Fireborn (26 page)

“I think they saw me with Amanda Wilson and decided to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.” I hesitated. “You do know that the sindicati tried to kill her, don't you?”

He shrugged. “To be honest, good riddance. But why the hell didn't you report the attempted murder to us rather than the police?”

“Because I was—and still am—pissed off at you.”

“Yeah, well,
that's
a two-way street,” he muttered. “How are you supposed to get the notebook back to the sindicati?”

I crossed my arms and looked out the side window for several seconds. It was tempting—very tempting—not to answer, but I'd already seen the lengths he was willing to go to get what he wanted, and I wasn't about to risk another such debacle. Not with Jackson's life on the line.

“They've given me a number to call.”

“What number? I'll have it traced.”

“Why? It'll undoubtedly be a burn phone.”

“Perhaps, but we might be able to get GPS positioning on it.”

“And how does that help, exactly? Whoever is currently holding the phone will be a subcontractor. The sindicati haven't shown any real propensity to place themselves in the line of danger.”

“Exactly, which makes the fact that they took such a risk to grab
you
in broad daylight even odder.”

“As I said, I think I was merely an opportunity too good—”

“And what,” he bit back, “if you're wrong? What if you were the target all along, and they were merely waiting for the right moment?”

“If they were going after me, they could have done it a whole lot sooner. Hell, I was next to useless for hours after you dumped us.”

“Except that they must have known we were
watching you. That accident was not only very well timed, but executed in an area from which they could get away very fast—and they took our people out along with Jackson's truck.”

Another chill ran through me. To do something like that took time and planning, and that could only mean he was right. But it also meant Amanda might not now be in the hands of the sindicati if she hadn't insisted I uphold my end of our deal. And that, I thought grimly, was karma at its finest. “Are your people okay?”

“Yeah. The same cannot be said for Jackson's truck, however. I'm not actually sure how Amanda Wilson survived that crash—there was a lot of blood on the seat.”

Seat. Damn, the USBs. “Where's the truck now?”

“It was hauled away. I believe the police have been trying to contact Jackson.” He gave me a look that sat somewhere between annoyance and disgust. “Wouldn't happen to know where he is, do you?”

“Yeah, I do. And thanks to you, he's in the same place I was.”

Sam's eyebrows rose. “Why in the hell would the sindicati want
him
?”

“As insurance. I give them the notebook, they free him.”

“Well, that ain't going to happen.”

I stared at him for a moment, unable to believe he'd actually said that. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think it means?” His expression was grim. “You've seen the red cloaks. You've seen what they can do. The life of one Fae is
not
worth the lives of the millions who could be affected if this thing gets out of control. We need the cure—or at the very least, a vaccine. To get it, we need those notes.”

“If you think I'm going to let you sacrifice Jackson's life—”

“You haven't exactly got a choice here. You're in this car, with me, and you're not getting free of either anytime soon.”

“What? You're going to chain me? Because that's the only damn way you'll keep me captive.”

“Well, there
is
the drug option. Or I could simply take you back to headquarters and lock you in one of our flameproof cells.” He half smiled, but it was a cold thing, holding little in the way of amusement. “It was designed to hold pyrokinetics, so I'm thinking it should be fine against the fires of a phoenix.”

I snorted. It might well be capable of withstanding the fires of a pyro, but he was forgetting one thing—I was a fire
spirit
. Of course, at this particular moment I was a fire spirit stuck in flesh form, but under normal circumstances, a cell of any sort wouldn't have held me. Not unless they'd employed witches to create magical barriers.

But I wasn't about to tell him that—why give him a heads-up? Hell, even if I didn't find myself in that cell, another phoenix might. While there was generally only one pair per city, it wasn't
unusual for youngsters to linger in an occupied city for a few weeks or months while they were looking for a place to call their own. And there were always free cities—no older pair could ever remain in one place their entire lives. Sooner or later, it paid to move on—especially in places where hatred for nonhumans was high. Melbourne was pretty mild compared to some cities, but even so, Rory and I would risk only a few more rebirths here before we went searching for somewhere new. Personally, I was voting for
any
city that had more warm days than it did cold. Somewhere with bigger, wider sunsets where a firebird could enjoy the freedom of the skies every single night.

“For god's sake, Sam,” I said, shoving away pleasant thoughts of warm skies and freedom, “when did it suddenly become okay to sacrifice even
one
life? You're still a cop, even if the department you work for has a fancy title. Didn't you swear to protect and serve? To—as the force's motto says—uphold the right?”

He didn't answer. Didn't even look at me. But that lone muscle along his jawline was back in action. My words were hitting home, even if he wasn't responding. But would they make any difference? Once, maybe, but whatever had happened in the years since we'd parted had obviously altered at least
some
of the core beliefs and values of the man I'd once loved.

Would always love, no matter how much I fought it.

I sighed. “Look, I know we can't give the sindicati what they want, but, by the same token, you cannot seriously be saying you're going to let Jackson die. If you do, then you and PIT are no better than the things you hunt.”

“Sometimes,” he said, his voice holding a deep edge of bitterness, “you have to become the darkness if you're to have any hope of hunting it.”

And he
had
become that darkness. It was in him, around him. But it hadn't yet totally consumed him. He wouldn't be arguing with me like this if it had. “The minute any society starts
that
sort of thinking, it dies. Trust me. I
know
.”

He gave me another of those dark glances, blue eyes glinting fiercely in the gloom of the car. A tremor ran through me, fear and desire combined. “Just how old are you, Red?”

“Didn't your mother tell you it's impolite to ask a woman's age?”

“Meaning, I take it, you've had more than a few rebirths.”

“Yes. I've seen Death in all her forms, and I have no desire to see her visit anyone I care about.” I met his look evenly. “Hell, I don't want to see her visit someone I
used
to care about, which is why I saved your useless ass in the first place.”

“Bet you're regretting that decision now,” he muttered. “Look, I'll do what I can, but if it comes down to the notebook or Jackson, the Fae is a goner. We need those notes to have any hope of gaining ground on this virus. The sindicati—or anyone else—are not getting their hands on it.”

“Unfortunately,” I said, “they've already warned that the minute they
suspect
PIT or police involvement, Jackson is dead.”

“Then he dies. We have no other choice.”

“There are
always
choices, Sam. You've just got to be open to them.”

He made a short chopping gesture with his hand. “There
is
no alternative in this case, Red, and you know it.”

The time had come to reveal the ace up my sleeve. And, hopefully, it
would
be an ace and not another brick wall.

“That's not exactly true,” I said. “You know how we'd presumed they'd taken my laptop along with the notes? Well, they didn't. Rory has it.”

“And you've known this how long?” he said, voice remote and all the more scary for it.

“Since about five minutes after I woke up in that field.”

“And you didn't think to mention this earlier?”

“I did
think
about it, but I decided to see how reasonable you were going to be first.”

He shook his head, his expression a mix of annoyance and frustration—which was infinitely better than that dark and scary anger. “And this alternative of yours?”

“We find the notebook,” I said, “and you take it. In return, you let me keep the laptop so I can exchange it for Jackson.”

“Haven't you listened to a single word I've said? The sindicati are not—”

“Getting Baltimore's notes,” I interrupted.
“Heard it, understood it. But I'm not intending to give them the notes. Not in their original condition, anyway.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You intend to alter the formulas?”

“I may not understand what I type, but I'm familiar enough with Baltimore's work that I could fudge a couple of formulas and no one would be the wiser.”

“Unless, of course, they check when the file was last accessed. I would.”

“Yeah, but it'd be natural for me to open it to ensure it was still there.”

“You don't have to open it to ensure that.” He paused, expression thoughtful. “There is another option, however.”

“What?” It was warily said, but I supposed I should be thankful he wasn't threatening to grab everything and lock me up. Not yet anyway.

“We insert a Trojan into the computer. One that will destroy all files the
second
time it's booted up.”

I frowned. “Why the second time?”

“Because they will undoubtedly want to check that the file is present—and not obviously tampered with—before they hand over Jackson.”

“Oh.” I bit my lip for a moment, then added, “Can you access such a Trojan, though?”

He gave me the sort of look one would give a particularly thick child. “I wouldn't have suggested it if I couldn't.”

“Meaning if you put this thing on the laptop, you'll let me meet with the sindicati? Alone?”

“If that's the way you want it, then yes. But just remember, the sindicati are
not
to be trusted. They are just as likely to kill you as release Jackson.”

I remembered the vampire's promise. Remembered his anger at my doubting his word. They
would
let us walk away. Just how
far
we got—particularly now that I'd pissed him off—was anyone's guess.

“They wouldn't want to try,” I said quietly.

His gaze met mine. After a moment, he nodded. “We'll head to your place first—”

The ringing of a phone cut him off. He picked up the earpiece sitting in the cup holder and slipped it on. “Yes?”

I couldn't hear what was being said, but if Sam's expression was anything to go by, all was not well at PIT.

“When did this happen?” he growled. Darkness crowded the car's cabin again, its caress sending goose bumps down my spine. And yet the element of sensuality was perhaps even stronger, attracting as fiercely as the darkness repelled.

I really,
really
wished I knew what the hell it was.

“Many fatalities?” The reply was obviously yes, because the darkness became so fierce it was suddenly hard to breathe. “Keep me updated. Oh, and, Adam? You want to e-mail me that doc file Trojan? I need to set it up on a laptop.”

With that, he pulled the earpiece out and threw it into the cup holder.

“Problems?” I said, a little breathlessly.

“You could say that.” He shot me a glance that was pure fury—but this time, at least, it wasn't aimed at me. “It seems your boss just walked out of the morgue.”

“T
hat's impossible,” I said automatically.

“Obviously not, given it just happened.” He planted his foot, and the big car leapt forward. “It would appear Baltimore was somehow infected with the red plague virus. He woke up, broke free of the morgue, killing two people and injuring four others in the process.”

“Fuck.” I hesitated. “What will happen to those who survived now?”

“Now,” he said, voice grim, “the waiting begins.”

I frowned. “I thought you were killing anyone infected with the red plague.”

He hesitated. “Not immediately. It often depends on what happens.”

My confusion grew. “What do you mean? You said any scratch or bite would transmit the disease, and that it was all downhill from there.”

“It is, but if you actually
survive
the infection, there appears to be two levels of degeneration.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Meaning what?”

“The majority of those infected
do
become red cloaks, simply because that is who they are
infected by. But it appears that there are some humans who have a natural resistance to the infection. While they still turn into vampirelike beings, they do not descend into utter madness. If you're infected by one of these, then you also have a greater chance of avoiding madness.”

“What percentage are we talking about?”

“About ten percent of the cloaks, as near as we can figure, have avoided the madness.”

Meaning it was more than possible for someone to be controlling the rest of the cloaks. “Then why not use the blood of those who have shown resistance to make a vaccine?”

“It's being tried; trust me. But not only is the virus constantly mutating within the body; it also reacts very differently in each person, depending on the race.”

“Could that also be the reason some shifters are immune?”

“Possibly.” He shrugged. “As I've said, we still don't understand a whole lot about this virus.”

I snorted. “Tell me again why everybody thought it was a good idea to develop this thing?”

“Discovering the secret to immortality could very well help cure some of man's greatest diseases.”

“Or it might just create more damn problems.” It certainly had in this case. “What happens to those who don't fall into madness?”

“Whether they do or not, the result is generally the same. They head into Brooklyn.”

“Why would they all go there?”

He shrugged. “We suspect there's something in the virus that produces a hive mentality in survivors.”

As I'd noted the night I'd saved his ass. “Which would suggest that everything they do is for the greater good of the hive. And that means the question that has to be asked is, who is the queen of this particular hive?”

“
That
we don't know.”

“Meaning there
is
someone in control?”

The look he gave me was fierce. I thought for a moment he wouldn't answer, but he surprised me.

“Yes. But we have no idea who and no idea how he or she gained control.”

“Well, you'd think it would have to be someone who had natural resistance to the drug. Perhaps someone who was one of those initial infections.”

“No. All the initial infections resulted in death or madness.”

I wondered if the deaths were a result of the infection or PIT's intervention. I suspected the latter. “How many people have been infected all told? Have you any idea?”

“Outside the initial twenty or so, no. We estimate there's close to a hundred, though, if what we've seen in Brooklyn is any indication.”

One hundred red cloaks. Fuck, that was a scary thought. “Why isn't the army involved? Why don't you all just go in there and shoot the shit out of the bastards?”

“That was tried. It ended very badly.” He swung
off the freeway and onto Footscray Road. We were obviously going to my apartment rather than PIT headquarters. “Fifty men dead, another twenty infected, most of those now also dead.”

I stared at him. “How in the hell did you keep a toll like
that
secret?”

“We didn't. Remember the reports of the two Chinook helicopters crash-landing during secret maneuvers?”

“That was a cover story?”

“Afraid so.”

“But surely to god someone in Brooklyn witnessed what happened. I mean, it's not only the red cloaks who hide there, but all sorts of thieves and felons. How could the story of so many deaths
not
get out?”

“Thieves and felons are thin on the ground in certain parts of Brooklyn these days. Most of them have gotten the hell out of the sections the red cloaks control.”

I hesitated, then said, “Is that when your brother was killed? During the military raid?”

“No. As I said, Luke was one of the first people killed by a red cloak. The military were sent in not long after that.”

Again the edge of anger and guilt ran through his voice. “Was the scientist at work when the virus took full effect?”

“Yeah. He was working in one of the solo labs at the time, so no one noticed the changes until it was too late.”

“And are you sure he's dead? Is it possible
he's
the hive leader?”

“No. He was riddled with bullets. Even if he
could
have survived the body shots, his brains were splattered all across the pavement. There was nothing left, and certainly no chance of any sort of rebirth.”

“So the virus
is
capable of rebooting its host in much the same manner as a vampire's body is rebooted?”

“We had been hoping it wasn't possible, but your boss walking out this evening suggests otherwise.” His expression was grim. “Future victims will have to be burned immediately after their deaths, it seems.”

I scrubbed a hand across my eyes. “So what happens with Baltimore? Are you even going after him, given what happened to both the scientist and the military?”

“We're planning to try.”

“God, be careful, Sam. I'd hate to have to come and rescue you again.”

He snorted softly. “Thanks, Red, but next time you might be better leaving it in the hands of fate.”

“Sorry. I've tried to do that over the years, but I just can't seem to stop sticking my nose into fate's business.” Especially when fate was sticking her claws into someone I'd once cared about.

Someone I
still
cared about, despite every mean and nasty thing he'd said and done.

The whole trouble was, the man I'd loved
wasn't
gone. He'd just been buried very deep—at least where I was concerned.

“Or anyone else's, for that matter,” he noted, voice dry.

I half smiled. “What happens next? Do you have to run off and join the hunt?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Baltimore has been tracked to Brooklyn, and there are only a few of us capable of hunting within that place.”

“What about the notebook?”

“We find it. That's a priority right now. The hunt for Baltimore won't start until dusk anyway.”

I frowned. “But that gives him time to find a hideout or join up with the rest of the crazies.”

“That's presuming he
is
crazy. I actually suspect he might be one of the second-tier survivors.”

“Why?”

“Because he'd be of little use to whoever is behind the hive if he were a mindless worker. For whatever reason, it appears the red cloaks are as desperate to get their hands on the cure as the sindicati. Why else would they have turned the head scientist of both labs involved?”

“It's not
that
surprising,” I replied. “I mean, surely even the second-tier survivors must fear an eventual descent into madness?”

“It is certainly an ever-present threat.” He glanced at me. “Survivors have told us it's like a black curtain they constantly have to push back.”

“Have you got any survivors working at PIT?”

He hesitated. “We have people who were attacked. Whether all those who survived are still working, I couldn't say.”

“If they are, isn't that a risk, given what you said about the black curtain?”

“No, because all our survivors are tagged and tracked. If they go off the reservation—in any way—they're killed.”

I blinked. PIT didn't seem to hold a lot of belief in the sanctity of human life. “How, if they're off the so-called reservation?”

“It's done via a form of suicide pill that can be activated remotely. Every survivor has one implanted. They stray, and they're dead.”

“Nasty.”

“But better than killing survivors outright.”

I guess. I studied the road ahead and realized we were close to my apartment. And that Sam was intent on coming in with me.

I took a deep breath and slowly released it. “You should wait in the car while I go search for the notebook.”

“Why? So you can run off with it?”

“Sam, I promise—”

“And we both know how much weight your promises hold, don't we?”

It took every ounce of strength I had not to bite back, not to give in to all the anger and hurt that surged at his words. “When we split,” I said, voice even, “I sold or burned every single thing that reminded me of you and our time together.
Everything
. Even the damn ring you gave me.”

“That was my mother's—”

“And now it's a lump of metal sitting at the bottom of a rubbish dump somewhere. As I've already said, I was a little pissed off.” And really not thinking with all that much clarity. If I had been, I probably wouldn't have melted the ring, because I knew it had been in his family a long time. “I was determined to start fresh, and I have. I don't want you in my apartment, Sam.”

“In case it's escaped your memory, I've already been in your apartment.”

“Yes, but I stayed outside. Big difference.”

He snorted. “If there's any sort of logic in that statement, then I'm not seeing it.”

No, he wouldn't. But then, he wasn't the one who'd see him surrounded by my things. Who'd later have to touch the same items he'd touched. Who'd once again see him in the room every time I closed my eyes. I'd freed myself from that sort of anguish when we'd moved. I didn't want to return to it, even if Sam was doing nothing more than helping me search for the missing notebook.

“You can wait outside the door if you like. There's only one exit—”

“Bullshit,” he cut in. “You have a patio. And even
I
know phoenixes can take winged form.”

“Yeah, but it's the middle of the day and there's a pervert in the opposite building who constantly has his telescope trained on our building in the hope of catching nakedness. I'm not about to out myself as something more than human to him or
anyone else. Not for the sake of a damn notebook.”

“Look, I have no desire to invade your privacy any more than necessary, but I will not—”

“I'll keep the door open,” I said. “Or you can go in and search. Either way, there is no way known you and I are going to be in that apartment at the same time. I couldn't take it.”

“The woman I”—he hesitated, looking away briefly before adding—“once loved is stronger than that. Besides, memories aren't deadly.”

“Unless you have too many of them.”

And I did. Many lifetimes' worth, in fact. It never got any easier to ignore them. Starting afresh, in a place that held none, was the only way I'd learned to cope with lifetime after lifetime of disappointments and heartache. I liked where we were currently living. I didn't want to have to move just yet.

“There's no such thing as too many memories, Em.” His voice was soft, distant. Wistful, even. “Especially when it's only memories that stand between you and utter darkness.”

I frowned and shifted slightly in the car seat to study him. “And is that what you're doing, Sam?”

His gaze met mine. There was no darkness in those blue depths, no anger. For the first time since we'd been reunited, there was just him, me, and the echoes of all that we had been and all that we could have been. And I knew in that moment that he felt the loss of our relationship as keenly as
I did. That he missed it—missed me—as keenly as I missed him.

But I also knew that it was
because
of the darkness more than everything else that had happened between us that he would never admit to either.

“Who said I was talking about myself?” He pulled his gaze away from mine and turned the car onto a side street.

Frustration swirled through me, even though I wasn't entirely surprised he'd backed away from the moment. He hadn't been overly forthcoming with general information, so it wasn't surprising he was even less so when it came to whatever was going on with him. Because something very definitely was.

We drove around my building several times before we found a space a block away. Once he'd parked, he held out one hand and said, “Apartment key. Sorry, Red, but that notebook is too damn important for me to trust that you'd hand it over once you've found it.”

“Fine,” I muttered. I went through my handbag, found my keys, and slammed them into his waiting hand. “The notebooks were only ever in the living areas. They were never in the bedrooms.”

“Don't worry,” he said, amusement in his voice. “I had no intention of going through your underwear drawer.”

I didn't bother replying. It wouldn't have been of much use anyway—he'd already left the car. I watched him walk across the road. And with
every step away from me, that darkness seemed to wrap around him again, as if it were some sort of private storm.

It made me wonder if I still would have fallen for him if we'd met now rather than years ago. Fate could be a bitch at the best of times, but even she wasn't often
this
cruel. The men slated to become heartbreakers each rebirth were generally decent enough in and of themselves. It was mostly outside circumstances—and the inability to either accept what I was or the situation with Rory—that caused the problems. Although there
had
been one or two who were either outright bastards or utter psychos . . . The serial killer had been one of those. Not that we'd realized
that
until it had been far too late for both me and his other victims.