CHAPTER 9

Risley Street was narrow and lined with warehouses on one side and a parking lot on the other. At the far end, there was a small park surrounding a high-rise building—community housing, I knew, having seen the ugly design in other inner-city areas.

Jackson and I climbed over the fence protecting the vacant lot opposite the park, then ran for the nearest building. I was once again wearing my shoes, but I’d burned a hole in the left one to take the pressure off my injured digit and, in case that wasn’t enough, was keeping it fire rather than flesh. If anyone happened to be looking our way, they’d catch little more than a flicker of light no bigger than a match flame. It was better that than being left in the car because I couldn’t damn well walk properly.

We pressed against the sidewall of a graffiti-covered building and peered down the narrow lane that divided the Risley Street buildings from those of the street behind it.

No cars, Jackson said. And no lights evident in any of the buildings.

I hope Frederick wasn’t feeding us a lie.

I doubt he was capable of even thinking up a lie, Jackson said. There’s another fence to climb—barbed wire on top.

I hated barbed wire. No matter how careful I was, the damn stuff always snagged either me or my clothes. Anything we can use to throw over it?

Nothing I can immediately see.

Well, fuck. I took a deep breath and released it slowly. I could no doubt melt the damn wire, but that might just give Rinaldo a warning that we were coming. Go. I’ll follow.

He disappeared around the corner; a heartbeat later, there was a slight rattle as he climbed the fence. I scanned the area for any unwanted interest in what we were doing, and then followed him. The barbed wire snagged his jacket and ripped one side open as I jumped down on the other side.

Sorry about that. I tucked the torn bit under the T-shirt I was now wearing.

He shrugged. It’s only a jacket.

Yeah, but it’s a nice one.

His grin flashed. So buy me a replacement. Or compensate me in some other way.

Now that’s the Jackson I know and love.

Seriousness can only last so long. He paused. Which isn’t to say I’m not still furious over what happened—

To both of us, I cut in softly. And we’ll talk, but not now.

He didn’t say anything to that, and I had to wonder if talking was something he was actually willing to do.

We moved on, keeping close to the grimy, graffiti-strewn redbrick wall. Rinaldo’s warehouse began at the end of it. Beyond it lay a more modern-looking building; then the lane swept around the corner and joined Risley Street.

We stopped for a second time. Jackson peered around the corner. Two entrances, ground level and first floor, just as Google Street View promised. No cars in the parking space and bars on all the windows. He glanced at his watch. Better tell Sam we’re ready.

I pressed the com earpiece Sam had given me and softly said, “In position.”

“Right,” came his reply. “Everyone head in. And be careful.”

I didn’t reply; I just followed Jackson around the corner, then took the metal steps up to the first floor, keeping as close to the wall of the next building as practical. I paused on one side of the first barred window and carefully peered inside. The room beyond was pitch-black. If Rinaldo was in there, he was one with the darkness.

And if he was there, then he was more than likely aware of my presence. He was, after all, a vampire, and my racing heart probably sounded like a damn alarm to him.

I took a deep breath, then ducked past the window and paused again beside the door. Why anyone would bar the windows and then put an unprotected, double-glass door between them was anyone’s guess, but at least it gave me a somewhat easier way in.

Ready when you are, Jackson said.

I flexed my fingers. Sparks flew, tiny fireflies that spoke of tiredness more than tension. Go.

Even as I said that, there was a crash from the front of the building—Sam and Adam were heading in.

I called fire to my fingertips, then pressed them against the lock. It instantly began to glow and, in very little time, was little more than liquid. I pushed the door open but didn’t immediately step inside. Instead, I threw a ball of fire into the darkness and flared it out.

What my flames revealed was a bedroom, and it was a goddamn mess. There were clothes everywhere—both over the floor and on the bed. Either Rinaldo was extremely messy, or someone had gotten here before us.

There was an en suite to my right, but it, too, was in shambles, with drawers pulled out of the cabinet and razors, soaps, and aftershave bottles strewn all over the crisp white floor tiles; some of the bottles were broken, perfuming the air with their pungent scents.

I sent my sphere of light into the hallway and carefully followed. The one additional room on the floor was another bedroom and en suite. It, too, looked as if it had been hit by a cyclone. I headed back to the door, then stopped and swung around, my gaze scanning the clothes again. Was it my imagination, or were those clothes identical to the ones scattered all over the other bedroom?

I went back in to check. It wasn’t my imagination.

“Anything?” Sam said.

“Negative,” Jackson said.

“Also negative,” came Adam’s comment.

“Emberly?” Sam said, his voice a little sharper.

“Nothing but a goddamn mess and two identical sets of clothing.” I thumped the wall in frustration. It seemed luck had once again turned a blind eye.

“How the fuck could he possibly have known we were on the way?” Jackson said, sounding every bit as angry as I was. “With Frederick out of the picture and PIT not informed of the operation, there’s no way he should have gotten any sort of warning.”

“Unless it was the mere fact of being unable to contact his thrall that set off alarms,” Adam said. “If the state of this place is anything to go by, we didn’t miss him by much.”

“It doesn’t matter whether we missed him by a minute or an hour,” Jackson growled. “We still fucking missed him.”

“Enough,” Sam said, his tone curt. “Em, what do you mean by two sets of identical clothing?”

“Just that. There’re two bedrooms, and each one holds the exact same clothes—same cut, same style, same colors.” I paused. “After talking to the rats, we’ve come to the conclusion that Rinaldo might actually be two people.”

“Indeed? And when were you planning to inform us of this conclusion?”

“The minute I thought about it,” I snapped back. “Between Rory almost getting killed and then me getting kidnapped, informing PIT of anything kinda took a backseat.”

“What makes you believe there’re two people using the Rinaldo alias?” His voice held a less accusatory note now—which was a good thing, because anything else would have tempted me to burn his ass. “What have you seen that we haven’t?”

“The rats let us view the tape showing Rinaldo’s hit on his gaming venue.” I picked up a T-shirt and sniffed it. I was no wolf, and my olfactory senses weren’t all that much sharper than an ordinary human’s, but I could nevertheless smell the scent of sweat and cool mint on the T-shirt—a rather odd combination. “At the same time as he was doing that, he was confronting us at Rosen’s apartment building.”

I swung around, walked into the other bedroom, and picked up the identical T-shirt. The scent on this one was woody—spicy. So while the two men might look and dress exactly the same, it seemed they preferred very different colognes.

“Are you sure one of them wasn’t using some form of mask or a glamor?”

“Positive. And there’re two of everything up here in the bedrooms.”

“At least that explains a few inconsistencies,” Adam said. “Though it doesn’t make finding him any easier.”

“What else did the rats say?” Sam said. “And how did you convince them to even talk to you in the first place?”

“Radcliffe wants Rinaldo far more than he wants me.” I headed out of the bedroom. “And he didn’t say much else, other than that he believes Rinaldo hasn’t yet set up a den.”

“His use of this place would certainly suggest that,” Adam said. “Although he is using interstate vampires who don’t appear to have a record anywhere.”

Sam grunted. “We’ll take over operations from here. Jackson, Em, go home and get some rest.”

Annoyance surged, but it wasn’t mine. Don’t bite back, I warned. This is PIT’s operation, not ours. Besides, I could really use the sleep right now.

And, I’m thinking, fire.

Yes.

Then we head to the blacksmith’s first so we can fuel up, then find a hotel and see if PIT really does have a mole.

Excellent plan. I clattered down the stairs and joined the three men in the combined living room, kitchen, and what appeared to be an office area. It also resembled something a cyclone had left behind.

Sam was picking through the paperwork and files on the desk, but he glanced up as I entered the room. “Thanks for your help—both of you.”

That almost sounded genuine, Jackson said, mental tones wry. Maybe he’s going soft in his old age.

Unlikely. Out loud I added, “You know that formula we found in Brooklyn? The one written in the dust?”

He raised an eyebrow. “The same one that’s currently got us investigating every building in Melbourne with even the slightest connection to vinegar? Yeah, I do.”

“What if it’s not a location, but rather the number code for that air lock we found?”

He blinked. Clearly, he hadn’t considered that option, either. “That is certainly possible.”

“It won’t solve the thumbprint problem, but it might at least be one part of the puzzle.”

“The thumbprint isn’t actually a problem—Luke’s fingerprints are a matter of police record, and the recent developments in fake skin mean we can reproduce a good enough copy to use on the scanner.”

“You will let us know what you find in there,” Jackson said. “Otherwise, my ass is going to be parked outside that damn door until you do.”

The hint of a smile touched Sam’s lips. He really had begun to thaw out—and I had to wonder how much of that was because he’d given in to his body’s need to ingest blood.

A lot, I suspected.

“I can’t promise anything, but if you happen to receive a thumbs-up on your phone, you’ll know we’ve discovered the scientists.” He paused. “Which might just be a good enough reason to keep your damn phone on you.”

“Maybe,” Jackson said.

He touched a hand to my back and lightly guided me toward the broken front door. I nodded a good-bye at both Sam and Adam, but I could feel the weight of Sam’s gaze following me as we left the building.

But he was a puzzle I had no energy to concentrate on.

Jackson ushered me into the car, then ran around to the driver’s side and jumped in. In very little time we were cruising toward the city.

For the first time in ages, he actually parked at the front of our office. He obviously caught my surprise, because he half shrugged and said, “With PIT tagging us, it’s pretty pointless parking anywhere else and walking.”

“But what about using the blacksmith’s?” Jackson had an ongoing agreement with the owner for twenty-four-hour, no-questions-asked access, even though Jackson tended to go there only at night—not because he was a night owl, but because he didn’t want anyone knowing it was the source of his fire. As an elemental fae, he had to regularly commune with his element or risk fading, and even death.

I opened the door and climbed out. The evening was crisp and clear, the stars bright in the sky. Most of Stanley Street was retail businesses these days, and, as a result, the only lights visible were the streetlights.

“I’ve actually invested in another means of getting into the blacksmith’s,” he said, his eyes gleaming brightly in the darkness.

I raised an eyebrow. “Meaning what?”

“I broke into their roof.”

I laughed. “You didn’t.”

He ushered me through the front gate, then jumped ahead to open the front door. The cleaning fairy hadn’t paid us a visit since we’d last been here, and paperwork and files were still scattered everywhere.

“It was a simple matter of installing a trapdoor in our roof,” he said, “and then adjusting one of the skylights in theirs.”

“And of course the bad guys watching aren’t likely to spot us leaping from one roof to another.”

“Well, no, not if we keep low. Our old Victorian has a pediment, remember, and that should stop anyone spotting us.”

“You’ve thought of everything.”

He placed his phone on the nearest desk—a desk that no longer held the backpack containing the laptops. Rinaldo’s people had indeed come to retrieve them.

“Yes, I have,” Jackson said. “I even have a rope long enough to reach their floor.”

“Handy.” I followed him up the stairs and tossed my bag toward the bed.

“Very. It’s certainly better than jumping down.” He walked toward what he laughingly called the bathroom—a tiled area tucked into one corner of the vast room that had a shower, bath, and basin sitting in it. With no screen or curtain, it was in full view of the rest of the room, so too damn bad if you wanted privacy while bathing. But at least he did have a separate toilet—there were some things in life and relationships that were better left unshared.

A trapdoor had been built to the right of this area, midway between it and the bathroom area. He pressed a button on the wall; the trapdoor slowly opened, and a metal ladder began to unfold.

He climbed up, opened another door in the roof, and then motioned me up. In very little time, we were jumping across to the blacksmith’s and sliding down a rope into the building.

Though the flames in the old-fashioned brick furnace had been banked for the night, the heat of the embers still called to me.

“Ladies first,” Jackson said, propping himself up on one of the old wooden workbenches.

I stopped beside the furnace and brought the coals back to life, until the roar of the flames was all I could hear and the heat of it washed over my skin. I threw my hands and head back and called it to me, though I didn’t immediately feed, instead allowing the flames to play around my body for several minutes. I was enjoying the fierceness of them, the rush of heat, energy, and pleasure that came with them. Then I sighed and somewhat regretfully drew them in, refueling the inner fires.

My skin still glowing with heat, I broke the connection and stepped away. Jackson’s eyes gleamed, but it had nothing to do with fire and everything to do with desire. But he said only, “Why don’t you go back and eat? I could be a while.”

I didn’t argue; I just shimmied back up the rope and made my way back to our building. The first thing I did was to make a somewhat belated call to Rory.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice sounding sleepy. I’d obviously woken him. “I’m well fed and well protected, although our earth fae is seriously hoping for an attack. I’m beginning to think all fae are mad.”

I grinned. “Make that all sex mad, and you might be right.”

“True. How are things with you? For a while there, I was getting some very troubling vibes.”

“That’s because some nasty shit went down, but I’m here, I’m alive, and the inflictor of said nasty shit is not.”

He hesitated. “Anything we need to talk about?”

“Hunt is no longer a problem,” I replied, unable to keep the satisfaction from my voice—and it was infinitely better than hurt or anger. Either emotion would only have alarmed him, and he didn’t need that sort of worry when he was still recovering from rebirth.

“Ah.” He paused. “Did he hurt you too badly?”

“Nothing I haven’t handled before.”

He was silent for a longer stretch this time, telling me he’d guessed what had happened. “I hope his ending was slow and painful.”

“It was.”

“Good. Anything else I need to know?”

“Frederick has been captured and is in PIT custody.”

“I’m surprised he’s not dead.”

“I think they’re hoping he’ll lead them to Rinaldo.”

“A false hope, I rather suspect.”

“Me, too.” I paused. “Do you need me back there soon?”

“No. Not for a day or so. The fire’s enough until then.”

Which meant he really was getting stronger. Relief spun through me.

“I’ll see you in a couple of days, then.”

“Take care.”

“Always do.”

He snorted and hung up. I shoved my phone back into my bag, then set about making something decent to eat. It was nearly two hours before Jackson finally reappeared. By then, I’d not only eaten my way through a box of donuts but also had “potluck” risotto ready on the stove.

“That smells divine.” He leaned past me to scoop up one of the sausage pieces I’d mixed in. “Tastes pretty good, too.”

“I thought it was about time we refueled our bodies with something other than hamburgers and fries.” I grabbed two large bowls and divided the contents between them. “There’s also some buttered toast if you want it.”

“We had bread?”

I grinned. “It had a green spot or two, but I cut them off.”

“The odd green spot has never harmed this cast-iron stomach.”

“I figured that.”

I picked up my bowl and some toast and followed him across to the sofa. For the next ten minutes or so, there was no talking, just consuming.

“That is exactly what I needed. Thanks.” He rose and held out a hand. “You finished?”

I nodded and gave him my bowl. “Have you any suggestion as to which hotel we should use to book the two rooms and do our PIT mole test?”

He shook his head. “Just Google something with ground-floor access.”

He washed the dishes while I did just that. “There’s a Best Western not too far from the airport that has ground-floor accommodation.”

“Ring up and book a room with the ID we snatched from the vamps Rory crisped,” he said. “Then I’ll book another in my name.”

I rose, grabbed my purse to fish out the appropriate wallet, then rang up the hotel and booked a deluxe room under the name of Margaret Jones—the name on the stolen credit card.

Jackson made his call, and then we packed fresh clothes and toiletries into a bag because who knew how long we were likely to be at the hotel. On the way out, Jackson grabbed a wireless motion-sensor alarm from his “odd bods” storage unit—the same unit that held the imagining radar device he’d used at Rosen Senior’s apartment.

It didn’t take us all that long to drive across to Attwood. The hotel was also a conference center, which meant there was plenty of parking. We walked down to reception and requested adjoining rooms, then grabbed our bags and headed into the room Jackson had booked.

The ground-floor room was clean and rather spacious, fitted out with a king-sized bed, a TV sitting on a storage unit, a small desk, and a couple of chairs. The bonus, however, was the glass sliding door that led out to a patio area—very handy if we wanted to be sneaky about our comings and goings.

Jackson handed me his bag and began setting up the motion-sensor alarm. I continued on through the adjoining door; the second room was the mirror image of his. I dumped both bags onto the bed, then headed into the bathroom for a shower—a long and very hot shower that eventually managed to erase Hunt’s scent from my skin.

I wished it could do the same for my memories.

By the time I’d finished, Jackson was already in bed and asleep. I climbed in beside him, snuggled up to his back, and very quickly joined him in slumber.

I was woken hours later by his body twitching and shuddering. I blinked sleep from my eyes and then, as a cyclone of hurt and horror swirled through my mind—emotions that were his rather than mine—realized abruptly that he was dreaming about the assault.

I cursed softly and half reached out to wake him, then paused. I wasn’t entirely sure he’d talk to me about the dreams, let alone the assault, so maybe it was better if I used the link rather than make any attempt to discuss what he’d experienced because of it.

I closed my eyes and reached to him mentally, sending wave after wave of soothing thoughts. As his movements finally began to calm down, I added the belief—the need—to express his feelings, to give them voice and, as a consequence, give the experience less power to hurt him in the future. I had no idea if it would help, but I also had nothing to lose by trying. He might have only felt echoes of what had been happening to me, but that didn’t make his sense of defilement any less real.

It took me a while to drift back to sleep, and I wasn’t entirely sure my dreams were any less traumatic than Jackson’s, because I woke up feeling less than refreshed.

A knock at the door in the other room jerked me awake. I sat upright, sparks instinctively flying from my fingertips. A murmur of voices followed; then the smell of bacon and toast hit my nostrils, and my stomach rumbled in response. I threw off the sheets, dragged some fresh clothes from my bag, and got dressed.

“Morning, sunshine,” Jackson said as he came back into the room. “It would appear we didn’t have any uninvited guests last night.”

“I gathered that, given the alarm didn’t go off.” I tucked one leg under me as I sat down at the small table. “How did you sleep last night?”

He shrugged. “Had a few dreams but nothing too bad.”

Right. “Jackson, we need to talk—”

“As a certain redhead keeps insisting, I’m okay.” He placed the tray on the table between us, then pulled the covers off the plates, revealing not only bacon and toast, but eggs and beans as well.

“I don’t think that’s exactly true—”

“Fae don’t do emotions—”

“Fae don’t do love,” I cut in. “But you have the full quota of everything else.”

He grinned. “That I do.”

I picked up the napkin and tossed it at him. “I’m trying to be serious here.”

“Then I seriously don’t want to talk about it.”

I hesitated, but there was little point in going on about it. It’d only annoy him, and possibly make him even more reluctant to talk. “I’m here when you do.”

“Good.” He took one of the plates and a couple of slices of toast. “So what is our plan of attack today?”

“Well, I never did get to search Janice’s place, so maybe we should go back there. She must know something. Otherwise, why would Amanda have tried to get rid of her?”

“Maybe she was simply cleaning up after herself—getting rid of anyone who could pin a connection between her and Rosen Pharmaceuticals.”

“Maybe.” I slapped a couple of pieces of bacon between two slices of toast and took a bite. “Janice had a photo of Amanda and Rinaldo on her phone—and that photo just happened to show the car’s number plate.”

Jackson’s eyebrows rose. “Interesting that you didn’t give that piece of information to PIT.”

“I actually did. But there’s no reason we can’t also pursue it.” I took another bite of my sandwich. “Especially given the inspector didn’t tell me not to.”

“I’m gathering you still have that photo?”

“Yeah, I do.” I rummaged around in my handbag until I found Janice’s phone, then brought up the pic and handed the phone to Jackson. “I’m guessing your police source will be able to trace it for us.”

“No need to use her,” he said. “Not when I have a contact at VicRoads.”

Which was the other name for the Roads Corporation of Victoria. “Is this another one of your stable ladies?”

“No, it’s a male friend. I do have them, you know.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll send him a text, as personal calls are somewhat frowned upon during working hours these days, apparently.”

“Huh.” I waited until he’d sent the text, then said, “It might also be worth talking to Janice again. I did question her, but she’d been drugged, and while she was answering all my questions truthfully, I’m not entirely sure the drug wasn’t also messing with her mind. She might remember more with a clearer head.”

“Given who she was sleeping with, it’s more likely that Amanda, not the drug, was messing with her memories.” Jackson sat back in the chair and scrubbed a hand through his damp hair. He’d obviously been up long enough to shower before breakfast had arrived. “Let’s try her house first. It’s a long shot, but if Amanda was using her to steal information, it’s possible she was bringing files home.”

“It certainly wouldn’t be the first time in history someone had been used by his or her lover to gather information.”

He raised an eyebrow, amusement once again touching the corners of his eyes. “And is that personal experience speaking?”

“Maybe.” A grin twitched my lips. “And maybe not.”

“I’m beginning to think it’d be easier to get blood from a stone than information about your past from you.” He drained his coffee, then rose. “Shall we go?”

“Just let me do my teeth first.”

“Good idea. Grotty green teeth on a redhead would not be a great look.”

I snorted, tossed a bit of crust at him, and then headed into the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, we were on our way.

Janice’s street was once again jammed with cars. As Jackson squeezed the SUV past several of them, a cab pulled into Janice’s driveway. A few seconds later, she got out and strode toward the front door.

“Why the hell is she out of the hospital so soon?” I said.

“Maybe she wasn’t actually released.” Jackson pulled up behind a Ford. “Maybe she simply signed herself out.”

“Surely PIT would have stopped that. They know she was targeted.”

“Maybe that’s the exact reason why she’s been let loose. Maybe they’re hoping Amanda will come a-calling again.”

“In which case, there’d be an agent somewhere.” I glanced around. “And I’m not seeing one.”

“PIT employs shifters. You probably wouldn’t.” He unclipped his seat belt. “We might as well go talk to her.”

“I guess so.” I climbed out of the car, waited for another vehicle to squeeze past ours, and then walked across to the other pavement. “What happened yesterday, when you were following Amanda?” I asked Jackson.

“We ended up at an apartment complex in Docklands. According to the security guard I questioned, she lives on the eighth floor.” He paused. “Interestingly, she was registered under the name of Felicity Hocking.”

Which was the name Janice had given me earlier. “Did you go question her?”

His smile held little in the way of amusement. “No. It was about that time I got the feeling you were in big trouble. But by the time I got back here, you were gone and PIT were here.” He paused. “It might be wise to contact Baker and let him know Hunt no longer exists.”

The cab reversed out of the driveway and drove past us. I gave it a cursory glance, then did something of a double take and stopped.

“What?” Jackson said immediately.

“I’ve seen that driver before—and not in a cab.” I frowned, trying to remember where, but the memory was decidedly elusive.

Jackson grabbed his phone and took a quick snap of the disappearing cab. “Maybe PIT can run a plate check and see if it’s legit.”

“The cab’s legit. It’s the driver that might not be.” I continued on, hurrying toward Janice’s. “And it might be that I’m wrong. Janice did get home safely, after all.”

But even as I said that, part of me knew the future was whispering of death.

We were three steps away from the drive when the entire house blew up.