Fireborn (9 page)

I lowered the weapon but didn't slip the ILS back on. The red cloak might be trapped, but that didn't mean he wasn't still dangerous.

Jackson climbed out of the truck, a wide grin splitting his features and his enjoyment so strong it burned the air. “Shall we see how our captive fairs?”

I nodded and gave him the gun. He was legal to carry. I wasn't, and we did have a more official follower somewhere behind us.

He approached the broken car from the front and with caution, the gun held at the ready. The engine was screaming, the sound high-pitched and grating, and steam billowed out of the grille. The smell of gas stung the air, a potentially dangerous situation if there were any sparks or if the leaking vapor hit the hot exhaust or catalytic converter.

There was no movement inside the car. The air bags had all gone off, but were even now deflating, beginning to hang like loose white sacks from their moorings. The windshield had shattered, the bits of glass glittering like diamonds all over the crumpled front end. The red cloak inside wasn't moving. There was blood in his dark hair and he slumped half-sideways, as if the seat belt was the only thing holding him upright.

Jackson stepped closer, his nostrils flaring. Distaste spread across his face. “God, these things smell
rancid
.”

“Well, they
are
diseased.” I stayed where I was
and rubbed my arms. I'd been close to these things once before, and that was more than enough.

“This one is also human.” He hesitated. “Or maybe that should be
was
human.”

“Most vampires were human at one point in their lives,” I reminded him. “That in itself is not an oddity.”

“Yeah, but regular vamps smell like vamps. These things still have a human overtone. It's as if they're not quite turned.”

Which would explain why they could waltz around in daylight when regular vampires could not.

As he took another step closer, flames began to lick the bottom of the car. “Jackson—”

“I can feel the fire,” he cut in. “It's no danger, trust me.”

“Meaning you're putting it out?”

He flashed me a grin over his shoulder. “What, and waste all that lovely heat?”

“That lovely heat,” I said tartly, “will crisp our suspect, which is not such a good thing if you want to question him. Not that I think
that's
a good idea.”

In the shadows crowding the rear seat, something moved. Tension and fear suddenly crawled across my skin. “I think there might be—”

Before I could get the rest of the sentence out, a seething, screaming mass that seemed more animal than human exploded from the car. Jackson swore and raised the gun, but it was flames, not
bullets, that shot out at the red cloak. They encased the creature, but didn't stop him. It cannoned into Jackson, sending him sprawling, and came straight at me.

I swore and threw myself sideways, hitting the dirt hard enough to hurt but rolling back to my feet in one smooth motion. Fire erupted from my flesh, burning around me—through me—until I
wasn't
flesh, just a seething mass of flame. The creature lunged for me, his body afire and his red eyes glowing with both the reflection of my fire and his own madness. I retreated, trying to keep out of his way, but he was too fast and too close. His wickedly curved nails sliced through my flames, but there was no flesh left to rend and tear and possibly infect.

I loosed a long stream of fire at him. It lassoed his torso and snapped tight. My flames, stronger and more deadly than Jackson's, raced across the red cloak's flesh, but he didn't seem to care. He just kept coming at me even as his flesh blackened and began to peel away.

Two shots rang out, the sound barely cutting across the roar of my fire. The red cloak's head exploded, spraying blood and bone and brain matter everywhere.

I shuddered, suddenly glad I wasn't wearing skin. The last thing I needed or wanted was to be covered in red cloak goo.

The rest of the body continued to burn, the combination of Jackson's flames and my own
quickly rendering flesh, muscle, and bone down to little more than ashes that the wind picked up and scattered through the forest.

I took a deep breath, then doused my fire and regained human form.

Jackson stared at me.

“I'd guessed what you were, but it's a totally different fucking thing to see it.” His voice held a touch of awe. “I had no idea a phoenix could become nothing but flame.”

“And I didn't know you could draw fire into your body and use it as a weapon. I thought fire Fae could only shape and control it.” My gaze scanned him. He didn't seem to be hurt or bleeding, but I nevertheless added, “Did he scratch you at all?”

“No. He was too busy trying to get at you.” He cocked his head to the side, listening intently. After a moment, he added, “Get in the car.”

“What?”

“Our second follower is coming.” He made the Glock safe and then strode toward his truck. “Get in the car, Emberly.”

“But—”

“Do you want to be stuck all day in a police station being interrogated about this mess?” he snapped. “Because I certainly don't.”

I stared at him doubtfully, knowing it was stupid to run, knowing that Sam would be madder than hell when he eventually caught up with us, and unable to deny the attraction of either.

“They'll just find us again, so what's the point?”

“The point,” he said, opening the driver's side door, “is that you and I can at least talk beforehand.”

I snorted softly. “What, and synchronize our stories?”

“You can say what you want. I certainly will.”

“Then why run? It's not like we can't talk afterward.”

“Yeah, but after this, their noose around you will be tighter, and I might not get close enough to ask my questions.” His gaze met mine, grim but determined. “However much I desire you, Emberly, I still want information.”

At least
that
was the complete and honest truth. Unsure whether to be happy or not, I climbed into the car, then stared out the side window as he took off.

We got back onto the main road and he hit the gas, steering the car through the twists and turns with ease. After a few more miles, he turned off again, then slowed down to cut the dust cloud. The trees closed in until it seemed we were driving along little more than a goat track.

“Where the hell is this place of yours?” I asked eventually.

He grinned. “You're in it. Have been for the last mile.”

“You own a large chunk of forest?”

He nodded. “As I said, I need to be able to commune with nature on a regular basis.”

We came out of the forest abruptly. The clearing was lush and green and sloped gently down toward a stream that was rock-lined and dotted with winter flowers.

He stopped and got out, then grabbed a basket from the back of the truck and motioned me to follow him. We walked down to the stream, where he set up a picnic on a grass verge near the cheerfully bubbling water.

“So,” he said, flipping the basket open to reveal sandwiches, cakes, a bottle of wine, and a thermos. “Tell me about phoenixes. Are you creatures of flame or flesh?”

“Technically, neither. We're spirits who have three forms available to us—flesh, fire, and bird.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Bird?”

I half shrugged. “A firebird. It's a form that's really only practical at sunset, because it's the only time our rather exotic red, orange, and yellow plumage doesn't stand out.”

“Huh.” He opened the wine and poured two glasses. “Is it true that a phoenix rises from the ashes of its death?”

I nodded. “We have a life span of one hundred years.”

“Meaning you have to relive those shitty teenage years over and over?” He shook his head in mock sorrow. “That
has
to be the pits.”

I grinned. “We only have to do it once. We're reborn into adulthood after that.”

He handed me a glass, then raised his own. “To
never having to face teenage years more than once. And the hope that this sharing of information doesn't end here.”

I snorted softly, but nevertheless clicked my glass against his. The wine was cool and fruity without being too sweet. “Speaking of information sharing, how about you start?”

He opened one of the foil-wrapped packages, revealing chicken and avocado on rye. “Have you ever heard of a Professor James Wilson?”

I picked up one of the sandwiches and shook my head as I bit into it. It tasted incredible, but I was always horribly famished after a flame up, and I demolished it rather than savoring it like it deserved.

“Ah,” he said, eating the other half at a more leisurely pace. “He worked in the research division of Rosen Pharmaceuticals.”

Who just happened to be one of our major competitors and was, coincidently, owned and run by Lady Harriet's ex. To say the two did not get along was like saying rain was wet.

“Wilson was murdered while on his way home two weeks ago,” he continued. “According to witnesses, the killer had a scythelike tattoo on his right cheek and wore a red-hooded cloak.”

What was the likelihood of Baltimore and Wilson—both of whom worked for privately funded research labs—being murdered within a matter of weeks of each other and the murders not being connected somehow? Realistically, slender to none. We might have no witnesses for
Mark's murder, and he might have been tortured rather than torn apart by a red cloak, but it still seemed too much of a coincidence. At least to my radar, anyway.

And yet something Jackson had said earlier niggled. I frowned. “Why did you seem so surprised to see our dead red cloak, given the description you were given matched the ones that chased us?”

“Because they really
don't
match. All the witnesses were close enough to note a marking on his cheek and yet made no mention of the way he smelled, his gauntness, or the red eyes. That seems rather odd to me.”

“Witnesses to hideous crimes are often unreliable when it comes to providing solid information.”

He grimaced. “I know, but it still strikes me as odd.”

I wondered if Sam thought it was odd, too. Not that he'd ever tell me one way or another. “What happened to the red cloak? Did anyone try to stop him?”

“No, and you can't blame anyone for that, given Wilson was apparently sliced up pretty badly. The red cloak disappeared down a nearby sewer drain, and no one has seen him since.”

And weren't likely to, I suspected, unless they were game enough to head into Brooklyn. Was that the real reason Sam had been there the night I'd saved his life? Had he been trying to find Wilson's murderer? It seemed logical—and it would
also explain why the red cloaks had been so determined to get rid of him. Maybe he'd been close to uncovering their location.

“So was Wilson simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, or do you think there's something more behind his murder?”

“Personally, I think it's very likely the sindicati are behind it.”

The sindicati were basically the vampire version of the mafia—only a hell of a lot more dangerous. I frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“Because the sindicati have a finger in every nasty pie in this city, so why couldn't they be involved in the murder of a scientist working on a top-secret project?”

“They're more likely to attempt to kidnap him and gain his secrets than kill him,” I said. “He's no good to anyone dead. Besides, I can't imagine them working with the likes of the red cloaks.”

“They'd work with whoever—or whatever—was best suited to the job they wanted done.” Jackson's voice was grim, making me suspect he'd had dealings—or, at the very least, crossed paths—with the sindicati in the past. He added, “However, I haven't been hired to find Wilson's murderer. My employer is more interested in retrieving his research.”

My eyebrows rose. “When was his research stolen?”

“The day after his murder. Whoever did it hacked into Wilson's computers at the research
foundation and completely erased every note Wilson had made.”

“They didn't have backups?”

“They did. Someone broke into the foundation the same night and did a hatchet job on the backup system.”

All of which was a chilling echo of what had happened after Baltimore's murder. “Have they tried to retrieve the erased information?”

“Yes, but it wasn't successful.”

Meaning whoever was responsible knew a thing or two about computers, because it wasn't easy to so completely erase information from a hard drive. “So who's your employer? And what does this have to do with Professor Baltimore's murder?”

He unwrapped another package, this time revealing thick slabs of corned beef on sourdough with a lavish helping of mustard pickle. Not my favorite, but given how much my belly was still rumbling, I wasn't about to be picky.

“Denny Rosen—the company president, not the gadabout son—employed me after getting little satisfaction from the team the investigation was handed over to.”

Three guesses as to who
that
was, I thought, amusement running through me. “I don't suppose you know the name of the detective currently in charge?”

“Sam Turner.” He paused, eyeing me. “You know him?”

“Used to.” I shrugged and tried to ignore that tiny, insane fraction that wished I still did. “Good luck getting information about the case out of him. He's always been a clam when it comes to discussing any aspect of his work.”

“I actually make a point of not talking to the cops. They tend to get antsy about private investigators snooping around their patch during an ongoing investigation.”

“That's probably a good move.” I licked the sweet pickle mustard off my fingers and said, “So why did Rosen point you in Baltimore's direction? I'm gathering he's not just doing it to piss off his ex.”