“When?” I somehow croaked. “How?”

He grimaced. “Do you remember what I said about Luke?”

“About his being one of the first to be infected by the virus?”

He nodded. “Well, he wasn’t alone that day. I wasn’t working with PIT back then—I was still a detective with metro. We had some information about the sindicati’s activities in Brooklyn—information that linked Luke to them.”

“So because he’s your brother, you went in to confront him about it.” It was a statement rather than a question. It was very much the sort of thing he would have done for anyone he cared about. He and Luke might have been estranged for years, but blood was still thicker than water. He would have wanted to talk to him before he did anything official.

“Yes. I was bringing him in when we were both attacked.” He shrugged, the movement oddly angry. “I can’t tell you how we got out of that place, but I woke up in a very secure military hospital.”

I wished I could offer some form of comfort. Wished I could reach across the table and hug him. But his forbidding expression suggested any such action would be very unwelcome.

“And Luke? Was he also there?”

“Yes. But he wasn’t exactly pleased to be in a military hospital, and he went a little crazy.” His voice was grim. “To this day, I have no idea whether that craziness was the virus or simply his hatred of both authority and being cooped up.”

I leaned back and crossed my arms in an effort to stop the growing desire to reach out to him. “What happened?”

“You know what happened.” It was tersely said. “I shot him. I killed my own brother.”

“And how many people did he kill or injure before you took him down?”

“Too many,” he said. “But I could have maimed him. I didn’t.”

“Because maiming him wouldn’t have stopped him, and we both know it.” Hell, if setting the bastards alight didn’t immediately stop their onslaught, bullets in the extremities certainly wouldn’t.

“But I didn’t know that then. I was just angry. Furiously angry.”

“At him?” I frowned. “Why?”

“I’m told it’s a side effect of the drug. Even now, I sometimes struggle with it.” He scrubbed a hand across his eyes again. “Anyway, none of that is relevant.”

“Except that I think it is.”

His gaze sharpened. “Why?”

“Because I don’t think the past is buried. Not in this instance.”

“Meaning you think this gray cloak is aware that I killed Luke?” He frowned. “Why would he care? I’ve killed plenty of his soldiers over the last year, and he’s never particularly worried about them.”

“Because he’s not related to them. He’s related to you.”

He crossed his arms. It was a defensive action just as much as it was angry. “No, that’s not possible.”

“How do you know?” I replied evenly. “Have you checked his grave of late? Are you certain his body is still there?”

“I don’t need to. He was held in containment for a week, which was long enough for him to regenerate if he was going to. He didn’t.”

“What if he’s one of those people who regenerates at a slower rate? People who imbibe vampire blood to become one have different rates of change, and all vampires recuperate at different speeds after injury. Why wouldn’t that apply to the cloaks?”

“Because it’s a man-made virus—”

“That no one fully understands,” I said. “But it only partially turns the infected, so it’s more than possible that wound recovery is also only at partial speed.”

“It’s not Luke.” It was stubbornly said. “It can’t be.”

“Then explain why he keeps saying, ‘He will not have you.’ ”

“Because, as you said, he seems to believe I still have serious feelings for you, and it’s a good tactical move to target the people your quarry cares about.” He shrugged. “Besides, Luke basically ignored you all the time we were together. I was under the impression he hated you.”

“He probably did after I rejected his seduction attempt.” As the saying went, in for a penny, in for a pound. Besides, what was the point of holding anything back now? “If this is Luke, then that event could also be playing a part in this whole drama.”

“And that is something else you should have told me at the time.” His voice held none of the anger I’d expected. He merely sounded resigned. Sad. And that probably stung more than anger ever could have. “That you couldn’t speaks volumes about our relationship, Emberly.”

“I was trying to protect your relationship with your brother,” I snapped back. “As I said, I dealt with the situation. It didn’t happen again, so there was no point in mentioning it.”

“So if the gray cloak is indeed Luke, why would he be so determined to get you now?”

“Because he’s a sicko infected with the red plague virus, and determined to rule the world?”

“I’m a sicko infected with the virus, remember. It doesn’t make me determined to get you back, let alone rule the world.”

“Because, according to him, you’re fighting it.” I hesitated, but it was only fair he knew everything that had been said. “He also said the fighting would stop eventually and, when it did, he would destroy you, as you attempted to destroy him.”

“I’ll never stop fighting. I’ll die before I stop fighting.”

The odd mix of determination and bleakness in his voice had tears stinging my eyes. I blinked them away. “Does Rochelle feel the same?”

“Of course. Hence my belief the leak can’t be her.”

“But what if she’s not doing it knowingly? I asked the gray cloak if he could read your thoughts, and he said no. But I got the impression he can catch at least some of your emotions. What if he’s catching both from Rochelle?”

“If he could read her thoughts, more missions would have gone ass up. They haven’t.”

“Which still doesn’t mean she couldn’t be the leak.” I studied him for a minute. “It has to be checked, Sam. Just as Luke’s grave will need to be checked.”

He didn’t say anything, and his expression gave very little away. But I had no doubt he’d follow up on both things, if only because he wouldn’t want to put anyone at PIT in danger if he and Rochelle were inadvertently feeding the gray cloak information.

And if it was true? What would that mean for both him and Rochelle? PIT surely wouldn’t risk having them as part of the team—not until after the cloaks were all caught and killed, anyway.

I contemplated him for a moment longer, then said, “If you and Rochelle can’t go off-grid without setting off alarms, does that mean you told them you were meeting me tonight?”

Because if he had, I was damn glad Rory and Jackson were coming back for me. If the illustrious leader of the cloaks was Luke, and he’d survived both the fire and the explosion, he’d be murderously angry—maybe enough to send his insane army swarming after me.

Because the only time Luke did anything without thinking it through first was when anger got the better of him.

The smile that touched Sam’s lips once again held very little in the way of warmth or humor. “I may hate that I’m now the monster I accused you of being, but I’m not yet ready to give up either the fight or life. So, yes, I rang my boss and told her what I was doing.”

“No one else?”

“No.” He paused. “Though she would have informed the surveillance team. An alarm would have been raised when the tracker in my body told them I was on the move but both my car and my phone remained stationary.”

“Has Rochelle got access to the surveillance team or system?”

“No one has but the team itself. All systems are monitored twenty-four/seven, and all personnel are tracked when they’re on the clock. We’re not a big team, and we can’t afford to lose anyone.”

“Ah. Good.”

“From that perspective, yes.” His fingers tapped lightly on the table. “Is there anything else you need to tell me?”

“The fire in Brooklyn was me. And I threatened to burn the entire place down if he went near either Jackson or Rory again.”

This time, the smile that twisted his lips was so small, it was barely even noticeable, but it nevertheless made something inside me sing.

“But not you?” he said.

“If either he or his cronies come near me, I’ll burn their asses to hell and back. I told him that, too.”

“Good.”

“Maybe not. I think I may have just made the situation worse.”

The smile became stronger, and it lent his cool features a warmth that harked back to the Sam of old. “I seriously doubt the situation could get any worse.”

“Maybe not.” I smiled, but only briefly. “Do you think the scientists—or whoever else is now working on this thing—will eventually be able to help you and Rochelle?”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “We don’t know, because right now they’re working on a vaccine rather than a cure. That has to be the first priority, even if this thing doesn’t get out of control. But they’ve also taken lots of blood from us, in an effort to understand why some people survive intelligence intact, while others do not.”

“I thought what form of red cloak you became depended on who infected you?”

“It does, but that doesn’t negate that some become crazed and some do not. Remember, this outbreak was the result of one man.”

That man being the scientist who thought he’d hit pay dirt—that he’d discovered the enzyme that gave vampires immortality—and very unwisely had decided to use himself as a guinea pig. He’d eventually been tracked down and killed, but not before he’d infected dozens of others.

“But surely studying your blood and why the likes of you and Rochelle don’t become mad pseudo vampires will help them develop a cure?”

“That’s something no one can or will commit to.” He picked up his barely touched coffee and rose. “I had best go report in. Are you going to be okay here?”

I nodded. He half turned, then stopped. “And, Emberly? Thanks.”

With that, he walked away. I watched him leave the restaurant and become one with the night, my relief so fierce, my whole body shook. That had gone a whole lot better than I thought it would.

At least I now knew what that darkness in him was. It was a darkness he might never be free of, even if those who were now undertaking the continuation of Baltimore’s and Wilson’s research found a vaccine. A vaccine wasn’t a cure and, as Sam had noted, no one had any idea if a cure was even possible.

Which meant that maybe the best he and Rochelle could hope for was that by destroying Luke—if indeed he was the leader of the cloaks—they’d at least destroy the insidious call of darkness. I had no doubt that Luke’s desire for full control was at least partially the reason the darkness within Sam seemed to be in a constant state of flux whenever he was with me. Because when he was, he was fighting emotions and memories more than the virus, and it gained a greater hold on him.

Of course, that could also be the reason why Luke was so certain Sam still cared for me. He was catching snatches of emotions during those same moments.

Which meant the best possible thing I could do for us all was stay away from him—and yet that was probably the one thing that was nearly impossible to achieve. Certainly fate itself seemed determined to continually throw me back into his path.

I pushed up from my chair and walked across to the counter to get another cup of tea and a McFlurry. It was probably just as well my body burned energy at a far higher rate, because with the amount of crap I’d been eating of late, I’d be the size of a shed in no time.

I was about halfway through the icy treat when Rory walked in. He didn’t bother checking the restaurant or going to the counter; he just walked straight over to me.

“You okay?”

I nodded but nevertheless rose and wrapped my arms around his neck. “Sam’s infected. The virus is the darkness I sensed in him.”

“Oh fuck. I’m sorry to hear that.” He held me tight for several seconds. “I may hate how the bastard treated you, but no one deserves that fate.”

“At least he’s one of the saner ones. And while he’s alive and fighting, there is at least hope.”

Because without hope there was nothing. Not for him, not for me.

Rory dropped a kiss on the top of my head, then pulled back. “And the leak?”

“It may be Rochelle. She’s also infected. He doesn’t believe that she’s willingly feeding anyone information, however.”

“Maybe not consciously.” He picked up my unfinished tea and waved me toward the door.

“I told him that,” I said, heading for the main door. “I also told him my suspicions as to who the gray cloak is.”

“And?”

“And, he didn’t react favorably, as you’d expect.”

Jackson pulled up as we stepped out of the restaurant.

“But he’s going to exhume the body regardless?” Rory asked.

“He didn’t say as much, but I suspect he will.”

“A successful meeting, I take it?” Jackson said as Rory slammed the car’s rear door shut, then got into the front.

“You could say that.” I updated him on everything that had happened, including the information that Rochelle was one of the infected.

He swore vehemently. “There go any seduction ideas I may have held.”

“Yeah, but it’s also a confirmation that Fae can be infected. If we hadn’t used my fire to burn the virus from your system, you might well be one of them now.”

“Yeah.” His expression was bleak when it met mine briefly in the rearview mirror. “And I hope that one of you will kill me cleanly if it turns out that the virus isn’t burned but rather just dormant.”

“I don’t think this virus does dormant. From everything Sam has said about it, the change hits within the first week or so. You’re past that now.”

“Be that as it may, you will put an end to me if necessary, won’t you?”

I didn’t want to even think about the prospect of doing something like that. Not to someone who had so quickly become a friend. “Being infected isn’t the end of everything. Sam and Rochelle are proof enough of that.”

“Maybe so, but the concern of infecting others is not something I’d want to live with.” His expression was bleak. “Promise me, Em.”

I closed my eyes for a minute, then softly said, “If it comes to that, I will.”

“Good.”

Silence fell. There wasn’t much traffic on the road at this hour of the morning, and we arrived back at our bolt-hole without any sign that anyone was even remotely interested in us. By that stage it was close to five in the morning, and all of us were bone tired. We simply trundled up the stairs and crashed into separate beds. I couldn’t say how long it took the two men to get to sleep, but I was out almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

Only to dream yet again.

This time, however, it had nothing to do with monsters and dire events, but rather desire.

Because I dreamed I was being cradled close by arms that were warm and strong and familiar. Arms that belonged to a man with vivid blue eyes and a wild, dark scent.

And while I knew it was nothing more than the inner prophet taunting me with possibilities that could never be, I nevertheless allowed myself to sink deeper into sensation and enjoy it. Being wrapped in the imaginary arms of the man I loved was better than nothing.

I woke about ten, grabbed a shower, and then clattered downstairs. Rory was in the kitchen, frying up bacon and eggs for breakfast, and Jackson was sitting at the table nursing a mug of coffee.

I made myself a cuppa, then sat opposite him. “You look like shit.”

He scrubbed a hand across his unshaven chin. “That bed is far too soft for my liking. And my feet stuck out the end of it.”

I smiled. “And here I was thinking you enjoyed soft things.”

“When it come to the female form, yes.” Amusement crinkled the corners of his bright eyes. “In fact, the more curvaceous they are, the sexier I find them.”

“So if a sexy-looking waif made a pass at you,” Rory asked as he walked over with three plates piled high, “you’d tell her to keep on walking?”

“Well, no, because I’m a fire Fae with a high sexual drive. I’m just stating preferences.”

I snorted softly and tucked into my breakfast. When we were all finished and the dishes cleared, Jackson retrieved the laptop and Radcliffe’s phone from the trunk of the car and placed both on the table.

“So, what’s our next move?” I picked up the phone and inspected it. It didn’t tell me any more than it had yesterday. “Is that program of yours any closer to busting this thing open?”

“It shouldn’t be too much longer.” Jackson shrugged. “In the meantime, it might be worthwhile doing a search of Wilson’s place. If he did have backup of those files, it could be there. If he’d kept a backup system at either the office or on a cloud service, someone would have found it by now.”

Someone had certainly found Baltimore’s cache—but only after torturing him to get it. And Wilson was already dead … maybe. If the attack on him by the red cloaks had been nothing more than a ruse to get him into their ranks, then he might well be alive and blabbing right now.

“Surely Amanda would have known about the cache if he did have one at home?” Not to mention the fact PIT would have searched the place thoroughly after his murder. They wanted the research notes as badly as anyone else, after all.

“Amanda may have been a powerful telepath, but—from what you’ve said—she could only read him during sex,” Jackson said. “That being the case, she was probably concentrating on recording his daily progression with the virus rather than whether he was making a private backup of the information.”

I frowned. “So why would Rosen be so convinced that he did have a private backup?”

“Given Rosen was backstabbing his own company, maybe he figured his top man was doing the same thing.” Rory’s expression was contemplative. “A cheater, whether it’s sexual or money based, often expects the worst in others. It helps offset his own guilt.”

“Maybe.” I wrinkled my nose and tried to imagine Rosen simply sitting back and letting Wilson gather top-secret information. I couldn’t, because Rosen had—in the brief time I’d met him—come across as both arrogant and confident in both his place in this world and his own self-worth. If he thought Wilson was stashing research and maybe even toying with the idea of selling it—something Rosen himself was already doing—then he would have undoubtedly put a stop to it. He might have even fired Wilson.

If he had known about Wilson’s backup, it could only mean he’d given Wilson his approval. Maybe it was Rosen’s way of ensuring he could still get his hands on all the research if his deal with Radcliffe went sour.

Which it certainly had.

I put the phone down and picked up my mug of tea instead. “Amanda was doing a pretty thorough job of plucking information from Wilson’s brain, so why wouldn’t she have picked up info on a secret stash?”

“She may have,” Rory commented. “Perhaps that’s why the sindicati kept her alive rather than simply letting her die when they snatched you both. Maybe they’re waiting for her to recover enough from her injuries so they can grab the info from her.”

“The sindicati are an organization of vampires,” I said. “It’s not like they can’t mind-rape her or something to get the information if they really wanted to.”

“Except that, as I’ve said, telepaths often can’t be read—even forcibly—by each other.” Jackson opened the laptop and hit the START button. “Either way, I still think searching Wilson’s place is a good plan.”

“And not just the house itself, either,” Rory commented. “It could be somewhere obscure, like a shed or something.”

Radcliffe’s phone chose that moment to come to life, the ringtone’s music harsh and unpleasant, and the words all but incomprehensible. In fact, the only word I could understand was the term “ball-breaker.” Unfortunately, while caller ID popped up on the screen, it simply said MJ and a number. Jackson scribbled it down, then motioned me to answer it. I did so cautiously.

“And just who the fuck are you?” a woman said, her voice teeth-grindingly strident.

“Angie,” I said, giving her the first name I could think of. “Who are you?”

“Who I am is none of your damn business. What are doing answering this phone?”

“Mr. Radcliffe is currently in a meeting and asked me to vet all calls.”

The woman snorted. “And we both know ‘meeting’ is just a euphemism for a fuck session.”

My eyebrows rose at the vehemence in her voice. Whoever she was, she really didn’t like Radcliffe. “I’m afraid I have no knowledge of what his meeting involves. Can I take a message?”

“Yeah, tell the rat bastard RJ’s concert is tonight and he’d better fucking appear.”

And with that, she hung up.

“Well,” Rory commented, “she’s a charmer.”

I grinned. “Totally. Wonder who she is.”

“According to Google and a number search,” Jackson said, turning the laptop around, “she’s Mrs. Mary Johnson, and she lives in Coburg.”

“Wonder what her relationship to Radcliffe is.”

“She could be anything from your much-theorized hidden wife, to his sister, or just someone he’s seriously pissed off.” Jackson shrugged. “Whatever the case, I think we need to go have a little chat with her.”

“You’d better pack some earplugs,” Rory said, his expression amused. “I suspect you might be greeted with some rather colorful language the minute you mention Radcliffe.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re not coming?”

He shook his head. “I’m better off staying out of your regular investigations. If the cloaks do come after you, it leaves me free to come in and save the day.”

“So you have a hero hankering?” Jackson said, his expression contemplative. “That’s interesting.”

Rory gave him “the look”—the one that said, “Grow up.” I knew that, because he’d given it to me a few times over the years. Although, as I often said to him, he could hardly tell me to grow up when he was often just as bad.

“I’m not entirely sure it’s a great idea to leave you here alone.” Doubt edged my voice. “Especially after the threat the gray cloak made.”

“Em, we’re safe here, at least for the moment. I’ll stay and do some research on the creature. Because,” he added, his tone dry, “I have no doubt it will feature somewhere in our near future.”

I didn’t deny it. I just flashed another grin at him. He rolled his eyes and motioned toward the door. “You’d better go, just in case Mrs. Ball-breaker decides she needs to go out.”

We went. Mary Johnson’s house was a small and neat redbrick house in a street filled with similar-looking houses. Her front yard was filled with sweet-smelling roses, and the car parked in front of the garage was a small Toyota that looked more than a few years old.

“If she’s Radcliffe’s wife,” I commented, “then he’s pretty damn mean with his money.”

“Rats aren’t good at sharing.” He reached past me and grabbed Radcliffe’s wallet from the glove compartment. He must have caught my surprise, because he added, “Hey, if she is his wife—or even just a poorly kept bit on the side—she might be receptive to a little monetary inducement.”

“And why offer ours when his wallet is filled with both cash and credit cards?” I commented, amused.

“Precisely.”

We climbed out of the car and walked to the front door. I pressed the doorbell. After several seconds, footsteps approached; then the door opened.

The woman who answered was not what I’d been expecting. She was six feet tall and slender with sharp but pretty facial features. A garishly pink hairband loosely held her neat brown hair back from her face. It was only when you met her unflinching brown gaze that you saw any hint of the harridan we’d heard on the phone. Her gaze was definitely on the steely side.

“Mrs. Mary Johnson?” I asked.

“Yes. Who the hell are you?” But even as she asked the question, recognition flashed through her eyes. “You’re the woman on the phone—and obviously not the bastard’s secretary.”

“Jackson Miller and Emberly Pearson, from Hellfire Investigations.” Jackson showed her his ID. “We’re looking for Marcus Radcliffe—”

“I really don’t give two figs about who you’re looking for or what you want,” she cut in abrasively. “Bugger off and leave me alone.”

“Fine,” I said mildly. “Sorry to have bothered you. We need to go talk to Morretti anyway, so I guess we can ask him about Radcliffe, as well as you and RJ.” Morretti might be dead, but I was banking on few outside the sindicati and PIT actually being aware of that.

Her skin lost its color, but her eyes blazed with fury. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Don’t count on it,” I said, “because right now your fucking husband has information we need—”

“He’s not my husband,” she snapped, then glanced past us, her gaze briefly sweeping the street. “You’d better come in.”

She stood to one side and opened the door wider. Jackson stepped in first, tension evident in the set of his shoulders. He, like me, was waiting for a nasty surprise—or, at least, someone or something to jump out at us.

Nothing did, however. Mary closed the door, then led the way down the small dark hall to the kitchen-diner at the rear of the house. Kids’ toys were strewn all over the floor, but other than that, the room was clean and tidy. She motioned us toward the table, then sat down opposite us.

“What is your involvement with Radcliffe?” she asked bluntly.

I studied her for a moment. She obviously had no love for Radcliffe, even though RJ was—given both her reaction and what she’d said previously—his son.

“As I said, he has information we need,” I said. “Unfortunately, he is somewhat reluctant to part with said information, and he did a runner the last time we went to talk to him.”

Mary snorted. “Yeah, he does that. Big on threats, not much personal follow-through.”

“So, what is your connection to him, if you’re not married?” Jackson said.

Her gaze met his, her expression sharp. Wary. “We had a brief, three-week fling that resulted in a pregnancy. I wanted marriage; he did not. We came to an arrangement that suited us both.”

I wondered what that arrangement was, since she wasn’t exactly living the high life here in Coburg. “Is there any way to contact Radcliffe other than his phone?”

Her gaze flicked back to me. “How did you even get hold of it? He’s basically outsourced his brain to the thing and can barely function without it.”

I couldn’t help but smile at the causticity in her voice. She and Radcliffe might share a child, but if she’d ever loved the man, those feelings had died a long time ago. “As I said, he was in a rather large rush to avoid us and left it behind.”

“You must have put the fear of god into him, then, because the phone is usually the first thing he grabs.” Her gaze swept from me to Jackson and back again. “And considering the wall of goons he keeps close for security purposes, the pair of you must be more badass than you look.”

“He happened to catch Emberly on a low-caffeine day,” Jackson commented. “It can be a pretty scary experience, believe me.”

Amusement touched Mary’s lips, and it briefly softened her sharp features. “That’s something we have in common, then.” She paused and leaned back in her chair. “I’ll give you the addresses of all his rat holes, if you do me the favor of giving him a message.”

“Done,” I said without hesitation.

“Tell the bastard he’d be wise to not only appear at RJ’s concert tonight but to bring the money he owes me. Or I’ll be contacting his grandmother.” She hesitated, and something close to fear flashed in her eyes. “And you will not, in any way, mention RJ’s relationship to Radcliffe to anyone—especially not to the sindicati.”

The last request wasn’t surprising, and it was certainly one I had no hesitation in agreeing to. Hell, I may have made the threat, but I wouldn’t have followed through. Endangering a child wasn’t something I’d ever risk. “His grandmother must be pretty fierce to use a threat like that against someone like Radcliffe.”

“Oh, trust me, he may make himself out as a major player, but she’s the real power behind the pack’s activities.”

“Then maybe it isn’t Radcliffe who will give us the answers we need, but her.”

“It would depend on what your questions relate to. She might be the pack’s matriarch, but her grandchildren run their various businesses on a day-to-day basis.” She paused. “Do we have a deal?”

“Yes.” Jackson reached into his back pocket. “In the meantime, you might want to make use of this.”

He dropped the wallet onto the table. Mary laughed as she picked it up. “Good grief, he was in a hurry to escape, wasn’t he?”

She flipped the wallet open and spotted the cash and credit cards. The grin that touched her lips was decidedly anticipatory. “Isn’t it lucky for me that I happen to know his PIN and he rarely changes it.”

“You might want to make use of the cards fairly quickly,” Jackson said, “because if he hasn’t already realized his wallet is missing, he will when we confront him.”

“Oh, rest assured, that won’t be a problem.” She rose, tucked the wallet into her pocket, then walked across to the kitchen counter and grabbed a pen and piece of paper. After a few minutes, she walked back and handed me the list. There were six addresses in total; the café we’d raided was second on the list.

“They run from his most secure bolt-hole to his least,” she commented. “Just don’t tell the bastard you got the list from me. I don’t want any flak to fall back on RJ.”

“No problem.” I tucked the note into my pocket. “Enjoy the spending spree.”

“Oh, I most certainly will.”

She quickly escorted us out, obviously eager to begin wreaking havoc on Radcliffe’s credit profile.

“That,” I said, once we were both back in the car, “was decidedly wicked. Brilliant, but nevertheless wicked.”

“I do have my moments—and it’s not like Radcliffe can’t afford it. The bastard lives the high life, and yet he can’t be bothered paying for a similar level of comfort for his son? I hate people who put their own needs ahead of their offspring.”

For all we knew, living in Coburg was Mary’s choice, and Radcliffe was supporting his son fully in every other way, but my eyebrows still rose at the vehemence in Jackson’s voice. “Personal experience?”

“No. I just can’t understand someone bringing kids into this world and not giving them the best start possible.” He grimaced. “If and when I ever have a child, you can bet your ass he’ll be fully supported and loved.”

He’d make a damn good dad, too, I thought with a smile. “Are your parents still alive?”

“Yes. Mum lives near Wilson’s Promontory National Park, and Dad’s a ranger in the high country.” He started the car and pulled out into the traffic. “Even though Fae don’t do marriage and love, children are considered a rare and precious gift, and both parents remain fully involved in the life of their offspring.”

“Even though the fathers aren’t involved in the everyday nitty-gritty stuff?”

“Even though.”

I leaned forward and typed the address of the first place on the list into the GPS. “Have you got any brothers or sisters?”

He shook his head. “Dad hasn’t said anything, and he would have if I’d gained a half sibling. And Mum’s got about twenty years or so before her fertile period rolls around again.”

“It seems unfair that females get to be fertile only every fifty years or so, whereas males are good to go whenever needed.” I shifted slightly to stare at him. “And that being the case, how come there’re not lots of little half-breed Jacksons running around the place?”

“Because we only come into ‘season’ when there’s a fertile female in the near vicinity.”

“Which is probably just as well for the female half of the population in general,” I commented, with a grin. “It’d be hard to hide the existence of your community if there were a ton of half-breeds about communing with trees, doing weird things to weather, or melding the earth into fantastical forms with a mere wave of their hands.”

“Earth Fae cannot shape the earth with a mere wave,” he said, his tone severe but amusement flirting with his lips. “It takes a bit more effort than that.”

“That sort of thing always does.” I paused as the GPS gave some directions. “Do you know much about the Dandenong area?”

He grimaced. “Only that it’s a mix of industrial and residential, and that it used to have a reputation for being very rough.”

Which was about as much as I knew. “If we want to catch Radcliffe unawares this time, we’ll need to be more security conscious.”

Jackson grunted in agreement. “At least he won’t recognize the car.”

There was that. “We should have brought Rory along. Or, at the very least, purchased new phones so we could Google the area. There’d be less chance of being seen if we knew what to expect.”

“Purchasing phones means creating a trail—paper or electronic—for people to follow. We’ll just have to settle for being sneaky.” He glanced at me, the amusement touching his lips creasing the corners of his bright eyes. “I’m presuming you did learn the art of sneaky sometime in the years before the arrival of the smartphone.”

“Given we phoenixes have been hiding our existence from the human population for eons, you presume right.” I paused. “Just how old are you?”

“I’m a veritable youngster compared to you and Rory.”

“Which does not answer the question.”

“When you tell me your precise age, I’ll tell you mine.” He raised an eyebrow as he glanced at me, but his expression was decidedly mischievous. “I don’t have any children yet, if that’s any help.”

“It isn’t, because I have no idea how long it takes a Fae to reach maturity.”

“Longer than both humans and werewolves.”

Weres tended to live twice as long as the average human and, as a result, tended to take twice as long to mature sexually. Which maybe meant Jackson wasn’t that much older than the thirty or so years he looked.

Of course, since Fae rarely showed their true age and many, in fact, could live for as long as a millennium, that wasn’t saying much—especially given the ovulation cycle of Fae females.

It took us about forty-five minutes to get from Collingwood to Dandenong. Jackson slowed the car as we entered Cleeland Street; Radcliffe’s building was a grimy two-story place dominated by a dry cleaner on the ground floor. There was a pharmacy on one side and a parking lot on the other. All the windows had roller security screens, as did the entrances, of which there were two—one for the dry cleaner and an unmarked one leading into a stairwell.

“I’m betting Radcliffe doesn’t use either of those entrances. They’re too visible.” I scanned the building as we cruised past it and spotted two security cameras—one at either end of the building on the parking lot side. The building wasn’t particularly deep, however, and there were several more businesses at the back of it. They were divided from Radcliffe’s place by a small road that went behind both the dry cleaner and the pharmacy. “Care to bet there’s a fire escape at the back of the building?”

“No takers on that one. But I doubt he’d use it as his main escape route. Too visible and obvious.”

I frowned. “But his office is on the second floor of an old building, and I doubt they saw the need to insert escape routes when they built the place.”

“No, but it wouldn’t be hard to retrofit some sort of chute, especially if it was rat-sized rather than human.”

He turned left into the multistory parking lot of the supermarket just up the road from Radcliffe’s and parked in the middle of the three floors. It afforded us a good view over both Radcliffe’s building and the road behind it without the danger of being noticed.

An assortment of Dumpsters—some of which were spewing boxes and other assorted paper rubbish out onto the asphalt—lined the service road. None of the buildings had a fire escape, however, which meant Jackson’s chute theory was even more likely.

“Since this place is supposedly the most secure of all of them, how are we going to get in there?”

“We don’t. We sit here and wait for the rat to come out.”

“That’s presuming he’s even in there.”

“The natural instinct of a rat when he feels threatened is to hide somewhere secure. Given we busted his second-most-secure premises, he’s bound to run here.”

“Have I ever mentioned that I hate stakeouts?” I pulled the hood of my sweater over my hair. Though we’d spotted only two cameras, that didn’t mean there wasn’t a third trained on this parking lot. “Especially since they’re more inconvenient for females than you males.”

He grinned. “Maybe you need to head on over to the supermarket and grab a bottle—”

I snorted. “A bottle isn’t exactly what I’d call convenient. We can’t direct the flow like you males, remember.”

His grin widened, but all he said was, “And while you’re there, you can grab some munchies and drinks. I seriously doubt he’ll come out before dusk.”

I grabbed my wallet, then headed into the supermarket to buy supplies—and was cheered to no end by the discovery that the supermarket was part of a complex that also had toilets. Which was just as well, as it turned out to be an interminably long day.

But as the last vestiges of sunset slithered from the sky, the rat finally came out of his hole.

It was time, finally, for some action.