Fireborn (10 page)

“He's not.” He picked up his wine. “Although I suspect there
is
an element of that. They sure do seem to hate each other.”

Well, given the rumors suggesting infidelity and theft of research on
both
their parts, I could understand why. At least they had good reasons for the hate, unlike a certain cop I knew.

“Rosen wasn't very forthcoming about what, exactly, Wilson was working on, but I gather it's something to do with finding a cure for some new kind of virus.” Jackson picked up the wine and filled my glass. “He inferred Baltimore might be working on a similar project and therefore could be behind the theft.”

“What's the bet Wilson's project has something to do with the virus the red cloaks are infected with?” I said heavily. It had to be. It was too much of a coincidence to be anything else.

“Rosen simply called it the NSV01 virus—”

“And Baltimore's virus was NSV01A. I doubt it was a coincidence.”

“Highly unlikely,” Jackson said. “Rosen didn't say what it was or who'd employed him to work on it. I suspect, given how clammy he got, that it was a deep-level government initiative.”

I frowned. “The government has its own labs—”

“Yeah, but it's not always easy to keep research a secret inside those labs. Too much red tape, too many management fingers in the pie. It's far easier to have a black slush fund and get it done privately.”

“It doesn't explain why they'd be coming after me, though. If they were the ones who beat Baltimore to death, they must know I can't tell them anything more.”

“What if it wasn't the red cloaks who beat him up? What if it was someone else entirely?”

I frowned. “Mark was the most harmless guy in the world. I can't imagine someone having a reason to kill him other than wanting his research. And as I said, I don't think he was onto anything monumental before he died.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Let me get something.” He rose in one fluid movement and walked up the hill to his truck. His strides were long and easy but nevertheless filled with a sense of heated energy. Much like the man himself, really.

He came back with a manila folder. This time, he sat down beside me, his shoulders pressed against mine and the heat of him flowing across
my senses, a siren call to the fires deep within. I took a shuddery breath, trying to concentrate as he flipped open the folder, rifled through some paperwork, then picked out a photo. “You ever seen this man before?” he asked, handing it to me.

The photo was grainy and speckled, as if it had been blown up from a much smaller picture. The man in it had half turned from the camera, but he was obviously a big man, bald, with heavy brows and a beaklike nose that seemed to jut out over thin, humorless lips.

He wasn't anyone I'd seen before, and I said as much before adding, “Who is he?”

“Sherman Jones, a thug for hire and petty thief.”

I handed him back the photo and then picked up my wine. It didn't do a whole lot to quench the awareness surging through me. “You think he beat up Mark?”

“This was snapped by one of the street security cameras just up the road from Baltimore's apartment.” His voice seemed suddenly deeper, edged with a huskiness that spoke of desire. “According to one of the waitresses in the café across the road, he'd been hanging around the nearby bus stop most of the day.”

I frowned. “But if you know about this Jones person, the cops surely would, and they'd have interviewed him already.”

“They would have, if they could find him. He disappeared not long after this picture was taken.”

“Before or after Mark's murder?”

“After.”

I finished my wine and held it out for a refill. Too much more and I'd get tipsy, but after the events of the last few days, that might not be a bad thing.

“And no body has been found, I take it?”

“No. However, Jones wasn't the type to completely freelance. I have it from a good source that he had several regular employers, including this man.”

He held out another photo. This man had a thin, pockmarked face, small, beady eyes, and dark, greasy hair. He reminded me of a rat. “Who is he?”

“Marcus Radcliffe the third. He owns a chain of secondhand stores that are little more than a front for a roaring trade in black-market goods and information.”

“You've talked to him?”

“Not yet. He tends to be surrounded by some rather large goons, has high-level lawyers on call, and he can smell a cop—or a PI—a mile away.”

“Meaning you've hit a wall information-wise?”

“Not exactly. I've now got you.”

“Maybe.”

He grinned. It was sexy as all get-out, but also very confident. “Your turn, my dear.”

I told him the little I knew, all the while trying to ignore the hunger in his eyes, the feel of heat barely restrained that flowed over my senses every time he moved.

When I finished, he said, “Given the research of
both
men has been taken, it suggests they might have had some sort of breakthrough.”

“Yeah, but the question is, how would the people behind the murders have known?”

He shrugged. “Rosen told me Wilson presented weekly reports; it's possible someone, somewhere, talked.”

“Maybe, but that doesn't explain what happened to Baltimore. Trust me. No one would risk Lady Harriet's ire by indiscreetly talking.” I pursed my lips, my thoughts going a mile a minute. “Could the labs be bugged?”

Jackson shook his head. His auburn hair, I noticed idly, gleamed like fire in the sunlight. “Rosen apparently doesn't trust his ex as far as he could throw her. He has a team of specialists who sweep the labs weekly.”

Well, at least Lady Harriet wasn't that paranoid. She had them swept only every other week. I downed more wine, then said, “So basically, we're as stuck for ideas as the cops.”

His sudden smile was blinding in its intensity. “
We're
stuck? Does this mean you've forgiven my initial lie and are now intending to help me on my quest?”

Did it?

I hadn't meant it that way, but now that I'd said it, it was tempting.
Very
tempting. And it wasn't as if Sam was going to give me any answers.

“I don't know,” I said, honestly enough. “I'm not sure it would be wise for either of us to tangle with the things that are carrying the virus.”

“Can the virus affect nonhumans? Rosen gave me the impression it was human only.”

I hesitated, but it wasn't like I hadn't already told him enough to get us both into trouble. In for a penny, in for a pound, as the saying went. Besides, he needed to know what he might be dealing with. “From the little I've been told, it very definitely affects humans and vampires. Some shifters seemed able to escape the virus as long as they shift immediately after being infected, but it's too new for anyone to be certain. Until we know for sure, I don't think you should be taking any unnecessary risks.”

“Oh, I don't plan to when it comes to those things.” He frowned. “What about phoenixes?”

I shrugged. “I'm spirit, not flesh, so any virus or drug that
does
get into my system will be burned away when I resume my true form.”

“Handy trick.”

“And one that doesn't stop me from getting hurt or dying before my time,” I said, voice dry. “A phoenix making it through a full hundred years of life is something of a rarity.”

“So how many lifetimes have—” He paused, listening intently for several seconds; then his gaze hit mine, sharp and intent. “Do you want to be found right now?”

Confusion swirled. “What?”

“There's a helicopter on the way. It's a fair bet that, given we've eluded your police tail, it's someone looking for you. So, make your decision. Come with me and not be found until you wish to be, or stay here and return to the safety of your police followers.”

I stared at him, tossing between the insane need to know what was going on and the desire to stay safe.

“Decide, Emberly. We're running out of time.”

What the hell?
I thought, and fell on the side of insanity.

W
e were deep in the trees by the time the helicopter clattered overhead. It swept over the meadow several times, then moved on, doing similar checks of nearby areas.

“You're not going to be able to hide a red pickup in the trees for very long. Sooner or later, they will spot it.”

“I know.” He was outside, leaning against the roof of his branch-covered truck, his gaze on the skies. “And I don't think we should evade them for long. I just wanted time to plan.”

“There's no need to plan,” I said bluntly. “Our next step is obvious. We have to find and talk to this Marcus Radcliffe the third.”

He looked at me. The smile that teased his lips was decidedly sexy. “At the risk of repeating myself, where the hell have you been all my life?”

“Enjoying a peaceful life,” I said. “And given they're probably trying to pinpoint us through our cell phones right now, shouldn't we get moving?”

“Yep.” He jumped into the truck, started it up, then drove through the trees and out onto the
road. Once there, he floored it. Within no time, we were back on the Calder Freeway cruising toward Melbourne.

“Okay, as I said earlier, Radcliffe is a hard man to get close to. He does, however, have two vices—gambling and women. He's a regular at Crown's VIP gaming lounges and always finishes the night with a lovely lady on his arm.”

“I am
not
going to be one of those lovely ladies. I don't mind investigating bad guys, but I'm not going to bed them.”

“And I wouldn't ask you to,” he said, his annoyed tone softened by the amusement teasing his lips. “Especially not before I've had a chance to do so.”

I smiled. “And here I was thinking
that
particular goal had gone out the window.”

His gaze came to mine, and the rawness of desire so evident in those green depths had me struggling to breathe. Pinpricks of sweat broke out across my skin and the flames within surged, eager to taste the heat of him, to draw it deep inside and savor its sweetness.

“Trust me,” he said softly. “That particular goal is stronger than ever.”

I resisted the urge to fan myself and pulled my gaze away from his as I tried to get my breathing under control.

“So how are we going to separate Radcliffe from his people?” I hesitated, and grinned as I added, “Or should that be, how am
I
going to separate him?”

“I suspect all you'll need to do is wear
something sexy and offer him a room number. It's happened before, from what the croupiers have said.” He grimaced. “Of course, the problem with that is that we first have to get you away from your police tail.”

“Let me worry about that,” I said, knowing our biggest problem wouldn't be me escaping a tail, but rather surviving the explosion of anger from the man who would undoubtedly be waiting when I returned home. “Let's just concentrate on the finer details of ensnaring Radcliffe.”

•   •   •

Jackson pulled to a stop outside the Ascot Vale railway station and gave me a somewhat dubious look. “Are you sure you don't want me to drive you home?”

I shook my head. “I know Sam. He'll drag you away, lock you up, and interrogate the shit out of you. And that won't be at all conducive to our plans.”

“But he can't legally retain me for too long, not without charging me.”

“The law doesn't actually define what is a reasonable amount of time here in Victoria,” I said, “and, as I said, Sam's not regular police. He's part of some sort of special unit. I suspect the restraints on what they can and can't do are somewhat lax.”

Especially given they were apparently killing the red plague people willy-nilly and had threatened to do the same to anyone who knew too much about them.

Jackson still didn't look happy. I leaned across the seat and kissed him. It was meant to be just a short, friendly peck, but it turned into something a whole lot more fiery.

“Damn, woman,” he said, his breathing harsh on my lips. “We really need to find some time for ourselves.”

“Tonight.” I quickly opened the door and got out of the truck before the urge to do more than just kiss him became too hard to ignore.

He drove off fast—as if he, too, needed to get away before he gave in to what burned unsatisfied between us—and I made my way home.

Sam was waiting near the front doors. No surprise there.

“Just what the
fuck
did you think you were doing?” he all but exploded the minute I got close. “Losing our tail was bad enough, but then to take out the red cloak like that—”

“Are we going to do this in the middle of the street,” I interrupted calmly, “or would you at least like some privacy and a cup of coffee?”

“Privacy and coffee,” he growled, and headed for the front entrance.

I stepped in front of him and pressed one hand against his chest, stopping him. Once, his body heat would have flowed through my fingertips as sweetly as a kiss. Now, though, there was nothing. It was as if all his heat had been sucked away by whatever had happened to him in the last year.

“I told you before, I don't want you near my apartment. Not any more than necessary.” I
nodded toward the semi-vacant Portside. “We go over there, or we go back to your station.”

“Portside,” he snapped, then motioned sharply for me to lead the way.

He followed me across, and it was all I could do not to rub my arms against the fear creeping across my flesh. It wasn't just the force of his anger; it was the intensity of the darkness within it. It felt like he was barely containing it.

And yet, once again, there was also a tiny sliver of emotion that
wasn't
dark or cold, but rather one that spoke of concern. Or was I simply feeling that because I so desperately wanted it to be true?

I selected a table away from the other patrons and we ordered our drinks when the waitress came.

“Okay,” he said, once she'd gone. “Explain what the hell you thought you were doing.”

“No,” I said. “Not until you start answering some questions yourself.”

“Emberly—” he growled, that darkness within him crowding even closer.

“No.” I crossed my arms and met his gaze calmly, although I was far from calm on the inside. “I want to know what's going on, Sam. I want to know why those things are still after me. I want to know how the hell they can even
come
after me, given they're supposedly infected by a vampirelike virus and
should
have been crisped by daylight. But most of all, I want to know who the fuck you're working for.”

He stared at me silently. Though there was little
change in his expression, I had a notion that a battle was being waged deep within him. I waited, hoping the right side won. Hoping that darkness
didn't
.

Eventually, he leaned back in his chair and blew out a breath. It was a sound of frustration and annoyance combined. “I work for the Paranormal Investigations Team—or PIT, as it is more commonly known. We sit between the police and the military, and we're sent in to deal with problems that involve the paranormal.”

“Define problems.”

He shrugged. “Any activity involving paranormal beings that sits either within or without the law and provides a potential threat to humanity.”

Any
activity? That suggested they had scarily wide-ranging powers. Even more than I'd suspected. “How long have you been with them?”

He hesitated. “Just over a year.”

I smiled up at the waitress as she delivered his coffee and my tea, then, once she'd left, said, “But you're human. I would have thought a team designed to handle paranormal creatures and crime would consist mainly of paranormal personnel.”

A human, even one as fast and as strong as Sam, wouldn't have much hope against a vampire—or most other nonhumans, for that matter—even if he was armed to the teeth. And while white-ash stakes and silver bullets
did
work, vampires moved so fast they could be on you before you were able to use a weapon—something I knew from experience.

“A good percentage of the team
is
nonhuman,”
he said eventually. “But there are humans on the team—although they are generally blessed with extraordinary abilities.”

“So telepaths, pyrokinetics, stuff like that?”

He nodded. “They're mostly used in off-field areas, but they are sometimes placed in the less . . . tenuous . . . field operations.”

“None of which explains why
you're
out in the field. You're human, but you certainly haven't any sort of psychic abilities.”

“I'm there because I can be.” His voice was flat. Obviously, it was a subject he wasn't about to get into. Not yet, anyway. And I very much suspected that if I pushed, he'd clam up totally, and I still had plenty of other questions. “So why are the red cloaks still after me?”

“That I don't know.” He frowned as he dumped several sugars into his coffee—which was surprising given he never used to take sugar. “They obviously still want something, but what, I have no idea.”

“But even that night I saved your ass, they came after me. And that was
before
Mark was killed.”

He nodded. His gaze, when it met mine, held little of the recent darkness. All I could see was concern—not just about what was happening, but for my safety. It was gone almost as soon as I registered it, but it nevertheless had hope fluttering.

Which was stupid. Even if the man I knew
did
still exist somewhere beneath the cloak of darkness and anger, he'd certainly shown no desire toward me. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“But,” he said, “we're not entirely sure Baltimore's killing is connected to his work on the red plague virus—the way he was killed is not the norm for them.”

“Meaning if they'd been involved, he would have died the same way Professor Wilson died?”

His gaze suddenly sharpened, and again a tremor ran down my spine. Yet I wasn't entirely sure that tremor was all fear. Then he all but spat, “Jackson Miller.”

“Yes.” My voice was noncommittal. “It seems you were right. My meeting him wasn't a coincidence.”

“I should break his fucking neck—”

“Touch him,” I warned, “and I'll break yours.”

He studied me for several long minutes. “So, it's like that, is it?”

“Yes,” I said, though it wasn't. Not yet. “He's at least been honest with me, Sam. Unlike you.”

“I'm being more honest right now than I fucking should be,” he growled. “Don't push me, Emberly.”

I didn't. “Why didn't those things burn up in daylight?”

“Because the earth's ozone layer blocks ninety-seven to ninety-nine percent of UV radiation from entering the atmosphere.”

“But vampires still burn when touched by sunlight.”

“Yes, but that's because there's three bands of ultraviolet radiation in sunlight—UVA, UVB, and UVC. It's the combination of all three that kills
vampires, whereas the red plague victims seem only affected by UVA—or black light, as it's known.”

I frowned. “But from what I understand, UVA is the main source of radiation hitting earth, meaning the red cloaks
should
burn in sunlight.”

“It's the main source, yes, but for some reason, when it's combined with the other two types, the red plague victims are immune. That was the second part of your boss's brief—pinpoint what gave the red plague victims their immunity.”

“I bet there are quite a few vamps in town who'd love to get their hands on that sort of research.” Especially the sindicati—which was a point in favor of Jackson's suspicions they were involved somewhere along the line.

“Given he was killed at night, it's certainly an option we're exploring. The only flaw is that vampires can't cross thresholds uninvited, and that invitation has to be freely given.”

I nodded. “Which doesn't preclude the possibility of vampires hiring human thugs to do their dirty work. Did you find any prints in Mark's apartment?”

“That,” he said, somewhat dryly, “is not information I'm about to hand over to someone who is not a police officer. Why did you and Miller drive away from the accident?”

The darkness in him seemed to have receded, but my reaction to his closeness hadn't. It was a constant push-pull of fear and desire that was as confusing as hell.

“It wasn't an accident,” I said bluntly. “And we both know it. We were intending to question them, but one came at us—”

“There were two?” he interrupted sharply. “We only found one.”

I nodded. “The second one was shot and cindered.”

He frowned. “Your flames shouldn't stop them.”

“They didn't. The bullets in the head did. My flames just rendered his body to ash, which blew away on the wind.”

“But why would your flames work in daylight but not at night?”

“Well, technically they
did
work; it's just that the UV lights burned them quicker.”

“But Rochelle's flames can't render them to ash.”

“That would be because a Fae doesn't create flames; they can only use and control them. And a regular fire, however hot, is totally different from the flames of a phoenix.” I couldn't quite keep the sarcasm from my voice. “We're spirits and we burn far hotter, trust me.”

Just for a moment, the past seemed to echo in the blue of his eyes. Him and me and the heat that had once burned unquenched between us. A heat that could
still
burn between us if the dying embers were given the slightest chance of rebirth. Then the echoes were gone, and all that was left was the anger of our final words. Words I doubted we could ever get past.

I pulled my gaze from his and drank some tea. “Did you find anything of interest in Baltimore's notes?”