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.”