Flameout (14 page)

My sleep, however, was slower in coming, and even when it did hit, it was filled with a turbulent mix of warnings that involved not only fire, but death and destruction. And yet—unusually for my dreams—none of it was clear.

Which meant I woke at dawn, feeling less than rested and a whole lot more troubled.

Jackson was still snoring away, and Rory wasn't yet back from his shift, so I silently pulled on a sweater and padded downstairs. After making myself a pot of tea and several slices of toast, I sat down at the table and booted up the laptop.

A Google search for “The Vic” revealed the results Grace had mentioned—the Victoria Hotel and a bar. I clicked on the hotel link and read through the various bits about its history, and discovered it had once been more commonly referred to as “The Vic.” I made a reservation for the following night and requested the room the note had mentioned. I had no idea what we were going to do if it wasn't available, but I guessed we could worry about that when the time came.

For the next hour or so, I checked out various news and social media sites to catch up on what was happening in the rest of the world. Rory came in just as I'd started answering work e-mails. He smelled of
smoke, fire, and happiness, the latter reflected in the huge grin that split his features when he saw me.

“I'm gathering it was a very good night,” I said, voice dry. His whole body vibrated with the force of the flames he'd drawn in, and his skin was practically glowed.

“We had to attend a massive factory fire that took all night to get under control. It was glorious.” He caught my hands, tugged me into his arms, and kissed me soundly. Only it was more than just a kiss; energy flowed from him to me, and, oh, it felt
fine
.

“Seriously, you two,” Jackson said behind us. “This place is about three seconds away from combusting. How about we tone it down several notches?”

Rory laughed, the sound vibrating briefly against my lips as he pulled away. “Sorry, but I just had to share the joy.”

“Hey, if I were
that
way inclined, I'd be standing in line for the sharing, trust me.” He moved across to the kettle and flicked it on. “However, doing so here is not a good idea, as evidenced by the wall.”

I twisted around. There were scorch marks running up the wall, some of them bad enough that the paint had browned and begun peeling away. Any longer and we
would
have set this place alight.

“Oops,” I said, even as Rory added, somewhat sheepishly, “And we were discussing just how inflammable this place is only a day ago.”

“You might have to start using the blacksmith's place,” Jackson said. “At least
that
has some protection against flames.”

“True, but it wouldn't be wise.” I picked up my
empty plate, walked into the kitchen, and dumped it in the sink. “You need it to commune with your element. If we start using it, too, we risk someone finding out about it. Besides, we can simply take a drive into the country.”

“Which is also not without its problems.”

“Right now, nothing is.” I glanced at Rory. “Do you want something to eat?”

“Nah, I had something at the station before I left. What are you two up to today?”

I shrugged. “We'll probably search Wilson's place.”

Jackson nodded as he picked up the whistling kettle and poured some water into his mug. “Right now, there's nothing much else we can do.”

“What about Radcliffe's phone?” Rory asked. “You hacked into that yet?”

“The program broke through five minutes ago,” Jackson said. “It's what actually woke me. But I haven't had a chance to look at it yet. Why?”

Rory hesitated. “There were a couple of occasions last night when I had an odd feeling I was being watched. Which, given the enormity of the fire, we definitely were, but this just felt more personal.”

I frowned, that slight knot of unease sharpening in my chest again. But I resisted the urge to tell him yet again to be careful. Or, better yet, to stay here. I'd done enough of that already; besides, I could hardly beg him to be safe when what I was doing was an even bigger risk. “Did you feel it when you were at the station?”

“No, but that doesn't mean they weren't there—especially if it's the rats. They're harder to sense when they're in animal form.”

“What makes you think it is the rats?” Jackson raised his mug, silently offering Rory one.

Rory shook his head. “Just a feeling. But if
was
the rats, why watch me? Radcliffe must suspect we have his phone, so why hasn't he activated the search program and come here to retrieve it?”

Jackson swore loudly. “Fuck, I didn't even
think
of that possibility. Which is dumb, given we got rid of our SIM cards for that same reason.”

“Yeah, I felt like an idiot last night when I thought about it.” Rory's voice was wry.

“Maybe he thinks we gave the phone to his ex,” I said. “We did tell him she had his wallet, remember.”

“True,” Jackson mused. “And I suspect Radcliffe didn't fancy tackling her in any way, shape, or form.”

That's because Mary Johnson—Radcliffe's ex, and the mother of his son—was a straight-talking and, I suspected, straight-shooting woman. She certainly wasn't someone I'd want to get on the wrong side of.

“Either way, we'd better get that damn phone out of here, just in case.”

Jackson nodded. “Once we retrieve any information from it, we can basically dump it.” He hesitated, and the smile that touched his lips had a decidedly devilish edge. “Perhaps Mary Johnson might like to see it.”

“I'm sure she would. Imagine the havoc she could wreak.” I glanced at Rory. “Are you working again tonight? Because we have to go chase a ghost at a hotel in the city.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And how did ghost busting suddenly become part of this mission?”

I gave him a quick rundown of both what Grace
had wanted and what she'd said about us. He grunted and shook his head. “I'm liking the sound of the future less and less.”

“We've been through dark times before.” My tone was philosophical, even though I totally agreed with him. “We'll get through this one, too.”

“So what were the Dark Ages like?” Jackson asked. “As bad as history would have us believe?”

“And what makes you think we're old enough to have lived through the Dark Ages?” I raised an eyebrow. “Or that we'd even answer that particular question?”

He grinned. “Oh, come on, you can tell me. I won't share with anyone else. Scout's honor.”

“And were you actually ever a scout?” Rory asked.

“No, but that's not the point.”

Rory snorted and pushed away from the table. “I'm heading upstairs for a much-needed shower. Make sure you lock up tight if you leave before I'm out.”

“Will do.” I hesitated. “Did you manage to ask Mike about getting some clean phones?”

“Oh yeah.” He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out what looked like a brand-new Sony. “One is the best he could do on short notice, but he's going to see if he can acquire a couple more tonight. He'll get back to me tomorrow.”

I accepted the phone and hit the
POWER
button. The little Optus signal came up in the corner. “Who is it registered to?”

“He didn't say, but it's got six months of calls and data paid up front.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Is it likely to be reported stolen?”

“Nope. Don't ask why, because I don't know.” He motioned to the old phone on the wall. “Take note of the number, and leave me a message if necessary.”

“I will.

“Good. And now I'm off for that shower.” He gave us a half wave and disappeared up the stairs.

I returned my gaze to Jackson. “So, Wilson's?”

“Yes. We'd better pack some clothes for tonight, though, just in case we don't get back here.”

“And Radcliffe's phone?”

“I'll copy everything across to our new phone. Then we can either dump Radcliffe's on the way to Wilson's or after.”

“After would be easier. We'll be hitting peak-hour traffic if we try to cut across to Mary's now.”

“Good point. After, it is.”

I tossed him the new phone then headed upstairs to grab some clothes. Half an hour later, with the data transfer finished, we were in the car and heading toward Wilson's place. This time, instead of parking out on the road, he pulled straight into the driveway.

“Might as well pretend we're meant to be here,” he said. “It'll stop the neighbors reporting us.”

“If the neighbors didn't bother reporting a ruckus when Hunt and his vampire mate attacked us, I doubt they'd even look twice at us today.”

“Yeah, but word would have gotten out by now that Wilson was murdered and Amanda is missing. Neighborhoods like this exist for that sort of gossip.”

“They used to, but these days it seemed that most people don't even know their neighbors, let alone look out for them.” I climbed out of the car and studied the
house. It was a double-fronted brown brick home that looked no different from any of the other houses that lined the street. It certainly didn't reflect the money Wilson would have earned over the years, but maybe he didn't care about all that sort of stuff. Not everyone flaunted their wealth.

Jackson strode over to the front door; in matter of seconds, he had the thing open.

“Just where did you learn that trick?” I asked as he tucked the lockpick back into his wallet.

“A friend of a friend.” He cautiously took several steps inside then stopped, his body tense, ready for action. Heat emanated from his skin, but at least this time there weren't sparks.

“I'm gathering said friend was something of a thief.” I stopped beside him. The house was still and the air was cold and stale. I couldn't sense any sort of body heat, but then, I hadn't last time, either, and that had almost resulted in Hunt killing me.

Neither of us was about to make that sort of mistake again. Jackson went right, into the bedroom where we'd found a barely alive Amanda, and I went left, into the living room. I checked every possible hiding spot, moving from there into the kitchen then the laundry.

“Nothing here,” I said, meeting Jackson back in the hall.

“No.” The tension might have left him, but heat still rolled off him.

I frowned. “Is that normal?”

Confusion flitted across his features. “Is what normal?”

“The heat you're emitting.”

“I'm not . . .” He stopped and raised his fingers. They weren't glowing red, but I could nevertheless feel the waves of warmth coming off them. He stared at them intently for several seconds, and the heat abated. “It's obviously happening on a subconscious level.”

“Meaning you and I might have to start having some training sessions.”

He grinned. “Do they involve nakedness?”

“No, they do not.”

“Well, damn.” He lowered his hands, his grin fading. “While it sounds rather ludicrous that a fire fae would need lessons on controlling flame, I'm thinking they might be a good idea.”

“Especially if Rory is right, and that in combining our spirits, you've somehow gained phoenix DNA.”

He frowned. “I really can't see how that's
remotely
possible.”

“I'm not flesh and blood. I'm spirit.” I shrugged. “How we can say what is and isn't possible when, as far as I know, nothing like that has ever been tried before?”

“Nothing like being a pioneer, is there?” He shook his head and motioned toward the nearest doorway. “Let's start searching.”

We did. And it took hours. We pulled every room apart, and we found precisely what I'd expected to find—nothing. If Wilson had been keeping a copy of his notes, then he certainly wasn't keeping them here. Even Jackson's handy little image radar device didn't reveal any hidden spaces or safes.

“Well, that was a big fucking waste of time, wasn't
it?” I crossed my arms and leaned one hip against the kitchen counter.

“The whole search might be,” Jackson said. “The truth of the matter is, no one is
actually
sure if Wilson had a secret stash of notes. Everyone is just presuming he did.”

“Well, Baltimore did, so I guess it's a fair enough assumption.” I stared moodily out the window. The backyard was overgrown and unkempt, and the two sheds that lined the rear fence looked about ready to fall down. I motioned toward them with one hand. “Neither of those outbuildings looks like the type of place you'd want to store important information.”

“Which is all the more reason to check them.”

“Totally, but I really don't think—” A flicker of movement near the edge of one of the sheds caught my eye, and I stopped.

“What?” Jackson said, instantly alert.

“I'm not sure.” I frowned. The movement wasn't repeated and yet goose bumps were crawling across my skin. I might not be able to see anything, but that instinctive part of me sure as hell could
sense
something. “It might be just the wind, but—”

The words died as my heart leapt up into my throat. It wasn't the wind.

It was a man, and he was aiming a gun straight at my face.

“G
un!” I yelled, and threw myself sideways.

I hit the floor with a grunt and covered my head with my hands as bullets sprayed through the kitchen. Glass, china, plaster, and wood rained all around me, filling the air with dust and deadly missiles.

“Fucking
hell
,” Jackson said from where he'd hunkered down in the hallway. Bullets cut through the plasterwork on either side of the doorway, but the hall itself remained relatively untouched. “Whoever these bastards are, they certainly mean business.”

“Which means the assault force at the back may not be the only one.” I winced as a shard of glass stabbed into my arm. “Do you want to check the front?”

“Good idea.” He disappeared, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the continuing storm of metal in the kitchen.

I plucked the glass from my arm, tossed it one side, and then crab-crawled toward the doorway Jackson had just vacated. The deadly rain of plaster and wood eased as I hit the hall, but I'd barely had a chance to drag in a relieved breath when the rear door flew open and a thickset man bearing the biggest fucking gun I'd ever seen stepped inside. His gaze hit mine, and a delighted grin stretched his thin lips.

“I do so like an easy tar—”

He didn't get the rest of the sentence out, because I hit him with fire and sent him tumbling backward. He screamed as he fell down the steps, even though my flames weren't burning him. It was a sound that abruptly cut off.

Hurt,
I thought.
Or dead.

Either way, it didn't stop more bullets spraying through the open door. They splinted the floorboards and threw needle-sharp daggers of wood into my face. Machine-gun guy had a friend.

I cursed and became fire. As my flesh form disappeared, a second man stepped through the doorway, raised his gun, and fired. The bullets cut through me but, in this form, caused no harm. I ignored them and surged forward. The man kept firing even as he backpedaled; the intensity of my flames—fueled now by anger—had the bullets exploding, sending shards of metal spinning through the air. He cursed, spun, and ran—but not fast enough. I grabbed him by the back of the neck with one hand then spun a fiery rope around his body and pinned him in place. He screamed and fought my hold on him, with little effect. I lassoed him to a nearby porch post—ensuring the flames didn't set the house on fire—and did a quick search around the backyard. There was no one else here.

The man I'd pushed out the door hadn't moved. I suspected—given the odd angle of his neck—that he'd broken it, but he was, at least, still breathing. Which was good, as I hadn't actually meant to kill him. Dead men can tell no tales, after all, and we needed to know who'd sent these bastards.

Although I very much suspected the “who” was Radcliffe.

I relieved my captive of his gun then made my way back into the house—and had to do a quick sidestep to avoid crashing into Jackson as he belted down the hall.

I regained flesh form and quickly scanned him. Aside from the beginnings of a bruise on his left cheek, he looked unscathed. “How many more were there?”

“Two. The bastards were obviously intending to finish us while the rats at the back had us pinned down. Both are currently unconscious.” He paused, and glanced out the back door. “I'm gathering from all that screaming you've got one tied up?”

“Yes. I think other one broke his neck falling down the stairs.”

“Dead?”

I shook my head. “But we'd better call the ambulance. I imagine the cops will already be on the way—I doubt even Wilson's neighbors will ignore all that gunfire.” I hesitated. “Maybe we should just leave. At the very least, we're going to end up in police custody for a few hours, and we can't afford to take the chance of being charged. Not when we've got to be at the Vic tonight.”

Jackson was shaking his head even before I'd finished speaking. “Someone will have taken note of our car.”

“It's a rental—”

“With our names on the agreement. We don't need the cops putting a BOLO on us.” He paused. “It might be worth putting a call into PIT, though.”

I snorted. “Like
they're
going to help us out of this mess.”

“Actually, I think they will. Especially if they
are
using us to do some of their legwork.”

“That's a mighty big ‘if.'”

“Yes, but what have we got to lose?”

“Nothing, I guess.” I dragged out our new phone to make the call then paused. The last thing we needed was PIT getting ahold of our new number and running a trace on us. I peered around the kitchen door. The landline on the wall appeared in one piece. “I'll leave Sam a message; whether he'll pass it on or not is anyone's guess. Why don't you bring in the screamer? We can at least question our captives before the cops arrive.”

“Twenty bucks on Radcliffe being behind the attack,” he said as he strode outside.

“The odds on that are so short not even the biggest gambler would risk a bet.”

I headed into the kitchen and made the call. I guessed we'd find out soon enough whether Jackson's theory about PIT using us was right or not.

Jackson reappeared, my captive slung over his shoulder. The man had finally stopped screaming, but his gaze, when it met mine, promised murder. It was an expression I'd seen many times before, and on far scarier individuals than this particular rat.

I followed them into the living room. The other two men were sitting on the sofa and, like my captive, had been tied by a fiery rope, though their bonds had burned through their clothes and were beginning to blister their skin. I had no idea if it was intentional or not, given the recent incidents.

“Oh, it's very intentional,” Jackson said. “They deserve a lasting memento after trying to shred us to fucking pieces.”

With that I could only agree.

He none-too-gently dumped my captive beside the other two, then pulled a chair across to the front of the sofa and sat down. “So, gentlemen, kindly tell me who sent you here to kill us.”

The men remained mute. Stupid move.

Jackson flicked a finger, and the flames binding them briefly caressed their chins. Two men jumped back, but made no sound, while the third hawked and spat. Flame leapt from Jackson's fingers, quickly sizzling the offending globule.

“That,” he said, letting the flames die down again, “was not polite. Do it again and I'll burn your face off.”

Jackson, it seemed, was a whole lot more pissed off about being shot at than me.

Three sets of eyes glared at him. Jackson sighed. “Gentlemen, PIT has been called in, and we all know that they have no love for rats. They certainly won't treat your actions here kindly.”

One of the men—a black-haired, sallow-skinned fellow with pockmarked cheeks—snorted. “I'm thinking they're not going to be too pleased about
your
actions, either.”

“Ah, but here's the rub,” I said. “They gave us tacit agreement to be here. I'm guessing you can't say the same.”

Which wasn't exactly a lie. They might not have given us permission to break into Wilson's place, but they certainly hadn't told us
not
to.

The sallow-skinned fellow looked from me to Jackson and back again. “You obviously know why we're here, given you know we're rats.”

“Maybe we do and maybe we don't.” Jackson was still being ultrapolite, despite the annoyance that practically radiated from his skin. “Either way, you
will
answer our question.”

Sallow Skin glanced at the other two men. My captive shrugged, and Sallow Skin sniffed. “We've been watching the place for weeks. When we saw you enter, we contacted the boss—”

“‘The boss' being Radcliffe?” I cut in.

He nodded. “He's got something of a hard-on for you two. Needs revenge
real
bad for what you did both at his café and in the casino's parking lot.” He paused and shook his head. “It never pays to make a rat king look bad.”

I snorted. “From what we've been told, he doesn't hold the throne, his grandmother does.”

“She's the figurehead, not the true power.”

“Wonder if the grandmother is aware of that?” Jackson glanced briefly at me. “Maybe we should ask her.”

“She don't see no one,” Sallow Skin sneered. “Only her direct line has that honor.”

“Yeah, well, that might all change after Rinaldo hit on one of your boss's main gaming venues this morning.”

The look the three exchanged spoke of confusion. Obviously, they weren't up-to-date on the latest events, which was interesting. Although maybe it was simply
a matter of Radcliffe forgetting he had these four out here.

“Look,” I said as the wail of sirens began to cut through the air. “We need to speak to your boss—”

Sallow Skin snorted. “
That
is never going to happen.”

“I think it will when you tell him we now have an enemy in common,” I said. “And it will certainly be in both our interests to share information about Rinaldo.”

“I don't know who that fucking is, and I don't think—”

“If you were paid to think,” Jackson cut in, “you wouldn't be sitting outside an empty house for weeks on end.”

The rat scowled. “I should have shot you when I first saw you, instead of checking with the boss.”

“Then it's lucky for your boss you didn't.” Jackson reached into his pocket and took out Radcliffe's phone. “One of you has the chance to leave right now and avoid both the cops and PIT. But only if you give this to Radcliffe, and tell him to leave a message on our office's phone if he's at all interested in discussing Rinaldo's demise.”

The three men glanced at one another. Trying to decide if it was a trick or not.

“I suggest you decide quickly,” Jackson said. “Because those sirens are getting closer, and that means we're running out of time.”

“I'll go,” Sallow Skin said. “And I'll give him the fucking message. Just don't expect a response.”

Jackson released the flames around the rat, allowing Sallow Skin to take the phone. “You might want
to also tell him that if he
doesn't
talk to us, we'll go over his head to his grandmother. And I'm thinking that won't help his standing in the rat community.”

“And,” I added, “you can tell him that if he orders any more attacks on us, he's toast. Literally.”

The rat glanced at me, a half snarl tugging at his lips. But he didn't say anything, just rose and walked out.

“What about us?” one of the other men said.

“You,” Jackson said, “have the pleasure of talking to the cops, and possibly PIT.”

The men swore. The sharp sound of the siren abruptly cut off as the ambulance pulled into the drive and stopped behind Jackson's car.

He rose abruptly. “I'll go find something more conventional to tie our captives with. You direct the paramedics around to the back.”

I nodded and headed for the front door. The cops arrived as I was leading the medics through the rear gate. There was, unfortunately, no sign of anyone from PIT.

To say the cops were less than impressed by the events would be something of an understatement. After taking initial statements from us all, we were hauled down to the local police station and thrown into separate interview rooms.

I paced the small room in annoyance. It was little more than a white box, with a two-way mirror on one wall, three chairs and a table against the other, and monitoring equipment above the door. Which meant they were undoubtedly watching, but I didn't really care. I couldn't just sit still and wait. Not when there
was so damn much we needed to do. Hell, we hadn't even finished searching Wilson's place.

The minutes ticked by. Tension gnawed at my insides, and I couldn't help wondering what the fuck was going on. I'd been a cop myself in previous lifetimes and, unless things had changed a whole lot since then, leaving me in here alone went against all manner of protocol. Especially since they hadn't even searched me.

The door finally opened, and I spun around. It wasn't a cop who entered. It was Sam.

“What the fuck are
you
doing here?”

He raised an eyebrow as he closed the door. “You did call for help, did you not?”

“Well, yeah.” I crossed my arms. “But I didn't expect a response, and I certainly didn't expect to see you. Aren't you under house arrest?”

“Yes.” He motioned me to the nearest chair, then moved across to the other side of the table and sat down.

I didn't. Sitting would bring me entirely too close to the damn man. “Then why are you here?”

“Because, as I mentioned earlier, PIT is stretched for staff at the moment and this task is one we can perform without risking other operations.”

“Meaning Rochelle's here as well?”

“Yes.” He paused, his gaze narrowing slightly. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Only if she's the source of the leak
. Because if she was connected to Luke, however unintentionally, then there was always the prospect that he'd use her to reinfect Jackson . . .

I went cold. Maybe
that
was the source of the leak. Maybe she'd already infected someone.

Or maybe
he
had.

No, that was stupid. If either Sam or Rochelle
could
infect others, PIT wouldn't have put them in the field. “I don't have a problem with her, but I'm betting she's a little pissed about you continually being thrown into the path of your ex.”

“‘Ex' being the operative word,” he said, voice flat. “She has no reason to be annoyed. She knows the state of play between us. Besides, she's fae.”

And fae didn't do commitment. But Luke believed Sam still cared for me, and if he wasn't getting that information from his brother, then Rochelle was the next logical choice. Even if that
didn't
make sense.