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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Scott Baker, alpha of the city pack.”

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

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

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

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

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

The vamp bared his teeth but otherwise remained quiet.

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

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

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

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

“Meaning you’ll call Hunt off?”

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

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

“Thank you,” I said, meaning it.

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

“Again, thanks.”

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

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

“And this one?” Jackson asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“Are we heading back to the hotel now?”

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

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

“Done deal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It can also be lonely.”

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

“I have Rory, so I’m never lonely.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not. I’m just curious.”

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

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

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

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

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

I raised an eyebrow. “You know him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t—”

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

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

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

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

“He’s not,” I replied.

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

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

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

“Then you do know him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He frowned. “I’ve had very little to do with PIT, so I cannot see why they would form such an opinion. I am, after all, the CEO and owner of a large—”

“Who is in debt up to his eyeballs to a wererat with possible links to the sindicati, and who has probably sung his heart out on all sorts of secrets during the many meetings he’s had with said rat.” My voice was surprisingly even, considering my growing dislike of the man. “I suspect the only reason you’re not in jail at the moment is because those with PIT are more interested in uncovering information about Radcliffe and his connections than you.”

He looked rather ill at the thought of that, and I couldn’t help a sliver of satisfaction. It might or might not be the truth, but Rosen’s actions were still unforgivable. He really did deserve to be in jail right now, rather than free to wreak more harm on his company.

“None of this is relevant—”

“We cannot say what is and isn’t relevant,” I snapped, my patience suddenly slipping, “until we know all the facts. So how do you know Hamberly?”

His glance moved from me to Jackson and back again. His expression was still displeased, but there was also fear in his eyes. He was only just realizing what his actions could cost him. “I don’t. My son does.”

“And your son’s name?”

Jackson’s tone was a hell of a lot more polite than mine, but hey, someone had to play the good cop in this outfit. And while he obviously already knew the answer to the question on the table—he’d mentioned the son’s name when he first told me about Rosen Pharmaceuticals—it was always better to be safe than sorry. For all we knew, Rosen might have a veritable stable of illegitimate sons he wasn’t acknowledging.

Rosen hesitated, then said somewhat reluctantly, “Denny. Denny Joseph Rosen Junior.”

“And his connection to Hamberly?”

His hesitation this time was deeper, and a hint of color crept into his cheeks. “I cannot see how knowing that can possibly be relevant in this situation.”

“It was a sexual relationship, wasn’t it?” I said matter-of-factly. “And I’m gathering you disapproved?”

Anger flashed in Rosen’s eyes. “Of course I disapproved! Hamberly was a leech, always trying to get more and more from Denny, be it time or money or whatever else he fancied.”

I had a feeling Rosen’s disapproval stemmed just as much from disappointment that his son was homosexual as from hatred for his son’s choice of partner. But he wouldn’t be the first parent to face that, and he probably wouldn’t be the last—though, thankfully, attitudes like Rosen’s were harder to find these days.

“We’d like to speak to your son, if possible,” Jackson said. “If only because we need to warn him—”

“I can do that,” Rosen cut in crossly. “There is no need for you to get involved with him.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Jackson agreed. “But given your obvious rancor about his choice of partner, it’s possible he will completely ignore anything you say. And that could be a fatal mistake if this creature is after him.”

“But hey,” I added, “if you’d rather have PIT speak to him than us …”

Rosen slammed his hands on the table so hard that the plates rattled and tea jumped out of my mug, splashing across my fingers.

“If you dare mention his name to them, you’re off this damn case!”

I shook the hot droplets from my hand, but the rather angry reply that jumped to my lips died at Jackson’s warning glance.

“You can choose to fire us anytime you please,” he said, “but it would be wise to remember that no other private investigator will get as far as we have. Not with PIT involved. Nor will I share any current information with competitors. If you really want to uncover Wilson’s notes, we are still your best option.”

Rosen said nothing for a second or two, his gaze darting between us. Then he made a low sound deep in his throat and sat back down. “He lives in Elwood.” He gave us the address, then added brusquely, “But I don’t want you chasing this Aswang thing on my dime.”

“Speaking of which,” I said, “where do Radcliffe’s men take you whenever you have a meet and greet?”

Rosen blinked, then frown. “A coffee shop, I think.”

“Can you remember the name of it, or the location?”

“Not really.” His frown deepened. “That’s odd, isn’t it?”

“Not if you were being drugged,” Jackson said. “You can’t remember much of today’s events, after all.”

Rosen scrubbed a hand across his jaw. “I really can’t believe he’d want me dead. He has too much to lose …”

“Radcliffe may not have had a choice,” I said. “It depends on who’s pulling his strings.”

“Even so—” He paused, his gaze narrowing. “However, if what you’re saying is true, then there is one place you might find him.”

“Where?” Jackson and I said together.

“Some place called Wirraway.” He grimaced. “I remember one of his buffoons mentioning it—he said the boss wanted them back at Wirraway ASAP.”

Which wasn’t a whole lot to go on, but better than the nothing we had. I glanced at Jackson. “Then we need to find that place, and stat.”

And before Radcliffe—or whoever else might be after Rosen—made another attempt on his useless life. The comment was on the very tip of my tongue, itching to be released, but I somehow managed to stop it.

“Right.” Jackson downed the rest of his coffee in one large gulp, then gave Rosen a hard glare and added, “If you value your life, Mr. Rosen, I highly recommend you stay here—and don’t contact anyone.”

Rosen didn’t comment, but he looked decidedly unhappy. If he was still here when we got back, I’d swear off sex for a year. Which, given how much I liked sex, said a lot about my confidence.

“Let’s hope that confidence is well placed,” Jackson murmured as he leaned past me to grab his coat. “I don’t think my swimmers could endure such frustration.”

I smiled and elbowed him in the ribs. His soft laugh whispered past my ear, rich with promises and heat. I ignored the rush of desire, grabbed my purse, and rose.

“Lock the door after us, Mr. Rosen,” I said. “Don’t let anyone in, not even hotel staff.”

“If you insist.”

I stared at him for a moment longer, then turned and followed Jackson out the door. Rosen was an adult; if he wanted to risk his life, he was free to do so.

Evening rush hour was well and truly past, so it didn’t take us long to drive across to the address Rosen had given us in Elwood. I climbed out of the car and stared up at the apartment building; it looked like a series of cantilevered glass boxes stacked on top of one another, and seemed rather out of place against all the older, more-regular-looking brick buildings that surrounded it. But given its closeness to both the beach and the nearby shops and nightclubs, it was undoubtedly expensive. Daddy obviously looked after his son, despite being uncomfortable with said son’s sexual orientation.

Jackson led the way over to the gate and up the steps, and pressed the doorbell. A few seconds passed; then a plummy voice said, “Yes?”

“Denny Rosen Junior?” Jackson said.

“Yes, it is. Who are you?”

“My name is Jackson Miller. We need to talk to you about James Hamberly.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Rosen,” Jackson said, “we can do this out in the street, where anyone can hear, or we can take it inside. Your choice.”

He hesitated. “Are you police?”

“No. But we can take our information to them, if you’d prefer.”

“No.” A buzzer sounded, and the door clicked open. “Come on up.”

Jackson ushered me through. Despite the late hour, the lobby was bright, white, and almost entirely filled with an assortment of expensive-looking bicycles and helmets. The stairs, like the apartment itself, were nearly all glass, no doubt a means to help create the illusion of space where there really was none. The sound of footsteps echoed; then a man appeared at the top of the stairs. He was wearing bicycle skins under a loose black sweatshirt, and his short brown hair was dark with sweat. He shared the same build as his father—tall and thin—but he was very well toned.

“Who are you, if not the police?” he asked.

Jackson flashed his badge. “I would suggest that that is a question you should have asked before you let us in.”

Denny raised a hand. In it was what looked to be a small square unit. “Panic button,” he said. “Building security could be here in ten seconds.”

Ten seconds was plenty of time to kill someone. Hell, I could burn the unit from his grasp before he even twitched.

“We’re not here to harm you, Mr. Rosen.” Jackson climbed the stairs but paused several steps below Denny, forcing me to do the same. “As I said, we just need to talk to you about James Hamberly.”

“Then perhaps you’d better come in. Coffee?” He turned and walked away.

“No, thanks,” I said as I followed Jackson into the main room.

The apartment was an open plan and, like the downstairs foyer, all white, from the walls and ceilings to the kitchen units and furnishings. The only splashes of color came from the large photographic canvases that dotted the walls. It would have been a rather sterile environment if not for those and the large expanse of windows, which seemed to bring the nightlife right into the room.

“Why would James Hamberly be of interest to two PIs who are supposedly investigating the theft of research notes for my father?” He stopped at a coffee machine even more industrial-looking than Jackson’s, and proceeded to make coffee.

“Rosen Pharmaceuticals is not the only case on our list,” Jackson said. “As much as your father would have otherwise.”

“Yes, he can be rather demanding.” Denny motioned us toward the pristine leather sofas, then made his way to a nearby chair. Despite what he was wearing, there was a very elegant air about him. “So why is James of interest to you?”

Jackson glanced at me, one eyebrow raised; he was asking me to do the dirty work.

“Because,” I said softly, “he died last night.”

Despite his gasp and shocked expression, I very much suspected Denny Rosen Jr. wasn’t surprised. Not only was his grip on the mug far too steady for someone who had just been given shocking news, but there was an odd sort of watchfulness behind his reaction.

“How did it happen?” He leaned forward and placed the coffee mug on the dust-free glass coffee table, then crossed his arms, shoving his hands out of sight. The cynical part of me wondered if it was an attempt to cover up the fact that they weren’t shaking.

“Heart attack, we presume,” Jackson replied.

“I did warn him that his lifestyle would kill him in the end. I’d rather hoped I’d be wrong, though.” He paused and frowned. “But if it was a heart attack, why are you two investigating his death?”

“Because of what happened after his death,” I said.

The odd tension riding Denny increased, although there was still little evidence of it in his expression. His father might have little in the way of self-control, but Denny had a ton of it. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

And that was a lie. He knew, all right. He might not have been there when the creature had feasted on Hamberly’s cooling organs, but he certainly knew something had happened to him after his death.

But how, if he wasn’t actually there?

“I’m afraid that James Hamberly was—” Jackson paused, then made a brief motion with his hand. “There’s no way to put this nicely. He had his internal organs sucked out of his body by a shifter of some kind.”

Denny’s face lost color—the first honest reaction we’d seen since our arrival. “How can you possibly know that? The coroner wouldn’t have even examined the body yet.”

“We know it because I saw it happen,” I said. “I’m a psychic, of sorts. I actually went to your partner’s home to stop it from happening, but the creature had already left by the time I got there.”

“He wasn’t my partner. We were just good friends.” The reply was absently said, and it made me wonder how many times he’d repeated the same line to his disbelieving father.

“And lovers,” Jackson added.

Denny’s gaze shot to his. “Sexual partners, not lovers. There is a difference.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Here I was thinking they were one and the same.”

“No. We were friends, as I said. I didn’t love him, but I could talk to him, and I trusted him.” His mouth twisted. “Believe me, when you have a father who is not afraid of buying people off, trust is something you cling to when you find it.”

“Your father was of the opinion that Hamberly was a leech.”

Denny snorted, the sound bitter. “Yeah, he would. But he can’t buy me, and he couldn’t buy James.”

“So all this?” I waved a hand around the pristine apartment. “It does not belong to your dad?”

“No.” Anger edged his tone. “Everything here is thanks to an inheritance from my mother—his third wife—and my skill as a semiprofessional bicycle rider.”

Jackson held up a hand. “We didn’t mean to offend you.”

Denny took a deep breath, then released it slowly. “I know. But do you know how often I have to hear that particular accusation?”

“I’m guessing your father isn’t a particularly easy man to deal with.” We might have been here to discuss Hamberly, but there was little point in missing the opportunity to uncover a little more about Denny Rosen Sr. Presuming, of course, his son would actually tell us anything about his father. Family loyalty was sometimes stronger than hate.

Denny snorted. “No. And he’s getting worse now that the cards aren’t falling his way. The fool’s going to lose everything at this rate—and I can’t say I’m sad about that.”

But there again, sometimes hate overrode loyalty.

“Anyway,” he continued, “this has nothing to do with what happened to James. Are the police chasing this thing?”

“They are,” I said, “and will undoubtedly come calling, given your relationship with him.”

“I can’t tell them anything. I left before he died.” He thrust up from the chair and moved across to the window, staring out at the darkness almost blindly. But even from where I sat, it was easy to see the tension; his body practically vibrated with it.

“So you left without turning off the stove?” I asked. “And in such a hurry that you knocked over the coat stand and left the front door open?” It was a guess, but a pretty sure one.

“No. I mean, yes.” He shrugged. “We’d argued. I was angry.”

“James Hamberly died with a smile on his face. That does not imply an argument.”

He didn’t say anything. He just shrugged again.

“Mr. Rosen,” I said, trying again, “this thing has killed before. We need to find it—stop it—before it kills again.”

“But it didn’t kill James. A heart attack did.”

The reply was soft but edged with slivers of remorse—and perhaps just the slightest hint of guilt.

“You were there, weren’t you?”

Again he said nothing.

“Why didn’t you ring for an ambulance?” I continued. “There was still a chance he could have been saved.”

“There was no chance, because it was already too late,” he finally said. “It must have happened when I went into the kitchen to prepare dinner. By the time I went back into the bedroom …”

His voice trailed off and he half shrugged, as if it didn’t matter, though the raw edge in his voice said otherwise.

“Even so,” Jackson said, “you should have notified someone. Why didn’t you, Mr. Rosen?”

His gaze swept past Jackson and rested on me. In it, I saw not only the stirrings of grief but also fear.

“Because,” he said eventually, “I felt the creature coming.”