Fireborn (15 page)

I flexed my fingers, and fireflies danced across my fingertips. Timing was everything.

The door was flung open. I stuck a foot out as the first man appeared, tripping him and sending him stumbling; then I lunged around the doorway, grabbed the second man before he could realize what had happened, and sent him flying into the first man. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs, their heads smashing against each
other, knocking each other out cold. They fell in a heap, one pinned beneath the other.

More steps approached. I tensed, the fireflies becoming flames inches high, then caught the warm, sunshiny scent and relaxed.

Jackson appeared a heartbeat later, his gaze sweeping me, then moving to the two men. “Good work,” he said, then nodded back toward the house. “Call the cops and an ambulance. I'm afraid they made a bit of a mess of the woman.”

“Then don't be gentle with them,” I said as I stepped inside the house.

“Oh, I won't be.”

His voice was grim, and I realized why a moment later. A dark-haired woman lay sprawled unconscious across the sofa in the living room. Her lip was split, her face bruised and bloody, and her dress was shucked up around her armpits. I doubted they'd had the time to rape her, but that had certainly been their intention.

I resisted the urge to march outside and punch the shit out of the two men and moved closer to the woman, carefully checking her pulse. It was fast but strong, and she didn't seem to be having any trouble breathing.

I stepped back and called the cops, telling them what we'd found and requesting medical assistance. Then I spun around and went looking for a blanket. I couldn't move her or tidy her clothes without the risk of disturbing any DNA evidence that might be present, but I couldn't bear to see her sprawled out like that, either.

I found a closet in the small hallway and opened it up. Blankets, sheets, and towels sat in neat little stacks inside. I reached for one of the blankets, but as I did, something stung the side of my neck.

I swiped at it irritably, but a hand caught mine and something cool and sharp pressed against the side of my head.

“Make a sound,” a soft voice whispered, “and you die.”

F
ire howled through me, thick and angry, but I couldn't focus and everything seemed fuzzy. The fire dancing around my fingertips seemed to be fading, and the roaring in my head was getting louder and louder, but it
wasn't
flame.

My knees buckled, but before I could slump to the floor, someone grabbed me. They ripped my purse from my shoulder, but everything after that became hazy. I wasn't knocked out, not entirely, but what I heard and saw seemed to be coming from a very great distance and didn't have a whole lot of impact.

Something was thrown over my body; then I was carried like a sack out of the house. Wind. Sunlight. Darkness and metal vibrating underneath me. Then nothing for a long period of time.

Rising to full consciousness seemed to take forever. My head was back to throbbing with an intensity that suggested it was about to tear apart, and there was a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth. My shoulders burned, and there was something tight around my wrists and ankles. It took a few minutes to register it was rope. I was tied.

Which was better than being dead, I guess.

As awareness grew, I remained still and listened to the sounds around me, trying to discover where I was and who might be near.

I was lying on something cold and hard. Not concrete, but smallish rectangular shapes. Bricks, I thought. Bricks that were slick with moisture. In the distance water trickled, the sound echoing lightly. The air that swirled around me was stale and heavy with the scents of excrement and rubbish. Either I was in a very old, not-often-cleaned lane or I was in a sewer.

My vote was on the latter option.

After a few seconds, I became aware of footsteps. They were barely audible, and I could hear only one set. But until I knew whether there
was
more than one person nearby, I wasn't about to give any indication that I was awake.

Time seemed to creep by. The pain in my shoulders flared downward until it felt like my arms were locked in agony. And the ropes around my legs were so damn tight they were cutting into my skin and making my toes numb. It was just as well I could take another form, because if I had to rely on
this
one to react with any sort of speed, I'd be in serious trouble.

A phone rang sharply into the silence and I jumped. Thankfully, whoever was out there didn't seem to notice.

“Got your parcel,” a gruff voice said. “You were right—they did go for the waitress.”

God, I thought, the waitress had been a trap. I
should have known that it had all been a little too conveniently timed.

“She did get a call off to the cops,” he continued, “so I didn't get the chance to kill the waitress. And the Fae took out my two men.”

He didn't get the chance? He'd had plenty of time to kill the waitress before we got there, if simple murder had been his intention. I wasn't close enough to hear the other side of the conversation, and that was irritating. I cracked open an eye and peered around. My captor was standing near what looked like a sewer's edge ten feet away. He was tall, broad shouldered, and thickset, with a bald head that seemed to gleam even in the thick shadows that surrounded us.

Even though I couldn't see his face, I knew who he was, having seen a photograph not so long ago. It was Sherman Jones, the man who'd mysteriously disappeared after Mark's murder.

“Don't worry. They can't tell anyone anything,” Sherman said. He swung around, and I quickly shut my eye. “So there's no problem with the cops interrogating them. What do you want me to do about the waitress, though?”

He listened for several seconds, then grunted. “And this one?”

Again silence fell; then he said, “Fine. See you then.”

He walked toward me and bent down. Even though he was close enough that I could feel the wash of his breath across my cheek, I couldn't really smell him. It was as if something had
completely erased his scent. Maybe that was why Jackson hadn't realized he was in the house—either that, or the scent of the other two had been so strong he simply hadn't had the chance to look beyond it.

“So,” he said softly, his rough fingertips trailing across my cheek. “It seems we have an entire afternoon to fill in before I have to hand you over.”

“Well, you're not passing that time with me,” I spat, and flamed. The force of it threw him backward even though he was barely touching me, and it cindered the ropes holding me captive in an instant. I let the flames take me fully into spirit form, then flowed forward. Sherman scrambled backward, his sharp face twisted with fear and his mouth open, though if he was screaming, he made no sound. I reached out and grabbed him with one molten hand. My flames danced across his clothing, setting them alight but not actually burning them. Not yet, not until I intended it. I slammed him against the slick brick walls and held him there.

“Tell me who you're working for,” I said softly. “Or the flames that surround you
will
consume you.”

He made several attempts to speak and eventually croaked, “What the hell are you?”

“Something you don't want to mess with.” I shook him lightly. “Now, answer the question.”

He licked his lips, then said, “I don't know his name. I was contracted through an intermediary.”

“Marcus Radcliffe?”

He shook his head violently. “No. Haven't worked for him in weeks.”

“Then who?”

I directed the flames up toward his face, letting them tease his chin and lightly burn. He gulped. “Lee Rawlings. I was supposed to hand you over to him this evening.”

The timing suggested that Lee Rawlings was a vampire—the same one that had pursued me, perhaps?

“When and where?”

“Under the bridge near the red zipper sculpture in the Flemington Canal. Eight p.m.”

“And is Rawlings the one who hired you to watch the professor?”

He shook his head. “Radcliffe did.”

“Why was he interested in the professor?”

“I don't know. I was just asked to see who he interacted with on a daily basis.”

Did that mean we had two different parties interested in Mark's work? “What about Professor James Wilson—was anyone following him?”

“How the fuck do I know? I was just employed to follow Baltimore. When he was murdered, I made scarce.”

I guess that was no surprise. “What does Rawlings look like?”

Sherman shrugged, so I let the flames leap a little higher and singe his whiskers. He yelped and said, “Christ! He's tall and thin, like most fucking vampires. Dark hair, brown eyes.”

“And what was the delivery deal?”

“Half before, half later.”

“Half being . . . ?”

He licked his lips. “A thousand.”

I was worth only a paltry thousand dollars? That sucked—or Sherman was simply cheap. “And what about the waitress?”

He frowned. “What about her?”

“Why were you employed to kill her?”

“I don't ask why,” he all but whined. “I just take the job and do it.”

“So you were told to beat her up and then rape her before you killed her?”

Sweat beaded his upper lip. He quickly licked it, his gaze darting away from mine. “Not exactly.”

Disgust stirred, and it took every ounce of effort not to burn the bastard to a cinder right there and then. He might have been employed to the kill the waitress for whatever reason, but
he'd
been the one who decided on the more savage method. Because he enjoyed doing it.

“What's the security code for your phone?” I asked brusquely.

Confusion flitted through his eyes, but he rapidly spat out a number.

“Thank you,” I said, then regained flesh and hit him as hard as I could. He went down like a sack of potatoes, hitting the ground with a sharp crack that suggested something had broken.

For several minutes I did nothing more than wince and curse as the pins and needles in my arms and feet made the mere act of holding
human flesh sheer agony. As the pain began to subside, I checked that Jones was unconscious, then rifled through his pockets, discovering in the process he'd landed awkwardly on his left arm and
had
indeed broken it. Feeling little in the way of sympathy—especially given what he'd intended to do to both me and the waitress—I plucked his phone free. Mine was with my purse back at the waitress's house, and I wouldn't have used it anyway. Not when Sam had it bugged. I flipped the case open, typed in the security code, and saw the time. I'd been missing for more than an hour, which no doubt meant that not only would the cops be at the waitress's house but Sam and his people would be as well. Jackson would have been interrogated, but had enough time passed for him to have been released? Or was Sam holding him somewhere?

I guess there was only one way to find out.

I hit the text button and typed,
Hey, babe. I left in such a hurry that I forgot to arrange another date. Ring me when you're free.

Once it was sent, I walked around gingerly until the pain in my feet eased, then rang Rory at the fire station and updated him on events.

“Do you need help?” he said once I'd finished.

I hesitated. Rory and I had long ago made a pact not to pull each other into dangerous situations, simply because if both of us happened to be killed at the same time, it would be the end of us. While the spirit of a phoenix always rose from the ashes of its death, it was only with the assistance
of a ritual performed by their life mate that we were able to regain adult flesh and become whole. Otherwise, our spirits moved on, uniting once more with the great mother, never to know life and love and feeling ever again.

We'd come close to that once. I had no intention of risking it in either this lifetime or any other future lifetime. And I had a suspicion that this case would get a whole lot deeper and darker before we got any real answers.

“No,” I said eventually. “I don't think we can chance it.”

He swore softly. “Damn it, Em. Be careful. You know I'll be there if the worst happens, but I'd really rather just get through more than one life span without one or the other of us dying before our time.”

I smiled. “Says the man who is currently a fireman.”

“Hey, I'm not the one who has chucked in the staid life to go chasing after bad guys.” He paused. “And that's two lifetimes in a row for you.”

“Yeah, but last time I was official. This time I'm just pissed off.”

He snorted. “I still want you to be careful.”

“I will. I promise.”

He grunted. He'd heard that statement from me almost as many times as I'd heard it from him. “Keep me updated, Em.”

“I will,” I repeated, then hung up.

It took several hours for Jackson to get back to me. Sherman rose to consciousness several times
while I waited, and each time I knocked him back out—although I didn't hit him again, just used pressure points instead. If there was one good thing about living through so many centuries, it was an accumulation of knowledge. Rory had taught me the points after he'd learned the art during his time with an old Chinese kung fu master.

The phone rang about four o'clock, but the number that showed up on the screen wasn't Jackson's. I hesitated, then hit the answer button and cautiously said, “Hello?”

“Emberly? Is that you? Are you okay?”

Jackson's voice. Relief slithered through me. “Yes to all three questions.” I hesitated. “I'm gathering you can talk freely?”

“Yeah. I've borrowed a friend's phone. Thought it would be safer.”

I winced at the undercurrent of anger in his voice, even though I suspected it wasn't aimed at me. “How bad was the interrogation?”

He snorted. “Let's just say I'm surprised that detective friend of yours actually released me. I was sure the bastard was going to lock me up and throw away the key.”

“I'm sure he would have, too, except he no doubt wants to follow you.”

“Well, I wish him luck with that. He's not the only one with a few tricks up his sleeve.”

“He doesn't need tricks. He has vampires and psychics, and he apparently has the right to use and abuse the law as he desires.”

“Which is why I won't stay on the phone for long. If they did manage to follow me here, they're no doubt scrambling to find and lock onto this number.”

Which was my cue to get on with it. “Are you able to track my location via the GPS on this phone?”

“I can't personally, but I know someone who could.”

I smiled. “You must have some very interesting friends.”

“And if you play your cards right, I might just introduce you.”

I snorted softly. “Except when they're a source you don't want exposed.”

“Exactly,” he said cheerfully. “I'm gathering you don't know where you are?”

“Well, yes and no. I'm in a sewer somewhere, and I have Sherman Jones lying unconscious at my feet. He's arranged to hand me over to a vampire going by the name of Lee Rawlings this evening. I want to go to that meet and talk to him.”

“That might not be a great idea.” There was doubt in his voice. “Vamps can be tricky to deal with at night.”

“They can't shadow when there's light,” I commented. “Remember what I am, Jackson.”

“Can one phoenix raise enough light to stop a vampire shadowing? A Fae sure as hell can't.”

“I can.”

“Ah, well, that's a different story.” He paused.
“It may take me a little while to get to you—will you be okay?”

“Well, I've been in better-smelling places, but I'll be fine.” I hesitated and glanced down at my captive. “Bring something that'll keep a wererat bound. I want to hand Jones over to Sam, but not before we get to that meeting.”

“Will do,” he said, and hung up.

I walked around a bit to ease the lingering remnants of the pins and needles, then sat down next to my captive and played solitaire on his phone to pass the time.