Fireborn

CHAPTER 10

I hit the wall face-first and pain exploded. For several seconds I saw nothing but stars dancing happily in black space; then hands grabbed me, pulled me around, and threw me again. This time, when I hit, there was a splintering sound, and I came down in a shower of wood and glass.

Dressing table, I thought fuzzily, and instinctively reached for my flames. Nothing happened. Nothing more than a slight fizz of heat that faded as quickly as it rose. I swore and groped for something, anything, to use as a weapon. There was blood in my mouth, my vision was blurry, and there was a roaring in my head.

But I still heard the heavy approach of footsteps.

My fingers found wood, but it was too small, too thin, to use as a weapon. I swept my fingers around desperately for something better and hit glass. A long, thick shard. I wrapped my fingers around it and gripped it tight. The ragged edges sliced into my skin, but I made no move, no sound, as those steps drew closer.

Feet appeared in front of my face. Big feet encased in heavy black boots. The kind that could do serious damage if they stomped down on my head. Tension slithered through me, the need to move warring with the need to be still and play helpless. Whoever this was, he was strong. Without my fires, all I had was surprise. My grip on the glass tightened. Blood began to ooze past my fingers and soak into the carpet.

He bent down, grabbed the back of my shirt, and hauled me upright. Heat rolled over me—heat and the pungent musk of man and sweat—and I realized my attacker was a werewolf rather than a vampire. Which explained the strength. It was a thought that quickly vanished as he held me at arm’s length and gave me a toothy grin.

“You should have done as the cop suggested,” he said. “Because now you have to die.”

Shock rolled through me. Sam had been the only cop to warn me away from the case, but surely even he wouldn’t resort to this sort of violence.

But he’s changed, the internal voice whispered. He’s not the man you once knew.

No, I thought, he wasn’t, but I still refused to believe he was behind this attack. I battered away the lingering uncertainty and said, through puffing lips, “I’ve done the whole death thing more than once, and I have to say, I’m not quite ready to do it again.”

With that, I plunged the shard of glass as hard as I could into his gut.

He released me instinctively and screamed—but it was a sound that held fury rather than pain. I landed in a heap at his feet, but I didn’t stay there. I twisted, swept my leg around, and knocked him off balance. He half fell, and I threw myself forward, knocking him back and sideways.

But he was a man and a werewolf, and that meant fast reflexes and greater strength. The advantage I’d gained in unbalancing him lay in seconds, not minutes, and he was up almost as fast as I was. I hastily wiped at the blood gushing from my nose, then ran at him again. I hit shoulder first, and the jagged edge of the shard sliced into me even as I drove it deeper into his gut. He flailed backward and crashed into the closet doors. With a howl that was still more fury than pain, he ripped the shard from his flesh and flung it away.

And in that instant, I knew my time was up. If I didn’t drop him now, it’d be me on the floor, not him.

I leapt at him, feet-first. He saw me coming and twisted sideways, but his gut wound had at least slowed him enough that it didn’t matter. I hit his left knee side-on, and there was a loud crack. His leg collapsed from underneath him and he went down hard to one knee.

But the bastard just wouldn’t fall.

I hit the carpet yet again, sucked in a shuddery breath, and half turned. Saw his fist arcing toward me and flung myself desperately out of the way. The punch missed, but the heavy rings on his fingers gouged my skin. It hurt. God, how it hurt. But I thrust the pain aside and scrambled away from him.

Hands grabbed my right leg and dragged me back. I half yelped, then twisted around, kicking at his face with my free leg. It missed and he laughed, the sound fierce and cold. His gaze met mine, and all I saw was death.

Flames flared across my fingertips. They contained little in the way of heat, but it was all I had left, so I flung them at him. His eyes went wide; then he released me and threw himself out of their way. Another roar escaped his lips as he came down on the knee I’d broken; then the flames hit him, and he screamed again as they shimmered up his legs.

I didn’t wait for him to realize they contained no heat. I lunged at him, slipped my hand under the cuff of his jeans, and grabbed his ankle. The minute my fingers wrapped around his flesh, the fires within responded, sucking in the heat of him, feeding on it. I drank it fast, robbing him of warmth and energy, until his skin was gray and shivers racked his body. It wasn’t enough; I wanted—needed—more, but if I took it all, I’d kill him. And as desperately appealing as that thought was, we needed answers more.

I unlocked my fingers and peeled them away from his flesh, leaving the imprint of my hand on his skin—a lasting reminder of our fight—then took a deep, shuddering breath. It did little to quell the urge to finish what I’d started.

But as my breathing calmed, I became aware of the sounds. Grunts and the smack of flesh against flesh.

The werewolf hadn’t come alone.

Jackson.

I scrambled to my feet, lunged for the biggest piece of splintered wood I could manage, then ran for the door. Jackson fought a man who was little more than a shadow. The two of them appeared evenly matched, going blow for blow, their bodies shuddering under the impact of each hit. Jackson had the mother of a bruise forming under his eye and slashes along his cheeks and arms. The vamp obviously wasn’t afraid to use his nails.

I took a step toward them. The vamp hit Jackson hard, sending him staggering, then spun and ran for me. He was lightning fast, and I really had no time to do anything more than raise the wood.

He didn’t see it. He just ran straight into it.

The jagged edges rammed into his body just below his ribs, and blue fire instantly exploded from the wound, consuming the wood as it rolled across his body.

He screamed, burned, blackened. Fell.

I stepped back and rubbed my arms, my stomach rolling as the pungent scent of burning flesh and meat filled the air. He stopped screaming, stopped writhing, but still the fire consumed him, until there was nothing left but ashes and the cindered remains of the carpet underneath him. At least it was a quick death, and that was probably more than he deserved.

“Damn it, Em,” Jackson growled. “I wanted to question him.”

My gaze shot to his. “It wasn’t like I meant to do that. It was more luck and instinct than thought.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just damn annoying that every step forward in this case is followed by two steps back.”

“In this particular case, it’s only one step. The other one is still alive.”

“Really? Well done, you.” He thrust a bloodied hand through his hair. “We’d better check Amanda before we interrogate him, though. You want to make that call to the paramedics?”

I followed him into the bedroom to retrieve my phone. Jackson glanced at the werewolf and then back at me. “Damn, that’s a mountain, not a wolf. Very well done, you.”

“The bastard very nearly got the better of me.” I bent to pick up my phone, but that just made the blood oozing from my nose flow faster, and half the screen was covered in an instant. I walked over to the bedside table and grabbed some tissues.

“He didn’t, and that’s all that matters.”

I guess. I shoved the tissues up my nose to help stop the bleeding, then called an ambulance.

“How is she?” I asked when I’d finished.

“She’s still alive.” He tossed me a handkerchief. “It’s clean. You might want to use it on your hand.”

I quickly wrapped it around the cut, but it didn’t do a whole lot. “Let’s hope she remains that way. If the wolf can’t tell us much, she could be our only hope.”

“I can’t imagine your ex is going to allow us to talk to her once he finds out about our adventures here.”

He was right. Sam would close out this avenue of investigation just as surely as he’d closed off Morretti. He might not use a drug to do it, but he didn’t need to. All he had to do was place Amanda under protective custody.

“We could always ring the police rather than him. It might only delay the inevitable confrontation, but it would at least give us some time to question her.”

“It’s worth a shot. But when you do talk to the bastard again, give him a fucking earful about drugging us. Not having our fires could have gotten us both killed today.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And do you think he’d care?”

“Probably not.” He walked around the bed. “Ring the cops. I’ll tie up our thug and do a quick search through the house.”

“It might be a good idea to drag him into another room. If the paramedics arrive before his healing fully kicks in, they’ll want to treat the bastard.”

And while I wasn’t against scum getting medical help when they needed it, after what he’d helped do to Amanda Wilson, a little bit of pain and suffering was the least he deserved. Besides, his wounds were already showing signs of healing.

“That is another good idea.”

“I’m full of them today,” I said, voice dry.

“My usual response to a statement like that is ‘full of shit, more likely.’” He sent a cheeky grin my way. “However, I sincerely desire you in my bed tonight, so I shall restrain the urge.”

“Oh, I’m so glad to hear it.”

He laughed, then grabbed the wolf’s arms and none too gently dragged him into the next room. While he tied up our captive with some wire coat hangers he found in the closet—which, under normal circumstances, wouldn’t have held him for long—I called the cops. With that done, we searched Amanda’s house.

Unsurprisingly, we didn’t find anything useful.

As the distant wail of the approaching ambulance began to cut through the air, Jackson said, “We’re out of time. Let’s go question that wolf.”

I followed him into the back bedroom. The wolf hadn’t moved, but his skin had lost its gray pallor and his breathing seemed easier. If he wasn’t yet conscious, he was damn close to it.

Jackson grabbed a fistful of the wolf’s shirt, pulled him partially upright, then slapped his face. Hard. The sound reverberated through the stillness. “Stop foxing, you furry bastard.”

The wolf made a low sound that seemed to rumble up from the depths of his boots. It wasn’t a particularly dangerous sound, but that he was conscious enough to even do it meant he was a whole lot stronger than I’d presumed. I could have drained him more. Should have drained him more. I crossed my arms and tried to ignore the somewhat angry thought.

After another slap from Jackson, the wolf’s eyes opened into slits and he all but growled, “What?”

“Who sent you here?” Jackson said, voice sharp.

“Sindi—” The wolf’s voice petered out, and he coughed. Blood speckled his lips. I wondered if the cause was internal damage or Jackson’s slap, but I didn’t really care either way.

Jackson shook him. “The sindicati?”

The wolf groaned. Jackson’s expression showed very little in the way of pity. “Why would the sindicati want Amanda Wilson dead?”

“Connected—”

“She’s working for them?” I cut in, though I wasn’t entirely surprised. If Amanda had been an ordinary black widow, surely she would have aimed for millionaires rather than researchers. She certainly had the looks to snag one. And researchers, while very well paid, didn’t make bundles of money, especially those who worked for the military or the government. Or at least, my boss hadn’t.

Unless, of course, it was the thrill of the chase she enjoyed more than anything else.

“Not just them. Subcontractor.” His answer this time was stronger. Clearer.

Angrier.

Jackson’s gaze met mine. “A black widow who subcontracts her services? That’s a new one.”

It certainly was. I returned my gaze to the werewolf. “So the sindicati employed her to keep tabs on Wilson?”

“And report on his research, yeah.” He took a shuddering breath, and I could almost see the tide of strength flush through his body.

“But if that’s the case,” I began, letting sparks dance across my fingertips. It couldn’t hurt to remind him he wasn’t the only nonhuman in the room, even if the sparks were as dangerous as I got right now. “Why were you sent here to kill her?”

If the look the werewolf gave me was any indication, I was dead meat the next time we met. “Because Wilson’s dead and they have no further use for her.”

“But why not give her a new victim?” Jackson asked. “Surely she’s too valuable an asset to waste?”

“Don’t ask me—I’m just a subcontractor. You’re lucky I know as much as I do.”

“Meaning we obviously need to talk to the man who employed you—his name?”

The wolf hesitated. Jackson shook him. Hard. Breath hissed through the wolf’s clenched teeth and his eyes narrowed even further—and yet again promised death.

After a moment, he said, “Henry Morretti.”

“Surprise, surprise,” I muttered.

Jackson’s expression was as grim as mine undoubtedly was. “And how were you supposed to contact Morretti after the job had been done?”

“Phone call. Payment is cash, sent by courier.”

Which was all very clinical and efficient. No face-to-face contact, no paper trails to trace. I was betting even the courier who delivered the cash wouldn’t tell us much—especially given we were dealing with vamps who could easily erase or rearrange memories. It made me wonder whether Henry Morretti even existed. It was more than possible it was just a cover name.

“I’ve given you what you want,” the big wolf growled. “The least you can do is let me go before the cops get here.”

Jackson looked at me, eyebrow raised. “What do you think?”

I paused, as if considering the request, then shook my head.

“I totally agree.”

And with that, Jackson threw a punch so forceful the wolf’s head snapped back and his body went limp. Jackson checked his pulse, made a satisfied-sounding grunt, then released his grip on the wolf’s shirt. The big man hit the carpet with a heavy thump. Jackson stepped over his legs and met my gaze. “The ambulance is almost here. It might be worth you going to the hospital with Amanda, just in case she wakes and feels the urge to talk.”

“I’m not family, so they’re not likely to let me sit in her room with her.” Besides, I hated hospitals and tended to avoid them unless there was absolutely no other choice.

“Lie and say you are. It’s not like they’ll ask you for ID. They rarely do in emergencies.” He handed me his car keys. “Besides, your hand needs stitches if the state of the handkerchief is anything to go by.”

I glanced down to see blood dripping from the sodden handkerchief. “What are you going to do? Wait for the cops to arrive?”

“I’d better, if only for the sake of the cops. Wounded or not, our wolf could take out two humans without blinking an eyelid.” He cocked his head, expression intent. “There are two sirens approaching. The cops were obviously close.”

And wasn’t Sam going to be happy that we’d rung the police rather than him. By the same token, our reluctance shouldn’t really come as a surprise given what he’d done to us. “I’ll give you a call if there’s any news.”

Jackson nodded. I headed for the front door to let the paramedics and the cops in.

Several hours later, sporting a freshly stitched and bandaged hand, I somehow managed to convince the hospital staff I was Amanda’s sister and was allowed into her treatment room.

“How is she?” I asked, as the nurse checked Amanda’s charts and made some notes.

“She’s been stabilized and given blood, and we’ve treated the nasty bite on her neck, but otherwise, she’s fine. She might want to stop playing around with vampires, though. This was a close call.”

It should have been more than close. If Jackson and I had been a few minutes later, our black widow would have been well and truly dead. “If she’s got any brains, she will after this.”

“I’d be making her if she were my sister. I wouldn’t let any of them damn leeches near the neck of someone I loved.” The nurse’s smile was grim. “She’s just lucky you found her in time.”

“That she was.”

The nurse hung the clipboard back on the end of her bed. “I’ll be back in twenty to check her again.”

Once the nurse had left, I walked over to the lone chair sitting to the right of the bed and dug my phone out of my purse as I sat down. I hit Jackson’s number, intending to give him an update, then realized there was no reception in this part of the hospital. I cursed softly and moved the phone around in the vague hope it might make a difference. Still nothing.

“And who the hell might you be?” Amanda’s voice was low, but it held a surprising amount of strength for someone who had been hours—if not minutes—from death.

“I’m the person who saved your life, as you no doubt heard the nurse say.” I relaxed back into the chair and pushed the record button on my phone as I put it away. “And you really should be more careful about who you go to bed with.”

The confusion that flickered across her face actually seemed genuine. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you shouldn’t go to bed with a vampire and a werewolf. Especially when you’ve reached the end of your usefulness to your employer.”

“I’m hardly likely to have bedded a man, let alone a wolf and a vamp. That wouldn’t have—” She cut herself off with a cough.

“Wouldn’t have looked good to the cops who are still investigating your husband’s death,” I finished for her. “How long will it take them to make the black widow connection, do you think?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” she said, with such sincerity that I was almost tempted to believe her. Almost.

I crossed my legs and regarded her steadily for several seconds. If she was at all unnerved, she didn’t show it. Eventually, I said, “I noticed you ignored my jibe about your employer. That might not be wise, given what’s happened.”

“Look, as I’ve already said, I have no idea what you’re talking about. If you don’t get out of here, I’m going to call security.”

“You do that,” I agreed. “And the minute I’m outside, I’ll ring Henry Morretti and tell him exactly where you are. I bet this time he’ll send a better grade of executioner.”

Her eyebrows rose and her expression remained one of mild confusion. She should have been an actress rather than a black widow—she could have won an Academy Award with performances like this. “I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about the vampire who almost bled you dry and the werewolf who fucked you while the vampire drained you. Both were sent by Henry Morretti.” I shook my head, my expression one of mock sadness. “Seems Morretti thought you’d reached the end of your usefulness.”

“Look, as I’ve already said—”

“Fine.” I thrust to my feet. “I’ll just go make that phone call, then.”

I was almost out of the treatment room when she said, “No, wait.”

I turned and crossed my arms. “Why should I, when you apparently don’t know what I’m talking about?”

She waved a hand, the motion elegance itself. “If what you’re saying is true about the vamp and the wolf, why, then, did you save me?”

“Because I’m investigating the death of your husband, and it would be hard to question you if you were dead.”

“But you wouldn’t mind me being dead otherwise, if your tone is anything to go by.”

“Totally wouldn’t mind, but that’s beside the point.”

“At least you’re honest.” Her brief smile held very little in the way of amusement. “Are you a cop?”

“No. Personally, I would rather avoid involving the cops at the moment. I’m thinking you might want to, too.”

“Possibly.” She pursed her lips. “And just to put things straight, I didn’t go to bed with either a vamp or a wolf.”

“Perhaps not knowingly, but you must have let that vamp into the house. He couldn’t have crossed the threshold uninvited.”

“I let a plumber in—” She paused. “Guess I need to check credentials a little closer, huh?”

“If you’re going to keep playing with pond scum like the sindicati, then, yeah, that might be wise.”

“The sindicati pay in good, clean cash and, for a subcontractor like myself, they’re a viable business option.”

“Except when they believe you have come to the end of your usefulness to them.”

She frowned. “That’s what I don’t understand. This is not the first time I’ve worked for them, and I’m very good at what I do. I cannot understand why they would wish to end my services in such a permanent manner.”

I didn’t really understand it, either, but then, I wasn’t a vampire crime boss. “Did the sindicati order the hit on Professor Wilson?”

We already knew it was the red cloaks who’d killed him, but it never hurt to double-check.

“No. Why would they? They needed him alive to keep working on his research, as he hadn’t pinned down all the enzymes that are apparently responsible for a human becoming a vampire.”

So much for Jackson’s theory that the red-cloaked figure had been nothing but a ruse. “Are you sure? Because another professor who was undertaking research similar to your husband’s was murdered this week, and it seems very likely it was ordered by the sindicati.”

“Perhaps it was, but I do not know or care about the sindicati or their plans for other researchers. My job was to keep tabs on Wilson and his research, and that’s precisely what I did.”

“And ethics be damned?”

She shrugged. “Men and women have been using sex to get what they want for eons. I merely use it to get information for my clients.” Her smile was cool. “And trust me, the men I bed get the better end of the deal. They have me at their beck and call.”

“But afterward, they’re left behind to take the blame.”

“If they live,” she murmured. “Not all of them do.”

Which made me wonder just how many other “husbands” she’d had and how many of them were still alive today. I had a bad feeling there was a whole lot more dirt swept under this woman’s carpet than what we’d already uncovered.

“So how do you get the information? Pillow talk, or by breaking into his computer and copying his files?”

“Nothing so crass. I’m a telepath with a photographic memory. I might not understand what I steal, but I never forget it.”

A handy talent for a thief to have. “How do you get the information to the sindicati?”

She smiled again. A blond-haired shark with perfect white teeth. “You came here wanting information in exchange for saving my life. Why don’t we make a deal?”

“What, saving your life isn’t enough?”

“Well, no, because I need to be alive for you to get your information. Therefore, I have leverage and you do not.”

“And contacting the sindicati isn’t a good enough form of leverage in your eyes?”

“Oh, it’s a great form of leverage, but there is one major problem. You can’t get reception here in the hospital, and the minute you leave, I’m gone. You’d lose not only me, but any additional information I might hold.”

All of which was true, damn it. I eyed her warily. “What sort of deal?”

“In return for answering your questions, I want your help in removing myself from the sindicati’s reach.”

“I’m thinking there’s probably not going to be many areas in Australia that meet that criteria.” And maybe very few overseas.

“I agree, which is why I intend to flee overseas once I’m out of this state. I have passports and clothing at a safe place ready to go. All I need is transport there and then on to the airport.”

“A deal that certainly gives you more than it gives me.”

“Unless, of course, the information I might have also includes a hard drive containing not only every scrap of information I stole from Wilson, but every detail of anyone I ever dealt with in the sindicati.”

I blinked and her shark smile got bigger.

“It always pays to have some form of backup plan.”

“So why don’t you use said backup to exchange for your freedom?”

“Because, as you said, they have obviously—for whatever reason—decided it is safer to be rid of me than use me again. Therefore, they will merely agree to the exchange and then kill me anyway.” She raised an eyebrow. “I am fully aware of what my employers are capable of. Do we have a deal?”

I hesitated, but I had no real choice and we both knew it. Not if I wanted the answers that might well be hidden somewhere in those files. Besides, given Morretti was currently off-limits investigation-wise, it couldn’t hurt to have a secondary option in the sindicati to chase down and question.

“Okay. Deal.”

She held out her hand. “Shake on it.”

I leaned forward and clasped her hands. Electricity buzzed across my senses, and I smiled. “Sorry, but I’m one of those people who can’t be read telepathically.”

“Well, damn.” She didn’t seem too put out, however. She pushed upright in the bed and pressed the buzzer for the nurse. “Let’s get out of here first; then we’ll play twenty questions.”

I raised my eyebrows. “I doubt they’ll release you that quickly.”

“They can’t actually stop me. Besides, we both know that my only chance to escape unscathed is in the next few hours. Once the sindicati realize what has happened to their assassins, more will be unleashed.”

Undoubtedly. The nurse came in, and for the next half hour, Amanda argued her case about being released. Eventually, the hospital staff gave up and brought in an Against Medical Advice form for her to sign. She did so, then, still in her hospital gown and wearing my coat, followed me into the parking lot.

“Right,” I said, starting Jackson’s truck. “Where to?”

“Southern Cross Station.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You hid passports and clothes at a train station?”

“Best place,” she said. “And close to public transport should I need a quick escape.”

At least she wouldn’t be escaping quickly in her current getup. Not when she wanted to avoid notice, anyway.

“Okay,” I said, once we were headed into the city. “Time to start upholding your end of the deal. What have you been told about Wilson’s death?”

She shrugged. “Not much. The police simply said a man in a red-hooded cloak all but sliced him to pieces.”

“And his body? Has it been released by the coroner yet?” If it had been, then maybe Jackson could use his contact again and get us the coroner’s report. It might not help, but it couldn’t hurt, either.

“No, it hasn’t, simply because there was no body.”

I blinked. “What?”

“There was no body.” Her expression was amused. This time, the emotion was real. “The thug in the red cloak took his body with him when he ran off.”

“But that makes no sense.”

Why kill him in broad daylight and then snatch his body? Were the red cloaks making some kind of statement? Or was there something else going on? Something that was far bigger than this investigation—bigger, maybe, than even Sam realized?

I had a bad feeling that might be the case.

And was it possible, I thought with a chill, that they’d snatched Wilson’s body to ensure they had him when he came to?

Sam had said the red plague virus was spread through either cuts or bites, which meant that if Wilson hadn’t been killed, he would have been infected. So what if the virus reacted to death the same way sharing the blood of a vampire reacted in the human body? That is, on death, it put them into a coma while the body made the change from one form to the other?

Maybe he’d merely looked dead. Maybe he’d simply slipped into a form of suspended animation while he went through the change to becoming something more than human.

If that was the case, then one of the men who’d been employed by the government to find a cure for the red plague virus was now under the control of the red plague victims themselves.

And while that was a scary thought, an even scarier one was, if that was the case, then there had to be someone behind these things, controlling them. The red cloaks I’d seen hadn’t seemed intelligent enough to do anything more than hunt and kill; nor had they appeared to want to do anything more than that. So either there was more to the cloaks than first appeared, or there was something deeper going on.

Either way, with Baltimore dead and his research in the hands of god knew who, Wilson was the only one left who had any hope of finding a cure anytime soon. Sure, other people could pick up the pieces, try to replicate and move on, but the reality was, it could take them years to even get back to where Wilson and Baltimore were.

But why would the red cloaks—or whoever was behind them, if there was someone behind them—want to control any possible vaccine? Did they hope to use the cure for themselves, or was there a more nefarious plan? I very much suspected the latter, though I wasn’t entirely sure why.

“Given witnesses said he used talonlike fingernails to rip Wilson up,” Amanda commented, drawing me from my thoughts, “maybe they simply took the body to prevent any possible DNA evidence from being found. That’s what the cops appeared to think, anyway. They seemed pretty certain they’d find his body dumped somewhere in the sewer system.”

I wished them luck with the search, because I seriously doubted they would find anything beyond rubbish, rats, and the occasional dead animal. “Did Wilson seem on edge before his death? Had there been any break-ins at either the research foundation or at your house?”

She shook her head. “Why?”

“Just trying to uncover any links between the two murders we’re investigating.” I tapped the wheel for several seconds. “What about friends? Did he confide in anyone besides you? Was there anyone new in his life, someone perhaps he was reluctant to talk about?”

“A lover, you mean?” Her expression was amused. “No, there was no one like that. It’s rather hard to keep such things secret from a telepath.”

Undoubtedly. I glanced in the mirror and noticed a white Ford following us. Nothing unusual given white Fords were a dime a dozen on the roads these days, but there had been one parked down from Amanda’s, and after everything that had happened recently, I was a little wary of coincidences. I flicked on the blinker and went into the left lane. The Ford remained where it was.

I slowed as the lights ahead changed to red. “Did the police mention anything about Wilson’s research notes?”

“No, but I know they’re missing. I had a visit from Denny Rosen two days after Wilson’s death.” She pursed her lips, her expression thoughtful. “Shame this has all gone down as it has. He might very well have been my next target.”

“Once Wilson was finished with, you mean?”

“Oh no.” Her expression was amused. “During. Wilson is work. Rosen, as head of a major research foundation, would have been a delightful—and undoubtedly profitable—sideline.”

“You really don’t have any morals, do you?”

She snorted. “You should check out Denny Rosen if you really want someone untroubled by morals. That man has not gotten where he is by playing nicely, let me tell you.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, while Rosen Pharmaceuticals might have held a government contract for research on that damn virus, he wasn’t above sharing the information in order to line his own pockets.”

I frowned. “Why would Rosen risk doing something that could destroy not only a very lucrative contract, but possibly his own company?”

“Greed,” she replied. “It’s a huge motivator. Especially when you’re heavily in debt.”

“And Rosen is?”

She nodded. “To the tune of nearly a million dollars. Apparently, he has a very nasty gambling problem—he’s the type who would bet on two flies walking up a wall if the odds were good enough.”

“And you discovered all this in the brief time he came to see you?”

“Of course.” Her smile was fleeting but smug. “Rosen may be very adept at hiding his problems from government scrutiny, but—as I have said—I’m very good at what I do. And I don’t always have to fuck them to do it. Rosen, unlike Wilson, is an easy read.”

Which made me wonder why the government wasn’t working on some sort of device to prevent the minds of people in such important positions being read. Or maybe they were and, like the red plague virus, it just wasn’t common knowledge.

I glanced in the rearview mirror again. The white Ford wasn’t visible, but that niggling sense of unease refused to abate.

“Have you any idea who Rosen is indebted to?”

Amanda frowned. “That I couldn’t quite catch, as he was trying not to worry about it.” She waved a hand. “But it was a long, titled name that had something to do with a rat.”

“Not Marcus Radcliffe the third?”

“That sounds about right.” She studied me for a moment. “I gather you’ve come across him in your investigations?”

“You might say that.” Unfortunately, Radcliffe was now in Sam’s hands, and he no doubt now knew about Rosen’s debt problems. Of course, that didn’t preclude the possibility of us talking to him. Who knew? We might uncover some morsel Sam had missed.

And at midday tomorrow, vampires would start walking the streets.

I turned onto Spencer Street and said, “Okay, where in Southern Cross have you stashed your bags?”

“It’s locker number ninety-two in the train concourse.”

I grunted and swung into the station’s parking garage. After finding a spot on an upper level, I said, “Do I need a locker key or code?”

“Code. Nine zero five seven.”

I opened the door, then hesitated. “Be here when I get back.”

“I can’t go anywhere without passports or clothes,” she said, expression amused. “I’ll be here.”

I studied her for a moment, not convinced, then half shrugged and got out of the car. But I didn’t go all that far. Once I was out of immediate sight, I stopped the phone recording, ducked down behind an old four-wheel-drive, and waited.

Sure enough, five minutes later, Amanda walked by, my coat fully zipped up so that only the ends of the hospital gown were visible. Unless you looked really close, it simply appeared as if she were wearing a light summer dress. I waited until she’d stepped inside the elevator, watched it descend until it was obvious it was going straight to the ground floor, then ran for the stairs. I called to my spirit form as I did so, felt the fires within surge to life, but—just as quickly—splutter into nothing. Goddamn it, I was still too low in energy to become fire. I ran down the stairs as fast as I could and prayed like hell the parking garage’s elevator was as slow as most of them seemed to be. I was almost at the bottom of the stairwell when the door opened and a mom and two kids stepped in. Only fast footwork on her part saved us all. I gave her a quick apology, then dashed out. The concourse was packed. I paused and scanned the crowd heading to and from the retail center above us.

After a second or so, I found Amanda. I tagged along after her, remaining at a distance but nevertheless keeping her in sight. Unsurprisingly, she didn’t head for the lockers in the main train station, but rather the ones located at the bus interchange terminal.

I waited until she’d opened the locker; then, phone in hand and Sam’s number on the screen ready to call, I walked up behind her and said, “Just as well I wasn’t inclined to take the word of a thief and a whore.”

She jumped and turned around, but her expression was one of annoyance more than surprise. “Well, it was worth a shot.” She grimaced. “I guess you’re not as gullible as you seemed.”

“No.” I showed her the phone. “Give me one reason not to hit this number and hand you over.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Go for it. I know for a fact that is neither Henry Morretti’s number nor anyone else who provides a contactable front for the sindicati.”

“No, it’s not,” I agreed. “It’s actually the number of someone I think might be much worse where you’re concerned.”

“And who might that be? The cops? They’re hardly likely to be concerned about a widow deciding to take a holiday.”

“Maybe not, but I’m betting the police might be interested in our little conversation—which, by the way, I recorded. However, this isn’t a direct line to any cop.” I watched the amusement flee her face. The fury that took its place was an ugly thing to behold. Finally, I was glimpsing the real Amanda Wilson. “This is the number of a PIT detective.”

“And what is PIT?”

“They’re the Paranormal Investigations Team, and sit somewhere between the police and the military.” I plucked the duffel bag from her hands. She resisted, but only briefly. “Basically, they have carte blanche to do whatever it takes to investigate and solve paranormal crimes. I’m afraid your husband’s death falls under that umbrella.”

“And this should scare me because . . . ?”

“Because they are not bound by the same rules as the police.” I slung the bag over my shoulder, then stepped back and waved her ahead of me. “I was in their hands recently. They gave me a drug that not only forced me to answer their questions, but restrained my psychic abilities, leaving me unable to defend myself for several hours afterward.”

Her gaze shot to mine. “And what abilities might you have?”

I gave her a smile that held very little humor. “Run again without holding up your end of our bargain, and you just might find out.”

Her gaze lingered on mine for a minute, as if to assess whether I meant what I said; then she sighed. “There’s a USB in the side pocket. That holds all the promised information.”

“Conveniently, I have no computer to check this fact.” Nevertheless, I found the USB and shoved it in my pocket. Then I searched the rest of the bag, found two more, and took those, too.

Her expression became even more sour, and I hadn’t thought that was possible. “And now it’s my turn to demand you uphold your end of the bargain.”

It was tempting—very tempting—to tell her to go to hell, but I’d learned over my many years that karma had a way of biting you on the ass. Breaking a deal—even if it was with someone like Amanda—was never a wise move.

“You know where the car is, so lead the way.”

She did so. Five minutes later, we were driving out of the garage and heading down Spencer Street.

A casual look in the rearview mirror revealed we were once again being followed by a white Ford. This time, that niggling sense of wrongness became a rock.

“What’s wrong?”

I glanced at Amanda. “We’re being followed.”

She lowered the sun visor and slid open the vanity mirror. “White Ford?”

“Yes. How did you guess?”

“I noticed it parked down the street and remembered the plates.” Her smile held very little in the way of humor. “You tend to notice details in my line of work.”

I bet you did. “Do you still want to head for the airport?”

She hesitated. “Yes. Once I’m through screening, I can acquire someone’s ticket, get out of the state, then disappear overseas.”

A statement that just made me want to stop the car and toss her out. “Then let’s see if we can lose them.”

I didn’t immediately alter my speed, just kept cruising down Spencer Street until we hit a set of lights that were changing. I slowed, as if to stop, then, at the last possible moment, hit the accelerator and shot through the intersection. Car horns blared and I had to swerve around the pedestrian who’d already started crossing, but we got through unscathed.

A glance in the rearview mirror revealed the white Ford pulling out onto the wrong side of the road with the obvious intent of repeating our actions. If another truck or a car didn’t take them out, we had—at best—a couple of minutes. And I wasn’t sure that was going to be enough time given Jackson’s truck was bright red and orange and rather easy to spot among the more mundanely colored vehicles.

I swung onto a side street. The tires screamed and the truck swerved dangerously. I fought for control, then hit the accelerator again. At the end of the street, I made a sharp left and belted down a narrow lane.

Up ahead, someone flung open the door of a parked car.

“Fuck!” Amanda slapped her hands against the dash to brace herself. “Watch out!”

I hit the horn and kept my foot planted. I had a brief glimpse of the driver’s rear end as he dove back inside the car; then I hit the door. The force of the impact wrenched the door free and flung it up and over the truck’s roof. Thankfully, it didn’t appear to touch Jackson’s shiny paintwork, but rather hit the road behind us and bounced into another parked car. I swung right onto another road and didn’t slow as I made my way through the maze of side streets, all the time heading toward the airport.

I eased up only once we turned left onto Mount Alexandria Road. Amanda released a long breath and said, “I’m guessing we lost them?”

I studied the cars behind us. No white Ford, but—given who we were dealing with—that was no guarantee that we were safe. Especially given Jackson’s truck had been parked in front of Amanda’s place for quite a while.

“Maybe.” My voice was grim. “It just depends who was actually following us and whether they placed a tracker on the truck at either your place or at the parking garage.”

Her gaze widened. “Do you think that’s likely?”

I shrugged. “As I said, it depends who we’re dealing with.”

She swore. “You might want to keep breaking speed limits.”

I snorted. “Not on Mount Alexandria Road, I’m not. The last thing we need is to be pulled over by the cops, and they tend to be a little thick on the ground in these parts.”

She swore again and flexed her fingers, making me wonder if she was intending to punch me out and take the truck.

We made it down Mount Alexandria without incident, and I could almost feel the tension slither from Amanda’s body as we swung onto the Tullamarine Freeway. Which was stupid, because we weren’t exactly home free yet. There was still a ten-minute drive before we got to the airport. Maybe I was being fatalistic, but anything could happen.

As it turned out, I wasn’t being fatalistic.

Just as we’d crossed the Mickleham Road overpass, a big black van came out of nowhere and smashed into the rear side of Jackson’s truck, sending us into an uncontrolled spin. I pulled my foot off the accelerator and fought the wheel, trying to drive out of the spin, only to be hit a second time. Amanda screamed, the sound almost lost to the roaring of the engine, the squealing of the tires, and my own cursing.

I saw the tree coming, but there was nothing I could do to stop us from hitting it.

The air bags exploded on impact, and Amanda’s scream abruptly died. For several seconds, there was no sound other than an odd ringing in my head. Then I became aware of creaking metal, the hiss of water, the sound of an engine roaring. Of warm liquid pouring down the side of my face.

I looked up, saw the black van stop and two blurry figures get out. Wondered whether they were coming for Amanda or me.

The information, some still-aware part of my brain whispered. They can’t get Amanda’s information.

Somehow, as the world started going black around me, I dragged the USBs from my pocket and slid them under the seat.

Then everything did go black, and I knew no more.