.”

So he had, at most, three days to find this thing before it killed again. No wonder he’d come to me; if the other crime scenes had been as clean as the most recent, they were obviously desperate for clues.

Except that Hamberly’s house hadn’t been absent of clues. And I still had that hair sitting in my purse.

“Did it take only the heart and liver of the other two?” I asked. “Because it seems a lot of effort to go through just to get those.”

“Yes,” he said. “And there are plenty of creatures out there who would rather feast on offal than flesh.”

There were plenty of humans who preferred it, too, but I very much doubted we were dealing with anything human. “You’ve obviously found nothing at any of the crime scenes that would help.”

“No.” He contemplated me for a second. “Have you?”

I hesitated, but in truth I wanted this thing caught as much as he did, and it made sense to hand the hair over. Jackson’s source might be able to help us out, but Sam and PIT were far better placed to go after this thing. We had trouble enough coping with Rosen, the sindicati, and keeping our clients happy. We didn’t need anything else lumped onto our plate.

Though that wouldn’t stop me from going after this thing if I dreamed of it again.

I reached into my purse and pulled out the plastic bag that contained the hair. “I found this in a paw-print puddle.”

He plucked the bag from my fingertips and held it up to the sun. “It’s a black hair.”

“Whether it’s the creature’s or not, I can’t say. But Hamberly didn’t appear to have any pets, and while he obviously had a partner, she wasn’t there at the time.”

“No.” He tucked the plastic bag into his pocket. “Anything else?”

I shook my head. “The dream wasn’t really that helpful.”

“Are they ever?”

“Sometimes.” They’d certainly given plenty of details when I’d saved his life, just as they’d done when I’d plucked the little girl from the flames that had left my back scarred. But this creature—and this situation—was different from anything else I’d ever dreamed about.

“If you dream again, I want you to contact us,” he said.

It was an order rather than a request, and the inner bitch sparked to life. But I bit back the instinctive retort and took a sip of tea. He’d been extraordinarily talkative this afternoon—at least compared to other recent meetings—so maybe it was time to try to grab some much-needed information. The worst that could happen was he could tell me to go to hell, and I’d been told that more times than I cared to remember—and by men more bitter than him.

“I will,” I said eventually. “On the condition you answer some questions.”

A smile twisted his lips, but it held no warmth. Though I fully expected a rebuke, all he said was, “That would depend on the questions.”

“The first one is easy—has PIT released Radcliffe?”

“Yes. And before you ask, I have no intention of telling you what information we did or didn’t get out of him.”

I snorted. “Trust me, I’m well aware of that.”

“Then what is your second question?”

“Why is PIT still holding Jackson’s truck?”

“We’re not. It was taken to the impound yard yesterday and a letter sent.” He paused, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a USB. My heart sank. It was one of the USBs I’d hidden under the driver’s seat when the sindicati van had smashed Jackson’s truck into a tree in a well-planned, well-timed, and very successful attempt to kidnap me. I guess it had been naive to think that PIT wouldn’t search the truck. If one thing had become obvious since this whole mess had begun, it was that PIT was ruthlessly efficient. And sometimes, simply ruthless.

But, as he’d said, they were dealing with a virus capable of wiping out a good portion of both the human and nonhuman populations, so they could hardly be blamed if they occasionally resorted to heavy-handed methods.

I just wished they wouldn’t use them against me.

I opened my hand, and he dropped the USB into it. “Why am I getting this one back?”

“Because there’s nothing relating to Wilson’s research on it.”

“Meaning the others did have information?”

He simply gave me another of those cool smiles. “Anything else?”

I hesitated. There was one question I was burning to ask, even if it would be stupid to do so. I had to move on from this man and what might have been, I knew that, but Rory’s words had stirred something within me, and I just couldn’t let go. Seeking answers certainly couldn’t alter what had already happened in this lifetime, but it might well be the difference between heartbreak and happiness in all our future ones.

I opened my mouth to speak, but my throat suddenly felt drier than the Sahara, and the words refused to come out. I picked up my cup and took another sip. It didn’t really help the dryness, but I nevertheless managed to croak, “If I’d been honest from the very beginning about what I was and what that entailed, would it have made any difference?”

He leaned back in his chair, his expression closed and his eyes shuttered. The darkness within him was still, but it was not unthreatening. It rose around him like a cloak, making him suddenly appear more shadow than a man of flesh and blood.

I blinked and the shadows fled, making me wonder if it had been my imagination or some sort of prophetic glimmer. Was my subconscious self—the being that was spirit and fire—seeing more than the physical senses of my flesh counterpart? I had no idea, and that was frustrating.

Sam remained still and silent. Tension wound through me, but as much as I tried to relax, I couldn’t. I needed an answer; needed to know if disclosing the truth would have made any difference to us, or whether it would simply have killed all hope of any sort of relationship, leaving me without even memories to survive on.

Eventually he sighed and leaned forward. There was something in his eyes—a spark that spoke of sadness—that had my stomach plummeting.

“That is a question I’ve asked myself a hundred times since you came back into my life.” His voice, like his expression, was closed. Only that fading spark gave any hint there might be more happening behind the shutters than the stillness suggested.

I swallowed heavily and said, “And did you ever come up with an answer?”

In the deeper shadows that haunted his blue eyes, hunger flared. It spoke of need—not just the need for emotional closeness but for something much deeper, much darker. It was a caress of flame that promised so much and yet threatened even more. It was almost as if he were a man of two very different souls, one born of light and the other of darkness. The former was the man I’d fallen in love with; the latter the man he’d become. Right at this precise moment, the two seemed to be on equal ground, but whether the status quo would or even could remain was anyone’s guess. But his darker half had certainly come out to play during some of our previous meetings, and I had no desire to come into close contact with that part of him any more than necessary—even if some tiny, somewhat insane part of me desperately wanted to understand what was going on with him.

“Why does it matter now?” he said eventually. “Neither of us can change the past or what happened.”

“No,” I agreed even as I wondered if he would want to, given the chance. “But it might just affect my future. Or rather, how I approach relationships in the future.”

“I would hope that you’d approached them honestly.” His flat voice oddly hinted at anger. “We both know the damage anything else can cause.”

“And yet, such honesty can result in just as much harm,” I replied evenly. “They may not burn witches at the stake anymore, Sam, but that sort of mentality is still very much in existence.”

“But only in a very small portion of the human population. For the most part, people are accepting of nonhuman existence.”

I wasn’t sure about that, but it wasn’t something I was about to debate. “And would you have been accepting?”

“Of your being a phoenix? Totally.” But even as those words left his mouth, his gaze became fierce. It was anger and hurt and confusion all mixed in with that deeper darkness, and it made my heart race as much as it sent chills across my skin. “But of a phoenix’s need to be with another man? I don’t know. I’m not the man I was back then, but I’m also even less inclined to share. And that, basically, is what loving you will always mean. I’m not sure I’m capable of that, Red. I’m not sure I’ll ever be capable of it.”

He rose so abruptly, his chair flipped backward, the noise drawing the gazes of the few diners who were here. Sam stepped to one side, righted the chair, and tossed some cash on the table. His gaze, when it finally met mine again, was calm. The turmoil I’d glimpsed had been erased, replaced by the still, cold darkness. “Make sure you call us if you dream of the creature again.”

Us, not him. A bitter smile twisted my lips as I watched him walk away. I’d gotten my answers, but it really hadn’t helped my situation. Not in this lifetime, and not for any other lifetime. And if truth was fate’s ultimate lesson for us, then it certainly wasn’t making the discovery—or even the desire to chase it—any easier.

I sighed and gathered the bills Sam had dumped on the table. He’d left enough not only to pay for his coffee but for my tea and cake, so once I’d given the money to the waitress, I headed home.

The smell of meat cooking hit my nostrils the minute I opened the door. I took a deep breath, needing to erase Sam’s scent from my nostrils and memory.

“Smell’s lovely.” I dropped my purse on the nearest chair and walked into the kitchen. Rory stood by the stove, stirring what looked to be a meat sauce. “Lasagna?”

He nodded. “I wasn’t sure whether you’d be home tonight or not, so I thought I’d make something I could easily freeze.”

“Good idea.” I kissed him, then grabbed a spoon and scooped up some of the sauce. It was delicious—but then, he’d always been a better cook than me. I was okay at the basics, but he was more adventurous. More imaginative—in the kitchen and out.

“What happened with your creature chase?” he asked.

I leaned against the nearby counter and crossed my arms. “The best thing about it was the night ride through the street. That bike of yours can move.”

A grin split his lips. “Why do you think I bought it? It’s the next best thing to flying.” He paused. “So if the creature chase was a bust, what has you so uptight? Is Jackson okay?”

“Totally.” I gave him a quick update on everything that had happened, then added, “Jackson is with Rosen now, and I’m going back there.”

“So what’s stressing you out?” He paused again, his gaze narrowing. “Sam.”

I sighed. “Apparently, the attack I witnessed last night wasn’t the creature’s first. He wanted to know why I’d been there.”

“And did you tell him?”

I half smiled. “That whole truth theory of yours got me thinking. So yes, I did. Besides, it’s not like I’ve got the time or the desire to go after this thing.”

“Unless, of course, you dream of it again.”

“Exactly.” I shrugged. “Sam was surprisingly reserved today. I don’t know what was different, but something was.”

Rory gave me a long look. “Don’t go falling for him again, Em. It won’t end happily.”

I snorted. “I can’t fall for him again simply because I never fell out of love for him—”

“You know what I mean,” Rory cut in. “Just guard your heart and your hopes. I don’t want to be picking up the pieces twice in one lifetime.”

“You won’t. His behavior is really puzzling, that’s all. Today there were glimmers of the old Sam, and they just made me all the more curious as to what happened to him.”

“It’s probably better not to know.”

It probably was, but that wasn’t something that had often stopped me.

Rory switched the stove off, then tugged me close and wrapped his arms around my waist. “I know that look. You’re going to chase this, aren’t you?”

I hesitated. “It’s not like I actually can. Sam won’t tell me anything—hell, he only comes to question me because he has to—and I doubt if any of his old friends will talk to me, even if he has confided in them.”

“Which doesn’t mean you won’t go ask them.”

“If this was another time, another situation, then probably.” I sighed and rested my cheek against his chest. The steady beat of his heart was oddly reassuring. “But I’ve got an odd feeling Sam’s on the edge right now, and I really don’t want to do anything to tip him into complete imbalance.”

“Says the woman who declares she has no intention of getting hurt a second time.”

I pulled back a little. “He is this lifetime’s love, Rory. I can’t help caring.”

“I know.” He brushed a stray hair out of my eyes, his touch light. “Will you be back home later tonight?”

I shook my head. “As I said, Rosen needs guarding, and we need to keep out of sindicati sight until we figure out what we’re going to do about them.”

He frowned. “Wisdom suggests you do nothing but avoid them.”

“Or that we figure out a way to stop them from coming after us.”

“I really don’t think—”

I placed a finger on his lips, halting the rest of his words. “We may have no other choice. But we’re not about to do anything stupid, and we certainly won’t do anything without letting you know first.”

“Good. But if you get dead, expect a right tongue lashing when I resurrect you.”

I grinned, rose on my tippy toes, and kissed him. “I won’t get dead. I want to be alive long enough in this lifetime to complain about the wrinkles and gray hairs.”

He snorted. “Are you staying for dinner?”

I hesitated, then shook my head. “I might, however, be tempted by a quick recharge, because who knows when I’ll get back here.”

“Well,” he drawled, “how can I possibly resist such a sultry invitation?”

I pulled back and said, a mock note of haughtiness in my voice, “If you’re going to be like that—”

He laughed, pulled me close again, and swept me up into his arms. Sparks ignited where our bodies touched, tiny fireflies of anticipation that spun through the shadows as he headed for our special room. It was, technically, the third bedroom of our large apartment, but as soon as we’d bought the place, we’d completely stripped it of all fittings and installed the very best fireproofing money could buy.

He nudged the thick door open with his foot, then kicked it closed again once we were through. The room was completely empty, and pitch-black aside from the sparks that danced between us. He stopped in the middle, deposited me back onto my feet, and said, “Clothes on or off?”

I raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t as if our clothes would actually be harmed if we flamed. The magic that allowed us to shift from one form to another also took anything that was touching our skin—clothes, watches, etcetera—with it. “And isn’t that the ultimate in seduction talk.”

He laughed again, then flamed; his flesh and his clothes gone in an instant, and all that was left was the heat of his soul. I threw back my head, my nostrils flaring as I sucked in its fierceness. It surged through me, primal and hot, and ignited the fires deep within. It was a firestorm that ripped through every muscle, every cell, breaking them down and tearing them apart, until my flesh no longer existed and I was nothing but fire.

“Oh lord,” he murmured, “that feels so good.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I was too wrapped up in sensation. He was heat and energy, life and love, need and necessity, and I was lost to the glory of him. As our fires grew fiercer and fingers of flames reached for the ceiling and crawled across the walls, his essence began to flow across every corner of my soul, reaffirming the connection between us and assuring life went on.

He drew me close again, and we began to dance, entwine, the fiery threads of our beings wrapping around one another, tighter and tighter, intensifying the pleasure, heightening the need. Soon there was no separation—no him, no me, nothing more than a growing storm of ecstasy. And still the dance went on, burning ever brighter, until the threads of our beings were drawn so tightly together that they would surely snap. Then everything did, and I fell into a fiery pit of bliss.

Several minutes later, I took a deep, shuddering breath and came back into flesh form. I was still embraced in Rory’s fiery grip, but his flames quickly rolled back and he regained human form. He pressed his forehead lightly against mine. “Are you sure you won’t stay for dinner?”

“I can’t. The sindicati are probably watching my movements, and I really don’t want to do anything that would make them believe you’re anything more than a boarder.”

He frowned and pulled back. “Why would they think otherwise? It’s not like anyone saw me up at Hanging Rock.”

“No, but the fact you took out their sharpshooter is a good indication someone else was up there, and it’s easy enough to put two and two together.”

“Only if they know a whole lot more about phoenixes than what the myths would have everyone believe. And let’s face it—very few of those are actually based in truth.”

“I know, but—”

“Em,” he said gently, “I’ll be okay. As far as anyone is aware, I have nothing to do with either the search for the missing research and disks, or the ongoing investigation into the deaths of Baltimore and Wilson.”

“Maybe, but I have this really bad feeling that someone out there knows more about us than we think.” I touched a hand to his cheek, ignoring the heat that burned into my fingertips as my gaze searched his. “I really want you to be careful, Rory. No risky behavior.”

“I’m a fireman—risk comes with the job.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Em, relax.” He caught my hand, then dropped a kiss on my palm. “I’ll be careful. I won’t do anything untoward until all this is over. I won’t even risk dusk flights, if that’ll ease your fears.”

I smiled, but it felt tight. Uneasy. “It will. Thanks.”

He nodded. “Then you’d best go shower and leave. If you are being watched, the less time spent here, the better.”

I squeezed his hand, then pulled free and headed for the shower. Twenty minutes later, dressed in jeans and a thick sweater, I was out the door, Rory’s laptop in one hand, a hastily made roast beef sandwich in the other, and a carryall containing enough clothes and other essentials for the next few days slung over my shoulder.

I couldn’t see anyone following me and there didn’t seem to be any birds acting suspiciously above me, but I still headed back to the hotel via a very circular route and parked in a different lot. As the saying went, better safe than sorry.

Jackson glanced up as I walked into the room. “Ha! Just the person I wanted to see—look what I’ve bought for you.”

He held up a mousy brown wig and what looked suspiciously like a nurse’s outfit. I raised an eyebrow. “And why did you buy me these things? Or did you have a sudden desire for sexual dress-ups? Because if you did, your idea of a fantasy needs a little more work.”

He grinned. “Hey, anyone with any sense knows there’s nothing better than a sexy woman in a short, tight nurse’s uniform.” He tossed me the outfit. “Your hair means you’re too easily recognized, Em, and you can’t risk using either of your other forms at night.”

“Yes, but a nurse’s uniform? A wig and a coat would have done just fine.”

He grinned. “Maybe, but where’s the fun in that? Besides, with two major hospitals on either side of Grey Street, no one is going to glance suspiciously at a nurse.”

“What about Rosen?”

“He’ll be out of it for a couple of more hours. I dropped a little something in his coffee.”

My eyebrows rose again. “Was that wise, seeing as we have no idea what Hunt gave him?”

“Considering how belligerent he was being before I doped him, yes it was.” He glanced at his watch. “We’d better get moving if we want to make it to Grey Street on time.”

I quickly stripped and put on the uniform, all too aware of the hunger radiating from Jackson. He sighed wistfully when I finished. “That show was over far too quickly.”

I grinned as I slipped my shoes back on. Thankfully, I’d been wearing sneakers, which didn’t look too out of place with the uniform. “I do have to strip off again, remember.”

“And I fully intend to do more than merely watch, let me warn you.” He rose. “I’ve arranged another rental car for the evening.”

I grabbed my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and followed him out. Although it was the tail end of rush hour, it didn’t take us all that long to either pick up the new car or to get across to Grey Street. Finding parking was another matter entirely and, in the end, Jackson stopped just down from St Vincent’s Hospital and let me out.

“I’ll cruise around the block and meet you back here,” he said. “If the sindicati are at the fountain, don’t approach them without me.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You don’t think I can handle them?”

“No, I just don’t trust them.” His eyes glittered in the light coming from the car’s dash. “Remember, they might also have intended to use this meeting to get rid of Hunt and his partner, and they’d know it’d take more than one vamp to achieve that particular goal. If you do spot anyone suspicious, call me. I’ll dump the car and come a-running.”

“The whole point of my wearing a disguise was not to be recognized. Your running in kinda spoils that.”

“Yes, but—”

“Jackson,” I cut in, “I’ll be fine.”

“Oh, I know that.”

“Good, then quit worrying, and let me do my job.”

I slammed the door shut. As he took off, I grabbed my phone and headed over to the park, pretending to text as I crossed Clarendon Street and walked toward the beautiful old fountain. There were only three people near it—a young couple cuddling on one of the park seats opposite and an old man clutching a bottle sheathed in a brown paper bag as if his life depended on it. None of them immediately screamed sindicati, but maybe that was the whole point. I skirted the fountain, passing within a couple of feet of the old man as I walked over to the seat opposite the couple. He smelled of urine and stale, unwashed flesh; if it was a disguise, then it was a damn good one, because his odor swamped my senses and made me want to gag. Neither he nor the couple paid any attention to me, and there was no one else in the immediate area. I sat down, crossed my legs, and waited. Time ticked over slowly. People walked by, in groups or alone, most of them barely doing more than glancing absently at me as they strode past. If the sindicati or their representatives were here, then they were well hidden.

My phone beeped. I glanced down and saw it was a message from Jackson asking what was going on. My reply was simple. Nothing.

No one there? he responded.

A couple and a drunk.

A few seconds passed; then he sent back, Vampires?

Hard to tell. The old guy’s reek is killing my senses, and I’ve no reason to get closer to the couple to check.

Meaning it could be a bust. Do you want to come back to the car? I can’t find parking, but I’ll be back near the drop-off point in five minutes.

I was just about to reply when a shadow peeled away from a group of nearby trees and strolled toward the fountain. I kept my eyes down and watched him surreptitiously. He was big and muscular and walked with a slightly bow-legged strut. A man who exuded confidence, power, and danger. Even from this distance, it was obvious he was something more than human.

A werewolf just turned up, I sent. One who could almost be Hunt’s brother.

Once again, Jackson’s reply wasn’t immediate—no surprise, given he was driving—so I raised my phone and took several shots of the wolf as he was looking the other way. I also took some of the old man and the couple, just in case.

The werewolf drew closer. There was a tension in him, an odd tightness to the set of his shoulders and arms that spoke of a man ready for action—an impression backed up by the fact his gaze was never still. It swept over me briefly, settled on the couple for several seconds, and moved on to the old man. Judging us, I thought. Or rather, judging the threat we represented.

He was here for a reason, and while that reason might not be me, it still had tension rolling through me. I could definitely look after myself, but I’d really had my fill of fighting man-mountains today. Besides, since I hadn’t actually spotted him until he’d peeled away from the tree, it was very possible that he wasn’t here alone.

The phone beeped again. It could be someone from a rival pack, Jackson wrote back. Wolves have little compunction about getting rid of the opposition, especially if it gives them some sort of advantage.

The wolf skirted the fountain and came toward me. I kept my gaze down and typed a reply to Jackson, though every other sense was tingling with awareness. The wolf’s gaze was a weight I could feel—a heaviness that seemed to press down upon me. It was almost as if he were willing me to look up and spill all my secrets. But he was a werewolf, not a vampire, and wolves in general were not telepathic.

What sort of advantage would getting rid of Hunt give them, though? I sent back. He was little more than a thug for hire.

The wolf stalked past me. Surprisingly, the heat radiating off him was filled with anger—fierce, furious, and very dangerous anger. The hairs along the back of my neck rose.

I understand werewolf politics even less than I do vampire, Jackson wrote back. Just found parking in Clarendon Street, so I’m nearby if you need help.

Good, I replied. Don’t like the feel of this right now.

The werewolf had moved past me, and the sudden release from his regard made me feel lighter than air, even though the tension in me was increasing. I studied the wolf’s back as he moved toward the couple again. They paid him little attention, yet the closer he got to them, the angrier he seemed to become, until his whole body vibrated under the force of it.

Then, with little fanfare, he pulled a gun out of his pocket and shot them.

CHAPTER 5

I jumped to my feet without really thinking about it, a gasp leaving my lips and fire briefly skittering across my fingertips.

The wolf turned and aimed the gun at me. Fire shot through me, and just for an instant my skin glowed a dangerous orange. But I sucked the heat down, waiting to see what the wolf intended. The mere fact he hadn’t shot me, either when he’d approached me or right now, surely meant he wouldn’t unless provoked.

“You see nothing,” he growled. “You hear nothing. Don’t call the cops and don’t tell them anything afterward, or I will hunt you down. I have your scent in my nostrils, lady.”

I nodded and sat down again. He stared at me for a few seconds more, then turned his back to me and studied his two victims—who weren’t dead, I realized. Nor was there any sign of blood; instead, there were faint wisps of smoke rising from the wounds where the—obviously silver—bullets had ripped through their shoulders. And that—along with their lack of screaming in agony—meant they were vampires rather than humans.

“You,” the wolf growled, snapping my attention back to him. He reached forward, grabbed a fistful of the young man’s shirt, and hauled him upright, until his feet were dangling several feet off the ground. “You were here to kill Theodore Hunt, were you not?”

The young man merely snarled, an action that revealed two very pointed canines. He was, I suspected, only young in vampire years. An older one wouldn’t let a werewolf push him around so easily, even with silver embedded in his shoulder.

“Answer me,” the wolf said as he shoved his gun into the face of the woman, “or she gets a bullet to the brain. And we all know even you lot can’t recover from that.”

“Yes,” the young man all but hissed. “We were.”

Did that mean Jackson had been wrong, and Morretti hadn’t set this all up as an elaborate trap? Or simply that the vampire wasn’t admitting to anything else?

But despite his anger, there was something in his expression that set off all sorts of alarms. I looked around and noticed the drunk had moved. He now stood slightly to the left of the fountain, a position that gave him a full view of the proceedings. No one else seemed to be in the immediate area or taking any undue interest in events, though. And yet, I couldn’t escape the notion something was definitely off.

My phone beeped, indicating another text from Jackson had arrived. The noise was as sharp as a gunshot, and the werewolf’s gaze snapped around. I held my hands up and half shrugged. He studied me a second longer, then returned his attention to the young man. It did nothing to release the tension still building within me.

Wolf just shot the couple, who are vampires, I surreptitiously sent back to Jackson. He’s from Hunt’s pack. Think the vamps have backup here, too.

Even as I hit the SEND button, the drunk moved. He reached into his pocket, drew out something big and silver, and aimed it at the wolf’s back. Without really thinking about it, I called up flames and sent a hot lance arrowing across the darkness. It hit the drunk’s gun and wrapped around the barrel, the heat so fierce, the metal instantly began to melt. As the drunk swore and dropped the weapon, the werewolf reacted. He simultaneously threw the vamp he was holding into the female and brought his gun up and fired—not at me but rather at the drunk. But he was already on the move, and with such speed that he was almost a blur.

Jackson appeared out of nowhere and launched at the drunk. They went down in a tumble of arms and legs, hitting the ground hard and rolling several times before they stopped. Thankfully, Jackson was on top, and he had a rather large gun shoved hard in the vamp’s face.

“Twitch,” he warned softly, “and I’ll blow your fucking brains out the back of your head.”

The vampire immediately stopped, but even from where I sat, I could feel the heat of his anger. We’d just made ourselves another enemy. Joy.

“Well,” the werewolf said, his gaze and his gun back on the two other vampires. “This has turned into a very interesting situation, indeed. I take it you’re the two firestarters Hunt was complaining about.”

“Yes.” I rose from the seat and walked over to Jackson. The vampire glared at me and his hand twitched—a hand that still held part of a gun, I noted, but only because he had little other choice. The heat of my flames had melted the barrel onto his palm. “Who might you be?”

“Scott Baker, alpha of the city pack.”

My eyebrows rose. While I’d known wolves ran in packs, I hadn’t been aware that only one pack controlled Melbourne. It was a large city and a lot of ground to hold against the other packs; either the city pack was huge, or its wolves were badasses. Looking at the wolf in front of me, I suspected the latter, even though Baker seemed a whole lot more civilized than Hunt.

“And why would the alpha of the city pack come out here alone to deal with three vampires?” Jackson asked. “Especially since it’s well-known that the city pack runs many operations in conjunction with the sindicati?”

“Those operations are the reason I’m here,” Baker growled. “This city is our territory. If the vamps wish to operate both within it and with us, then they do so under our rules.”

“And I’m betting the sindicati bosses would give us much the same reply,” Jackson said.

“Given at least one of the sindicati factions currently sees itself as superior to us, that is undoubtedly true.” He reached down, grabbed the young male vampire, and hauled him upright. “It is not, of course.”

The vamp bared his teeth but otherwise remained quiet.

“Except perhaps, when it comes to one Theodore Hunt,” Jackson drawled. “He’s not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer, is he?”

Baker’s gaze flashed to Jackson, a quick half snarl that I think was more instinct than anything else rumbling up his throat. Then he laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Yeah, but he is good at what he does, and what he does is kill. You two, I’m afraid, have reached his hit list.”

“And the city alpha approves this action?” I asked.

Baker’s gaze met mine. His expression gave little away as his sharp brown gaze briefly swept over me. “I neither approve nor disapprove. You have now intervened in two operations, and have subsequently placed Hunt’s life in danger. And yet you saved my life, a debt I must now repay.”

“Meaning you’ll call Hunt off?”

His smile was one of cold amusement. “No. But I won’t condone his actions, either. If you kill him in self-defense, the pack will not seek retribution.”

That was probably better than nothing. We already had the sindicati after us. We didn’t need the local wolf pack joining in on the fun and games.

“Thank you,” I said, meaning it.

He nodded. “And, as I said, I now owe you. If you need assistance in the future, contact me.”

“Again, thanks.”

He bowed his head slightly, the gesture oddly regal. “I will now ask you both to leave. I need to send a little message to our sindicati partners via these two pond scum, and I really prefer not to have witnesses.”

Said pond scum didn’t look at all worried by this news; either they hadn’t had much to do with werewolves before now, or they weren’t very smart. Looking at the both of them, I was betting on the latter.

“And this one?” Jackson asked.

Baker’s gaze briefly rested on the vampire held down by Jackson. I had a sudden suspicion he would not be seeing another night rise. “Knock him out. I’ll deal with him afterward.”

Jackson did so, then rose and glanced at me. I motioned him to lead the way and, without another word, we left. It was only once we were back on Clarendon Street and well out of the hearing range of the wolf that he said, “Well, that was an interesting turn of events.”

“Yeah, but it didn’t exactly help us out with the Hunt situation.”

“Maybe not, but we are now owed a favor by one of the biggest packs in Victoria, and that can’t be a bad thing with the sindicati on our tails.”

I grunted, not entirely convinced. The werewolves were known associates of the sindicati—would they betray a partner to help us? Somehow, I doubted it. Not unless there was something in it for them, anyway.

“Are we heading back to the hotel now?”

Jackson nodded. “I’ll grab some takeout on the way, though, because I’m starving. You feel like anything in particular?”

“How about Chinese? I’ve a hankering for black bean steak and fried rice.”

“Done deal.”

Half an hour later, we were back in the hotel room. I changed back into jeans and my sweater—much to Jackson’s horror—while he dished out not only the steak and rice but sweet and sour pork and honey chicken. As we ate, Jackson booted up Rory’s computer and Googled myths and legends, looking for creatures that could change form and who fed off the dead.

“Anything?” I asked, leaning a shoulder against his as I looked at the screen.

“Hundreds, apparently.” He hit the first search result. It turned out to be a list of mythical creatures that could change form.

“That one,” I said, pointing to the third-to-last one on the list—something called an Aswang. “Sounds rather like our creature, even if it doesn’t mention its form being ashlike at night.”

“No, but it does say it has a human day form.”

I frowned. “Does it mention if there’s any obvious difference between it and a regular human? Anything that could help us find it?”

He half shrugged. “Other than bloodshot eyes, no.”

“Given a good percentage of the human population has bloodshot eyes at any particular moment,” I commented, “that’s not really a practical way to hunt the creature.”

“No, it’s not.” Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes. He clicked on a couple of other links, but there wasn’t much more to be found—nothing that really matched what we were looking for, anyway.

He Googled Aswangs next. This search revealed a heap more information about the creatures, including the useful tidbit that they could be killed via decapitation or—rather weirdly—by using a whip made entirely of a stingray’s tail. But there was nothing solid on how to find such a creature, other than one article stating that a special oil extract—made from boiled and decanted coconut meat, mixed with plant stems—could be used to determine whether an Aswang was nearby.

Jackson closed the computer with a sigh. “Well, that didn’t help much.”

“No.” I ate some chicken, then added, “Maybe we need to find someone who can tell us a little more about Aswangs.”

“We’re not even sure if that’s what we’re really hunting.”

“We’re not hunting it,” I pointed out. “PIT is.”

“Which is why we just wasted time looking for information.”

I grinned. “Only because it doesn’t hurt to be prepared if I have another prophetic dream about the thing.”

His expression was one of disbelief, and I flicked a bit of chicken at him. He caught it with a laugh and shoved it in his mouth. “So until that happens, we concentrate on finding the research notes and getting the sindicati off our backs.”

“The latter being the more important for our long-term health,” I said. “I think we should try to find Radcliffe. If anyone might know something, it’ll be him.”

“He’s been in PIT’s hands. Anything he did know has either been erased or checked out by now.”

“Maybe.” I grabbed the sweet and sour pork and scooped some of it over the rice on my plate. “Sam wasn’t exactly effusive when he came to information about what Radcliffe did or didn’t tell them.”

“Gee,” Jackson cut in, “that’s surprising.”

I made a face at him. “The point is, we know something PIT and Sam don’t—Radcliffe has a wife.”

“Actually, we don’t know that. It’s just something you believe.”

“True, but I’m right. I just know it.”

He snorted. “Even if you are, I can’t see how it helps.”

I grinned again. “And there speaks a man who’s never been married or even formed a deep connection beyond sex.”

“That’s because we Fae rather sensibly gave up all that muck eons ago. Life is much more peaceful without the drama of intimacy and emotion.”

“It can also be lonely.”

He studied me for a moment, his gaze contemplative. “And are you?”

“I have Rory, so I’m never lonely.”

“But he’s your must-have, not your deepest desire.”

“True.” I shrugged. “But there’s not a whole lot I can do about the situation. It is what it is.”

“And yet you still hope. I have to wonder why.”

“Because if I give up hope, I might as well die.” I shoved away my plate and rose. “I don’t want to live like you, Jackson. I have to believe that, sooner or later, I will get my happy ending. You want a coffee?”

“Yes, thanks,” He leaned back in the chair and pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll contact my source and see if she can find a marriage certificate for Radcliffe.”

“It might not have happened here in Victoria, or even in Australia.” I dumped some instant coffee into a mug and a tea bag into another, then flicked on the kettle. “He might have been married interstate or overseas.”

“I’ll get her to check that, too. And I’ll send a text to my friend at the casino and see if Radcliffe’s been back there.”

“If he hasn’t, we’ve hit another dead end. I doubt he’ll be contactable via any of his businesses.”

I made coffee for Jackson and tea for myself and headed back to the table with the two mugs. Jackson finished sending the two texts, then put his phone back into his pocket and accepted his coffee with a nod of thanks.

He took a sip, then said, “No, he’ll probably be lying low for a while, especially after experiencing the delights of PIT’s interviewing techniques.”

“They wouldn’t have drugged him like they did us. They’d have no need.”

“We don’t know that. Radcliffe might well be resistant to telepathic intrusion, like us.”

I frowned. “I thought rats were more susceptible than most, not less.”

“In some respects, yes, in that they’re more easily influenced on a surface level. But they’re also intuitive when it comes to sensing psi abilities in others.”

“Which would explain how Radcliffe managed to avoid PIT for so long.”

“Undoubtedly. Doesn’t help us find him, though.”

“No.” I took a sip of tea and grimaced slightly. Black tea was not a favorite, but it was better than using the little packets of long-life milk the hotel supplied. “I wonder how that creature knew James Hamberly was dead. I mean, it obviously wasn’t from the area, and it’s not like the newly dead have any obvious odor.”

Jackson raised an eyebrow, his expression somewhat ironic. “And here I was thinking you weren’t interested in tracking the creature down.”

“I’m not. I’m just curious.”

“Believing that. And you know what curiosity did to the cat.”

“I have one advantage over the cat—I’ll be reborn. Besides, it’s not like we have a lot of other avenues to explore right now. Not until either of your sources comes back with some information.”

“Beyond the fact he’s dead, we haven’t exactly got a lot of information on James Hamberly, either.”

“And why would you be interested in James Hamberly?” Rosen said behind us, his tone abrupt and decidedly displeased. “What has he got to do with anything?”

I glanced around. Rosen leaned against the door frame, his arms crossed and his expression annoyed. With his rumbled clothing and his short hair sticking out at odd angles all over his head, he looked more like a hobo than a man who owned and ran a billion-dollar company.

I raised an eyebrow. “You know him?”

“Don’t answer a question with another question, young woman,” Rosen snapped.

Annoyance rose, but before I could reply, Jackson said, “I wouldn’t be using that tone on someone who just helped save your life.” His voice was mild, but the anger that gleamed in his green eyes was even fiercer than mine. “Not unless you want me to toss you back to the sharks that had you.”

“Sharks?” He glanced at the two of us. “What the fuck are you on about?”

“You don’t remember?” I asked, surprised.

“Remember what?” His gaze moved to the apartment’s main door, as if he were judging whether he could get it open and get out before we stopped him.

“Being escorted from your office by sindicati goons and then taken to a deserted location to be shot,” Jackson said. “We’re the only reason you’re not rat meat now.”

“Why the hell would the sindicati want me dead?” Rosen pushed away from the wall and cast another look at the door. “I’ve never had anything to do with them. Only Radcliffe.”

“Meaning Radcliffe is connected to the sindicati?” I said.

“I don’t know. And I don’t care,” he added, bristling again. “Neither Radcliffe nor the sindicati have any reason to get rid of me. In fact, I’m more useful alive given the amount I—”

He cut off abruptly and looked even more belligerent—as if it were our fault he’d almost admitted one of his sins.

“It’s okay,” Jackson said. “We know all about your gambling addiction and how much you owe Radcliffe. You, I’m afraid, sang like a bird to both the sindicati goons and to us.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“You were drugged,” I cut in. “It made you both pliable and very verbal. And given what you said in the car, it’s probably not the first time they’ve done it.”

Rosen’s face lost some of its color, but he didn’t run for the door, as I half expected. Instead, he moved—rather unsteadily—toward the table. “I don’t believe you.”

“And it’s your god-given right not to,” Jackson said, “but it doesn’t alter the facts. Now, how about you answer the question—do you know Hamberly?”

“How is Hamberly involved with Wilson’s missing research?”

“He’s not,” I replied.

“Then why are you discussing him?” Rosen plopped down on a spare chair and helped himself to a plate and some food.

“Because he was murdered last night,” I said.

Rosen harrumphed. “Can’t say I’m sad to hear that.”

“Then you do know him?”

His gaze met mine briefly. Judging how much we needed to know, I thought. Or rather, how much he could trust us with the information. “Since Hamberly has no relation to the reason I’m employing you, I can’t see why you’re even interested in him.”

“Because,” Jackson said, his tone holding very little of the annoyance that practically vibrated from his body, “we were the ones who found the body, and we’re curious as to what, exactly, killed him.”

Rosen glanced up sharply at that, a spoon of steak and rice hovering halfway to his lips. “What, not who?”

I met Jackson’s gaze with a raised eyebrow. Rosen definitely knew Hamberly; or, at least, someone he was close to did.

“Yes,” I said. “He was killed by what we think might be an Aswang.”

“Never heard of it.” He got back to eating. But tension still rode him—it was evident in the set of his thin shoulders. “And I’m paying you good money to chase those research notes, not some mythical creature that did the world a favor by killing a leech like Hamberly.”

“And what if the two events are connected?” Jackson mused.

That raised my eyebrows again. He flashed me a brief smile but added quite sincerely, “It’s always possible that, given your obvious connection to Hamberly—however tenuous—that either you or someone close to you might be next in line.”

“That is highly unlikely. If there was any such possibility at all, the police would have already contacted—”

“Except that it’s PIT investigating these murders,” I cut in, “and they are not only notorious for holding back information, but they have no love for you.”

Which wasn’t exactly the truth, at least as far as he was concerned, but hey, if we were going to be shady with the truth, we might as well go the whole hog.

He frowned. “I’ve had very little to do with PIT, so I cannot see why they would form such an opinion. I am, after all, the CEO and owner of a large—”

“Who is in debt up to his eyeballs to a wererat with possible links to the sindicati, and who has probably sung his heart out on all sorts of secrets during the many meetings he’s had with said rat.” My voice was surprisingly even, considering my growing dislike of the man. “I suspect the only reason you’re not in jail at the moment is because those with PIT are more interested in uncovering information about Radcliffe and his connections than you.”

He looked rather ill at the thought of that, and I couldn’t help a sliver of satisfaction. It might or might not be the truth, but Rosen’s actions were still unforgivable. He really did deserve to be in jail right now, rather than free to wreak more harm on his company.

“None of this is relevant—”

“We cannot say what is and isn’t relevant,” I snapped, my patience suddenly slipping, “until we know all the facts. So how do you know Hamberly?”

His glance moved from me to Jackson and back again. His expression was still displeased, but there was also fear in his eyes. He was only just realizing what his actions could cost him. “I don’t. My son does.”

“And your son’s name?”

Jackson’s tone was a hell of a lot more polite than mine, but hey, someone had to play the good cop in this outfit. And while he obviously already knew the answer to the question on the table—he’d mentioned the son’s name when he first told me about Rosen Pharmaceuticals—it was always better to be safe than sorry. For all we knew, Rosen might have a veritable stable of illegitimate sons he wasn’t acknowledging.

Rosen hesitated, then said somewhat reluctantly, “Denny. Denny Joseph Rosen Junior.”

“And his connection to Hamberly?”

His hesitation this time was deeper, and a hint of color crept into his cheeks. “I cannot see how knowing that can possibly be relevant in this situation.”

“It was a sexual relationship, wasn’t it?” I said matter-of-factly. “And I’m gathering you disapproved?”

Anger flashed in Rosen’s eyes. “Of course I disapproved! Hamberly was a leech, always trying to get more and more from Denny, be it time or money or whatever else he fancied.”

I had a feeling Rosen’s disapproval stemmed just as much from disappointment that his son was homosexual as from hatred for his son’s choice of partner. But he wouldn’t be the first parent to face that, and he probably wouldn’t be the last—though, thankfully, attitudes like Rosen’s were harder to find these days.

“We’d like to speak to your son, if possible,” Jackson said. “If only because we need to warn him—”

“I can do that,” Rosen cut in crossly. “There is no need for you to get involved with him.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Jackson agreed. “But given your obvious rancor about his choice of partner, it’s possible he will completely ignore anything you say. And that could be a fatal mistake if this creature is after him.”

“But hey,” I added, “if you’d rather have PIT speak to him than us …”

Rosen slammed his hands on the table so hard that the plates rattled and tea jumped out of my mug, splashing across my fingers.

“If you dare mention his name to them, you’re off this damn case!”

I shook the hot droplets from my hand, but the rather angry reply that jumped to my lips died at Jackson’s warning glance.

“You can choose to fire us anytime you please,” he said, “but it would be wise to remember that no other private investigator will get as far as we have. Not with PIT involved. Nor will I share any current information with competitors. If you really want to uncover Wilson’s notes, we are still your best option.”

Rosen said nothing for a second or two, his gaze darting between us. Then he made a low sound deep in his throat and sat back down. “He lives in Elwood.” He gave us the address, then added brusquely, “But I don’t want you chasing this Aswang thing on my dime.”

“Speaking of which,” I said, “where do Radcliffe’s men take you whenever you have a meet and greet?”

Rosen blinked, then frown. “A coffee shop, I think.”

“Can you remember the name of it, or the location?”

“Not really.” His frown deepened. “That’s odd, isn’t it?”

“Not if you were being drugged,” Jackson said. “You can’t remember much of today’s events, after all.”

Rosen scrubbed a hand across his jaw. “I really can’t believe he’d want me dead. He has too much to lose …”

“Radcliffe may not have had a choice,” I said. “It depends on who’s pulling his strings.”

“Even so—” He paused, his gaze narrowing. “However, if what you’re saying is true, then there is one place you might find him.”

“Where?” Jackson and I said together.

“Some place called Wirraway.” He grimaced. “I remember one of his buffoons mentioning it—he said the boss wanted them back at Wirraway ASAP.”

Which wasn’t a whole lot to go on, but better than the nothing we had. I glanced at Jackson. “Then we need to find that place, and stat.”

And before Radcliffe—or whoever else might be after Rosen—made another attempt on his useless life. The comment was on the very tip of my tongue, itching to be released, but I somehow managed to stop it.

“Right.” Jackson downed the rest of his coffee in one large gulp, then gave Rosen a hard glare and added, “If you value your life, Mr. Rosen, I highly recommend you stay here—and don’t contact anyone.”

Rosen didn’t comment, but he looked decidedly unhappy. If he was still here when we got back, I’d swear off sex for a year. Which, given how much I liked sex, said a lot about my confidence.

“Let’s hope that confidence is well placed,” Jackson murmured as he leaned past me to grab his coat. “I don’t think my swimmers could endure such frustration.”

I smiled and elbowed him in the ribs. His soft laugh whispered past my ear, rich with promises and heat. I ignored the rush of desire, grabbed my purse, and rose.

“Lock the door after us, Mr. Rosen,” I said. “Don’t let anyone in, not even hotel staff.”

“If you insist.”

I stared at him for a moment longer, then turned and followed Jackson out the door. Rosen was an adult; if he wanted to risk his life, he was free to do so.

Evening rush hour was well and truly past, so it didn’t take us long to drive across to the address Rosen had given us in Elwood. I climbed out of the car and stared up at the apartment building; it looked like a series of cantilevered glass boxes stacked on top of one another, and seemed rather out of place against all the older, more-regular-looking brick buildings that surrounded it. But given its closeness to both the beach and the nearby shops and nightclubs, it was undoubtedly expensive. Daddy obviously looked after his son, despite being uncomfortable with said son’s sexual orientation.

Jackson led the way over to the gate and up the steps, and pressed the doorbell. A few seconds passed; then a plummy voice said, “Yes?”

“Denny Rosen Junior?” Jackson said.

“Yes, it is. Who are you?”

“My name is Jackson Miller. We need to talk to you about James Hamberly.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Rosen,” Jackson said, “we can do this out in the street, where anyone can hear, or we can take it inside. Your choice.”

He hesitated. “Are you police?”

“No. But we can take our information to them, if you’d prefer.”

“No.” A buzzer sounded, and the door clicked open. “Come on up.”

Jackson ushered me through. Despite the late hour, the lobby was bright, white, and almost entirely filled with an assortment of expensive-looking bicycles and helmets. The stairs, like the apartment itself, were nearly all glass, no doubt a means to help create the illusion of space where there really was none. The sound of footsteps echoed; then a man appeared at the top of the stairs. He was wearing bicycle skins under a loose black sweatshirt, and his short brown hair was dark with sweat. He shared the same build as his father—tall and thin—but he was very well toned.

“Who are you, if not the police?” he asked.

Jackson flashed his badge. “I would suggest that that is a question you should have asked before you let us in.”

Denny raised a hand. In it was what looked to be a small square unit. “Panic button,” he said. “Building security could be here in ten seconds.”

Ten seconds was plenty of time to kill someone. Hell, I could burn the unit from his grasp before he even twitched.

“We’re not here to harm you, Mr. Rosen.” Jackson climbed the stairs but paused several steps below Denny, forcing me to do the same. “As I said, we just need to talk to you about James Hamberly.”

“Then perhaps you’d better come in. Coffee?” He turned and walked away.

“No, thanks,” I said as I followed Jackson into the main room.

The apartment was an open plan and, like the downstairs foyer, all white, from the walls and ceilings to the kitchen units and furnishings. The only splashes of color came from the large photographic canvases that dotted the walls. It would have been a rather sterile environment if not for those and the large expanse of windows, which seemed to bring the nightlife right into the room.

“Why would James Hamberly be of interest to two PIs who are supposedly investigating the theft of research notes for my father?” He stopped at a coffee machine even more industrial-looking than Jackson’s, and proceeded to make coffee.

“Rosen Pharmaceuticals is not the only case on our list,” Jackson said. “As much as your father would have otherwise.”

“Yes, he can be rather demanding.” Denny motioned us toward the pristine leather sofas, then made his way to a nearby chair. Despite what he was wearing, there was a very elegant air about him. “So why is James of interest to you?”

Jackson glanced at me, one eyebrow raised; he was asking me to do the dirty work.

“Because,” I said softly, “he died last night.”

Despite his gasp and shocked expression, I very much suspected Denny Rosen Jr. wasn’t surprised. Not only was his grip on the mug far too steady for someone who had just been given shocking news, but there was an odd sort of watchfulness behind his reaction.

“How did it happen?” He leaned forward and placed the coffee mug on the dust-free glass coffee table, then crossed his arms, shoving his hands out of sight. The cynical part of me wondered if it was an attempt to cover up the fact that they weren’t shaking.

“Heart attack, we presume,” Jackson replied.

“I did warn him that his lifestyle would kill him in the end. I’d rather hoped I’d be wrong, though.” He paused and frowned. “But if it was a heart attack, why are you two investigating his death?”

“Because of what happened after his death,” I said.

The odd tension riding Denny increased, although there was still little evidence of it in his expression. His father might have little in the way of self-control, but Denny had a ton of it. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

And that was a lie. He knew, all right. He might not have been there when the creature had feasted on Hamberly’s cooling organs, but he certainly knew something had happened to him after his death.

But how, if he wasn’t actually there?

“I’m afraid that James Hamberly was—” Jackson paused, then made a brief motion with his hand. “There’s no way to put this nicely. He had his internal organs sucked out of his body by a shifter of some kind.”

Denny’s face lost color—the first honest reaction we’d seen since our arrival. “How can you possibly know that? The coroner wouldn’t have even examined the body yet.”

“We know it because I saw it happen,” I said. “I’m a psychic, of sorts. I actually went to your partner’s home to stop it from happening, but the creature had already left by the time I got there.”

“He wasn’t my partner. We were just good friends.” The reply was absently said, and it made me wonder how many times he’d repeated the same line to his disbelieving father.

“And lovers,” Jackson added.

Denny’s gaze shot to his. “Sexual partners, not lovers. There is a difference.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Here I was thinking they were one and the same.”

“No. We were friends, as I said. I didn’t love him, but I could talk to him, and I trusted him.” His mouth twisted. “Believe me, when you have a father who is not afraid of buying people off, trust is something you cling to when you find it.”

“Your father was of the opinion that Hamberly was a leech.”

Denny snorted, the sound bitter. “Yeah, he would. But he can’t buy me, and he couldn’t buy James.”

“So all this?” I waved a hand around the pristine apartment. “It does not belong to your dad?”

“No.” Anger edged his tone. “Everything here is thanks to an inheritance from my mother—his third wife—and my skill as a semiprofessional bicycle rider.”

Jackson held up a hand. “We didn’t mean to offend you.”

Denny took a deep breath, then released it slowly. “I know. But do you know how often I have to hear that particular accusation?”

“I’m guessing your father isn’t a particularly easy man to deal with.” We might have been here to discuss Hamberly, but there was little point in missing the opportunity to uncover a little more about Denny Rosen Sr. Presuming, of course, his son would actually tell us anything about his father. Family loyalty was sometimes stronger than hate.

Denny snorted. “No. And he’s getting worse now that the cards aren’t falling his way. The fool’s going to lose everything at this rate—and I can’t say I’m sad about that.”

But there again, sometimes hate overrode loyalty.

“Anyway,” he continued, “this has nothing to do with what happened to James. Are the police chasing this thing?”

“They are,” I said, “and will undoubtedly come calling, given your relationship with him.”

“I can’t tell them anything. I left before he died.” He thrust up from the chair and moved across to the window, staring out at the darkness almost blindly. But even from where I sat, it was easy to see the tension; his body practically vibrated with it.

“So you left without turning off the stove?” I asked. “And in such a hurry that you knocked over the coat stand and left the front door open?” It was a guess, but a pretty sure one.

“No. I mean, yes.” He shrugged. “We’d argued. I was angry.”

“James Hamberly died with a smile on his face. That does not imply an argument.”

He didn’t say anything. He just shrugged again.

“Mr. Rosen,” I said, trying again, “this thing has killed before. We need to find it—stop it—before it kills again.”

“But it didn’t kill James. A heart attack did.”

The reply was soft but edged with slivers of remorse—and perhaps just the slightest hint of guilt.

“You were there, weren’t you?”

Again he said nothing.

“Why didn’t you ring for an ambulance?” I continued. “There was still a chance he could have been saved.”

“There was no chance, because it was already too late,” he finally said. “It must have happened when I went into the kitchen to prepare dinner. By the time I went back into the bedroom …”

His voice trailed off and he half shrugged, as if it didn’t matter, though the raw edge in his voice said otherwise.

“Even so,” Jackson said, “you should have notified someone. Why didn’t you, Mr. Rosen?”

His gaze swept past Jackson and rested on me. In it, I saw not only the stirrings of grief but also fear.

“Because,” he said eventually, “I felt the creature coming.”

CHAPTER 6

Of all the answers I’d expected, that certainly wasn’t one of them. “You felt it?” I said. “You’re psychic?”

He shrugged. “I’ve never been tested, but sometimes I see things. Feel things.”

“And you felt this creature?” I couldn’t help the slight edge of excitement in my voice; Denny Rosen had just handed us a means of finding this thing … if we were to go after it.

“And we’re not, remember?” Jackson murmured.

I made a face at him but didn’t comment as Rosen said, “Yes, I did.” He paused and rubbed his arms. “It felt old. Evil. James was already dead, and it would have killed me had I stayed. I had to get out. I just had to.”

And no one could blame him for that. “Is there anything you can tell us about the creature? Something that might help us locate it?”

“No.” He hesitated, frowning. “Well, maybe. When I sense things, I sometimes get hit with multiple images. It’s like there’s a movie projector set on high speed inside my head, and I get flashes of images or information about whatever person or event I’m seeing. This time it showed me the creature changing from a cat to a bat to this massive doglike thing with needle-fine canines, but the first image was human.”

I glanced sharply at Jackson. He simply rolled his eyes, his expression somewhat resigned. “Can you describe him?”

“Her, not him,” Denny corrected. His gaze returned to the world outside his windows again. “She was tall, thin to the point of being gangly, with dark hair and strange red eyes.”

“Bloodshot or actually red?” I asked.

He hesitated again. “Hard to say. That particular image was weirdly upside-down.”

“And there were no other distinguishing marks?” Jackson said.

“No, but she held a cleaver in one hand. You know, the sort butchers use to cut up meat.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips as he glanced at us. “I used to go out with one, so I recognized it.”

“Was her human form old or young?” I asked. “I know you said she felt old, but did she look it?”

He hesitated. “She looked preserved, if that makes any sense. It was almost as if her skin were stretched too tight over her bones, with very little room for wrinkles. But old? Not really.”

So we were looking for a middle-aged, plastic-looking woman with weird red eyes and a cleaver in her hand? That should be simple.

“Mr. Rosen,” Jackson said, “you need to tell the police—”

“No,” he cut in. “Definitely not.”

“But surely you want to catch this thing, before it dines on anyone else?” Jackson said.

“That is not my concern. Trust me, I know how police treat psychics. I’m not going there again.”

“PIT is different.” Jackson gave me a somewhat wry glance even as he said it, undoubtedly because of the way they’d treated us when we’d been in their hands.

“I don’t care. Besides, I have a race to get ready for and no desire to be hampered by endless rounds of questions.”

I guess he couldn’t be blamed for his stance; the police could be somewhat skeptical when it came to psi talents, even in this day and age. But it was also frustrating when the information he held might just help PIT track down this thing.

Of course, I could always pass it on. But Sam was the only contact I had, and while part of me was more than a little happy at the prospect of talking to him again, the other, somewhat saner, part was remembering Rory’s warning and taking heed.

“Are you sure there’s nothing else you can tell us about this woman?”

He hesitated again. “She will take another victim soon, and this time that person will be living rather than dead.”

Alarm ran through me. “Why are you so certain of this?”

He shrugged. “If you’re psychic yourself, then you know there’s no accounting or controlling the information that comes through your visions. I just saw that this is something of a pattern for it—it starts off with the older dead, then works up to younger, sweeter flesh.”

The alarm got stronger. “Meaning it’s likely to go after children?”

“Eventually, yes.”

And he didn’t want to help us—or rather, the police—stop it? It took every ounce of strength I had not to punch him for such an uncaring attitude—even if this sort of reluctance was something I’d seen time and again in my lifetimes as a cop.

But maybe this escalation was the reason why I’d been shown the creature on its third kill rather than the first. If I wanted to—if I could find the thing—I could stop it before it started dining on the living.

Rosen glanced at his watch, then said, “Is that all? Because I have a meeting to get to, and I need to shower and change first.”

“It is for now.” I rose, then hesitated. “You said before that your father was in danger of losing the whole kit and caboodle—just how much do you know about your father’s gambling problem?”

“Enough.” His gaze narrowed slightly. “Why? What has this got to do with anything?”

I hesitated again, glancing at Jackson. He shook his head slightly, an indication that we shouldn’t mention the attempt on Denny Rosen Sr.’s life.

“Because,” I said, thinking fast, “we suspect his gambling problem might be related to the missing notes.”

“I doubt he’s the reason the notes are missing,” Denny said. “The stuff he’s selling is only minor—information on new pain meds and other drugs that can be easily sold on the black market. I doubt he’d risk anything major. He’s not that much of a fool.”

I wasn’t so sure about that—especially if either Radcliffe or the sindicati were regularly taking him for drugged-up “discussions.”

“Is Marcus Radcliffe the only person he owes money to?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like he actually confides in me or anything.” He paused. “But he did mention a warehouse in Laverton North once. I got the impression it scared him.”

Laverton was a big suburb, but a warehouse in Laverton North just happened to be the place I was supposed to be taken the first time I’d been kidnapped. Coincidences happened, but I doubted this was one of them.

“He didn’t say why?” Jackson asked.

Denny shook his head. “No. But he has a morbid fear of vampires, and I suspect that’s who was involved in the game.”

Jackson rose and got out his wallet. “Well, thanks for your help, Mr. Rosen. And if you remember anything else—or sense this creature again—please contact us.”

“If I sense that creature again, I’ll be running.” But he nevertheless accepted the business card Jackson handed him.

With that, we left.

“Well, that was all very interesting,” I said once we were back in the car. “And he doesn’t seem like much of a gadabout to me.”

“The definition of a gadabout is a habitual pleasure seeker. Junior is a playboy millionaire who doesn’t work and who flits from one lover to another.”

“He seems pretty serious about his cycling.”

“Yeah, but not on a professional level. He keeps with the amateur ranks. He has the potential to go further, but not the dedication, according to the gossip rags.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’ve really checked into him.”

“I always make it a habit to check the backgrounds of my clients. It often reveals all sorts of pertinent information.”

“I’m guessing they don’t know about these checks.”

“Not unless I need them to. Unfortunately, Denny Rosen Junior didn’t actually give us any useful information to track the creature with.”

I grinned. “I wasn’t intending—”

“Perhaps not,” he cut in, “but you were certainly thinking about it.”

“And that is something else that needs answering,” I said. “Why the hell are you suddenly catching my thoughts?”

“I’m not catching your thoughts. At least, not all of them.” He frowned as he checked the rearview mirror, then pulled out. “And certainly not on a conscious level. I just seem to occasionally know what you’re thinking. And you’re obviously catching bits and pieces of my thoughts, too.”

I wrinkled my nose. “As you said, not directly. It’s not telepathy or anything like that. But it is weird.”

“Yeah, especially since neither of us are telepathic.”

I shifted in my seat to look at him. “Could it have something to do with my allowing you to siphon my heat to heal yourself?”

“I’ve never heard of anyone ever doing that before, so I can’t say.” His gaze met mine. “You’re the one with all the various life experiences—have you ever done anything like that before?”

“No. But as I said, I figured it was the only chance we had of burning the red plague virus from your body. Which it obviously did, because you haven’t turned into a psycho pseudo vampire.”

“No, but I just might go psycho if I don’t get some loving soon.”

I grinned and patted his leg. “There, there, you’ll survive.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” His expression was woebegone, but amusement gleamed in his bright eyes. “A Fae can live only so long without sex.”

“Lack of sex won’t make you fade. It’s lack of fire that does that, remember?”

“It’s all one and the same—fire, sex, it’s all about the heat.”

“As the saying goes, all good things come to those who wait.” I contemplated the road ahead for a second. “I guess it’s entirely possible that, given just how deep that connection went—”

“Deep is underdescribing it,” he cut in, amused. “I was flame, for fuck’s sake. There was no separation between either of our beings—just fire and heat.”

And it had felt incredible—without, in any way, being sexual in nature. “Which means it’s entirely possible we’ve somehow hotwired an informal connection between us. But I have no idea how, or if it’ll get stronger or weaker with time.”

“It could be very handy if it got stronger—especially if we keep getting ourselves into tight situations.” He braked lightly as the traffic signal ahead went red. “I don’t suppose there’s anyone you could ask? An older, wiser phoenix or mentor?”

A smile twisted my lips. “Not really. Not given how old I am.”

He gave me a somewhat speculative look. “Just how old are you?”

“A lady never tells.”

It was primly said, and he grinned. “So, no parents or anything?”

“I have them. I just haven’t seen them for centuries.”

“So phoenixes, like Fae, don’t go into that whole warm fuzzy family-unit thing, then?”

“Oh, we do. But it becomes harder once children reach maturity and find their soul partners. It’s very difficult for two pairings to share the one territory—even if one of those pairings includes a child of your own.”

“Why?”

I shrugged. “Safety, mostly. Our coloring makes us more conspicuous, especially back when the world was not so populated.”

“I would have thought there’d be safety in numbers. Or at least, that was what wolves discovered over the centuries.”

“Werewolves naturally pack, and territories are generally handed down through the generations. We can’t do that, because we’re reborn into adulthood every one hundred years. People tend to notice things like that.”

He glanced in the rearview mirror and accelerated again as the light went green. “Meaning either you or your children have to move on?”

“Yes. Hanging around past one lifetime is safer these days than it used to be, but even so, Rory and I will probably have to establish ourselves elsewhere in a rebirth or so.” Maybe once the world became aware that vamps and werewolves weren’t the only nonhumans out there—and actually accepted us—that might change. But right now, when some parts of society were still forming nighttime hunting parties, it was simply easier to move.

“That must be hard—building a life, then being forced to abandon it.”

I shrugged again. “It’s safer than getting dead before your time. I’ve done that a few times, and it’s rather unpleasant.”

“I’m guessing it would be.” A smile touched his lips. He flicked on the blinker and glanced in the rearview mirror as he turned right. “So how many children have you and Rory actually had?”

“Five. We are not an overly fertile race. Generally a pairing only breeds when another dies.”

“Really?” He shook his head. “Given all the other curses you lot have, that almost seems the worst.”

“Trust me, it’s not. Besides, it’s something of a necessity that our numbers remain small. As I’ve said, it’s hard to conceal what we are.” I glanced at him. “Are there any little Jackson Millers running around out there?”

“Sadly, no, but I’m hoping to find me a delicious Fae lady and remedy that soon. I’d hate to think the Fae gene pool would miss out on the fabulousness that lies in my DNA.”

I snorted softly and punched him lightly in the arm. He chuckled, but his gaze went to the rearview mirror again, and my curiosity stirred. “Have we got a problem?”

“We might. Black car, three back.”

I flicked down the vanity mirror and checked it out. “The BMW?”

“That’s the one. It’s been following us since we left Denny Rosen’s.”

“And you don’t think it’s a coincidence?”

“No, I don’t.” He contemplated the mirror for a moment, then added, “But I believe we need to find out whether it’s sindicati or Radcliffe’s goons in that car before we go anywhere near the hotel.”

“I believe you could be right. What’s the plan?”

“That we have a cozy little chat somewhere we’re not likely to be seen or overheard.”

A smile touched my lips. “I’m gathering you know such a place?”

“I do indeed.” He swung left, then accelerated hard, gaining some distance between the BMW and us without totally losing him. “There’s a cul-de-sac at the rear of some factories two turns ahead. I’ll brake, jump out, and you can slide across and take over driving duties.”

“They’re just going to reverse out the minute they realize what we’re up to.”

“Oh, they’ll certainly try.” His wide grin flashed, filled with anticipation. “When I give you the word, call up some of the mother’s lovely flame.”

He meant the earth mother; she was the heat that could be found deep in the earth, the energy that gave life to the world around us. I raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. Jackson kept to the speed limit, making no attempt to lose the car behind us. We turned left into a street that was all trees, concrete buildings, and thick shadows.

“Okay,” he said, unclipping his seat belt, “get ready.”

I undid my own belt and gripped the dash hard to steady myself as he swung sharply right. Once in the much smaller lane, he braked, threw the shift into park, and was out the door in one smooth motion. I scrambled over the center console with a whole lot less elegance and got the car moving again—but much slower, because the headlights were now shining on the tall, graffiti-littered wall dead ahead.

The night behind me lit up as the BMW swung into the lane. I continued on as far as I could, then braked. I couldn’t see Jackson in the rearview thanks to the brightness of the headlights behind me and had no idea what he intended. It was, I thought, slightly irritating that the connection between us seemed to flare at times of its own choosing rather than when it would be truly useful.

I pulled on the hand brake and got out of the car. The thick walls of the buildings that towered on either side of us filled the lane with thick shadows. The night air was cool and filled with the aroma of rotting rubbish, undoubtedly thanks to the huge Dumpsters that lined the right side of the lane.

The BMW stopped, but the people didn’t turn off the lights, didn’t get out, and kept the motor running. I crossed my arms and waited. There was no sign of Jackson or any hint as to what he was up to.

But he was here. I could feel him—a sharp, familiar warmth hovering near the end of the lane.

The semi-standoff remained. My tension increased as the minutes ticked by, and it was all I could do to remain still. For all intents and purposes, I was a sitting duck, and it was only the knowledge that the sindicati—if that was who was in the car—still needed me that had me staying put.

“Where is Jackson Miller?”

The question came out of nowhere, and I jumped, my heart racing a mile a minute and sparks glittering across my fingertips. Then I realized the voice had a tinny tone; they were using a speaker of some kind.

“He’s not here,” I said. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

“He was in the car when you left Elwood. What happened to him?”

“I dropped him off a street or so ago, so who knows.” I shrugged. “Why were you following us?”

They didn’t answer. Instead, the doors opened and four men got out. As they did, Jackson yelled, “Now!”

A bin slid into the lane, blocking the BMW’s exit. A second quickly followed. I raised a hand and flung fire; not at the men or the car but rather in a ring around them, creating a wall of flame that prevented them from attacking and threw them into deeper shadows. Or perhaps they were shadowing, indicating they were vampires, as Jackson had guessed.

But those flames were not enough. I reached to the force of the world, to the mother herself, and felt the trembling in the ground underneath me as she responded. Her energy surged through me, powerful and wild and difficult to contain. I held on to her fiercely, weaving her flames into a net that surrounded the car and forced shadows to flee. These weren’t ordinary flames; these were the flames of the mother herself, and she burned with a fire that danced with the colors of all creation.

And her light was the only way I could force vampires out of shadow.

But I couldn’t hold on to her indefinitely, because there was always a cost in calling to such power. We needed to question these vamps and get the hell out of here, before my strength was drained too far.

The vamps, however, had other ideas.

The two at the front stepped away from the doors, raised several weapons, and simply fired. So much for their not wanting me dead.

I flung myself down, even as I flung more energy into the flames between us. Incandescent fingers broke away from the main body of fire, capturing the bullets and melting long before they got anywhere near me.

I rolled to my feet and walked closer to the flames. Their energy pulled at me even as the heat washed over me, enticing and delicious. “Gentlemen, please put down your weapons. As you’ve just witnessed, it’s useless trying to shoot us.”

They didn’t even glance at one another, but as one, they lowered their weapons. They were all tall and slender with very little in the way of fat—a common trait among vampires. It was almost as if the effort of turning from human to vampire burned every ounce of fat from their body, leaving them with little more than bone, muscle, and flesh. And a diet consisting of only blood certainly wouldn’t put much of that lost weight back on.

The heat radiating off the mother’s wall had to be uncomfortable, but none of them were showing any emotion, not even anger. But then, if they were indeed sindicati—and I suspected they were—then they would be familiar with these flames, as I’d used them against the organization before.

“Who are you?” I repeated. “And why are you following us?”

“I suspect you are well aware of who we are.” The driver’s reply was polite and without inflection. If he was at all annoyed by the turn of events, he wasn’t showing it. “Just as you are undoubtedly aware of what we seek.”

“The trouble is, we haven’t actually got what you want.” A glimpse of movement had me glancing past the flames. It was Jackson, walking between the remaining bins and the ring of fire, his face aglow with heat as he made his way back to my side.

“That would indeed be a shame,” the driver replied, “because the possibility of possession is all that is currently keeping you alive.”

A grim smile touched my lips. “How about you send a little message back to those who control you. Attempt to kill me, and your asses are ash. And I don’t care if I have to burn half the damn city down to do it.”

He stared at me for several seconds, judging whether I meant it, his dark gaze contemplative. Then he glanced at the fires that burned all around us, and a small smile touched his lips.

“You are obviously capable of such a feat, but the reply is not one that will please our people.”

“Right now, I’m not particularly caring. Stop following us, and don’t consider hurting or kidnapping anyone I know. Otherwise, I will follow through with the threat.”

He nodded once, the movement small and oddly regal. “I will deliver the message, as you wish. You do, however, need to release us.”

I glanced at Jackson. He nodded, looking relaxed despite the flickers of fire that danced across his fingertips.

I drew in a deep, somewhat shuddery breath, then released the energy—but not all of it. I kept hold of the flames that burned between the vampires and us, not trusting that they wouldn’t attack if given the slightest chance.

“The Dumpsters you can move yourself,” I said.

Again a slight smile touched his lips. He glanced at the two men behind him, and instantly they moved. In very little time—and with very little effort—they rolled the large metal bins back out of the way.

The driver’s gaze met mine a final time. “We may yet meet again.”

“I would suggest we don’t,” I said. “Not if you value your life.”

His slight smile grew. I had an odd feeling that he rather respected my actions, which was weird, considering my actions had stopped him from completing his task and—if everything I’d heard about the sindicati was true—would result in his being penalized.

He got into the car and they reversed out of the lane, disappearing into the night. When I was sure it was safe, I released my hold on the remaining flames; they shimmered brighter for several seconds, then dissipated, returning to the air and the earth itself.

Weakness washed through me, and I grabbed at the nearest bin to steady myself. I got Jackson instead.

“Whoa,” he said. “Are you okay?”

I nodded. “It’s the price I pay for using the mother’s flames. It’ll pass as soon as I eat.”

“Are we talking food or fire?” Jackson asked. “Because there’s a lovely little furnace that runs night and day next to our office.”

I took a deep breath and released it slowly. My limbs felt steadier, but the weakness remained, making my head spin a little. “Definitely the latter.”

“Then that’s where we’ll go next.”

“That might not be safe—”

Jackson waved my concerns aside. “The sindicati and whoever else will be watching the front of our building, because there is no rear entrance or windows. They will not, however, be watching the blacksmith’s, and I just happen to have a key to both their front and rear doors.”

“And just how did you get that?” I swung around and walked to the car. Jackson hovered close, obviously ready to catch me if I stumbled or fell.

“I pay them a weekly retainer. It comes from my personal accounts, not the business’s, never fear.”

“I wasn’t.” I nodded my thanks as he opened the door and ushered me into the seat. “But I am worried about leaving Rosen alone for that long. I don’t think he can be trusted.”

“The man might be a gambler, but he isn’t a fool.” Jackson slammed the door shut, then ran around to the driver’s side and got in. “So, what do you want—furnace or hotel?”

What I wanted was sex and sleep, though not necessarily in that order. But the former was dangerous when my reserves were low; though I’d never yet lost control and drained anyone of all their heat during sex—thereby killing them—I certainly didn’t want Jackson to be the first.

“Furnace. We don’t have to be there long.”

“Done deal.” He threw the car into reverse and headed out of the lane. The BMW was nowhere in sight, and neither of us spotted it during the trip across to West Melbourne.

We parked in the shadows of several old elms one street over from ours and made our way back to the blacksmith’s. Jackson paused near the fence, his gaze scanning the night, then nodded and unlatched the gate. It opened without a squeak. The double-story brick building loomed above us, a big sturdy structure that had an odd, almost Victorian elegance about it. A double roller door dominated the left side of the building, while there were several bricked-up arched windows on the right.

“How often do you have to use this place?” I hunkered down in the shadows as Jackson moved across to the lock.

He shrugged. “At least once a week.”

I was silent while he sorted through his keys, then opened the lock. The door went up as quietly as the gate. Heat washed over me, an enticing dance of energy that called like a siren to me.

Jackson caught my hand and led me forward. Ahead, the heat of the coals glowed, casting orange shadows across the vast space. Aside from the old-fashioned brick furnace, there were several tables, cabinets holding all sorts of tools, and metal projects in various states of completion.

“Do you just draw the energy in,” I asked as we wove our way through the room toward the fire, “or do you have to meld with it?”

“We don’t meld with flames; not in the same way a phoenix does, anyway.” He glanced at me. In the orange light of this place, his eyes burned with both fire and desire.

He wanted me. Here. Now.

Excitement surged, but all I said was, “Does that mean you simply draw in its power?”

“To give it a new-age term, we commune with it. It’s an intense and very satisfying experience.”

“Sexually satisfying?”

His grin flashed. “No. Which is why I generally need a willing partner afterward.”

“Ha,” I said. “That explains those nights you came back hornier than a six-peckered tomcat.”

He raised an eyebrow, his expression bemused. “Is there even such a creature?”

“Well, if there was, he would be horny.”

Jackson laughed, the sound warm and rich in the vast space. “Undoubtedly.”

He made a motion with his hand and, in the furnace ahead, flames leapt to life. Their heat ran across my senses, and, deep inside, the part of me that was spirit and fire reached out, quickly drawing it in. The closer we got, the stronger the pull, the more I fed. It was a glorious feeling.

We stopped next to the furnace. I closed my eyes and opened my arms, drawing the heat and the power of the flames into my body. It felt like I was glowing. Felt like I was a part of them, even though I was still flesh and blood.

“Better?” Jackson’s breath whispered past my ear. He was standing so close to my spine that I could feel the tension thrumming through him.

I nodded and eased my grip on the flames, still drawing them in but not so completely that I was unaware of anything else.

“You look so beautiful right now.” His lips briefly brushed the nape of my neck, and a shiver of delight ran through me. “So alluring.”

He kissed my neck again, the touch featherlight, teasing. I closed my eyes and clenched my fingers against the need to reach for him. If I did, this would be over far too quickly; his need was every bit as fierce as mine under the light of these flames.

He slid his hands down my waist, then caught the hem of my sweater and lifted it over my head. The T-shirt soon followed, and both were tossed onto the nearby table.

“Glorious,” he murmured as he slid his hands up my belly and cupped my breasts through the silk of my bra. He kissed between my shoulder blades, then lightly bit my shoulder as his clever fingers began to caress and pinch my nipples. Tremors ran through me, thick with delight, and I leaned back against him. The heat of his body burned into my spine, as delightful as the force of the flames in front of us. Despite the layer of clothes still between us, I could feel his erection, thick and hard with desire as he pressed against my butt.

He continued to tease, kissing and nipping and pinching, playing me as easily as any master did his instrument.

Then his caress moved down, his nails skimming my ribs and my hips before moving across to my belly. Slowly, surely, he undid my jeans, then slid one hand past the silk of my panties. He touched my clit and delight shot through me. I groaned, my body arching into his touch, wanting, needing, so much more.

He chuckled softly, then withdrew his touch and stepped back. I tried to turn, to take control, but he stopped me.

“Don’t move,” was all he said. His voice was husky, edged with desire and hunger.

I closed my eyes and waited. My bra soon joined my shirt and sweater on the table, and, a heartbeat later, his tongue touched up my spine, tasting, teasing. I shivered again, lost in sensation, as he slowly made his way up the ruined landscape of my back. Then his hands gripped the waist of my jeans and pushed them down my legs. As I kicked free of my clothes, he quickly stripped, denying me the pleasure of watching. Not that it mattered. This was his fire, his rules. My turn would come later.

His touch returned to my skin, sliding up my thighs, then around my waist as he pressed me close again. His cock slid between my legs, teasing me when all I wanted him to do was thrust so very deep inside of me.

Which was the one thing he didn’t do, of course.

He continued to play me, teasing and arousing, bringing me close to the edge, then backing away. And he did it time and again, until my entire body was feverish and shaking, and all I wanted, all I could think about, was being taken—consumed—by him.

Then, finally, with a soft growl filled with desperation, he swung me around and kissed me hard. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed so close, it would have been hard for anyone watching to tell where his skin ended and mine began. Desire and heat burned around us, until the air itself seemed to be on fire. I drew it in, letting it feed my soul even as it ramped up my desire.

He slid his hands down my back and cupped my butt, lifting me with little effort. I wrapped my legs around his waist as he carried me across to the table and placed me on the hard surface. A heartbeat later, he was in me. It felt like heaven, and for several seconds, neither of us moved; we just enjoyed the sensations and the heat that came with this simple joining of flesh.

Then the fiery need that burned between us became too great to ignore, and he grabbed my hips, holding me tight as he thrust deeper and harder. He paused again, as if to control himself, then resumed at a slower pace, his movements belying the urgency that trembled through us both. Flames flickered across my skin and leapt to his, until it seemed as if we were two beings of fire rather than a Fae and a phoenix. He bent down and caught one nipple between his teeth. Pleasure shot through me, and I gasped and threw back my head. He repeated the process, again and again, until my nipples ached as fiercely as the rest of me, and it was all I could do to keep hold of the desire that threatened to burn out of control.

His grip on my hips suddenly tightened, and his movements became more urgent, until my whole body shook with the intensity of them and it felt as if I were about to shatter into a million different pieces.

Then my control crumbled, and everything did shatter as my orgasm swept through me, intense and violent. A heartbeat later, he groaned, the sound one of ecstasy as his body stiffened against mine and he came.

For several minutes neither of us moved. Then he took a deep, somewhat shuddering breath and shifted his hands, cupping my cheeks as he kissed me sweetly.

“I think we both needed that,” he said eventually.

“That,” I said, my own breathing still very shaky, “is an undeniable truth.”

He laughed, dropped another kiss on my lips, then released me and stepped back. I jumped off the table, grabbed my clothes, and quickly dressed. He did the same, then snuffed out the flames in the furnace, leaving them little more than glowing coals once more. We retreated, locking the door behind us, then made our way back to the car. It was well after midnight, but despite the hour, a good number of cars were still on the roads. None of them appeared to be following us, however, and we made it back to the underground parking lot near the hotel in good time.

“I,” Jackson announced casually, as we walked through the near-deserted streets to the hotel, “am still very hungry.”

“You,” I replied, in the same offhand tone, “are apparently insatiable.”

He laughed. “That is also an undeniable truth. Unfortunately for me, I’ve a feeling Rosen’s presence will hamper my intentions.”

I glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “I thought Fae were exhibitionists?”

“Oh, we are, but I’ve a feeling you phoenixes are not. At least, not to the same extent.”

“You’d be surprised. However,” I added as a gleam of anticipation sparked in his emerald eyes, “I really don’t think Rosen would appreciate our creating a little noise. And I actually don’t think it would be wise to be so unguarded when someone apparently wants him dead.”

“All too true.” He grimaced. “You want first watch or second?”

“Second. I need a shower and sleep, in that order. I didn’t exactly get much sleep last night thanks to that damn dream and creature, and it’s been a long day.”

The elevator opened as we neared it. Jackson punched the button for our floor. Then, as the doors closed, he said, “I’ll do a search for the place Rosen mentioned—Wirraway, wasn’t it?”

I nodded. “And if we can’t find anything, then our next step has to be that warehouse in Laverton North.”

Jackson pressed a hand against my back, lightly guiding me forward as the elevator stopped and the doors opened. “As I said before, I don’t think your ex is going to be too happy if we do that. And I’m not even sure I’ll be able to, given the drug-induced order he gave us to stop chasing Morretti and go nowhere near that warehouse.”

“The drug’s influence will be voided by now.” I kept my voice low, not wanting to wake anyone in the nearby rooms. “And even if it had been capable of such long-term behavior restrictions, the fires of our merging would have burned it from your system.”

“None of which negates the fact that things could get ugly if he discovers we’ve gone against his orders.”

I stopped beside our door and gave him an amused look. “And this worries you?”

“Anyone with any sense would be worried by PIT’s presence in their lives.” He opened the door, then stepped back and waved an arm, ushering me in first. “But their ugly is more than likely to hit you first, given your connection with the man. I just want to make sure you’re ready for it.”

“I am.” I glanced around the room but couldn’t see Rosen anywhere. Maybe he’d gone back to bed. Or maybe, as I’d suspected earlier, he’d run.

“Are you?” Jackson said. “Because I’m not so sure of that.”

I glanced over my shoulder as I made my way toward the second bedroom. “And why would you think that?”

“Because you still love him—”

“Yeah, I do,” I cut in. “But my heart can’t be broken twice in one lifetime. He’s already done that, so I’m safe.”

And if I said that often enough, maybe I’d believe it. The only trouble was, while it was true no one had ever heard of a phoenix getting her heart broken more than once in a lifetime, it didn’t mean it couldn’t happen. And Rory was certainly worried about the prospect.

Rosen wasn’t in the room. I knew he wouldn’t be found in any other room, either, but I nevertheless swung around and headed for the larger bedroom, checking it before moving toward the main bathroom.

“The heart is not a practical organ,” Jackson commented. “It doesn’t think. It only feels.”

I snorted. “Such sage comments from a man whose race shuns deeper emotions.”

“True.” He frowned, watching me for a moment. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Rosen.” I swung around and faced him. “He’s gone.”

CHAPTER 7

Jackson swore and thrust a hand through his hair. “I thought the damn fool had more sense than that.”

“Obviously not.” My tone was grim. “You want to go out and look for him?”

Jackson hesitated, then shook his head. “He could be anywhere. We need to rest and recuperate, before anyone else flings shit our way.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Rest, huh? That’s not what you were talking about a few minutes ago.”

He shucked off his jacket, then began undoing his shirt as he strode toward me. “No, it wasn’t. And right now I’m thinking shower, sex in the shower, bed, some more sex, and then sleep. How does that sound?”

“How about we reverse the last two? I really do need to sleep.”

He sighed. “The lady has no stamina.”

“Not right now she hasn’t.”

He laughed and gathered me in his arms, kissing me soundly. “Shall we go get wet?”

“Let’s.”

We did. And when we finally slept, I did so with a smile on my lips.

“I’ve Googled Wirraway,” Jackson said from the living room. “It appears it’s a street in Port Melbourne.”

I pulled my sweater over my still-wet hair, then tugged it down as I headed out of the bedroom. Jackson had obviously made use of the room service menu, because the smell of warm toast and bacon teased my nostrils, and my stomach rumbled a reminder it hadn’t eaten any food in a while.

Jackson had already tucked into his bacon and eggs, and he was currently intent on demolishing a six-stack of toast in between studying the search results on the laptop.

“Big street or small?” I sat down, took the cover off my bacon and eggs, and began eating.

“It’s on the smaller side, but it’s an industrial area, so there’re lots of warehouses.” He contemplated the screen for a moment. “I guess we could do a drive-by and see what we can find. We might get lucky and spot someone we know.”

“Hopefully that someone won’t be Man-Mountain One or Two.”

He grinned. “Oh, I don’t know—I wouldn’t mind the chance to knock out Hunt’s remaining teeth.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” I said, waving a fork filled with bacon at him. “Next time it just might be third time unlucky.”

“For them.” He grabbed another piece of toast and slathered Vegemite on it. I shuddered. I didn’t mind Vegemite, but it needed to be thinly spread rather than slapped on like butter. “I tried to call Rosen while you were in the shower. He’s not picking up.”

Which didn’t sound good. “Work or home?”

“Work and cell. His secretary said he wasn’t expected in this morning.”

“Meaning he’s been in contact with her, and that he could simply be in hiding.”

“Possibly.”

I studied him for a moment. “But you believe not.”

“I think it unlikely.” He grimaced. “If someone hasn’t snatched him, then it’s highly probable he’s either back at the tables or found a card game to join.”

“Neither of which is easy to check.” I scooped up the last bit of bacon, then grabbed a piece of toast to mop up the remaining egg. “But we could at least head to his house. He might be there and just not be answering.”

“You believe that even less than I do.”

“Yeah, but I still think it’s worth checking. Have you got his home address?”

“No, but I doubt it’s hard to find. Hang on a sec.” He used the laptop again and, after a few minutes, said, “There’re only three Rosens listed. One of them is Junior, and one lives in Bendigo. I seriously doubt Senior is the country-town type.”

“No.” I paused. “If I had to guess, I’d say he’s more the luxury apartment on Albert Road, South Bank, type.”

“I’m thinking that’s not such a guess.” His tone was dry.

“No.” I frowned. “This whole sharing-random-information-and-thoughts scenario is going to take a bit of getting used to—though it could undoubtedly be helpful if we find ourselves in the hands of the sindicati again.”

“Undoubtedly.” He grabbed the remaining bit of toast, repeated the Vegemite slathering, and rose. “What’s say we go check out Wirraway Drive? If that proves to be useless, it frees up time to concentrate on either finding Rosen or chasing the damn notes.”

“I still have one of the USBs Amanda Wilson gave me, remember?” I picked up my coat and purse, then followed him out the door. “Sam might have said there’s nothing on it, but it could still be worth checking.”

“I’d forgotten about that damn thing. We’ll do it as soon as we get back.”

“Why not now? It’s not like we have a limited time to either check out Wirraway or find Rosen or Amanda.”

He pressed the elevator call button, then shoved his hands into his pockets. “That’s the thing—I have this really weird feeling we need to get over to Wirraway.”

Surprise rippled through me. “So Fae really do have clairvoyant tendencies?”

“We commune with nature and our elements, not idiots intent on gambling their fortune and their businesses away.” The elevator door opened, and he ushered me inside. “But you get visions. Maybe this is another side effect of sharing flame.”

“Maybe.” I shrugged. It wasn’t like I’d ever done anything like it with anyone other than Rory, so anything was possible.

We headed out to the hotel, but rather than walk to our car, he caught my elbow and led me in the opposite direction.

“The sindicati will have no doubt registered the make and plate number of the car we used yesterday. We’re getting another.”

“Three rentals is pushing it a little, isn’t it?”

His grin flashed. “The business can afford it. And we’ll return yesterday’s tonight.”

“If they continued to follow us after last night’s confrontation, they’ll be aware we’re staying at the hotel. Changing cars won’t matter.”

“No one followed us here, Em. I’m certain of that. Not in a car, anyway.”

We just had to hope he was right. It took little more than half an hour to sign all the paperwork and get another new car—this time a nondescript Ford Focus—and by then the traffic had eased up, and we were able to drive across to Port Melbourne in relatively quick time.

“Right,” Jackson said as he swung onto Wirraway Drive and slowed the car down. “Keep those pretty eyes of yours peeled for anything that screams rats or Radcliffe.”

I snorted. “It’s an industrial estate close to a major river. There’re going to be rats everywhere.”

His grin flashed. “True that.”

I smiled but scanned the nearby buildings. The street was wide and lined with gum trees, most of them fairly young. A few cars were parked on the roadside, but most people made use of the parking lots the various warehouses or businesses had available either in front or to the side of their buildings. It was a little hard to tell what any of the businesses actually were, because the only signage on most was simply a name.

The road curved left. As Jackson followed it, I spotted a row of what looked to be empty shops, at the end of which was a series of outdoor umbrellas shading white tables and randomly colored chairs.

“Didn’t Rosen mention being taken to a café?”

“He did.” He glanced at the café. “And it’s a very well-secured little café, too.”

It certainly was. There were at least two security cameras that I could see, and they were the type that was constantly moving, scanning the immediate surrounds. “It might just be worth going in there to buy a coffee.”

“I totally agree.”

He drove on. Wirraway Drive curved right one more time, then came to a dead end. Jackson swung around, drove back, and pulled into the café’s small parking lot.

“Shame we haven’t got that nurse’s uniform.” He leaned his forearms on the wheel and studied the building. “You could have gone in and gotten the drinks without raising suspicions.”

“He may know me by sight, but he doesn’t know you.” I watched several workers come out of the café, drinks and bags of food in hand. “And it may just be what it looks like—a café doing a roaring job catering to all the nearby warehouse workers.”

“Possibly.” He unclipped his belt. “What do you feel like?”

“A green tea if they have it, hot chocolate if they haven’t. And a vanilla slice wouldn’t go astray.”

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that pastries makes you fat?”

I grinned. “Not a problem for us. We burn too hot.”

“Fae, too. I shall grab three.”

He climbed out of the car and strolled toward the café. His hands were in his pockets and his gait casual, but I had no doubt he didn’t miss a thing. I continued to watch the flow of people in and out of the place for several minutes, then shifted and studied the other buildings—and caught sight of yet more security cameras. The one on the end, closest to the parking lot, had stopped sweeping. We’d been made.

I got out and walked across, just as Jackson was coming back out.

He immediately stopped. “Trouble?”

I nodded toward the still-watching camera. “Big Brother has been watching.”

“Idiots, giving the game away like that.” He placed the drinks and the vanilla slices down on the nearest table. “Shall we go introduce ourselves more formally?”

“If there’s anyone left to introduce ourselves to, sure.”

He spun around and headed back in. I followed. It was a cheery-looking place, filled with color, warmth, and great-smelling food. There were more tables lining the right wall and several customers being served by an equal number of staff. Jackson ignored them and headed for the swing door at the rear.

“I’m sorry, sir,” one of the women said, dumping her tongs on the nearby counter and hurrying after us, “but you can’t go in there.”

“It’s okay,” he said over his shoulder. “Mr. Radcliffe is expecting us.”

“But there’s no one by that—”

She was talking to air. Jackson was already through the door. I followed, but a quick glance over my shoulder as the door swung shut behind us revealed she was now on the phone. Even if, by some miracle, Radcliffe hadn’t been aware of our presence, he surely was now.

The next room was a small kitchen. I gave the chef a nod as we passed through, but he basically ignored us. A pointer, perhaps, to the fact that we weren’t the first strangers to stroll through this place.

The next room was a storeroom. It, too, was small, and filled with shelves loaded with stock and kitchen paraphernalia. There were several personnel lockers in one corner and two more doors, one of them open. Jackson stopped in the middle of the storeroom and studied the various shelves intently. I continued on; the open door led out to the rear of the building, but there was nothing in the lane beyond the exit other than several half-filled Dumpsters. The second door led into a bathroom. It was tiny, especially with the six personnel lockers crammed into it.

“Well, this is a bust,” I said as I returned and stopped beside him.

“No, it isn’t. There’s a breeze.”

“Well, yeah, the back door is open.”

“Yes, but it’s coming from that wall, not the door.” He waved a hand to the wall in front of us. “And it’s colder than the breeze outside.”

“There’s no air-conditioning in either the café or the kitchen.” I glanced up. “There’re no vents in here, either.”

“No.” He paused. “It suddenly strikes me that the café is a whole lot wider than both the kitchen and the storeroom.”

I blinked. Even with the width of the storeroom and bathroom combined, he was right.

“Meaning,” he continued, “there just might be another room hidden behind that wall.”

“Rats do like their hiding places.” I contemplated the shelving for a second. “If there is some sort of entrance here, I can’t imagine they’d be wanting to move the shelving to get to it every time.”

“No,” he agreed. “But does it seem at all odd to you that there’re personnel lockers in a store that holds kitchen equipment and supplies? Isn’t that against all sorts of health regs?”

“I haven’t worked in the food industry in any of my recent rebirths, but I was under the impression staff facilities had to be separated.” I walked across to the lockers. They were all padlocked, but the locks weren’t particularly robust. I melted the one on the first door and opened it—only to have it continue to fold open. The lockers had all been connected and hollowed out, so they were little more than an outer shell that protected the doorway Jackson had sensed. It was heavy-duty and sporting a rather industrial-looking, key-coded locking system. I burned it out, sending sparks flying, then raised a foot and booted it open. The room beyond was brightly lit and apparently empty. I doubted it actually was, even though I could neither see nor sense anyone else near.

“I do so love the way you work,” Jackson murmured as he ducked into the lockers and stepped cautiously into the next room.

And almost immediately was sent flying by a fist to the jaw.

I grabbed the arm and slammed it back against the door frame before the man could deliver a second blow. A howl of pain followed; then the stranger’s body filled the doorway as his other fist came flying toward me. I ducked the blow, then released him, swung around, and booted him hard in the gut. He grunted and staggered several feet backward, but he didn’t fall, as I’d half hoped. Instead, he simply growled and launched straight at me.

I scrambled backward, flames flickering across my fingers and skin. The big man either didn’t see them or didn’t care, and he was on me before I could do anything else. We went down in a tumble of arms and legs and skidded across the storeroom’s floor, hitting the wall opposite hard enough to force a grunt from both the big man and me. I tried to break free, but his weight had me pinned down even as he wrapped his fingers almost lovingly around my neck. It felt as if he were trying to snap me in two.

Maybe he was.

I swore—though it came out more a garbled rasp of noise than anything actually understandable—and punched him hard in the face. As my fist mashed his nose and sent snot and blood flying, my flames hit his skin, cindering his flesh. The foul stench seared the air, and he roared—a sound that was filled with pain and fury. But he didn’t let go. He simply squeezed harder.

As lights began to dance in front of my eyes, I did the only thing I could do—become flame rather than flesh.

Energy roared through me, sweeping me from one form to another in an instant. But the flames of a phoenix burned far hotter than any regular fire, and the big man went up in an instant. He screamed again, truly screamed this time, the sound high and terrible. I wrapped a slither of flame around his neck and wrenched him off me, then simultaneously put him out and retained flesh form.

And just in time.

The door behind us crashed open, and the chef appeared. “What the fuck?” His voice trailed off as he stared at the still-smoking man near the bathroom door.

“Call an ambulance,” I said, then added, when he didn’t immediately answer, “Now!”

His gaze came to mine, eyes wide with shock and perhaps horror; then he nodded and retreated. I spun, ran back through the lockers, and dove into the other room.

One man lay on the floor to my right, groaning in pain, one leg lying at an odd angle to his body, a leg bone visible.

Jackson was still fighting two others. The smack of flesh on flesh was loud and deadly sounding, but even as I rolled to my feet and stepped toward them to help, fire flickered across Jackson’s fists, then ignited; the flames hit one man, sending him flying backward, while Jackson’s fist took care of the other.

Neither man got back up. I walked across to the flame-thrown thug, quickly dousing him, then checking his pulse. He was out cold but okay. So was the second.

I glanced at Jackson and nodded at his still flaming hands. “I’m guessing that’s another side effect of our joining.”

His expression became somewhat confused. “I can’t make flame—you know that. I can only redirect and reuse—and you set the other guy alight. I felt the sweep of ignition.”

“Yeah, but I doused him almost straight away.” I motioned down at the unconscious figure at my feet. “There was no flame active when you did this.”

“Well, don’t those side effects just get more and more interesting.” He studied his flaming hands for several more seconds, then doused them. A second later, the flames reappeared; just not as bright or strong. His grin flashed as his gaze met mine. “As a fire Fae, I cannot be unhappy about the prospect of being able to create my own flame, even if it contains only a fraction of the potency of yours.”

“For now,” I commented. “Who knows what will happen as time moves along.”

“Again, I’m not complaining.”

“No.” I swung around and studied the room. “Radcliffe’s skipped out.”

“Rats have a habit of doing that.”

He walked across to the large table that dominated the end of the long but narrow room. Papers were scattered everywhere and the chair was upturned, evidence of a hasty departure. On the wall beside the door were several small screens, one showing constantly moving views of the road and parking bays outside the café, and the other locked on the front door. We’d definitely been watched as we’d entered.

“But how did he leave?” I shoved my hands on my hips and glared at the walls around us, seeking answers they were very unhelpfully not providing. “There’re no windows in this place, and the only door is the one we came in.”

“It may be the only regular door, but I’m betting there’s a trapdoor here somewhere.” He walked around the desk and studied the floor. “He can’t have moved the desk, though—it’s bolted to the floor.”

“I don’t think I want to know why he’d do that.” My gaze swept the room again and came to rest on the small sofa at the other end of the room. One side of it was sitting slightly out from the wall. I walked over, grabbed the end, and pulled it fully away. There, on the floor, was a trapdoor. “One rat hole found.”

Jackson walked over. “I’ll go down first.”

“Just be careful this time. Your pretty face is bruised enough.”

He snorted. “We men prefer to be called handsome, my dear, not pretty.”

“But they can definitely be both.”

He rolled his eyes at me, then grabbed the trapdoor’s handle and heaved it open. The air that rushed up to greet us was thick and dank, filled with the aroma of rotting carcasses and rubbish.

“A bloody storm drain,” I groaned, wrinkling my nose in distaste. “I should have guessed.”

Sparks danced across Jackson’s hands, but they were barely bright enough to lift more than an inch or two of the darkness that hovered below. He glanced at me. “I guess the honor is yours.”

I called to my flames, formed them into a ball of fire, and tossed the ball down into the darkness. It hit the trickle of water that lay at the bottom of the drain, sizzling and spitting but not going out. The drain it revealed wasn’t a big one; in fact, I doubted I, let alone Jackson, could stand up in it. But Radcliffe didn’t need to; all he had to do was change form and run for it.

I dropped on my knees and bent to get a closer look, but Jackson stopped me. “Remember the fist that greeted me when I stuck my mug through a gap.”

He flicked a finger, and my ball of flame began to grow, expand, until it formed a wall of fire slightly wider than the circumference of the trapdoor. “Now you may look.”

I did, but there was nothing to see. The rat had well and truly fled the scene. I sighed and sat back on my haunches. “There’s probably not much chance of finding him, even if we do go after him.”

“No.” Jackson rose, then offered me a hand, helping me up. “But I’m guessing the cops have also been called, so we might as well give this place a quick search, before the shit truly hits.”

I frowned. “It might be better to leave.”

“No. Leaving the scene of a crime will only make us the aggressors in the cops’ eyes—”

“And we were.”

“Yes, but I’ve got a swollen jaw and you’ve got bruising around your neck, so self-defense is not unreasonable.” He shrugged. “And we’re in the den of a known criminal. Trust me, I doubt they’ll come down too harshly on us.”

I hoped he was right. As he’d noted previously, neither of us would do too well in jail—even if there was actually a human jail that could hold me. Or, at least, hold my fire form.

I stepped over one of the still-unconscious men and moved to the desk. The sound of approaching sirens was now very clear, so we really didn’t have much time left to uncover anything. I picked up a couple of bits of paper and noticed the odd indents on the desktop. They weren’t big, but they were deep. It almost looked as if something had been nailed to the desk. Repeatedly. Suspecting I really didn’t need to know the reasons for that, I glanced back at the papers in my hand. They seemed to be financial records of some kind, though I didn’t recognize any of the names on them.

“Anything?” Jackson said, moving across to the filing cabinets.

“Nothing useful.” I righted the chair, then sat and began opening desk drawers. “You?”

“The cabinets are locked, and it probably wouldn’t be wise to force them.”

“No.” The first drawer was filled with basic office paraphernalia, as well as some not-so-basic items, such as long letter openers that had been filed down to really sharp points—points that would undoubtedly match the odd dents in the desktop.

Bloody images rose of body parts being nailed to the desk by an angry Radcliffe; I shivered and shoved my imagination back in its box. I’d come across far worse than Radcliffe in my time, but the lengths some people—both men and women—were willing to go to for the sake of the almighty dollar never ceased to surprise me. I slammed the drawer shut and moved on to the next one. It turned out to be a random junk drawer. I searched it anyway but didn’t find anything useful. I also didn’t find any more sharpened office implements, for which I was extremely grateful.

“You know, it’s interesting that no one from either the café or the kitchen has actually come to investigate what we’re doing or to stop us from leaving.”

I glanced up. Jackson stood in the doorway, his back to me. Studying the man who’d attacked us, I thought, as a sliver of remorse ran through me. He was going to have a long, difficult road to recovery—if he could, in fact, recover. Very few people survived such close contact with my spirit form. Jackson had, but only because he was fire Fae and really couldn’t be burned by his own element. The sheer force and power of my natural being might have killed him—probably should have killed him—but it wouldn’t have actually burned him.

“I suspect Radcliffe’s employees learned long ago that curiosity is not a good thing.” I opened the bottom drawer—and discovered not only car keys but a wallet and phone. “Guess what I just found?”

“The keys to the kingdom?” He turned to face me, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. I held up the wallet and phone, and his smile grew. “I wasn’t that far off.”

“That depends on whether there’s anything interesting to be found on either item.” I tossed him the wallet and flicked on the phone. “It’s key coded.”

“The only thing surprising about that,” Jackson commented, “is that it’s not thumbprint coded. It’s easy enough to break numerical codes these days, and Radcliffe surely has to know that.”

“He probably does, but why do you? And does that statement imply that you’ve done it?”

“Well, not me personally. I haven’t the time nor the inclination to sit there and physically type out numbers until I crack the right one.”

“Then how?” The sound of sirens was now so close, the noise echoed through the small room. They had to be right outside the café, meaning we had a minute, if that, left. I grabbed the car keys, shoved them and the phone in my pocket, and rose.

“With the help of a forensic program capable of copying the encrypted data off a cell phone and then attacking it. Once it hits the right combination, all the data is unencrypted and can be read.”

“Without the phone being affected?”

“Exactly. The user never knows his device has been compromised. Very handy.” He shoved the wallet into the back pocket of his jeans, then added, “The ambulance and cops just arrived.”

“Yeah.” I glanced around as one of the men stirred. He did little more than groan, so I let him be and walked across to stand beside Jackson to wait for the incoming police and ambulance officers.

What I didn’t expect was to see Sam among them.

CHAPTER 8

“What the fuck has been going on here, Em?” Sam’s voice was low but so thick with anger, it vibrated.

We were standing outside, well apart from both the paramedics rushing the man I’d cindered toward the waiting ambulance, and the woman who was interviewing Jackson. She was PIT, like Sam, but not someone I’d met before—not that I’d met that many of them. Just Rozelle, Sam’s bed partner and a Fae like Jackson, and Adam, the vamp who worked with Sam during nighttime incursions.

I crossed my arms and met Sam’s gaze evenly. The outward calm, however, was little more than bravado. The darkness within him had risen to the surface again. The force of it was so fierce, it swept away any warmth or comfort I might have gained from the morning sunshine, and left my insides trembling. Unfortunately, that part of my reaction wasn’t just fear.

“You know what we were doing here, Sam, because you know who this place belongs to.”

“Yes, but to attack—burn—Radcliffe’s man like that—”

“The bastard attacked me!” I grabbed the collar of my shirt and pulled it away from my neck so that the bruises became more evident. “You saw the size of him—what else was I supposed to do? He had me at the point of unconsciousness. My only way out was to shift.”

His gaze rested on my neck, a dangerous weight I could feel through to my very core. “You could have used a thread of fire to lasso him away or something like that. I know you’re capable of it.”

Knew because he’d seen me do it? I frowned, thinking back to the forest and the gray-cowled stranger who’d ordered the red cloaks to attack us. That figure hadn’t been Sam; I was certain of that—even if he had the same vibrant blue eyes—but I couldn’t escape the notion that there was some sort of connection between them, however tenuous. And then there was the whole “You will be mine” threat that oddly implied we’d met previously.

Of course, it was also possible that that stranger was a cloak Sam had attempted to kill and, in his attempt to seek vengeance, was concentrating on erasing all Sam cared about. Sam had admitted when I’d saved his ass in Brooklyn—the apparent hot spot for red-cloak activity here in Melbourne—that he’d made it something of a personal crusade to kill every one of the bastards. It would certainly explain the gray cloak’s odd fascination with Sam—although if he knew anything at all about Sam, he’d know we were no longer an item, and that my death wasn’t ever likely to affect him. Not in the way the stranger seemed to think it would, anyway.

“And how would you know that?”

“How do you think? PIT has a dossier filled with general information about the abilities of a phoenix.”

The intensity of Sam’s gaze seemed to be growing, and it both repelled and allured. I wasn’t sure why that should be, but it oddly reminded me of the glamor vampires could sometimes place on their victims, making the unwilling willing.

I frowned and briefly looked away. Even so, the weight of his gaze had my knees threatening to buckle. Or maybe that was simply his closeness, and the wash of his scent across my senses, a rich mix of woodsy earthiness and musk.

“You’re right,” I said eventually. “I probably should have. But I was on the verge of unconsciousness, as I said, and instinct took over.”

He made a low sound in the back of his throat, then lifted his gaze and looked past me. The abrupt release from the weight of it actually had me taking half a step to steady myself.

Which was strange—almost as strange as the man himself. But then, Sam had never been normal. His dedication to his job, the fierce way he cared about the people in his life, his sheer love of life combined with his adventurous nature, were part of what had attracted me in the first place. The addition of that dangerous darkness just gave him more of an edge.

As Jackson had noted, the heart really wasn’t a sensible organ.

Sam took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Okay, just tell me why you came here. There wasn’t much more than thoughts on that USB I gave you, and certainly nothing that provided a link between Wilson’s missing research and Radcliffe.”

“Maybe not, but Rosen certainly has links to him.”

His gaze rested on mine again. I rubbed my arms against both the chill that ran across my skin and the desire that stirred in the deeper recesses.

“We’re aware of that.”

“And I’m guessing you released Rosen rather than charge the bastard because you want to uncover who Radcliffe is selling the secrets to.”

He didn’t deny the statement but simply said, “Rosen won’t be selling any more government secrets to either the sindicati or the city pack—not unless they’re ones of our making.”

The werewolves were buying government secrets? I’m not sure why that surprised me, given what Jackson had said earlier about the werewolves working with the sindicati, but for some reason, I’d expected better of them. Which probably just came down to naïveté and a lack of interaction with them on my part.

“Good.” I paused. “Maybe that’s why the sindicati—or, at least, two wolves who claimed they’d been employed by the sindicati—tried to kill him yesterday.”

“What? When?”

“In the afternoon, just after four. I daresay you’re familiar with one of the two goons who took him—Theodore Hunt, the werewolf who almost killed Amanda Wilson.”

“If the sindicati are Radcliffe’s buyer, it makes no sense that they’d want him dead. Our enforced restrictions only apply to government projects, not privately funded ones. Believe me, his company is working on a couple of projects the vamps would love to get their hands on.”

So why didn’t PIT protect those? Was it simply a matter of the other projects’ holding no threat to humanity in general? If that was the case, then what else was Rosen’s company working on? Maybe that was a question we needed to ask Rosen—if we ever found him again, and if PIT’s restrictions didn’t also apply to us.

“Of course,” Sam added, “it could also be someone wanting to implicate the sindicati. Did they give you a name?”

My smile held as little humor as his had earlier. “Morretti.”

“This mess just gets more and more interesting,” he murmured. But before I could ask why, he added, “Where’s Rosen now?”

“We don’t know.”

He frowned. The shadowed darkness that haunted his soul seemed to have retreated a little, but that only increased my awareness of him.

“What do you mean, you don’t know? You rescued him, didn’t you?”

“Yes, and took him somewhere safe. Only trouble is, we left to talk to his son, and he was gone by the time we got back.”

His frown grew. “What the hell has Rosen’s son—” He paused, and I could almost could see the cogs turning. “He was Hamberly’s lover, wasn’t he? Did he see anything?”

“That depends on your definition of ‘see.’ He’s something of a psychic.”

“So he saw the creature coming and ran out on his partner?” Sam’s tone held a thick edge of dislike. “It would seem the son takes after the father.”

“Except that he claims Hamberly was already dead, just as he would have been if he’d stayed.”

“Was he able to give you much information?”

“Not much.” I smiled, and Sam’s pupils widened. While that was generally considered a sign of sexual interest, I wasn’t sure it was one I could rely on here—if only because there was little other indication that he was, in any way, still attracted to me. Certainly not in his expression, which remained ungiving. “Most of it made no sense. He did say the creature had human form—that of a thin, middle-aged woman with dark hair and bloodshot eyes.”

“We’ll talk to him.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you haven’t already.”

His sudden smile held very little humor. “Sometimes even PIT can be behind the eight ball—and we’ve only got indentations on the pillows and a hair removed from the scene to initially go on. Forensic results don’t happen overnight, as much as we might wish otherwise.”

And even forensics couldn’t grab a name out of DNA. The paramedics finally slammed the ambulance doors closed; in a matter of seconds it was gone, racing my victim toward the hospital.

“So why,” he added, “were you here? Don’t make me bring you into PIT again, Em.”

I sighed and pulled my gaze from his once more. And noticed that our drinks and vanilla slices were still sitting on the table where we’d left them. The folk around here were obviously honest.

“Rosen told us that Hunt and his muscular friend had been sent by Radcliffe, not by the sindicati. We were just coming here to clarify whether that was the truth or not.”

“And you didn’t think he’d scarper the minute he saw you on the security cams?”

“We didn’t see them until it was too late.” I shrugged. “We took a chance that the rat didn’t have an escape route. We were wrong.”

He grunted and glanced across to the woman interviewing Jackson. She gave him a slight nod, then said something to Jackson and rose. No handcuffs appeared, and surprise rippled through me. “You’re letting us go? Just like that?”

“Until or unless it can be proven that you didn’t act in self-defense, then yes.” A ghost of a smile—a real smile—touched his lips, and my stupid heart did something of a happy dance. “And we both know how unlikely it is that any of Radcliffe’s men will speak.”

I was counting on it. Granted, we didn’t technically attack first, but we sure as hell did break and enter. “And Morretti? You’re not going to warn us off pursuing him in any way?”

His smile faded, and part of me mourned its loss. The stupid part, obviously. “I don’t have to. Morretti was murdered last night.”

By Scott Baker, perhaps? He’d certainly seemed intent on sending the sindicati a message, but I’d been under the impression he intended to do it via the vampires who’d been waiting for Hunt rather than by killing someone so high up in sindicati ranks. That sort of reaction could spark a war, and I doubted that was what Baker actually wanted. “Who by?”

“And why would you think I’d actually answer that question?”

I squinted up at him. “Because you’re a kind, generous, and very giving soul?”

My attempt at humor was met by an even stonier expression. “That might have been true once, but not anymore.”

I didn’t say anything, because there was little point. What he said was an obvious truth no one could deny—not if they’d had any recent interaction with him.

But even as that thought crossed my mind, I remembered the warmth and caring that had been so obvious between him and Rozelle the one time I’d seen them together. He wasn’t stony to everyone; it was just me, obviously.

I glanced away. “I don’t expect an answer, Sam. I don’t really expect anything. Is that it? Can we go?”

He studied me for several seconds, and it was very much a silent demand to turn and look at him. I didn’t and, after a moment, he said, “Where are you staying, just in case we need to get hold of you?”

“If you need to get hold of me, just ring.”

“Em, don’t be difficult. We know you’re not spending much time at your apartment, and you certainly haven’t been staying at the office since it was raided, so where?”

I crossed my arms and met his gaze again. “So you’re still having me followed?”

He hesitated. “No. But we are keeping tabs on your whereabouts. Given your refusal to stop investigating Baltimore’s murder, it is a logical course of action.”

“Except that we’re working for Rosen, looking for Wilson’s missing research notes. We haven’t even thought about Baltimore recently.”

Which was the truth, as far as it went. But that didn’t mean we wouldn’t change investigation streams if we came across anything relating to Baltimore’s research notes or his murder—although could it really be considered a murder now that he’d risen from the dead either as a vampire or one of the red cloaks?

And Sam obviously knew that. His thin smile held little humor as he said, “Maybe, but unless you want to go back to being followed twenty-four/seven, tell me where you’re staying.”

I blew out a frustrated breath and gave him the address of the hotel.

“Thanks. And remember, if you learn anything else about that creature, we need to know.”

“No problem.”

With that, I turned and walked away. The weight of his gaze pressed against my back, and once again desire stirred deep inside. But I resisted the urge to look back at him and just kept moving. Jackson grabbed the drinks and vanilla slices we’d left on the table, then met me at the car.

“Well, that turned out a whole lot better than I’d expected,” he said. “Any clue as to why they’ve simply let us go, without even a caution?”

“No one died. Seriously,” I added when he raised an eyebrow.

“Fair enough.” He unlocked the car and we climbed in. “But it seems damn odd that we weren’t even given a warning not to pursue Hunt, the sindicati, or even Morretti.”

I took one of the slices he offered me. “That’s because Morretti was murdered last night.”

His gaze snapped to mine. “Who by?”

“Sam didn’t say.”

“Can’t have been Baker. That sort of action would start a war.”

“My thought exactly.” I bit down on the slice and hurriedly shoved a hand under it to catch the thick, gooey custard that oozed out the sides of the puff pastry.

“Maybe it was the sindicati faction that’s seeking to control the whole kit and caboodle.”

“Or someone who was simply pissed off about Morretti’s lack of recent results.” I shrugged. “Either way, we should definitely check out that warehouse in Laverton North.”

“I agree. But I’d wait a day or so, until the hubbub over Morretti’s death dies down a little.”

We finished the slices and the now-cold drinks. Then Jackson started the car, and we headed out.

“Where to next?” I tossed the rubbish into the empty middle console and brushed the pastry crumbs from my clothes.

He pulled Radcliffe’s wallet out of his pocket and handed it to me. “Radcliffe’s driver’s license gives us a home address. I think we should go investigate it.”

“He’s unlikely to go there since he now knows we’re after him.”

“True, but we might just find the elusive Mrs. Radcliffe you’re so certain exists there.”

“Also unlikely.” I retrieved Radcliffe’s driver’s license from the wallet and typed his home address into the GPS. “If he’s denying her existence, she won’t be living at an address so easily checked.”

“Also true.” He shrugged, and we continued on in silence.

Radcliffe lived—somewhat surprisingly—in the rather middle-class suburb of Keilor East. His home turned out to be just as surprising—a standard 1970s redbrick house, which was single story in the front and double at the rear. A large brick patio that looked to have been added on at a later date covered the entrance to the front door, and to the left of the house was a two-car garage. There was little in the way of a front garden, but the lawn had been recently mown. There were no cars in the driveway, and the blinds were all closed.

Jackson stopped in front of the neighboring house and twisted around to look back. “I can’t see any security cameras.”

“Which is decidedly odd if Radcliffe does live here,” I commented, “especially given all the technology at the café.”

“Yeah.” He turned and studied the rest of the street. “What do you think?”

“I think if Radcliffe owns this place, then he’s probably got an escape route ready to go.”

“My thoughts exactly. You take the front; I’ll take the back. Hopefully we’ll catch the rat somewhere in the middle.”

“One of these days, breaking into places is really going to get you into trouble.” My tone was dry as I opened the car door and climbed out.

“Undoubtedly.” His expression was amused and uncaring. “But until it does, I shall continue on my merry way.”

“Is this need to walk the edge of danger a Fae thing, or just an inherent desire of yours?”

“In my case, a bit of both.” He shrugged. “But it does take a little craziness to attempt to restrain the power of the elements in any way, and I have seen more than one Fae consumed by it.”

I nodded. It could happen to us, too, if we held on to the earth mother’s power for too long. Using her always came at the cost of our own strength, but the ultimate payment was death itself, with all that we are, all that we’d experienced, being drawn into her vast bosom. I had no idea if it was possible to be called back to the mother—I’d never actually heard of any phoenix being caught like that. But it was a warning handed down from generation to generation, and there were very few such myths that weren’t at least based on some truth, however tenuous.

Jackson jumped over the small brick fence and headed for the rear yard. I continued on to the driveway and walked across to the front door. It was plain and painted white, but there were cobwebs in the corners of the frame, and the locks were old and not particularly strong looking.

I glanced around to see if anyone appeared to be watching, then stepped back and gave the lock a good kick. It sprung open with little fuss. I darted forward to grab it before it could smash back into the plaster, and I was hit by the scent in the air—it was musty, as if no one had opened a window and let in fresh air for a very long time.

If anyone actually lived here, let alone Radcliffe, I’d give up sex.

I closed the door, then looked around. There were two more doors—one directly in front and the other to my right—while on my left was a long corridor that ran past a staircase and had several other rooms running off it. I went right and found myself in the living room. The carpet was pristine, but the geometric pattern and the brash red and black coloring looked to have leapt straight out of the 1970s. The furniture was similarly dated, with dark wood and heavily patterned fabrics. The room was L-shaped, with a dining area in the other corner. Off this was a kitchen. A couple of recently posted envelopes were on the counter, but both had been opened and were now empty. It did, however, suggest that someone came here fairly regularly, even if only to collect the mail. I continued on and found myself back in the hall.

Jackson appeared out of one of the rooms. “Anything?”

I shook my head. “No sign of either a rat or a rat hole.”

He grimaced. “I’d guess, from the smell of the place, he’s using it for license purposes only.”

I waved a hand at the stairs. “I’ll head up.”

He nodded and walked into the first room past the stairs. I bounded upstairs, the sound of my footsteps muffled by the awful carpet. There were four bedrooms up here as well as a large bathroom, and all of the bedrooms were unfurnished. I checked the wardrobes, just to be sure, but there was nothing except dust and dead spiders to be found.

I walked back down and met Jackson in the hall again.

“Well,” he said when I shook my head, “it was always a long shot.”

“Yes, but he has to live somewhere, and it isn’t underground. That suit he was wearing at Crown was damn expensive, and neither he nor it smelled even vaguely of sewers.”

Jackson pressed a hand against my back, lightly guiding me out. “I’ll contact my source and see what she can come up with.”

“Given the trouble PIT has had pinning him down, it’s unlikely she’ll be able to come up with much.”

He shrugged and slammed the door shut. “Even a few more addresses to check could be helpful.”

And it wasn’t like we had many other options right now, anyway.

“True,” Jackson said, obviously catching my thought as we walked back to the car. “I’m thinking we go back to the hotel and check out not only what is on that USB you have but see what sort of information we can drag from Rosen’s phone.”

“When I was talking to Sam earlier, he said there wasn’t much relating to Wilson or his research on the USB.” I flashed Jackson a smile of thanks as he opened the passenger door for me. “And Rory’s computer hasn’t got any sort of program capable of cracking key codes on it.”

“It soon will. They may have stolen our computers, but they won’t have gained access to the information I store in the cloud.” He slammed the door shut and ran around to the other side of the car, climbing in.

“If you’ve got a program capable of cracking key codes, then surely the sindicati will have something similar to crack passwords.”

“Undoubtedly. But my cloud isn’t any of the regular service providers. A friend of mine runs one of the larger ISP companies here in Australia and has given me space off-grid, so to speak.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You seem to know some very well-placed people.”

He shrugged and pulled out of the parking spot. “Fae tend to live a long time, remember, and that gives us the opportunity to build contacts.”

I shifted in the seat and studied him. “Fae aren’t exactly ‘out’ to the general population, so how do you get around the problem of living longer than humans without their noticing?”

“We move around, like you.” He shrugged again. “And admittedly, most of my friends are Fae, just like me. It’s easier than explaining.”

“I thought Fae were loners by nature?”

“We are, in that we don’t live in one another’s pockets month by month. Hell, I don’t see some of them for years. But if I ever need help, I can call on them and know they’d be there.”

“So this secret police source of yours is another Fae?”

“You,” he said, flashing me a smile, “are entirely too quick at connecting the dots.”

“Which isn’t actually a yes.” My tone was dry. “So, you’ve backed up all the office files on this cloud service?”

“Just active cases and programs I don’t want to lose. My friend is generous, but I haven’t got an infinite amount of space on his system.”

“And will I ever get to meet these friends of yours?”

“Considering you’ve become a fixture in my life, more than likely.”

I smiled. “Being called a ‘fixture’ isn’t exactly a term of endearment.”

“No, but it’s certainly a truth.” His grin flashed. “After all, light fixtures shine brightness on otherwise dark and dreary days, and that’s certainly what’s happened since you cannoned into my life.”

Which was a rather sweet thing to say, even if he’d initially started seeing me in the hope I might be able to help out his investigation into Wilson’s disappearance.

It was close to six by the time we’d returned our rented vehicle and got back to the hotel. We ordered burgers and chips from the room service menu, then booted up Rory’s laptop and shoved the USB into it.

Sam hadn’t been lying—there wasn’t a whole lot of information about either Wilson or his research on it, but there were a lot of observations, in the form of notes, that Amanda Rosen had made about the sindicati and anyone else she happened to meet.

The stuff on the sindicati was enlightening, providing a whole lot of information about them. Apparently, the sindicati, like the mafia, had originated in Sicily, but unlike its human counterpart, the organization was ruled by a council. Unfortunately, there was no information on who was on this council or how they were chosen. The only people who had access to the council were the four generals—one of whom had been Morretti—and it was through them that the council’s wishes and rulings were relayed. It also suggested the reason for the recent split was all about control—Morretti’s faction was considered old-school and out of date in its methods and beliefs, and many younger vampires believed it was time to change. And the leader of that section was one Anthony De Luca.

“Have you heard of him?” I picked up my mug of tea and stared at the screen thoughtfully. Amanda must have been a very strong telepath if she’d picked up this sort of information about the sindicati. As Jackson had said, telepaths didn’t have open access to human minds, but rather they had to have a specific target in mind, and both vampires and werewolves were usually harder to read than humans. That ability was undoubtedly the reason she was still alive: The sindicati—and whoever else had been in the darkened room I’d been taken to after the truck crash—really did have plans for her. But if she’d been working for Morretti, did that mean De Luca now had her? Or had it been someone in Morretti’s own faction—perhaps even the person responsible for his death?

Jackson shook his head. “But that’s no real surprise, considering how little inaction I’ve had with the sindicati. What is surprising is that PIT left all this information on the USB.”

“They obviously checked it. Maybe they just didn’t think we could or would use it.”

Someone knocked on the door. I put my mug down and walked over, checking the peephole before opening the door. A smiling hotel waiter brought our food in, accepted his tip, and then headed out again. I closed and locked the door, my mouth watering as the delicious aroma of hamburgers and fries filled the air.

“And to be perfectly honest, we really can’t use it.” Jackson took the covers off the meals and handed me one of the plates. “It’s handy background information, but it’s very fragmented. We haven’t got either addresses or images to chase down.”

I picked up my burger and bit into it. The meat was thick, juicy, and cooked just right, and I all but groaned in pleasure. Jackson chuckled but got down to the business of demolishing his two. It was only when we’d finished the meal and I had another mug of tea in my hand that I said, “The solution is, of course, to find someone who can connect the dots.”

He leaned back in his chair and contemplated me for a moment. “Someone like Lee Rawlings?”

“Well, he works for hire, and he had no qualms about handing over Morretti as the person who’d wanted me kidnapped—”

“Only if we covered the fee he would otherwise have missed out on,” he cut in.

“And that is the entire point.” I shrugged. “Getting hold of him will be the main problem.”

“Not really,” Jackson said. “He said it was a commission rather than a job.”

I frowned. “There’s a difference?”

“A huge one. Accepting a commission means the job didn’t come through the sindicati themselves, but rather through nonallianced representatives.” He paused to drink some coffee. “It also means Rawlings is not sindicati himself—as evidenced by his being so willing to sell them out.”

“But why would they hire an outside source? They’re the sindicati, for fuck’s sake—surely they have plenty of muscle in their own ranks?”

“Yes, but even the sindicati will have certain actions or situations that they do not want linked back to them. Kidnapping you might have been one such case.”

“If that were true, then they wouldn’t have told Rawlings the job came from them.”

“They may not have. Rawlings could have picked up that information through other means. He’s empathic, remember.”

“Empathy is not telepathy,” I said. “He can’t read minds, just emotions.”

“Yes, but he also appears to be a very old vampire who is working as a bagman and surviving outside the sindicati circle. I’d place bets on his not only being able to uncover a whole lot about a person from just his emotions, but knowing a hell of a lot more about the sindicati than the average thug. He’d have to.”

“All of which is undoubtedly true, but if the sindicati didn’t give him the commission themselves, then who did?”

“The coalition.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me a political party put out a contract on me?”

Jackson threw a leftover fry at me. I caught it with a laugh and ate it.

“Not that coalition, idiot. Its official name is the Coalition of Nonhumans, and it’s an independent resource center for vampires and werewolves, funded by member contributions.”

“So, something like a union? And why would such a union come after me?”

“The CNH wouldn’t in and of itself, because that’s not its main brief. Its priority is both the protection of nonhuman rights in the workforce and the promotion of nonhuman-friendly legislation at all government levels. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it.”

I shrugged. “I’ve no reason to be aware of an organization like that, and I certainly can’t remember its being mentioned on the news recently.”

“The CNH tends to keep itself low key, especially with the rise of the antiwerewolf and vampire squads.”

I frowned. “Wouldn’t the CNH provide those squads with the perfect hunting ground? If vamps and weres are constantly coming and going, it’s virtually a smorgasbord of targets.”

Jackson grimaced. “That actually did happen when the CNH was first set up. It now has twenty-four-hour security installed, and there’s been a law passed that makes it illegal for anyone to loiter outside the building.”

“Obviously the lawmakers weren’t aware of the existence of long-range weapons when they passed that particular ruling,” I said. “It wouldn’t be exactly hard for someone to make a hit from a distance.”

“Again, that has happened, but the assailants were quickly caught.” Jackson’s smile held an edge of grim humor. “PIT has werewolves in its ranks, and they can track scents as well as any hound, believe me. After two particularly well-publicized cases, the rate of more professional hits has dropped to practically zero.”

“Which is just as well. If the hunting squads got too well organized, it’ll result in a war that could only ever end badly for everyone.” I sipped my tea. “So if the CNH’s main brief is nonhuman rights, where does the whole contract angle come in? And why, if we want to get hold of Rawlings, would we go through them?”

“Because some twenty-five years ago, when the CNH was seriously cash strapped due to some poor investments, someone got the idea of establishing a small off-the-records department to handle nonhuman business activities that were not only a little less than legal but that required anonymity. That morphed into the current contracts department. It has no official phone number, so even if you try to contact them via the main switchboard, you won’t get put through. You have to submit job requests via snail mail.”

“That’s a rather old-fashioned means of doing things, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but it’s also virtually untraceable once said mail is destroyed. The CNH is a legit business; the contracts division just happens to be a behind-the-scenes but very profitable sidearm.”

“It can’t be too behind the scenes if you know about it.” I paused and yawned hugely. Although it was barely nine, my lack of sleep over the last couple of nights seemed to be catching up with me. “And if you know about it, PIT surely does.”

“But, as is the case with the sindicati, they can’t prosecute unless they have evidence of a crime, and getting that is difficult. The CNH itself is too handy an organization, and few are willing to rat it out, even if they don’t agree with the activities of the contracts department.”

I was betting PIT didn’t actually need evidence of a crime. If Sam’s actions with the red cloaks were anything to go by, if they suspected wrong doing, they’d go in and stop it, regardless of who or what was involved.

“So, in order to talk to Rawlings, we need to send them a letter, state what we need and what we’re willing to pay, and wait for contact?”

Jackson nodded. “If Rawlings is willing to accept the commission, he’ll contact us. If not, we’ll have to think of something else.”

I yawned again, then waved a hand in apology. “Sorry.”

He grinned. “You’ve no stamina, that’s the problem.”

“No, the problem is that you have far too much of it. Or you did both last night and this morning.”

“Hey, I didn’t hear any complaints at the time.” His gaze swept over me, and his smile faded a little. “You do look tired, though. Why don’t you just head to bed?”

“You’re suggesting I go alone?” I leaned forward and pressed the back of my hand against his forehead. “Are you ill?”

He laughed, caught my hand, and kissed it. “Probably. But I also need to download the key-code program onto the laptop, and it’ll take time to set up. There’s nothing you can do, so might as well catch some Zs.”

“Thank you.” I kissed his cheek and rose. “I’ll feel you later.”

“You will.”

I left him to it. My head had barely hit the pillow when sleep hit, and it was deep and dreamless.

But it didn’t stay that way.

Images began to stir through the shadows of slumber, pulling at my consciousness, waking me and yet not.

The creature was hunting its next victim.

Once again its form constantly changed, but this time the embers of its being didn’t settle on the one shape but rather swirled through them all, as if it were unable to decide which shape was appropriate.

We were in a lane barely wide enough for a car to pass through. It was dark and deserted, and the brick walls of the buildings on either side were lined with street art that gave the immediate area a bright and cheerful feel. But that soon gave way to more regular graffiti and grime as we moved deeper into the lane. The creature’s ever-changing form was ghost quiet, and the night was still. Even the water that trickled from the downpipes and ran down the lane’s center drain made no sound. As before, the dream was hushed. Ungiving.

At the far end of the lane were several green Dumpsters sitting in front of a gray roller door, but the lane itself made a sharp right turn. Once again the creature paused, and its embers condensed enough to form the long snout of the dog I’d seen last time. It sniffed, and its hunger rolled over me, thick with anticipation.

It had found its next victim.

The embers shifted, condensed, until what stood in front of me was an abnormally large black cat. It moved forward, its backward paws making no sound on the wet asphalt. We swept around the corner; on the right-hand side of the lane were more green bins, interspersed between roller doors and building exits. On the left were the clean concrete walls and upper windows of an office building.

For a minute, the darkness failed to reveal what the creature had scented. Then, as the creature paused and its form grew even larger, I saw, huddled in the corner of one of the exits, the bundle of stained rags clutching a bottle sheathed in a brown paper bag.

And, as Denny Rosen Jr. had predicted, he was alive.

I wanted to scream. Wanted to run forward, shake him, and wake him. Wanted to grab the creature and somehow stop the play of events.

Wanted to wake up and not see what was about to happen.

But the dream’s grip was fierce, and it would not release me.

The creature stepped forward and carefully sniffed the stranger. He stirred and mumbled something incoherent, and randomly waved a hand. The creature ducked the feeble blow, then raised a gigantic paw and smacked the man hard across the head. The blow sent him sprawling; his head hit the nearby bin as he went down, and the scent of blood began to taint the air. He didn’t move, but the contents of the bottle he’d clutched so fiercely emptied into the lane and joined the water running down the center drain. In the shadows of this dream, it looked like blood.

The creature raised a paw and slashed the man’s tattered clothing. It peeled away with little resistance, exposing his emaciated body. The creature’s tongue flickered out, lovingly tasting his flesh and marking the spots for its violation. I clenched fists that weren’t real, fists that were aflame and yet held no heat and posed no threat to this thing, helplessly watching as the creature’s needle-fine teeth pierced the stranger’s body above his liver, then his heart, and consumed them both.

While the old guy was undoubtedly now dead, that wasn’t the end—not of the dream or this creature’s atrocities. Because this time, it gutted the stranger and ate his intestines.

And the dream forced me to watch.

Fire burned through me, around me. Dimly, I heard someone calling my name, but the dream went on relentlessly.

The creature finally rose, blood and flesh dripping from its teeth and mouth as it studied the street at the end of the lane. Its body began to shrink, until it was little more than the size of an ordinary house cat. Then, without a backward glance, it padded forward.

I followed and finally saw the clue I so desperately needed—the name of the lane.

The dream snapped and I woke. The fire that had burned through me in the dream burned around me in real time, but it was little more than an orb of fire and smoke that was restricted to my flesh and the bed immediately beneath me. Through the haze of its heat I saw Jackson; his expression was distant, distracted. He was controlling my flames, constraining them to the small bubble of heat that surrounded me.

I took a deep, shuddery breath, then sucked all the heat, all the fire, even the smoke, back inside. As it flushed through my limbs and lit my soul, my gaze met Jackson’s.

“That,” he said grimly, “was one hell of a dream you were having.”

“It wasn’t a dream.” I scrambled out of bed and grabbed my clothes. “The creature’s chosen its next victim. We need to get there and stop it.”

“Finlay Lane runs between Little Lonsdale and Queen streets—it shouldn’t take us that long to get there from here.”

I glanced at him sharply as I shoved my boots on. “You shared the dream?”

“Only bits and pieces, and only once I started trying to control your flames.” He rose and walked back into the living room, grabbing his coat and the car keys before heading for the door. “It seems the presence of fire strengthens our link.”

Another interesting development—but not one I had the time to worry about right now. I picked up my coat and purse and followed him out. It was, according to the clock on the wall, three a.m. It seemed the creature had a liking for the extreme hours of the morning.

Once we’d left the hotel, we ran for the car. I didn’t bother checking whether we were being watched or followed, because right now it didn’t really matter. I had a bad feeling the dream’s warning hadn’t come with a lot of time to spare, so if we wanted to stop this thing, we had to get to that lane. Fast.

As Jackson started the car and blasted out of the parking lot, I pulled out my phone and dialed Sam’s number, leaving him a message with the details and location of the possible murder. And hoped like hell he got there before us—even though I doubted that was even possible. It was the middle of the night, for fuck’s sake, and he was most likely asleep.

Jackson roared through the empty streets, not even bothering to stop for red lights unless forced to by cars coming through the intersection. I bit my lip, hoping against hope that we’d get there in time to save the old guy, even as the deeper, more intuitive part of me said we probably wouldn’t.

Jackson swung onto Queen Street and slammed on the brakes just outside the beautiful old building that housed the Registrar General’s Office. But I didn’t wait for the car to come to a complete halt; I didn’t even wait for Jackson. I just scrambled out and ran across the road to the lane.

And there, feasting on the old man, was the creature.

It looked up as I appeared, and snarled, its bloodied teeth glowing white in the shadow-filled lane even as the rest of it began to disintegrate. I cursed and flung a lasso of fire, trying to ensnare the thing before it totally disappeared.

The stream of flames shot down the lane, turning night into day and momentarily halting the creature’s transformation. It flung itself sideways and scrambled under the nearby Dumpster, embers trailing behind it. I raised a hand and made a sweeping motion. My flames swung around, but even as they did so, the creature’s form became full embers and it bolted—not down the lane or back toward me but up the side of the building.

I swore, but there was no way on this earth I was going to let that thing escape me now. I became full flame and gave chase.

As ash and fire we raced up the side of the building, then over the parapet and onto the rooftop. The creature streaked through the cooling towers and antennas, its form barely visible. I flung another ball of fire and caught the tail end of its embers as it leapt onto the rooftop of the next building. Several cinders spun away from the bulk of the creature’s body, flaring a vivid red before they flamed out and fell lifelessly downward. The creature squealed, the noise a weird mix of cat and dog, but it didn’t stop.

And god, it was fast.

Even in spirit form I was having trouble keeping up with the thing. As we raced through the cooling towers of another rooftop and leapt across a small street, the creature was slowly drawing ahead, becoming more and more difficult to see. If I didn’t do something soon, I’d lose it. I flung more fire, but this time the creature’s embers parted, allowing the flames to pass right through the middle of it before reforming and racing on. I cursed but didn’t recall the fiery orb; instead, I held it ahead of me, close to the creature’s tail in an effort to keep the night at bay and to stop the creature from fully disappearing.

Two more rooftops flew by. Then, on the next one, the creature hit a flock of roosting pigeons. Feathers and birds flew everywhere, creating a cloud of gray and white impossible to see past. Several hit my flames and were instantly cindered, causing even greater panic among the rest of them. I slowed; I had no choice. By the time the birds swept upward, into the night sky, the creature was gone.

I swore again, long and loud, though anyone standing near me would have heard little more than a roar of flame. I became flesh and walked to the edge of the rooftop. Down below, lights twinkled, golden and bright in the night. Several cars passed by, but there was no sign of a cat or a dog or even a bat. And definitely no scent trail—not that any of my forms were all that proficient at following scents.

Maybe the damn thing had taken to the skies in the middle of the surging pigeons, though I couldn’t imagine birds wanting to be anywhere near such a form. The bats here in Melbourne might be fruit bats and no threat to pigeons, but even they’d sense the differences in this particular one.

I blew out a frustrated breath and headed back across the rooftops, only switching to spirit form when necessary. Once I neared the lane that held the old man, I leaned over the parapet to check whether the coast was clear.

It wasn’t. The police were there, blocking the entrance into the lane.

And Sam was also there.

So much for his being asleep.

Jackson was standing near the Queen Street end of the lane, talking to a thin, tall man with blondish hair. It took me a moment to realize it was Adam, the vampire who worked with Sam.

I pulled back. With so many people down in that lane, I couldn’t risk shifting to spirit form; PIT and Sam might know what I was, but I wasn’t about to advertise the fact to anyone else. I walked across to the other side of the building to check the lane’s other exit and, unsurprisingly, discovered it blocked by a police car. The vehicle’s blue and red lights cast an eerie glow across the colorful artwork, as well as on the two cops who stood beside the car, looking bored.

With little other choice, I turned and retraced my steps over the top of the other buildings, searching for somewhere I could get down to ground level without being seen. I was close to Elizabeth Street before I found another suitable lane. I became spirit and flowed down the side of the building, landing lightly and in human form. Only then did I make my way back to Finlay Lane.

Sam was squatting next to the victim, and Adam was farther down the lane, looking upward, but both glanced my way as I appeared. Adam nodded briefly and went back to studying the building—it was the one the creature had fled up—but Sam didn’t even nod. He simply went back to inspecting the body.

I stopped beside Jackson—not only because I had no wish to foul the crime scene any more than I already had but because it was safer for my sanity and heart if I at least tried to keep some distance between me and Sam.

“When did they arrive?” I asked softly.

“About three minutes after you flamed up that building. Which, by the way, looked rather spectacular.”

Sam and Adam had obviously been out on another job and nearby when my call came in. But the question was, why? Vampires might not need to sleep—it was more a habit left over from their time as humans than any real necessity—but Sam was human, and he’d worked the day shift. And while he’d always considered the job more important than his own health, surely even he couldn’t run twenty-four/seven without a toll being taken. “And?”

“They’ve been okay. Polite even.” A wry smile touched Jackson’s lips. “Of course, that could all be because they obviously need our help on this particular case. I expect a return to regular hostility once this thing is caught.”

“Emberly,” Sam said, his voice every bit as soft as ours but carrying clearly across the night. “Come here. Miller, remain where you are.”

I grimaced but obeyed. I stopped when I was still a few feet away from the old man and shoved my hands into my pockets. This close to him, the odd, almost chemical smell that had been on Hamberly was very evident here, as was the scent of blood. The old man hadn’t yet been covered up, and the remains of his intestines spilled over his stomach and onto the road surface, a mix of grayish purple and red that gleamed wetly in the darkness.

I swallowed heavily and briefly looked away. “We were too late to save him. We tried.”

“At least you got close enough to give chase, and that’s more than we’ve been able to achieve.” His gaze was on the dead man rather than me, and there was an odd mix of anger and sympathy in his expression. “The poor bastard was alive when the creature did this, wasn’t he?”

I nodded, even though he was still staring at the old man. “But it knocked him out first. I’m not sure whether it was intentional or not, though, as he made a swipe at the creature when she was sniffing him.”

Sam grunted and finally glanced at me. His face seemed thinner than it had earlier today, and there were deep shadows under his eyes. But that wasn’t so surprising; there were probably shadows under my eyes, too, given the continual lack of sleep. But despite the shadows, the blue of his gaze was luminous in the darkness and oddly reminded me of the night we’d met. It had been in a nightclub rather than a seedy lane, but then, as now, it was this blue glow as much as the warmth and love of life so evident with it that had caught my attention.

Something flickered across his expression—memories, perhaps, of happier times. Then it faded, as did the warmth, and the night seemed somehow harsher.

“Did you uncover anything else about the creature?” His voice was cool and businesslike—not that that was surprising. “Anything that might help us catch it?”

I hesitated. “It’s fast, and it can shape-shift on the run. And even in ember form, it can be hurt by flames—I cindered its tail two roofs over.”

“How did it give you the slip? I would have thought you’d be pretty fast in flame form.”

“I am, but I’m still a spirit, not Superwoman.”

Amusement flared briefly in his eyes, warming them, warming me.

“How did you lose it?”

“The creature flew into a flock of pigeons and used them as cover to escape.”

“Unfortunate.”

“Frustrating, more likely. I was so damn close.”

He grimaced and rose. “Welcome to my world.”

No thanks; not when your world involves red cloaks and dangerous darkness. I crossed my arms and somehow kept the words inside. As Jackson had noted, Sam seemed to be in a rather good mood, and I didn’t want to do or say anything to change that.

“So tell me exactly what you saw in the dream, and what happened when you and Jackson arrived here.”

I did. Once I’d finished, he stepped over the victim and walked over to the Dumpster. “So it went under about here?” He motioned to a point slightly off center.

I nodded. “My flames seemed to have prevented it from fully changing, so it was half cat and half ember. It was only once it hit the darkness under the bin that it fully shifted.”

“Interesting.” He squatted down and studied the ground intently. After a moment, he pulled a glove out of his pocket and carefully picked something up.

“If the creature’s main form is embers, then this might just be a piece of it.” He held up what looked like a large piece of sooty-colored skin.

“Do you think you can get DNA from it?”

“Possibly.” He placed it into a plastic bag and sealed it. “We’ll search the entire area, as well as that rooftop where you flamed it. If we can pin down what we’re looking for, it might make the job of finding it easier.”

“If it’s an Aswang, it also has a human day form. It’s not going to be easy to track.”

His gaze came to mine again. “What makes you think it’s an Aswang?”

“Google.” I half smiled. “It seemed the best fit for what we know of the creature so far.”

“It’s certainly one of the possibilities.” He glanced down at the old guy again, and the wave of anger that rose from him was so fierce, it momentarily snatched my breath. “We will find it, and we will stop it.”

It was softly said, and very much a promise to the dead. I didn’t say anything, just watched him. He might be completely different from the man I’d fallen in love with, but when the darkness within him was being held at bay, I could still see glimmers of who he’d been.

And they just made me wish … I chopped the thought off abruptly. Move on, I told myself fiercely. Just get over it and move on.

Easy to think. Harder to do.

“Do you need me to make a statement or anything?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Not in this particular case.”

I frowned. “Why not?”

“Because the regular cops weren’t called in to investigate.”

“But they’re here now, guarding the lane entrances.”

“And that’s all they’re doing. As I’ve said before, PIT works under very different laws—and it’s not as if the things we hunt were going to get their day in court, anyway.”

Meaning they really were a kill squad. But what was even more chilling was that the government actually deemed them necessary. Were things really that bad, or was it more a case of prevention being better than a cure? Were PIT and its powers a warning to the nonhuman world that there were boundaries beyond which they should not step? That there would be serious consequences for those who did?

“So, we can go?”

He glanced past me for a moment, and then nodded. “We know where to find you if need be.”

“Thanks.” I hesitated, and added in a softer tone, “Good night.”

“Night, Em.”

It was absently said and held little in the way of emotion. His attention had already returned to the body and clue seeking. A wry smile twisted my lips. Why on earth had I expected anything else?

I turned and walked away. This time, I didn’t feel the weight of Sam’s gaze between my shoulder blades. Didn’t feel much at all, really, beyond sadness. Mine, not his.

Jackson fell in step beside me and hooked his arm through mine. It was only once we were on our way back to the hotel that he said, “I didn’t get much information out of Adam. I’m supposing you didn’t do much better with Sam?”

“No.” I rubbed my eyes wearily. “And the trouble is, the creature now knows I’m after it.”

“Just as it’ll be aware that the police and PIT are after it. That hasn’t stopped it from hunting. I doubt tonight will, either.”

“It might be better if it did,” I muttered. “At least it would give us more time to find it before it decides to kill someone else.”

“You keep using this ‘we’ word,” Jackson noted. “Even as you keep denying the desire to go after it.”

“I can’t help that desire—it’s inbuilt. Believe me, I’ve tried so many times over the centuries to ignore the dreams and let fate take its course, but I just can’t.” I shrugged. “But I also can’t chase what can’t be found, so unless I get another dream showing me either this thing’s day form or its den, then it’s PIT’s problem, not ours. Did you load the break program onto the laptop?”

He acknowledged the change of topic with a wry smile. “Yes. It’s working as we speak.”

“How long will it take?”

He shrugged. “Anything from a couple of hours to days or even weeks. It generally depends on the complexity of the numerical code.”

“I can’t imagine a four-digit phone code would be too complex.”

“No. We’ll probably be able to access the information being stored on the phone sometime in the next twenty-four hours.”

I grunted. “In the meantime, maybe we’d better start looking for Rosen.”

“Not tonight, we’re not.” The gaze he cast my way was etched with concern. “You’re pale and drawn, Emberly. You need to sleep.”

“What I need is fire and heat more than sleep.” I was tired, there was no doubting that, but the chase across the rooftop had also depleted my energy stores, and while I was nowhere near exhaustion, I really didn’t want to push myself into that state. Not with everything that was currently going on.

“Then we’ll swing by the furnace and you can top up.” He did an abrupt U-turn and headed back into the city. “I want to grab a couple of things from the office anyway.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You’re not coming in with me?”

“That will only lead to sex, and while I wouldn’t mind, I really think now is not the time.”

“Good god, a Fae backing away from the possibility of sex? You really are sick!”

He chuckled softly. “No, I’m just momentarily being sensible. Don’t expect it to happen too often.”

“I should hope not. I’m not sure I could cope with a sensible partner.”

It didn’t take us long to drive to the office. As before, Jackson parked around the back, out of sight, then stopped the car and handed me the key to the rear roller door.

I climbed out and headed in. The heat emanating from the fire’s coal was a siren’s call that guided me through the darkness. I stopped beside the furnace and reached for it, calling to the heat within the coals. Fire immediately answered, and fingers of flame leapt upward and enveloped my hand. It was a caress that had anticipation shivering through me. I brought the fire to full life and threw my hands and head back, calling it to me. But I didn’t immediately feed, instead allowing the flames to play around me for several minutes, enjoying the fierceness of them, the rush of heat, energy, and pleasure that came with them. Then I sighed and somewhat regretfully drew them deep within.

With my skin still glowing with heat, I banked the fire and headed back to the car.

“Better?” Jackson asked, starting up the vehicle and heading off again once I was belted in.

“Much.” I touched his leg and his muscles jumped, as if stung by fire. “Thank you.”

His smile was wry. “You’re welcome. But if you don’t remove your hand, I’m going to stop the car, rip this seat belt off, and jump you.”

I grinned but did as he bid. “Not only sick, but holding no self-control. Shameful, really.”

“Woman, you have no idea just how much control I’m asserting right now.” Despite his stern tone, amusement danced around his lips. “You’re practically glowing with heat and desire, and that’s something few Fae can resist.”

“Ah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Just be prepared for our next lovemaking session to be short and sharp.”

I laughed and glanced at the side window as we swung onto Stanley Street. A few cars were parked in the center strip, but there was little sign of activity. It was too early for any of the other businesses to be open, and the few houses scattered along the street were dark and silent.

Jackson pulled up in front of his building and climbed out. I did the same and headed for the stairs—only to stop abruptly halfway up the steps.

The damn door was open again.

Jackson did a quick sideways step to avoid cannoning into me. “What’s wrong?”

I didn’t answer, just motioned to the door. He swore softly, then moved around me and cautiously pushed the door open …

To reveal Rosen, his throat cut and splayed out like a sacrifice, lying in the middle of the floor.

CHAPTER 9

“Oh fuck,” Jackson said. “This is all we need.”

“I’m guessing it’s not exactly what he needed, either.”

I ducked under Jackson’s arm but didn’t immediately enter the room. Except for Rosen, the place was exactly as I’d left it—half cleaned up, with piles of paper sitting on the desks and most of the ransacked cabinets still open and empty of files.

Rosen himself was wearing different clothes from those he’d worn yesterday, but they didn’t look brand-new, so he’d probably gone home to change. What he’d intended to do after that—whether it was to go to work or back to the hotel—was something we’d now never know.

Just as we’d never know what additional information he might have told us.

There was a gaping wound across his neck, as well as cuts and bruising around his face and on his hands. He certainly hadn’t gone meekly to his death this time.

“Call PIT,” Jackson said. “I want to get a closer look at the body.”

“Why?” I pulled my phone out and hit Sam’s number again.

“Because he wasn’t killed here, and I think he’s clutching something in his left hand.”

I frowned and looked. Though it was barely visible through his clenched fingers, Rosen definitely held something small and white in his hand.

Sam’s message service came up, so I detailed what had happened, then followed Jackson. I stopped on the other side of Rosen’s body and shoved my hands into my pockets. This close, the wound on his neck looked anything but neat.

A shiver went through me, chased by horror. I’d seen wounds like this before. And, in the past, experienced one.

Rosen’s throat had been ripped open by a vampire rather than any sort of man-made weapon—and it hadn’t happened here. There would have been a massive spurt of blood after this sort of attack, and not even a vampire could have sucked away all evidence of it.

Jackson pulled gloves out of a nearby drawer. Then, once they were on, he squatted beside Rosen’s hand and carefully pried his fingers apart, revealing a small square of paper.

Jackson carefully unfolded it. His expression, as he read it, grew even grimmer.

“And the shit,” he said softly, “just hit the fan.”

I frowned. “Why? What does it say?”

He didn’t answer; he just offered me the note. I hastily put on some gloves, then accepted it.

It was both a street address and a warning. The street was in Brooklyn—right in the very heart of red-cloak territory, and a place I was already familiar with—which in itself was scary enough. But it was the warning that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end and my blood freeze.

This time, we play by my rules, not yours. You will meet me at the above address at midnight on the twenty-fourth. You will not contact PIT, and you will come here alone. If you do not, Rory will suffer as Rosen suffered, only the weapon of choice will not be the teeth of a vampire but the talons of a cloak. He will, with the help of magic to curtail his flames and his ability to burn the virus from his system, become one of us. We both know that is a fate you would not wish and might not even survive.

It wasn’t signed. It didn’t need to be. This letter hadn’t come from the vampires. It had come from the figure I’d spotted in the forest—the gray-cowled man who controlled the red cloaks. The one who had said, “You will yet be mine.”

He was obviously intent on keeping his word.

“Fuck,” I whispered. “They know about Rory.” But, scarier still, he’d obviously witnessed how I’d saved Jackson and now knew that to infect us, all he had to do was stop us from attaining flame form.

“Yes.” Jackson’s tone was as grim as mine was fearful.

“But how? The only person I’ve told about Rory’s importance in my life is you—” I stopped, a sick feeling twisting my gut.

“PIT knows, don’t they?” Jackson guessed.

“Through Rory. He told Sam that he was a necessity in my life and that there could be no me if there was no him.”

“So either Sam is connected to the sindicati and the gray cloak, or PIT has a mole in its organization.”

“Sam may have changed over the years since our breakup, but he’s not sindicati. I’d bet my life on it.”

“And you just might be.”

“It’s not him.” I thrust to my feet. “I have to ring Rory.”

Jackson shoved the note into his pocket. “I’ll study the security tapes and see if there’s anything there. I dare say PIT will take them once they arrive.”

I nodded and walked back to the front door, studying the night as I dialed Rory’s number. The phone rang and rang, and my fear ramped up, until I could barely even breathe.

“Hello?” he said eventually, his voice groggy with sleep. “Em, what’s wrong?”

I released the breath I’d been holding in a huge whoosh. “Oh thank god, you’re okay.”

In the background, bedsheets rustled, and a soft voice murmured something I couldn’t quite catch. He replied just as softly and, after a moment, I heard footsteps, then the click of a door closing.

“What’s up?” His voice was tense, worried.

“Rosen’s been murdered, and whoever did it left a note threatening to make you a red cloak.” I paused, and swallowed. “It could only have come from the man I spotted in the forest. The man cloaked in gray.”

He swore. “Sam is the only person who knows how necessary we are to each other and, as much as the bastard might hate me, I can’t believe he’d betray you like that.”

“He wouldn’t, but PIT is a different matter. There’s obviously a mole in the organization.”

“It’s certainly the most logical explanation, though I doubt even Sam would have reported something like that.”

“Well, someone uncovered the information, so if not Sam or Jackson, then who?”

“I don’t know. It’s not information I’ve handed out, not even to Rosie.”

Rosie was a widow who worked at the fire station alongside Rory, and the two of them had struck up a “friends with benefits” relationship a few years ago.

“Regardless of how they got the information, you need to disappear. Take leave from work as of now—you’ve got plenty of it up your sleeve.”

He was silent for a moment, then sighed. “Fine. But I’m not leaving you and Jackson alone to handle this. If they want you, they’re going to have to come through me to get you.”

“Rory—”

“No,” he cut in, his tone sharp. “They’ve dragged me into this, Em, so let them pay the price. We hunt them, and we end this; they’ve given us little other choice.”

I scrubbed a hand across my eyes. He was basically echoing what I’d said to Jackson not so long ago, but his intentions were far bloodier than mine had been.

And I had a bad feeling the price we would pay might be higher than either of us would wish.

But, as he’d said, what other choice did we now have?

“Fine,” I said. “We’re going to be stuck at the office until PIT gets here. Why don’t you head to the hotel we’re staying at and wait for us there?”

“Will do.”

“And, Rory? Be careful. Don’t go home.”

“I won’t. I have clothes here at Rosie’s, and neither Sam nor PIT should be aware of her presence in my life. We’ve kept our relationship quiet at the station, as they tend to frown on that sort of thing.”

I hoped he was right, but I feared he wasn’t. But I didn’t say anything, just hung up and walked over to the desk that held the security monitors. I leaned on Jackson’s shoulder and studied the black-and-white images being fast-forwarded. They showed nothing more than an unchanging landscape of mess and a firmly closed front door.

“Anything?” There obviously wasn’t, but there was always a chance I might have missed something when I was talking to Rory.

“Not yet.”

The unchanging officescape rolled on for several more minutes, until, at twelve forty-eight, the screen finally revealed a shot of the front door opening. Jackson immediately hit PLAY, and the tape rolled on at normal speed. Two figures walked into the room, both clad in black and wearing masks. A weird sense of déjà vu hit me as I watched them carefully search the ground floor. One moved upstairs but reappeared quickly enough; then he and the other man moved back to the door, opening it wider before standing to either side.

Two more black-clad figures came in, Rosen held between them with his throat ripped open. Given we’d spotted no bloodstains between the door and where the two men placed him, he’d obviously already been drained of blood. They placed Rosen’s body on the floor; then all four walked out.

“So the note was already in his hand when he was carried in,” I said.

“They’d know that we’d have to call in PIT, so they wouldn’t have wanted that caught on-screen.” He sped up the tape again. “We’d better erase all evidence of our finding it.”

“Which will only alert PIT that we’ve found something.”

“Yes, but better that than their stopping us from going to that meeting—or worse, turning up themselves.”

I bit my lip. “Actually, that may be the most logical course of action.”

“Logical maybe, but practical? Not so much.” He swung around to face me. “If PIT does have a leak in its organization, then whoever is behind that note—be it the gray cloak, a sindicati faction, or both—will be warned. And that’ll only mean the next time they hit us, it’ll be full force and without warning.”

I scrubbed a hand across my eyes. “I know, but—”

“You said it yourself earlier,” he cut in. “Our best option now is to bring the fight to them.”

“But I didn’t actually mean going to war with them!”

“I know, and maybe it won’t come to that. Maybe we can talk some common sense into these people.”

I snorted. “Yeah, talk sense into insane pseudo vamps and the man who controls them. Like that’s going to happen.”

“Whoever did this”—Jackson made a sharp motion toward Rosen’s body—“might not be the faction working with the crazies, in which case, we have a chance—”

“Stop the tape!” Even as I said it, I dove past him and hit the PAUSE button.

The tape froze on the image of a man walking into the room nine minutes after Rosen had been deposited in our office. Unlike those others, he wore neither black nor a mask, and he was also looking directly at the camera. He was tall, immaculately dressed, with gray hair and old-fashioned rimmed glasses perched precariously at the end of his long, somewhat regal nose.

And I knew him.

“Who is it?” Jackson asked.

“That,” I said softly, “just happens to be the elusive Professor Heaton.”

“The vamp who chased you at the Chase Foundation?”

“Yes.” And he obviously still wanted me, though for what I had no idea. But it was damn scary that he still seemed fixated on me.

“He obviously has no fear of being recognized.” Jackson hit the PLAY button. “He knew the camera was there, because the first thing he did when he walked in was look at it.”

“Which also means he has no fear of being traced.”

On the screen, Heaton walked across the room and squatted beside Rosen’s body. Like us, he retrieved a pair of gloves, then carefully plucked the note from Rosen’s hand, read it, and placed it back.

“So whoever he is, he knows about the meeting.” Jackson briefly froze the image and hit the PRINT button. A second later, the printer booted up.

“Which could be good or bad, depending on who he’s working for.” I walked across the room to collect the image printout.

“If you ask me, he doesn’t actually look the type to be working for anyone.”

No, he didn’t. And in the brief time I’d been in his presence, he’d certainly given off the vibe of a leader rather than a follower. “I wonder if Rawlings would be able to tell us who he is.”

“I’m sure he could, if the fee was right.”

I folded the photo and shoved it into my pocket. “Well, considering grabbing me only cost a grand, I can’t imagine selling info on the sindicati, or whoever Heaton is, would cost much more.”

“And in that, you might be wrong. If he tells us who that man is, he might well be placing himself in the firing line.”

“He seemed eager enough to sell out Morretti.”

“Morretti might not have been as powerful as this fellow.”

“According to Amanda’s notes, he was one of the four generals who ran the sindicati’s day-to-day operations. You can’t get much higher than that.”

“Unless, of course, we’re talking about the mysterious council that apparently rules them all.”

“I seriously doubt any of them would lower themselves to interview anyone, even if they did know the whereabouts of the missing research notes.”

“You might be right.” Jackson shrugged. “What’s Rory going to do?”

“Get involved.” I grimaced and rubbed the back of my neck. Instinct was screaming it was a bad idea, but there’d be no dissuading him now that his mind was made up. I’d learned very early on in our relationship that while he was slow to anger, once he was there, watch out. By sending us this note, the gray cloak had just pushed one button too many.

“That may not be a great idea. If the worst happens—”

“I’m well aware of the damn cost, Jackson,” I snapped. “And so is Rory. He just doesn’t fucking care in this particular case.”

Which wasn’t true and it wasn’t fair—not to Rory, and not to Jackson. I took a deep breath and waved a hand. “Sorry.”

He looked more amused than taken aback. “So the redhead does have a temper. Good to know.”

I smiled reluctantly. “You’ll be pleased to know she doesn’t fire up often.”

“Sad if true,” he drawled. “I found the flash of anger rather attractive.”

My smile grew. “Let’s be honest here—you’d find the flash of anything rather attractive.”

“Very true.”

The sound of sirens began to invade the silence. I took a deep breath that did little to calm the nerves or the tension riding me, then placed a hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “I’ll go meet Sam. You erase.”

“I’ll need five minutes. Delay them if you can.”

“Another thing I doubt will happen. Just hurry.”

I stripped my gloves off and shoved them into my pockets as I walked across to the door. Dawn was beginning to break across the night sky, its pale pink fingers contrasting sharply against the star-sprinkled black. The air was crisp and rich with the promise of daylight and heat, and I hoped like hell that I’d live long enough to feel the wash of it through my lungs for many more years.

A black car appeared at the far end of the street, its tires squealing as the driver took the corner too fast. “PIT just turned up.”

“Just a few minutes more,” Jackson replied, “and we’re safe.”

The black car halted in front of our building; a second later, Sam and Adam climbed out.

“PIT has got other investigators,” I commented, crossing my arms. “So why do they keep sending you two out?”

Adam walked around to the trunk, but Sam came toward me, stopping on the step two below mine. The shadows in his eyes were even more disconcerting when we were basically eyeballing each other.

“Because I’m lead investigator on the ongoing red cloak and missing research investigation.”

“Are you also lead investigator on the Aswang problem? And do PIT expect their operatives to work twenty-four/seven?”

“No, I’m not, and yes, if necessary.” He practically growled the answer. “Now, kindly stop blocking the doorway and let us in.”

I raised an eyebrow, crossed mental fingers that Jackson had finished erasing files, and then stepped to one side, grandly waving him in. “Be my guest.”

He brushed past me. His body was oddly cool—almost as cool as Adam, who went by a minute later, carrying several bags.

I followed them in. Jackson was at the back at the room, making coffee, but his gaze immediately met mine and a slight smile touched his lips. Relief spun through me. As much as I wanted to involve PIT in tomorrow night’s meeting, Jackson was right. We couldn’t risk their being warned through whoever was leaking information.

“Would you gentlemen like a cup of coffee?” Jackson said, raising one of the two mugs he held.

“No, thanks.” Sam stopped close to Rosen’s body while Adam began setting up equipment. “Tell us what happened.”

I did so. He grunted and pulled on a set of gloves. “You haven’t touched or moved the body?”

“No.” I gave Jackson a smile of thanks as he handed me a mug of tea. “I really don’t understand why he was left here like this.”

Sam glanced up. His expression gave little away, but I had an odd feeling he didn’t believe that particular statement. “There was nothing left with the body? A warning of some kind?”

“Nothing.” I shrugged. “Maybe it was some sort of payback for rescuing his ass yesterday.”

“Highly doubtful,” Adam commented. He was setting up some sort of electronic equipment, but the brief gaze he cast our way was every bit as skeptical as the looks I was getting from Sam.

“Have you checked the security tapes?” he asked.

“Yes,” Jackson said. “They come in at twelve forty-eight. It reveals them bringing Rosen’s body, but the system was shut down after that, so it’s not of much use.”

Sam continued to study the two of us. “Did you recognize any of them?”

“They were in black and wearing masks,” I said. “So no.”

Sam glanced at Adam. “Interesting.”

“Why?” I said.

A brief smile touched Sam’s lips, though it held little humor. “That is of no concern of yours.”

“Actually, it is.” Jackson motioned toward Rosen. “This was obviously meant to be a warning—and it’s one we need to understand.”

“If it’s a warning, then I daresay it’s to step away from your current investigations.” Adam pressed a button on the recorder he’d set up, then put on some gloves and squatted beside Rosen’s body. “Something you’d no doubt be forced into anyway now that the man who employed you is dead.”

“Rosen Pharmaceuticals is more than one man,” Jackson said. “And I have no doubt his heirs will want the research found just as much as Rosen himself did.”

Sam’s gaze sharpened. “Rosen believed there was still research missing?”

I hesitated. “He believed Wilson had backup, yes. But he had no idea where that might be.”

“And before you get all dark and threatening,” Jackson added, “we have no leads as to its location, if indeed it does exist. My initial brief was to uncover who stole his notes, not find the backup ones.”

Sam’s disbelief was clearly evident even if his expression continued to give little away. But at least in this particular instance, we were telling the truth. And maybe he sensed that, because, after a moment, he grunted and looked back down at Rosen.

“We’ll need to see those tapes.”

“Help yourself. The control panel is on the desk behind you, and there’s no password needed.”

“Meaning the security system in this place isn’t actually so secure?” Adam shook his head. “Not wise, given the current situation.”

“Up until the current situation, I didn’t need the system to be secure. And it’s not like private investigators find the body of their client splayed out in the middle of their office all too often.”

No one could miss the sarcasm in Jackson’s voice, but neither man reacted to it. There wasn’t even a flash of the deeper darkness in Sam’s eyes. Maybe the tiredness so evident in his face was forcing that into retreat as well.

“You might as well go,” Sam said. “We know where to contact you if we have further questions.”

Jackson gave me a sharp glance, and it didn’t take a genius to realize why. If Sam knew where we were, whoever was leaking the information from PIT probably did, too.

And I’d just sent Rory there. Fuck.

“Am I able to go upstairs and collect some things first?” Jackson’s hand slid over mine and squeezed lightly as he spoke.

It was meant to be reassuring, but it didn’t do a whole lot to ease the tension and fear that had ramped up another couple of notches. I needed to get out of here and call Rory. While I doubted the gray cloak or his allies would make a move on him before the meeting tomorrow night, it was better if we didn’t take chances from now on.

Sam’s gaze flickered briefly downward. He hadn’t missed Jackson’s reassurance attempt; what he thought of it was anyone’s guess. “Did the intruders go up there?”

“Yes, but only to double-check no one was home,” I said. “They weren’t up there long enough to do anything.”

“Then you can go up.”

Jackson squeezed my hand again, then put his coffee down and quickly headed upstairs. I finished my tea and waited. Sam and Adam continued their investigation, making comments as they went. If they suspected Rosen had been holding something, they made no mention of it.

But then, if they’d suspected that, I doubt they’d be letting us walk. Not without forcing us to hand it over.

Jackson reappeared, several large carryalls slung over his shoulder as he clattered down the metal steps and headed for the door. I pushed away from the desk and followed.

But just as we reached the door, Sam said, “If you two are withholding information, there will be hell to pay.”

I glanced over my shoulder and met his gaze evenly. “Everything we know about Rosen’s death, we’ve told you.”

“I wasn’t referring to Rosen’s death.”

“Then I can’t help you, because I have no idea what you think we might be withholding.” I motioned to the door. “Make sure the place is locked up when you’re finished.”

And with that, I left. Jackson popped our rental’s trunk open, threw the two carryalls in, then slammed it shut again. I climbed into the passenger side and pulled my phone out of my purse again.

“You’d better ring Rory,” he said, climbing in without actually looking at me.

“One step ahead.” I flashed the phone his way. “Only trouble is, I need a location to give him.”

Jackson sucked in a breath. “I have plenty of people who’d willingly give us beds, but I don’t want to drag them into this sort of situation. It’s too much of a risk.”

That it was. “We’re going to have to presume PIT knows what alias you’re using by now, and that means everyone else just might, too. It makes using hotels a somewhat precarious proposition.”

He pulled out of the parking space, the rear tires squealing. “I’ll stop at the nearest ATM and grab some cash. From now on in, that’s probably our best option; it’s far harder to trace.”

“Agreed, but how many hotels take cash and ask no questions these days?”

“There are a few.” The glance he gave me was one of distaste. “But some of them are far from great places to be.”

“Trust me, they couldn’t be any worse than some of the places I’ve stayed at over the centuries.” I hesitated, frowning. “And wouldn’t the sindicati expect us to go to a dive in a seedy part of town? It might be better to do the opposite.”

A smile touched his lips and momentarily lifted the concern. “It might, except that most upmarket hotels want photo ID if the customer is paying by cash.”

I swore softly. “Where, then?”

“Let’s try the Journey Man in Collingwood. It’s a backpackers’ hostel, but it also has several longer-term, self-catering rentals out the back.”

“We can pay cash, no questions asked?”

He nodded. “I used it once in an undercover op. As I said, it’s pretty basic, but the bedding is clean even if the shower is not.”

“One out of two isn’t bad.”

I dialed Rory’s number. He answered almost immediately. “What’s up?”

In the background, I could hear people talking as well as someone announcing the arrival of a train. I quickly told him what had happened, and then asked him to meet us at the Journey Man instead.

“I’m currently at Flinders Street, so I’ll just change platforms and meet you there.”

“I’ll text the room number when we have it.”

“No prob.”

He hung up. I shoved my phone away, then said, “What did you have in those bags beside clothes? There was a decidedly large clunk as you put them down.”

He grinned. “I had to go rescue a few of my toys, just in case PIT uncovered them.”

I gave him a long look. “You have a stash of guns in your office as well as in your car?”

“Of course. You never know when you’re going to find yourself in need of one.”

“But haven’t Fae got an aversion to too much metal?”

“Only cold-forged iron. Anything else doesn’t count, including guns, which are generally made from a mix of alloys and steel.” He flashed me another grin. “But in this case, some of them are plastic.”

That raised my eyebrows. “Plastic?”

“The latest in weapon hardware. These, however, are more of the water variety.”

I blinked. “I don’t suppose they come loaded with holy water?”

“Well, no, because that would just leak out over time and be wasteful. Holy water is very expensive to source and buy, let me tell you.”

“And here I was thinking holy water was simply fresh still water consecrated by a priest.”

“It is, but they do tend to frown on its being used for anything other than religious purposes. Hence its becoming a black market item—especially since vampires and werewolves came out in the open.” He swung to the left side of the road and halted in front of an ATM. “Won’t be a moment.”

He jumped out and raced over to the machine. Within minutes, he was back in the car, with a large amount of cash, and we were moving on.

It didn’t take us that long to drive over to Collingwood. The Journey Man was actually a two-story pub on Johnston Street. Its exterior was basic—the concrete walls were an odd green-gray color, and the ground-floor windows had been painted black. Though they were large, each one was made up of at least twelve smaller panes, many of which had obviously been broken over the years and replaced by different-colored glass. The upper floor had smaller sash windows in serious need of repainting. Several were open, allowing the curtains to spill out; tattered red and green flags fluttered limply in the breeze. The place looked shabby and cheap—exactly what Jackson had said it was.

He swung onto Harmsworth Street and found a parking spot about halfway down. “I’ll go organize a room. Stay here.”

He didn’t wait for an answer; he just jumped out and headed in. I scanned the area, seeing little in the way of life across the mix of light industrial buildings and newer housing developments that filled the street. But then, dawn was still busy coloring the night sky; only the very eager would be up this early on a weekend.

Jackson reappeared a few minutes later and opened my door. “We have a back apartment on a week-by-week basis, cash up front, no questions asked.”

I climbed out and gave the building a dubious glance. “I’m hoping we’re not going to be here for a week, let alone more than that.”

“Well, so am I, but better safe than sorry.” He handed me the two bags from the trunk and a set of keys. “It’s 1B, first on the right just through that gateway.”

The gate he motioned toward was as battered and in desperate need of painting as the rest of the place. “Where are you going?”

“To dump the car elsewhere.”

“That’s going to make getting around awfully difficult.”

His grin flashed over the top of the vehicle. “I’ve arranged another.”

“Don’t tell me—the hostel’s owner has one available on a cash basis and no questions asked.”

“Well, he’s the manager rather than the owner, but otherwise, yes. And at least we won’t run the risk of it being recognized.”

The vehicle might not be, but we undoubtedly would. But all I said was, “Be careful.”

“You, too.” He jumped in the car and headed off. I hefted the bags over my shoulder and went through the decrepit-looking gate. Our apartment—though that was altogether too grand a name for something that looked to be little bigger than a shoe box—was squeezed into a small rear courtyard that contained several other tiny buildings. It was two-story, with two windows on either side of the door and three on the top level. Fly screens that had definitely seen better days covered all the windows, and there was also a security door that looked to have been kicked in more than once, if the dents and bent metal in its middle section were anything to go by.

I unlocked the screen door, then the main door, and somewhat warily entered. It was little more than one room that contained a small kitchen and living area, but the furniture was functional and tidy, and the air smelled fresh and clean. I headed up the stairs at the back of the room. The next level had a bathroom and a bedroom containing two double bunk beds. But again, it was clean and functional, even if the walls were in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint.

I dumped the bags on one of the bunks, then got out my phone and sent Rory the room number. Be there in ten, he sent back.

I headed back downstairs, found the kettle and a surprisingly good supply of coffee and tea bags, and made myself a cup. Eight minutes later, there was a soft knock at the door. I put my mug down and walked across to check the peephole. Rory smiled back at me.

“You’re looking decidedly chipper for someone who just received a death threat,” I said as I opened the door.

“I found pizza.” He held up several boxes. “And it’s not like we’ve never received death threats before.”

I locked the door and followed him across to the small table. “But this is decidedly different from those others, because he’s not actually threatening to kill you. And I have no desire to uncover what becoming one of them would do to us both.”

“Nor do I.” He put the pizza on the table, then caught my hand and drew me into his embrace. “It’ll be okay, Em. We’ll figure something out.”

I closed my eyes and rested my cheek against his chest, enjoying the momentary sanctuary of his arms. “It’s just that I have this really bad feeling it’s all going to go to hell.”

“Which you’ve had before, and often nothing has come of it.” He kissed the top of my head, then pulled back. “Where is the third member of our hunting party?”

“Out hiding the rental car.”

“Ah. Good idea.” He flipped open the pizza boxes, revealing Hawaiian and barbecued chicken—my two favorites. “But if he doesn’t hurry, he’s going to miss out.”

I snorted softly and helped myself to a slice of the chicken. Though it was early in the morning, I was famished. The furnace may have fueled my soul, but the flesh needed sustenance as well.

Jackson returned fifteen minutes later. He sniffed the air as I unlocked the door and let him in, and he said, “Pizza. The breakfast of champions.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Rory stated. “And there’s even some left.”

“Excellent.” He grabbed a slice of the Hawaiian and sat down. “The car’s stashed over near Melbourne Uni. We’ll retrieve it once all this is over.”

If any of us are still alive when it’s all over, I wanted to say. I headed over to the kitchen to make another round of coffee and tea instead.

Jackson’s gaze followed me, making me wonder if he’d caught that particular thought. “And I bought this.”

He retrieved something from his pocket and placed it on the table. It was a map of Greater Melbourne.

“Why not just use the phones?” I picked up the three mugs and headed back to the table. “Google’s street view will be a whole lot more useful when it comes to showing us the layout and streetscape.”

“Yes, but it’s easier to plot our moves with something much larger.” Rory shifted the pizza boxes and unfolded the map.

The part of Brooklyn that the red cloaks had apparently taken over was sandwiched between the West Gate Freeway and Geelong Road, with Millers Road and Grieve Parade being the other boundaries. Or, at least, they were the roads that signified the no-go section.

“Here’s where I’m supposed to meet them.” I pointed to the area on the map. “It also happens to be the same area where I rescued Sam.”

Both men glanced up sharply. “That can’t be a coincidence.”

“No, I don’t think it is.” I wrapped both hands around my mug in an effort to warm them, but it didn’t do much to ease the chill running through me. “The gray-cloaked stranger seems to hold a whole lot of hatred for Sam.”

Jackson leaned back in his chair. “But why go from attempting to kill him to attempting to kill you?”

“Maybe he’s aware of Em’s past relationship with Sam. Maybe he presumes killing her will affect Sam more than his own death.”

“Dying is a pretty permanent result,” Jackson noted drily. “It’d certainly affect anyone at the wrong end of it.”

A smile twisted Rory’s lips. “You know what I mean.”

“I do. But why would this gray cloak think Sam still harbors feelings after five years?”

“He can’t. He’s probably just presuming.” I took a sip of tea.

Rory didn’t look convinced. “That doesn’t explain the whole ‘He will not get you’ statement.”

“No.” Jackson’s gaze met mine as he grabbed another slice of pizza. “Maybe that’s something you need to ask this person tomorrow night.”

“I’m not asking him anything. I’m going to cinder his ass to hell and back, and make the world a safer place.”

“If he was in the forest, he’s aware of your capabilities,” Rory said. “I doubt he’ll expose himself to such a risk.”

“Which doesn’t negate the fact that he will be ash if I’m given the slightest chance.”

Rory grinned at me. “I do so love it when you get fired up.”

I made a face at him. “So, what’s the plan?”

Jackson glanced at Rory. “Do you know how to use a long-distance rifle?”

“It’s been a while, and the technology has undoubtedly changed, but I should be able to get the hang of it quickly enough.”

“Then the plan is, we head to a distant rooftop and shoot the fuckers Em doesn’t burn.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Emberly?” Jackson glanced at me, eyebrows raised.

“I’ll be in the street confronting them. As long as you’ve got my back and you don’t get hurt, I’m happy.” I contemplated the map for a minute, trying to remember the street and the buildings around it and how many hiding spaces there were—for me as much as them. “Getting in is going to be the problem. Both of you are somewhat recognizable, even from a distance.”

“Which is why we will be wearing disguises. The gray cloak may have his troops out on watch, but from what I’ve seen of them, they’re not the sharpest tools in the shed.”

They didn’t have to be. Not if theories were true, and they were working on some sort of hive mentality. The gray cloak would know what they knew, see what they saw.

“Besides,” Rory added, “it would probably be better if we went in before dusk. The red cloaks may be active and on watch, but I doubt they’ll be expecting anyone to enter that place before night settles in.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that.”

“Neither would I,” Jackson agreed. “But they haven’t got infinite resources yet—not if what Sam has said about the number of infections is true. They can’t watch every street in and out of that place; not without leaving the meeting point short.”

It did make sense that they’d put most of their effort into ensuring I couldn’t escape the meet zone. The gray cloak had witnessed what I was capable of in the forest, and he knew that when it came to close-up fighting, it was going to take numbers to outlast me.

But that also meant he’d know long-range options might need to be employed as well.

“Which is a possibility we’ll need to be aware of once we’re up there,” Jackson said.

Rory glanced at the two of us, frowning slightly. “I get the feeling I just missed part of the conversation.”

“You did.” I briefly explained what had happened in the forest after Jackson had been wounded by the red cloaks, and the subsequent effects that were now beginning to appear.

“Wow,” Rory said. “That was one hell of a risk you both took.”

“Yes, but the worst thing that could have happened was me being consumed by Em’s fire.” Jackson shrugged. “I’d rather death than life as a red cloak.”

“Who wouldn’t?” Rory contemplated us for a second. “It’ll be interesting to see how deep the connection goes, and what it means physiology-wise.”

I blinked. “My physiology hasn’t changed. You’d know it if it had.”

“Yours hasn’t, but Jackson’s has. He became, however briefly, a being of fire. He wasn’t full spirit, but he was no longer just flesh. There will be greater changes, even if they’re not evident just yet.”

Jackson scraped a hand across his jaw. It sounded like sandpaper being rubbed across a rough surface. “I’m already able to bring fire to life without a source being near. What else could there be?”

“That is the million-dollar question.” Rory didn’t look overly concerned, but then, it could take months—even years—for the full consequences to be known. “But if threads of our fire have been left in your being by the merging, then it is also possible you will have gained the drawbacks. Our fire comes from our being—our very soul—and we can be drained to the point of death if we are unwary.”

“As can a fire Fae who is remiss in keeping close to his element.” Jackson held up a hand, halting Rory before he could actually say anything. “I know, and I’ll be careful. But until we know the full result of the merging, conjecture is pointless.” He tapped the map gently. “For now, let’s just worry about getting through tonight.”

Which was a goal I could totally get behind. “It might be better if you reveal your presence tonight only if absolutely necessary. Let me take out whatever cloaks I can with fire—including the gray cloak if he’s there—”

“Oh, he’ll be there,” Jackson said, his tone grim. “He hasn’t missed any of the fun so far, and I doubt he’ll miss this when it’s on his home turf.”

“Agreed, but for safety’s sake, it’s better if you’re backup rather than a first assault. Besides, I doubt the bastard will make an appearance until the odds are stacked in his favor anyway.”

“All of which makes sense,” Rory commented. “But the minute I even sense you’re in trouble, we start firing.” He glanced at Jackson, who nodded in agreement.

“Which is perfectly fine by me.” And I hoped that by that point the cloaks would be too busy trying to subdue me to send anyone looking for them.

Rory pulled out his phone and brought up Google street view. Jackson leaned forward, and the two of them began plotting and arguing about which building rooftops provided the perfect mix of cover and line of sight.

I leaned back and left them to it. I had no doubt that this meeting was nothing more than a trap, and that meant I really had only one task.

To stay alive.

CHAPTER 10

The last time I’d entered Brooklyn, it had been bitterly cold, and it wasn’t much better now. The night sky had disappeared behind a curtain of clouds, and it was raining—not heavily, but still enough to soak the bits not covered by my jacket. The wind howled through the lonely streets, rattling the boards covering the windows and pirouetting plastic bags and other rubbish down the middle of the damp street.

I shoved my fists deeper into my jacket pockets and scanned the nearby buildings. Broken glass, shattered brickwork, and rot abounded. It was no better or worse than what I’d seen last time, except for one thing—this time, the icy air held a hint of desperation and fear.

And I wasn’t entirely sure whether it was radiating from the area itself or from me.

I continued walking down the middle of the street. There was little point in keeping to the shadows, because the red cloaks were undoubtedly aware of my presence by now. Besides, there were no longer any working streetlights in this part of Brooklyn. In fact, the whole area had been reduced to darkness, and there was absolutely no sign of life. Even the rats seemed to have deserted the place.

But then, rats were smarter than most people gave them credit for.

The desire to look up, to scan the rooftops, and check whether I was being watched, was so fierce, it took every ounce of willpower to resist. But I didn’t want the cloaks—who were undoubtedly watching, even if I couldn’t see them—to think I might be looking for someone. Rory and Jackson had ventured into Brooklyn several hours earlier, but they weren’t positioned in this street. They were at either end of the cross street where I was to meet the cloaks. It was the same cross street where Sam had been fated to die.

Was that to be my destiny?

As much as I feared that possibility, logic and instinct said no. If this was all about making Sam suffer, then the cloaks and their shadowy leader wouldn’t even attempt to infect me. Why would they, when they’d witnessed what I’d done in the forest and more than likely had a source in PIT? They’d have to at least suspect I would not be infected or turned by a scratch, as others had been.

No, what I feared was capture. Feared that my flames, Jackson, and Rory would not be enough, and I’d end up as bait.

Though I had to wonder how much the cloaks really understood about PIT if they thought holding me would be enough to force their lead investigator to come here. Sam had warned me often enough that no one’s safety was greater than the mission. Not even his.

And I doubted he’d risk his life for me, especially now, when we were no longer an item and I’d done nothing except gotten in PIT’s way.

Which made the gray cloak’s obsession of getting to Sam via me even stranger.

My footsteps slowed as I drew close to the intersection. There was still no sign of movement, no indication they were even watching me. The rain continued to drizzle down, making the night more and more unpleasant. Aside from the creaking bones of the nearby buildings and the soft whistle of wind through cracks, the night was silent. Even the squelching of my wet boots seemed flat and lifeless.

I hit the middle of the intersection and stopped. Nothing happened. Fire burned through me, eager for release, but there was no target, no threat. Not yet, anyway. I clenched my hands so tight, my nails were digging into my palm. Pain slithered through me, but it didn’t help ease the tension.

The minutes ticked by. Despite the cold and the rain, sweat began trickling down my spine. My muscles were wound up so tight that they’d surely shatter if something didn’t happen soon …

A whisper of a footstep behind me … I spun. About halfway down the street I’d just traversed were six red cloaks. They weren’t doing anything. They were just watching.

Another footstep, this time down the left arm of the intersection. More cloaks down that street, but again, they weren’t moving. Fear ratcheted up several more notches and flames flickered down my entire length before I snapped it back under control.

I really didn’t like the feel of this—and that was probably the whole point of their actions.

I pulled my hands out of my coat pockets and flexed them. The desire to become full flame and get the hell out of here was so fierce, my body ached with heat and repressed energy.

Another set of six cloaks appeared on the street directly opposite. Which left only the right arm of the intersection …

The minutes ticked by. No cloaks appeared down that street, and none of the ones who were present moved.

Because they were waiting for something.

Or someone.

I slowly turned and faced the street that was free of cloaks. The swirling wind caught the misting rain, making it seem like there were ghosts dancing in the night. Nothing else moved, however, and I had no sense that there was anything or anyone down there.

But why protect every street but that one?

Because they want me to head that way.

I took a deep breath and, for all of two seconds, thought about doing the exact opposite. But that wasn’t going to solve our red-cloak problem. Meeting with the psycho in charge of them might not, either, but I had to at least give it a try—if only so I could do as I’d threatened and cinder the bastard to hell and beyond.

After another deep, somewhat shuddery breath, I forced my feet into action. But the minute I moved, something sharp hit my butt and buried deep into my skin. I half yelped and swept a hand around to see what it was.

It was a dart.

Oh fuck …

That thought had barely crossed my mind when dizziness swept over me; whatever was on the dart tip was fast acting.

I flamed. I had no other choice. I had to become spirit and burn whatever was on the tip of that dart from my system before it could take full effect.

As I swept from flesh to flame, the red cloaks found life and ran toward me. But other than the slap of their footsteps against the wet road surface, they made no sound. I twisted around and flung fire in their direction. Several were instantly cindered, but the others simply parted around the lance, then regained formation and ran on.

I turned and sped down the empty road. My flames burned away the shadows and threw a fierce orange glow across not only the grime and neglect but also the barricade of stone and metal that formed an almost sheer wall at the far end of the street.

Not that that would stop me. I might not be able to burn stone, but there wasn’t a barrier yet built that I couldn’t get over in fire form. Except that would give us no answers …

As I was contemplating my options, I spotted another street on the right just before the wall. It wasn’t blocked, meaning that was where they wanted me.

If I went in, I’d do so without backup. Neither Rory nor Jackson would have any sort of line of sight into that road from their current positions. They could—and no doubt would—change position, but that would still leave my back decidedly unprotected for too many minutes.

I slowed and went in anyway.

And almost instantly felt the magic. It burned across my skin, an unclean fire that made my flames itch. There weren’t many things that could restrain or even kill my spirit form, but magic was certainly one of them.

As I stopped, the red cloaks surged into the small street. I raised a thick barrier of fire between us, then reached for the earth mother, calling to her energy; I knew I’d need it if the cloaks were to be fully halted. My flames might burn them, but it wouldn’t cinder them all instantly. With the magic so close, I couldn’t risk anyone breaking through and coming at me.

In spirit form, my connection to the mother’s energy was stronger, and she sang through me—fierce and warm and joyful—before she exploded from me and formed a secondary barrier. All the colors of creation spun across the night, lending the blackened, desolate road a luster it wouldn’t normally have possessed.

And just in time. Several cloaks lunged through my barrier, their bodies aflame and their mouths open in a scream that was never heard. They hit the mother’s barrier and were cindered in an instant. Her fire rippled and her colors momentarily darkened, as if even she were horrified by what those things were.

I turned around. Down the far end of the street, untouched by the mother’s light and standing with his arms crossed and the wind teasing the edges of his gray cloak, was the blue-eyed stranger.

“This,” he said, his voice little more than a guttural whisper but carrying easily despite the distance, “is not how I’d planned events to go.”

I didn’t answer. I just shot flame at him. It burned down the street, faster than a blink … only to bounce off some sort of barrier about ten feet away from him and go spearing into the night.

The magic wasn’t designed to harm or entrap me. It was protecting him from me.

Fuck.

Our only hope of killing the bastard right here and now was shooting him—if Rory, who was down at this end, could get into position in time.

Which meant I had to give him as much time as possible—and to do that, I had to shift back to human form. Rory and I could understand each other as spirits, but few others would.

But the minute I changed back to flesh, the mother’s pull on my strength increased. This body wasn’t as strong as my natural form.

“It hasn’t exactly gone as I planned, either,” I growled back. “Otherwise, your ass would be toast right now.”

He laughed. He actually laughed. It was a cold, cruel sound, yet there was something about it that stirred distant memories.

“You cannot kill a foe that is one step ahead of you.”

“And pride comes before a fall.” I smiled, but it held as little warmth as his laugh. “Why did you want me here?”

“I suspect you already know.”

“I suspect I do. But why do you think my capture would, in any way, affect Sam Turner?”

“Because you and he were once an item.”

“The key word being ‘once.’ I’m nothing to him now, so you can stop with the whole ‘He will not have you’ thing. He doesn’t want me. He hasn’t, for a very long time.”

“Except that is not entirely true.”

“So you know him intimately?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “You can read his thoughts and know his emotions? Because, as you’re no doubt aware, I saved the man’s ass, and he was neither pleased to see me nor happy to be saved.”

“Be that as it may, it does not negate what I feel and know. You will be mine, as he will be when the fighting stops. And when it does, I will destroy him, as he attempted to destroy me.”

When the fighting stops? What the fuck was that supposed to mean? That he had plans in place to destroy PIT? “So what you’re saying is that you can read his thoughts?”

“His thoughts? No, that I can’t do.”

Meaning he could read Sam’s emotions? That would be possible if he were an empath, but even then, he’d have to be standing near Sam to be able to read his emotions. I seriously doubted empathy was a talent that could be shared through the hive mind—especially since few in the red-cloak army seemed to have much in the way of street smarts or intelligence, let alone psychic talents—so he couldn’t be reading Sam via them.

Or did he mean he had access to someone with that talent? PIT undoubtedly had both telepaths and empaths on the payroll, so maybe one of them was working for the cloaks. Though how that could happen, given the precautions and security PIT obviously had in place, I had no idea.

“Yeah, well, whoever your source is in PIT, they’re feeding you a few whoppers.”

“Oh, but they’re not. You can trust me on that.”

Meaning he did have a source in PIT. Fuck, Sam needed to know, and fast. I scrubbed a hand through my hair; sparks spun away into the night, tiny fireflies that quickly died long before they traversed the distance that divided me from the gray cloak. Sweat was dribbling down my back again, and the background headache was starting to come to the fore—a sure sign that both my fire and the mother’s demands were affecting my strength.

“Whatever,” I said. “I’m here only to give you a warning—if you or any of your hive buddies come near me or Rory or Jackson again, we’ll cinder this whole damn place around your ears—and then do the same to the lot of you.”

“A big threat, but one not even you—”

The rest of the sentence was cut off as he jerked abruptly. For a second I wondered what had happened; then I saw the blood on his arm. He’d been shot. Rory.

Relief filled me, but it was short-lived because the shadows began to roll around him, swirling up his legs as it began snatching him from sight.

A vampire trick, but a very useful one in this instance, especially when the barrier prevented my flames from reaching him.

Something zinged past my ear and smacked hard in his chest. He staggered backward but didn’t fall. Nor was there any sign of blood, though there should have been. That shot had hit him square in the chest, and cloaks did bleed. The wound on his arm was evidence enough of that.

Either the bastard had no heart … or he was wearing a bulletproof vest under his cloak.

The darkness completed its journey and swept him from immediate sight. And while he wasn’t concealed from my senses, he would be from Rory’s. The clip-on thermal scope he was using wasn’t strong enough to pick up the much lower body temperature of a vampire—or even that of a pseudo vampire, as the cloaks happened to be.

I swore and flung fire at the barrier but directed it upward to test its boundaries and limits. The lance of flame skimmed the surface of the unseen barrier, revealing it to be a dome. As my fire dipped toward the road’s surface, I flicked it sideways to get a feel for the circumference and discovered it was more U-shaped. The barrier began and ended directly against the building on the right—protecting the doorway that our quarry was now heading for.

“You will pay for this deception,” he growled. “Pay in blood—”

“And attempting to dart me wasn’t a deception on your part?” I snapped.

But he continued on as if I hadn’t spoken. “I will dine on your blood, and my victory will be all that much sweeter after the years of rejection.”

Years of rejection? What the hell was this fellow smoking? But even as the thought crossed my mind, another rose. One I really didn’t want to believe. Because it wasn’t just his blue eyes and his cold laugh that seemed familiar, but also his fierce anger at being rejected. And if I was right, I really did have to get hold of Sam—the sooner the better.

Because the man the stranger reminded me of was none other than Sam’s brother, Luke.

“Sam will watch you die,” he continued, “and then I will have—”

“Oh, just fuck off with the threats.”

I hit the building with everything I had. It might be brick, but even brick, when hit with enough searing heat, would explode. Dizziness swept through me, but I ignored it, concentrating everything on that building. Behind me, my flames dipped and fizzled out, but the mother’s fire still raged. She would not go out until either I willed it or she completely drained me. As the heat radiating off the bricks began to boil across the darkness and flames erupted across wooden sashes and the rooftop, I added, “Because you really are playing with fire. And I promise you, we are the last beings you ever want to make angry.”

He didn’t answer. He just flung open the door and left. Two minutes later the building exploded.

As bricks and metal and fire erupted into the sky, I flung myself into flame form. The force of the explosion buffeted me from pillar to post, but it also fueled me. I sucked in the heat and the energy, then spun around. The red cloaks were no longer throwing themselves at the mother’s barrier; they were running. Not toward Rory’s building but down into rat holes; down into the sewers.

I sent several lances of fire after them, but even with the building fire burning so close, my strength was slipping alarmingly fast. I released the mother, felt her caress as she slipped reluctantly away, and felt no stronger for it. I moved into the fire, fully immersing myself into it. It was a dance of energy and power that sang all around me, but one in which I could not stay long. The explosion would not have gone unnoticed by the cops who patrolled the perimeter of this place, and while it was unlikely the fire brigade would be called in, they’d be watching. And the last thing Rory and I needed was to be spotted by one of them.

I ramped up the fire and sent several lances of flaming material into the night, directing one of them in Jackson’s direction and then following it. Rory was well able to protect himself, but Jackson, though a capable fighter, might need a hand if the cloaks went after him. Though he could now create flame on his own, he was still flesh and blood and—as Rory had pointed out—we had no idea what toll my flames would take on his body when he used them. It was better to be safe than sorry—and even Jackson had admitted that when we’d discussed the possibility of things going sour.

I flamed out as I neared the rooftop he was stationed at, hitting the concrete in a tumbling roll and jumping to my feet. I didn’t immediately see or sense Jackson, but, half a minute later, I caught a slight flicker of flame several buildings away. I raced across the adjoining rooftops and quickly joined him.

“As the saying goes, let’s get the hell outta Dodge.” He grabbed my hand and led me toward the building’s old fire-exit ladder.

“Could be a good idea. I suspect they’re going to be furious once they get over the shock of that explosion.”

He glanced at me, green eyes bright in the shadows. “Your doing?”

“Yeah. I was a little pissed.” I climbed over the building’s parapet and jumped down to the stairs. Though I landed lightly, the metal vibrated and groaned—a clarion call to action if there were any cloaks in the near vicinity.

The metallic groan deepened as Jackson joined me on the ladder and motioned me forward. “And the gray cloak? Did either of you get him?”

“Not with my flames. The bastard somehow knows magic that can stop a phoenix’s fire.” I headed down the stairs, trying to be both fast and quiet and really not succeeding. “And he was also wearing body armor.”

Jackson swore. “I guess we should have allowed for that possibility. Or simply aimed for the fucker’s head.”

“A head shot from that distance when you’re not a marksman isn’t exactly easy. The body shot was the safer option, considering all we really needed was him down so my flames could finish the job.”

I jumped off the few remaining ladder rungs, hit the ground in a half crouch, and looked around. The small lane was dark and silent; no surprise since the whole area—apart from the section now on fire—was dark. I could neither see nor sense any red cloaks, but I doubted they’d remain hidden for long. They’d give chase if they spotted us—unless, of course, their lord and master had ordered otherwise.

And if he was dead?

If that were the case—if he’d been caught by either the fire or the explosion and actually killed—then they’d still probably give chase. A hive without a leader was rudderless, and if no one else stepped up, they’d swarm. And I didn’t want to be anywhere near the area if that happened. I rose and stepped to one side to give Jackson room to get down.

“What about the explosion?” he said. “Did that take him out?”

I hesitated. “I don’t know. I’d like to think it did, but I suspect he went down a handy hole like the rest of the rats.”

“I guess we’ll know soon enough.”

I guessed we would. I accepted the weapon Jackson handed me, then followed him out of the lane. Aside from the distant crackle of the fire, the streets remained deathly quiet. Tension wound through me as we made our way toward the perimeter, but the cloaks didn’t come out to play. Getting past the police and PIT patrols was simply a matter of timing and patience.

Twenty minutes later, we reached our meeting point—the McDonald’s on Millers Road—and, after securely locking the weapons in the trunk of the car, we headed in. Rory was already there, having claimed a table and ordered burgers, fries, and Cokes for us all. As the last vestiges of tension left me, my legs felt weak and all I wanted to do was sit.

I slid into the booth opposite him. Despite the flicker of relief that ran through his eyes, his expression was less than happy. “I missed.”

“No, you didn’t.”

I grabbed a Quarter Pounder and a bag of fries. Jackson slid in beside me and did the same.

“The bastard disappeared into shadow,” Rory growled. “That implies life rather than death to me.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mute the point that you hit him—twice.” I bit down on the burger and savored its taste for several seconds before I explained what had happened.

Rory swore and rubbed a hand across his eyes. It was an action filled with weariness and frustration. “So we’re basically in the same shitty position that we were?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Jackson shrugged as he began demolishing fries. “Our actions here tonight will at least inform our cloaked felon that we are not to be messed with lightly. And we can always hope the fire takes hold and rages through the rest of Brooklyn. They’ll find it harder to move about without the protection of that place.”

“There’re always the sewers.” Rory leaned back and idly picked at the fries that remained in his bucket.

“The police—or PIT, as the case may be—have placed a watch on the perimeter,” Jackson said. “I’d imagine they’d be doing something similar in all the main sewer tunnels coming out of that place.”

“It wouldn’t be a watch I’d volunteer for,” I muttered. “Especially since they still have no clear idea about just who this virus can affect.”

“If they’re smart, they’ll be using movement-sensing weapons as first and second lines of defense,” Rory commented. “PIT aren’t stupid, and I doubt they’d allow humans, vamps, or weres down there without adequate protection.”

“Agreed,” Jackson said. “So where does that leave us now, beyond being in that well-known creek without a boat?”

Rory’s gaze came to mine. “I think the first thing you should do is talk to Sam. He needs to know what was said tonight and what we suspect. And we need to know what the hell his connection to this gray cloak is.”

“Like he’s going to tell me that.” I licked the meat juice from my fingertips, then reached for another burger.

“He probably won’t, but we have to at least try. He might even surprise us and be reasonable.”

“I agree,” Jackson said. “And at the very least, he needs to be warned that the gray cloak is gunning for him.”

“I know,” I said. “But I’ll do it in the morning.”

“No,” Rory said. “Do it now. We need to plot our next move, and that may very well depend on what Sam tells us.”

“Or what he doesn’t,” I said. “Hell, he might just throw our butts in jail and toss away the key.”

“Even he would not be that unreasonable under these circumstances.” Jackson held up a hand, halting my protest before I could make it. “I know, but that whole drugging episode aside, he has been more reasonable of late.”

“It depends on your definition of reasonable—especially when you’re not the one who has to talk to the man.”

“It’s better to talk to him than allow him to walk unknowingly into some sort of trap.” Rory’s voice was soft, but it was etched with pain. “We may be fated for unhappy love lives, but knowing they are out there and alive is far better than being faced with their death.”

My gaze met his and, just for an instant, the misery and endless heartache of discovering Jody—his fiancée at the time—had been murdered shone in his eyes and rippled across his energy. We had no idea why she’d been targeted, and neither, apparently, did the police. Rory was still in regular contact with the officer who’d been in charge of the investigation, but there’d been no new clues for several years.

I wrapped my hand around his and squeezed lightly. There was no point in saying anything. While it wasn’t a situation we’d faced very often, it was still one we’d both endured over our many centuries. And there was no point in words, because in such a situation, words were always going to be useless.

“I’ll talk to him. I’m just bitching.”

“And you do it very well.” Jackson’s voice was almost contemplative. “And with such style and grace, too.”

It broke the wash of sadness through Rory’s eyes and forced a somewhat reluctant smile to his lips. “Try listening to it for a few centuries. You might change your opinion.”

I flicked a fry at him, then got out my phone and called Sam. Unsurprisingly, I got his message service. I told him I had vital information and asked him to contact me ASAP, then hung up.

“You know,” Jackson said, “if PIT has been infiltrated, it might be worth getting rid of our phones. We can be tracked through them all too easily.”

I frowned. “Using his source in PIT to do that would be a rather large risk for our gray cloak to take. Police computers are monitored twenty-four/seven to ensure both the system and security measures are working properly, and to prevent unauthorized use.”

Jackson raised his eyebrows. “And how do you know this?”

“Aside from its being basic logic, I was a cop in a previous lifetime.”

“Huh. That explains why you make such a natural PI.”

“And why she’s forever sticking her nose where it does not belong,” Rory commented drily. “The creature hunt being one such example.”

“I’m not hunting it—”

“No,” he agreed, “but only because you have no leads on the thing. That will change the minute you do, and we both know it.”

It was a truth I couldn’t deny, so I simply made a face at him and finished eating my burger.

“But,” he added, “I agree. The cloak may well take the risk and use his source to find us after tonight, so we need to go dark on the electronics front.”

I nodded, but before I could say anything, my phone rang loudly, making me jump. I answered it somewhat cautiously.

“Do you have another lead on the creature?” Sam said without preamble.

“No. It’s possibly worse than that.”

I could almost see his frown. “Then what?”

I hesitated. “I can’t tell you over the phone. We need to meet. Now.”

“Emberly—”

“Sam,” I cut in. “Just trust me.”

He made an exasperated sound, then all but growled, “The usual place?”

“No.” I hesitated again, thinking fast. “There’s a McDonald’s near the Melbourne Market. Meet me there in half an hour.”

“This had better be worth it,” he growled. I could almost hear the fierce darkness radiating through his tone.

“It is. And, Sam?”

“What?”

“Don’t bring your phone and don’t use PIT’s car.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then he said, “What the hell is going on?”

“I’ll tell you when we meet. Please, just this once, trust me and do as I ask.”

He grunted and hung up. I blew out a relieved breath and met Rory’s sympathetic gaze. “Fingers crossed he actually does as I asked.”

“He will. He has nothing to lose, after all,” Jackson said.

Rory and I shared a glance. He looked about as hopeful as I felt. But he didn’t say anything; he simply plucked the phone out of my hand. A few seconds later, the sim was out. It was a process he repeated for both his phone and Jackson’s.

“Can the phones still be tracked without a sim?” I watched somewhat dubiously as he dunked the three of them into his half-finished Coke.

“If we keep them off and the battery flat, I wouldn’t think so. They track through GPS and location apps, as far as I’m aware.” He put the lid back on the Coke, then picked it up along with the empty trays. “Shall we go?”

I rose and followed the two men out. Once we were in the car and under way again, I said, “Are you two heading back home after you drop me off?”

“No.” Rory twisted around to look at me. “We’ve no way to contact you if Sam doesn’t show up, and I’m not about to leave you alone too long, given what just happened in Brooklyn.”

“But I’m not sure how long I’ll be, and it might be a better use of your time to return to the hotel room and grab Radcliffe’s phone.” Which, rather stupidly, we’d left at the hotel along with everything else. But then, how could we have known that things would get so bad so quickly, and that we wouldn’t get the chance to go back until now? “If Sam gives us nothing, then at least we can still work on finding the missing notes.”

“Agreed,” Jackson said, “and if nothing else, finding those notes and handing them over to the appropriate people will get the sindicati off our back.”

“Or piss them off more,” Rory commented. “We’ll swing by the hotel, as suggested, but then we’ll come back here.”

I wasn’t sure they could be any more pissed off—especially if they happened to be working closely with the red cloaks. “Fine. Just don’t come into the restaurant if Sam is still with me. Given what I have to tell him, he’s going to be angry enough. Seeing you might just push him over the edge.”

Rory nodded in agreement. We reached the McDonald’s near the market with five minutes to spare. Jackson halted just up the road. I opened the door to climb out, then hesitated. “Be careful, you two. That hotel might be under surveillance.”

“We will, as long as you are. Don’t leave the restaurant until one of us comes in to collect you.”

“And take one of the guns from the trunk,” Jackson said, popping it open. “It’s always handy to have a backup.”

“I will,” I said. “See you soon.”

I grabbed one of the pistols from the trunk and checked the safety was on before shoving it in the waist of my jeans, under my coat. Then I slammed the trunk shut and slapped it twice. Jackson took off. I gathered the ends of my coat together, then spun and headed for McDonald’s. Sam wasn’t there, so I ordered the largest cup of tea possible as well as a couple of hot apple pies, then retreated to a corner that had a good view of all entrances. By the time Sam arrived, I’d finished both pies and was halfway through my tea. He paused in the doorway, his gaze meeting mine briefly before sweeping the rest of restaurant. The rain dripped off his leather jacket and plastered his black hair, and his face was pale. There wasn’t any color even in his cheeks, which looked sharper than usual in the bright lighting. It oddly reminded me of the gauntness that happened to some vampires when—generally for reasons of distaste—they refused to take the blood their bodies needed.

Though why you’d become a vampire if you didn’t like the idea of taking blood, I have no idea.

Sam headed over to the counter, grabbed a coffee, and walked across to my table.

“So,” he said as he pulled out a chair and sat down opposite, “why the cloak and dagger? What’s going on?”

I hesitated, but there was really no easy way to ease into it. “I think you’ve got a mole in PIT.”

He leaned back in his chair, an almost condescending smile flirting with his lips. “A comment like that shows just how little you know about PIT. Trust me, it’s not possible.”

“And yet, the gray cloak states otherwise.”

That wiped the smile from his lips. But it also raised the darkness in him; the force of it was so strong—so all-consuming—that I had to lean back in an effort to get some fresh air.

“When the hell were you talking to the gray cloak?” It was softly said but full of threat.

“Tonight.” I took a quick gulp of tea, but it did nothing to ease the fluttering of my pulse—and I wasn’t entirely sure whether the cause was fear or the rain-washed cleanness of his scent.

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

“Sam, if you’d just—”

He waved a hand, the movement sharp, angry. “Damn it, you know how dangerous those things are, Emberly. Why the fuck are you going anywhere near them?”

Annoyance surged. “Because I had no choice—”

“There’s always a choice. You just have a history of making the wrong—”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” I cut in. “Can the threatening demeanor, shut the fuck up, and listen.”

It seemed to be my night for telling people that—and once again it felt decidedly good.

Surprise flickered through his eyes, briefly extinguishing the shadows. He contemplated me for a second, then leaned back and made a sweeping gesture with one hand. “By all means, go right ahead.”

His tone was as bland as his expression. I wrapped both hands around my cup of tea, drawing in the reassuring slithers of heat as I told him about the note we’d found on Rosen. His anger stung the air, and I held up my hand, stopping him from saying anything.

“Yes, I know, we’re bad, we withheld evidence. But we were warned not to tell you and PIT—otherwise they’d make Rory one of them.”

“Phoenixes aren’t affected by the virus, so that’s an impossible threat.”

“Not if our ability to take flame form is curtailed, and both you and PIT know that’s possible via drugs.” And magic, but I wasn’t about to mention that in case he wasn’t aware of it.

“But how would the cloaks or their leader have fucking known if you’d told us?” The blandness had very definitely left his expression—and his voice. “PIT is totally secure—”

“No, it’s not.” I met him glare for glare. “He said in the note he would know if PIT was informed. Besides, if there isn’t a leak in PIT, how the hell would he have known I can’t live without Rory? The only people I’ve told are you and Jackson—and Jackson’s basically been with me twenty-four/seven. So who did you tell, Sam?”

“No one. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

I snorted. “Not even to get rid of a rival?”

“What fucking good can that do?” he bit back. “Killing him would kill you, and I couldn’t stand losing you—”

He cut the rest of the sentence off, but the words seemed to echo through me regardless. Couldn’t stand losing you a second time.

The gray cloak was right. He did still harbor feelings for me. They might be nothing more than ghosts—a pale reflection of what had once burned between us—but he still felt.

“And that,” I said softly, “is something the gray cloak is very aware of. He wants to capture me—use me—to get to you.”

“He can’t possibly know—”

“Unless someone told him.” I met his gaze steadily. Despite the darkness that shone in his eyes and washed between us, my fear was dying. His anger wasn’t aimed at me—at least, not at this minute. It was aimed at himself—at whatever the source of the change in him was.

“Who at PIT did you tell about our relationship, Sam?”

He didn’t immediately answer. Then he swore and scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “It can’t be her.”

“Rochelle?” I guessed.

He nodded. There was an odd bleakness in his eyes. “She was curious about you after I called her in to get that composite of the man who killed the guard at Chase.”

“And you told her what, exactly?”

“Only that we were once an item.”

“Nothing more?”

“No, because there is nothing more to tell.” His gaze was unflinching. Remorseless. “We are history, not here and now.”

History. How I hated that word. I took a sip of tea, then said, “You told no one else?”

“No one else but Rochelle had a need to know.”

Because he and Rochelle were lovers, not just work companions. And lovers talked. Shared.

Except that I didn’t. Hadn’t. Because I’d been afraid of losing him, as I’d lost everyone else I’d ever cared about. I took a deep breath and pushed the ache back down. “Did you also tell her that you’d warned me away from the Baltimore investigation?”

He frowned. “Probably. It was in the report, at the very least. Why?”

“When we rescued Amanda Wilson from the sindicati’s goons, Hunt said, ‘You should have done as the cop suggested, because now you have to die.’ The only way he could have known what you said to me was either by you or someone else telling him.” I grimaced. “Maybe I’m being naive, given you had no qualms about drugging me, but I’d really like to think it wasn’t you.”

He didn’t answer. But the anger and the darkness in him were stronger. And with that strengthening came an odd sort of desolation.

“What the hell is going on, Sam?” I asked softly. “Why is the man in charge of the cloaks so determined to destroy you? And if the leak is Rochelle, how the hell is she linked to him?”

I half expected him to tell me it was none of my business: that I needed to walk away and just stick my nose out of PIT business. But I couldn’t, because the gray cloak had made PIT and whoever was feeding him information my business.

And there was something in his expression that suggested he was very aware of that.

“The reason he’s after me is undoubtedly because it’s become a mission of mine to kill as many of the bastards as I can.”

It was more than that. I very much doubted the gray cloak cared two hoots about the safety of the red cloaks—or, at least, the semi-insane ones marked with the scythe on their cheek. I’d killed more than a few of them, and he certainly wasn’t coming after me because of it. No, this was personal.

But all I said was, “Because they infected Luke, forcing you to kill him?”

“Yes.” He scrubbed a hand across his eyes, and I got the feeling he was trying to do the same to the memories of that moment. His gaze, when it met mine again, was bleak. “You really should have let me die, Red.”

“Would you have let me die, given the same information and circumstances?”

The smile that touched his lips was bitter. “Maybe. I’m not the man I once was.”

No, he certainly wasn’t. But whatever had happened to him, there were still remnants of the man I’d loved remaining, and I couldn’t watch those die.

“I can’t take back my actions any more than you can,” I commented. “But one question does occur to me—are your incursions into Brooklyn PIT sanctified? Because how else did those cloaks know the precise moment you’d reach that intersection?”

“I wouldn’t go into that place without informing PIT. I can’t.”

I frowned. “Why not? Surely they wouldn’t object to the cloaks being culled? Not considering the threat they pose to the rest of us.”

“Oh, they don’t object to me—or anyone else—killing them.” His tone was wry, but the bleakness in his expression was stronger. “They just object to not knowing my movements twenty-four/seven.”

My confusion increased. “Does that rule apply to every PIT operative? Because that’s one hell of a demand—and not one I’d imagine the unions would approve of.”

“No, they wouldn’t. But then, Rochelle and I are somewhat … off-grid … when it comes to unions and legalities.”

Fear was beginning to creep through the confusion. I very much suspected I knew what he was leading up to, and I really—really—didn’t want to believe it. “And why would that be?”

He took a deep breath and released it slowly. It did nothing to ease the desolation in his eyes or the dark anger staining the air. And it only increased the fear in me—but it was fear for him, not of him.

“You remember I once told you that all red plague survivors who don’t run off to join the rest of the hive have a remote-controlled suicide pill implanted?”

I nodded. My heart was beating so fast, I swore it was going to leap out of my chest, and fear was a fist implanted deep in my gut, making it hard to breathe.

“Well, both Rochelle and I are recipients of said pill.”

Dear god, no …

But the words remained locked inside. I could only stare at him.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “We’re both infected with the red plague virus.”

CHAPTER 11

“When?” I somehow croaked. “How?”

He grimaced. “Do you remember what I said about Luke?”

“About his being one of the first to be infected by the virus?”

He nodded. “Well, he wasn’t alone that day. I wasn’t working with PIT back then—I was still a detective with metro. We had some information about the sindicati’s activities in Brooklyn—information that linked Luke to them.”

“So because he’s your brother, you went in to confront him about it.” It was a statement rather than a question. It was very much the sort of thing he would have done for anyone he cared about. He and Luke might have been estranged for years, but blood was still thicker than water. He would have wanted to talk to him before he did anything official.

“Yes. I was bringing him in when we were both attacked.” He shrugged, the movement oddly angry. “I can’t tell you how we got out of that place, but I woke up in a very secure military hospital.”

I wished I could offer some form of comfort. Wished I could reach across the table and hug him. But his forbidding expression suggested any such action would be very unwelcome.

“And Luke? Was he also there?”

“Yes. But he wasn’t exactly pleased to be in a military hospital, and he went a little crazy.” His voice was grim. “To this day, I have no idea whether that craziness was the virus or simply his hatred of both authority and being cooped up.”

I leaned back and crossed my arms in an effort to stop the growing desire to reach out to him. “What happened?”

“You know what happened.” It was tersely said. “I shot him. I killed my own brother.”

“And how many people did he kill or injure before you took him down?”

“Too many,” he said. “But I could have maimed him. I didn’t.”

“Because maiming him wouldn’t have stopped him, and we both know it.” Hell, if setting the bastards alight didn’t immediately stop their onslaught, bullets in the extremities certainly wouldn’t.

“But I didn’t know that then. I was just angry. Furiously angry.”

“At him?” I frowned. “Why?”

“I’m told it’s a side effect of the drug. Even now, I sometimes struggle with it.” He scrubbed a hand across his eyes again. “Anyway, none of that is relevant.”

“Except that I think it is.”

His gaze sharpened. “Why?”

“Because I don’t think the past is buried. Not in this instance.”

“Meaning you think this gray cloak is aware that I killed Luke?” He frowned. “Why would he care? I’ve killed plenty of his soldiers over the last year, and he’s never particularly worried about them.”

“Because he’s not related to them. He’s related to you.”

He crossed his arms. It was a defensive action just as much as it was angry. “No, that’s not possible.”

“How do you know?” I replied evenly. “Have you checked his grave of late? Are you certain his body is still there?”

“I don’t need to. He was held in containment for a week, which was long enough for him to regenerate if he was going to. He didn’t.”

“What if he’s one of those people who regenerates at a slower rate? People who imbibe vampire blood to become one have different rates of change, and all vampires recuperate at different speeds after injury. Why wouldn’t that apply to the cloaks?”

“Because it’s a man-made virus—”

“That no one fully understands,” I said. “But it only partially turns the infected, so it’s more than possible that wound recovery is also only at partial speed.”

“It’s not Luke.” It was stubbornly said. “It can’t be.”

“Then explain why he keeps saying, ‘He will not have you.’ ”

“Because, as you said, he seems to believe I still have serious feelings for you, and it’s a good tactical move to target the people your quarry cares about.” He shrugged. “Besides, Luke basically ignored you all the time we were together. I was under the impression he hated you.”

“He probably did after I rejected his seduction attempt.” As the saying went, in for a penny, in for a pound. Besides, what was the point of holding anything back now? “If this is Luke, then that event could also be playing a part in this whole drama.”

“And that is something else you should have told me at the time.” His voice held none of the anger I’d expected. He merely sounded resigned. Sad. And that probably stung more than anger ever could have. “That you couldn’t speaks volumes about our relationship, Emberly.”

“I was trying to protect your relationship with your brother,” I snapped back. “As I said, I dealt with the situation. It didn’t happen again, so there was no point in mentioning it.”

“So if the gray cloak is indeed Luke, why would he be so determined to get you now?”

“Because he’s a sicko infected with the red plague virus, and determined to rule the world?”

“I’m a sicko infected with the virus, remember. It doesn’t make me determined to get you back, let alone rule the world.”

“Because, according to him, you’re fighting it.” I hesitated, but it was only fair he knew everything that had been said. “He also said the fighting would stop eventually and, when it did, he would destroy you, as you attempted to destroy him.”

“I’ll never stop fighting. I’ll die before I stop fighting.”

The odd mix of determination and bleakness in his voice had tears stinging my eyes. I blinked them away. “Does Rochelle feel the same?”

“Of course. Hence my belief the leak can’t be her.”

“But what if she’s not doing it knowingly? I asked the gray cloak if he could read your thoughts, and he said no. But I got the impression he can catch at least some of your emotions. What if he’s catching both from Rochelle?”

“If he could read her thoughts, more missions would have gone ass up. They haven’t.”

“Which still doesn’t mean she couldn’t be the leak.” I studied him for a minute. “It has to be checked, Sam. Just as Luke’s grave will need to be checked.”

He didn’t say anything, and his expression gave very little away. But I had no doubt he’d follow up on both things, if only because he wouldn’t want to put anyone at PIT in danger if he and Rochelle were inadvertently feeding the gray cloak information.

And if it was true? What would that mean for both him and Rochelle? PIT surely wouldn’t risk having them as part of the team—not until after the cloaks were all caught and killed, anyway.

I contemplated him for a moment longer, then said, “If you and Rochelle can’t go off-grid without setting off alarms, does that mean you told them you were meeting me tonight?”

Because if he had, I was damn glad Rory and Jackson were coming back for me. If the illustrious leader of the cloaks was Luke, and he’d survived both the fire and the explosion, he’d be murderously angry—maybe enough to send his insane army swarming after me.

Because the only time Luke did anything without thinking it through first was when anger got the better of him.

The smile that touched Sam’s lips once again held very little in the way of warmth or humor. “I may hate that I’m now the monster I accused you of being, but I’m not yet ready to give up either the fight or life. So, yes, I rang my boss and told her what I was doing.”

“No one else?”

“No.” He paused. “Though she would have informed the surveillance team. An alarm would have been raised when the tracker in my body told them I was on the move but both my car and my phone remained stationary.”

“Has Rochelle got access to the surveillance team or system?”

“No one has but the team itself. All systems are monitored twenty-four/seven, and all personnel are tracked when they’re on the clock. We’re not a big team, and we can’t afford to lose anyone.”

“Ah. Good.”

“From that perspective, yes.” His fingers tapped lightly on the table. “Is there anything else you need to tell me?”

“The fire in Brooklyn was me. And I threatened to burn the entire place down if he went near either Jackson or Rory again.”

This time, the smile that twisted his lips was so small, it was barely even noticeable, but it nevertheless made something inside me sing.

“But not you?” he said.

“If either he or his cronies come near me, I’ll burn their asses to hell and back. I told him that, too.”

“Good.”

“Maybe not. I think I may have just made the situation worse.”

The smile became stronger, and it lent his cool features a warmth that harked back to the Sam of old. “I seriously doubt the situation could get any worse.”

“Maybe not.” I smiled, but only briefly. “Do you think the scientists—or whoever else is now working on this thing—will eventually be able to help you and Rochelle?”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “We don’t know, because right now they’re working on a vaccine rather than a cure. That has to be the first priority, even if this thing doesn’t get out of control. But they’ve also taken lots of blood from us, in an effort to understand why some people survive intelligence intact, while others do not.”

“I thought what form of red cloak you became depended on who infected you?”

“It does, but that doesn’t negate that some become crazed and some do not. Remember, this outbreak was the result of one man.”

That man being the scientist who thought he’d hit pay dirt—that he’d discovered the enzyme that gave vampires immortality—and very unwisely had decided to use himself as a guinea pig. He’d eventually been tracked down and killed, but not before he’d infected dozens of others.

“But surely studying your blood and why the likes of you and Rochelle don’t become mad pseudo vampires will help them develop a cure?”

“That’s something no one can or will commit to.” He picked up his barely touched coffee and rose. “I had best go report in. Are you going to be okay here?”

I nodded. He half turned, then stopped. “And, Emberly? Thanks.”

With that, he walked away. I watched him leave the restaurant and become one with the night, my relief so fierce, my whole body shook. That had gone a whole lot better than I thought it would.

At least I now knew what that darkness in him was. It was a darkness he might never be free of, even if those who were now undertaking the continuation of Baltimore’s and Wilson’s research found a vaccine. A vaccine wasn’t a cure and, as Sam had noted, no one had any idea if a cure was even possible.

Which meant that maybe the best he and Rochelle could hope for was that by destroying Luke—if indeed he was the leader of the cloaks—they’d at least destroy the insidious call of darkness. I had no doubt that Luke’s desire for full control was at least partially the reason the darkness within Sam seemed to be in a constant state of flux whenever he was with me. Because when he was, he was fighting emotions and memories more than the virus, and it gained a greater hold on him.

Of course, that could also be the reason why Luke was so certain Sam still cared for me. He was catching snatches of emotions during those same moments.

Which meant the best possible thing I could do for us all was stay away from him—and yet that was probably the one thing that was nearly impossible to achieve. Certainly fate itself seemed determined to continually throw me back into his path.

I pushed up from my chair and walked across to the counter to get another cup of tea and a McFlurry. It was probably just as well my body burned energy at a far higher rate, because with the amount of crap I’d been eating of late, I’d be the size of a shed in no time.

I was about halfway through the icy treat when Rory walked in. He didn’t bother checking the restaurant or going to the counter; he just walked straight over to me.

“You okay?”

I nodded but nevertheless rose and wrapped my arms around his neck. “Sam’s infected. The virus is the darkness I sensed in him.”

“Oh fuck. I’m sorry to hear that.” He held me tight for several seconds. “I may hate how the bastard treated you, but no one deserves that fate.”

“At least he’s one of the saner ones. And while he’s alive and fighting, there is at least hope.”

Because without hope there was nothing. Not for him, not for me.

Rory dropped a kiss on the top of my head, then pulled back. “And the leak?”

“It may be Rochelle. She’s also infected. He doesn’t believe that she’s willingly feeding anyone information, however.”

“Maybe not consciously.” He picked up my unfinished tea and waved me toward the door.

“I told him that,” I said, heading for the main door. “I also told him my suspicions as to who the gray cloak is.”

“And?”

“And, he didn’t react favorably, as you’d expect.”

Jackson pulled up as we stepped out of the restaurant.

“But he’s going to exhume the body regardless?” Rory asked.

“He didn’t say as much, but I suspect he will.”

“A successful meeting, I take it?” Jackson said as Rory slammed the car’s rear door shut, then got into the front.

“You could say that.” I updated him on everything that had happened, including the information that Rochelle was one of the infected.

He swore vehemently. “There go any seduction ideas I may have held.”

“Yeah, but it’s also a confirmation that Fae can be infected. If we hadn’t used my fire to burn the virus from your system, you might well be one of them now.”

“Yeah.” His expression was bleak when it met mine briefly in the rearview mirror. “And I hope that one of you will kill me cleanly if it turns out that the virus isn’t burned but rather just dormant.”

“I don’t think this virus does dormant. From everything Sam has said about it, the change hits within the first week or so. You’re past that now.”

“Be that as it may, you will put an end to me if necessary, won’t you?”

I didn’t want to even think about the prospect of doing something like that. Not to someone who had so quickly become a friend. “Being infected isn’t the end of everything. Sam and Rochelle are proof enough of that.”

“Maybe so, but the concern of infecting others is not something I’d want to live with.” His expression was bleak. “Promise me, Em.”

I closed my eyes for a minute, then softly said, “If it comes to that, I will.”

“Good.”

Silence fell. There wasn’t much traffic on the road at this hour of the morning, and we arrived back at our bolt-hole without any sign that anyone was even remotely interested in us. By that stage it was close to five in the morning, and all of us were bone tired. We simply trundled up the stairs and crashed into separate beds. I couldn’t say how long it took the two men to get to sleep, but I was out almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

Only to dream yet again.

This time, however, it had nothing to do with monsters and dire events, but rather desire.

Because I dreamed I was being cradled close by arms that were warm and strong and familiar. Arms that belonged to a man with vivid blue eyes and a wild, dark scent.

And while I knew it was nothing more than the inner prophet taunting me with possibilities that could never be, I nevertheless allowed myself to sink deeper into sensation and enjoy it. Being wrapped in the imaginary arms of the man I loved was better than nothing.

I woke about ten, grabbed a shower, and then clattered downstairs. Rory was in the kitchen, frying up bacon and eggs for breakfast, and Jackson was sitting at the table nursing a mug of coffee.

I made myself a cuppa, then sat opposite him. “You look like shit.”

He scrubbed a hand across his unshaven chin. “That bed is far too soft for my liking. And my feet stuck out the end of it.”

I smiled. “And here I was thinking you enjoyed soft things.”

“When it come to the female form, yes.” Amusement crinkled the corners of his bright eyes. “In fact, the more curvaceous they are, the sexier I find them.”

“So if a sexy-looking waif made a pass at you,” Rory asked as he walked over with three plates piled high, “you’d tell her to keep on walking?”

“Well, no, because I’m a fire Fae with a high sexual drive. I’m just stating preferences.”

I snorted softly and tucked into my breakfast. When we were all finished and the dishes cleared, Jackson retrieved the laptop and Radcliffe’s phone from the trunk of the car and placed both on the table.

“So, what’s our next move?” I picked up the phone and inspected it. It didn’t tell me any more than it had yesterday. “Is that program of yours any closer to busting this thing open?”

“It shouldn’t be too much longer.” Jackson shrugged. “In the meantime, it might be worthwhile doing a search of Wilson’s place. If he did have backup of those files, it could be there. If he’d kept a backup system at either the office or on a cloud service, someone would have found it by now.”

Someone had certainly found Baltimore’s cache—but only after torturing him to get it. And Wilson was already dead … maybe. If the attack on him by the red cloaks had been nothing more than a ruse to get him into their ranks, then he might well be alive and blabbing right now.

“Surely Amanda would have known about the cache if he did have one at home?” Not to mention the fact PIT would have searched the place thoroughly after his murder. They wanted the research notes as badly as anyone else, after all.

“Amanda may have been a powerful telepath, but—from what you’ve said—she could only read him during sex,” Jackson said. “That being the case, she was probably concentrating on recording his daily progression with the virus rather than whether he was making a private backup of the information.”

I frowned. “So why would Rosen be so convinced that he did have a private backup?”

“Given Rosen was backstabbing his own company, maybe he figured his top man was doing the same thing.” Rory’s expression was contemplative. “A cheater, whether it’s sexual or money based, often expects the worst in others. It helps offset his own guilt.”

“Maybe.” I wrinkled my nose and tried to imagine Rosen simply sitting back and letting Wilson gather top-secret information. I couldn’t, because Rosen had—in the brief time I’d met him—come across as both arrogant and confident in both his place in this world and his own self-worth. If he thought Wilson was stashing research and maybe even toying with the idea of selling it—something Rosen himself was already doing—then he would have undoubtedly put a stop to it. He might have even fired Wilson.

If he had known about Wilson’s backup, it could only mean he’d given Wilson his approval. Maybe it was Rosen’s way of ensuring he could still get his hands on all the research if his deal with Radcliffe went sour.

Which it certainly had.

I put the phone down and picked up my mug of tea instead. “Amanda was doing a pretty thorough job of plucking information from Wilson’s brain, so why wouldn’t she have picked up info on a secret stash?”

“She may have,” Rory commented. “Perhaps that’s why the sindicati kept her alive rather than simply letting her die when they snatched you both. Maybe they’re waiting for her to recover enough from her injuries so they can grab the info from her.”

“The sindicati are an organization of vampires,” I said. “It’s not like they can’t mind-rape her or something to get the information if they really wanted to.”

“Except that, as I’ve said, telepaths often can’t be read—even forcibly—by each other.” Jackson opened the laptop and hit the START button. “Either way, I still think searching Wilson’s place is a good plan.”

“And not just the house itself, either,” Rory commented. “It could be somewhere obscure, like a shed or something.”

Radcliffe’s phone chose that moment to come to life, the ringtone’s music harsh and unpleasant, and the words all but incomprehensible. In fact, the only word I could understand was the term “ball-breaker.” Unfortunately, while caller ID popped up on the screen, it simply said MJ and a number. Jackson scribbled it down, then motioned me to answer it. I did so cautiously.

“And just who the fuck are you?” a woman said, her voice teeth-grindingly strident.

“Angie,” I said, giving her the first name I could think of. “Who are you?”

“Who I am is none of your damn business. What are doing answering this phone?”

“Mr. Radcliffe is currently in a meeting and asked me to vet all calls.”

The woman snorted. “And we both know ‘meeting’ is just a euphemism for a fuck session.”

My eyebrows rose at the vehemence in her voice. Whoever she was, she really didn’t like Radcliffe. “I’m afraid I have no knowledge of what his meeting involves. Can I take a message?”

“Yeah, tell the rat bastard RJ’s concert is tonight and he’d better fucking appear.”

And with that, she hung up.

“Well,” Rory commented, “she’s a charmer.”

I grinned. “Totally. Wonder who she is.”

“According to Google and a number search,” Jackson said, turning the laptop around, “she’s Mrs. Mary Johnson, and she lives in Coburg.”

“Wonder what her relationship to Radcliffe is.”

“She could be anything from your much-theorized hidden wife, to his sister, or just someone he’s seriously pissed off.” Jackson shrugged. “Whatever the case, I think we need to go have a little chat with her.”

“You’d better pack some earplugs,” Rory said, his expression amused. “I suspect you might be greeted with some rather colorful language the minute you mention Radcliffe.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re not coming?”

He shook his head. “I’m better off staying out of your regular investigations. If the cloaks do come after you, it leaves me free to come in and save the day.”

“So you have a hero hankering?” Jackson said, his expression contemplative. “That’s interesting.”

Rory gave him “the look”—the one that said, “Grow up.” I knew that, because he’d given it to me a few times over the years. Although, as I often said to him, he could hardly tell me to grow up when he was often just as bad.

“I’m not entirely sure it’s a great idea to leave you here alone.” Doubt edged my voice. “Especially after the threat the gray cloak made.”

“Em, we’re safe here, at least for the moment. I’ll stay and do some research on the creature. Because,” he added, his tone dry, “I have no doubt it will feature somewhere in our near future.”

I didn’t deny it. I just flashed another grin at him. He rolled his eyes and motioned toward the door. “You’d better go, just in case Mrs. Ball-breaker decides she needs to go out.”

We went. Mary Johnson’s house was a small and neat redbrick house in a street filled with similar-looking houses. Her front yard was filled with sweet-smelling roses, and the car parked in front of the garage was a small Toyota that looked more than a few years old.

“If she’s Radcliffe’s wife,” I commented, “then he’s pretty damn mean with his money.”

“Rats aren’t good at sharing.” He reached past me and grabbed Radcliffe’s wallet from the glove compartment. He must have caught my surprise, because he added, “Hey, if she is his wife—or even just a poorly kept bit on the side—she might be receptive to a little monetary inducement.”

“And why offer ours when his wallet is filled with both cash and credit cards?” I commented, amused.

“Precisely.”

We climbed out of the car and walked to the front door. I pressed the doorbell. After several seconds, footsteps approached; then the door opened.

The woman who answered was not what I’d been expecting. She was six feet tall and slender with sharp but pretty facial features. A garishly pink hairband loosely held her neat brown hair back from her face. It was only when you met her unflinching brown gaze that you saw any hint of the grows rose at the vehemence in her voice. Whoever she was, she really didn’t like Radcliffe. “I’m afraid I have no knowledge of what his meeting involves. Can I take a message?”

“Yeah, tell the rat bastard RJ’s concert is tonight and he’d better fucking appear.”

And with that, she hung up.

“Well,” Rory commented, “she’s a charmer.”

I grinned. “Totally. Wonder who she is.”

“According to Google and a number search,” Jackson said, turning the laptop around, “she’s Mrs. Mary Johnson, and she lives in Coburg.”

“Wonder what her relationship to Radcliffe is.”

“She could be anything from your much-theorized hidden wife, to his sister, or just someone he’s seriously pissed off.” Jackson shrugged. “Whatever the case, I think we need to go have a little chat with her.”

“You’d better pack some earplugs,” Rory said, his expression amused. “I suspect you might be greeted with some rather colorful language the minute you mention Radcliffe.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re not coming?”

He shook his head. “I’m better off staying out of your regular investigations. If the cloaks do come after you, it leaves me free to come in and save the day.”

“So you have a hero hankering?” Jackson said, his expression contemplative. “That’s interesting.”

Rory gave him “the look”—the one that said, “Grow up.” I knew that, because he’d given it to me a few times over the years. Although, as I often said to him, he could hardly tell me to grow up when he was often just as bad.

“I’m not entirely sure it’s a great idea to leave you here alone.” Doubt edged my voice. “Especially after the threat the gray cloak made.”

“Em, we’re safe here, at least for the moment. I’ll stay and do some research on the creature. Because,” he added, his tone dry, “I have no doubt it will feature somewhere in our near future.”

I didn’t deny it. I just flashed another grin at him. He rolled his eyes and motioned toward the door. “You’d better go, just in case Mrs. Ball-breaker decides she needs to go out.”

We went. Mary Johnson’s house was a small and neat redbrick house in a street filled with similar-looking houses. Her front yard was filled with sweet-smelling roses, and the car parked in front of the garage was a small Toyota that looked more than a few years old.

“If she’s Radcliffe’s wife,” I commented, “then he’s pretty damn mean with his money.”

“Rats aren’t good at sharing.” He reached past me and grabbed Radcliffe’s wallet from the glove compartment. He must have caught my surprise, because he added, “Hey, if she is his wife—or even just a poorly kept bit on the side—she might be receptive to a little monetary inducement.”

“And why offer ours when his wallet is filled with both cash and credit cards?” I commented, amused.

“Precisely.”

We climbed out of the car and walked to the front door. I pressed the doorbell. After several seconds, footsteps approached; then the door opened.

The woman who answered was not what I’d been expecting. She was six feet tall and slender with sharp but pretty facial features. A garishly pink hairband loosely held her neat brown hair back from her face. It was only when you met her unflinching brown gaze that you saw any hint of the grows rose at the vehemence in her voice. Whoever she was, she really didn’t like Radcliffe. “I’m afraid I have no knowledge of what his meeting involves. Can I take a message?”

“Yeah, tell the rat bastard RJ’s concert is tonight and he’d better fucking appear.”

And with that, she hung up.

“Well,” Rory commented, “she’s a charmer.”

I grinned. “Totally. Wonder who she is.”

“According to Google and a number search,” Jackson said, turning the laptop around, “she’s Mrs. Mary Johnson, and she lives in Coburg.”

“Wonder what her relationship to Radcliffe is.”

“She could be anything from your much-theorized hidden wife, to his sister, or just someone he’s seriously pissed off.” Jackson shrugged. “Whatever the case, I think we need to go have a little chat with her.”

“You’d better pack some earplugs,” Rory said, his expression amused. “I suspect you might be greeted with some rather colorful language the minute you mention Radcliffe.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re not coming?”

He shook his head. “I’m better off staying out of your regular investigations. If the cloaks do come after you, it leaves me free to come in and save the day.”

“So you have a hero hankering?” Jackson said, his expression contemplative. “That’s interesting.”

Rory gave him “the look”—the one that said, “Grow up.” I knew that, because he’d given it to me a few times over the years. Although, as I often said to him, he could hardly tell me to grow up when he was often just as bad.

“I’m not entirely sure it’s a great idea to leave you here alone.” Doubt edged my voice. “Especially after the threat the gray cloak made.”

“Em, we’re safe here, at least for the moment. I’ll stay and do some research on the creature. Because,” he added, his tone dry, “I have no doubt it will feature somewhere in our near future.”

I didn’t deny it. I just flashed another grin at him. He rolled his eyes and motioned toward the door. “You’d better go, just in case Mrs. Ball-breaker decides she needs to go out.”

We went. Mary Johnson’s house was a small and neat redbrick house in a street filled with similar-looking houses. Her front yard was filled with sweet-smelling roses, and the car parked in front of the garage was a small Toyota that looked more than a few years old.

“If she’s Radcliffe’s wife,” I commented, “then he’s pretty damn mean with his money.”

“Rats aren’t good at sharing.” He reached past me and grabbed Radcliffe’s wallet from the glove compartment. He must have caught my surprise, because he added, “Hey, if she is his wife—or even just a poorly kept bit on the side—she might be receptive to a little monetary inducement.”

“And why offer ours when his wallet is filled with both cash and credit cards?” I commented, amused.

“Precisely.”

We climbed out of the car and walked to the front door. I pressed the doorbell. After several seconds, footsteps approached; then the door opened.

The woman who answered was not what I’d been expecting. She was six feet tall and slender with sharp but pretty facial features. A garishly pink hairband loosely held her neat brown hair back from her face. It was only when you met her unflinching brown gaze that you saw any hint of the grows rose at the vehemence in her voice. Whoever she was, she really didn’t like Radcliffe. “I’m afraid I have no knowledge of what his meeting involves. Can I take a message?”

“Yeah, tell the rat bastard RJ’s concert is tonight and he’d better fucking appear.”

And with that, she hung up.

“Well,” Rory commented, “she’s a charmer.”

I grinned. “Totally. Wonder who she is.”

“According to Google and a number search,” Jackson said, turning the laptop around, “she’s Mrs. Mary Johnson, and she lives in Coburg.”

“Wonder what her relationship to Radcliffe is.”

“She could be anything from your much-theorized hidden wife, to his sister, or just someone he’s seriously pissed off.” Jackson shrugged. “Whatever the case, I think we need to go have a little chat with her.”

“You’d better pack some earplugs,” Rory said, his expression amused. “I suspect you might be greeted with some rather colorful language the minute you mention Radcliffe.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re not coming?”

He shook his head. “I’m better off staying out of your regular investigations. If the cloaks do come after you, it leaves me free to come in and save the day.”

“So you have a hero hankering?” Jackson said, his expression contemplative. “That’s interesting.”

Rory gave him “the look”—the one that said, “Grow up.” I knew that, because he’d given it to me a few times over the years. Although, as I often said to him, he could hardly tell me to grow up when he was often just as bad.

“I’m not entirely sure it’s