Fireborn (16 page)

It was close to six p.m. by the time I heard footsteps. I shoved the phone into my pocket and silently rose, clenching my fingers against the flames that instinctively danced across my fingertips.

“Emberly?” Jackson said softly, as his form began to emerge from the darkness. “Don't flame. It's me.”

Tension slithered from me. “I'm glad you're finally here. If I had to play solitaire too much longer, I would have gone stir-crazy.”

He grinned and shoved a coffee container at me. “Thought you might need this. It's green tea, not coffee.”

I took a sniff. Not just green tea, but mint-green tea. “You,” I said, dropping a quick kiss on his lips, “are a darling.”

“And you,” he said, the amusement on his lips crinkling the corners of his bright eyes, “stink.”

I snorted. “Not exactly surprising given I've been sprawled all over a sewer tunnel.”

“But unattractive all the same. A shower is required before we go anywhere near that meeting this evening.” He pulled a coil of metallic rope from over his shoulder and squatted beside Sherman. “Did you ask him about Baltimore?”

“He said Marcus Radcliffe hired him to watch Mark and take note of who he talked to on a regular basis.”

“Did he say why?”

I drank some tea, then shook my head. “Which is not surprising. It didn't take much to get him to talk, so he wouldn't have been trusted with anything vital.”

“Wererats are never trustworthy,” Jackson muttered. “It's the nature of their beast.”

I raised my eyebrows. “So what is the nature of the Fae? Besides being randy sensualists, that is?”

He glanced up and grinned. “You struck it lucky. Unlike most of my kind, I'm more beta than alpha. Which means I generally ask for opinions before I do whatever the hell I want.”

I laughed. “Yep. That about sums you up.”

He finished trussing Sherman up and then rose. “I'm pretty sure I got in here without a tail, but just in case, let's exit via a different sewer cover.”

As he tucked a hand under my elbow to guide me forward, I said, “I'm going to need somewhere to shower and change.”

He nodded. “I've booked a room in a hotel not far from where we'll exit, and I borrowed some
clothes from my friend's wife. She's about your size. Oh, and I retrieved your purse from the waitress's place.”

“You've thought of everything, haven't you?” I teased.

His grin was bright and cheeky. “Trust me, I do expect payment in kind.”

I laughed. “Of course.”

We wound our way through the tunnel system, following the little GPS map he had on his phone. Where the hell he managed to get an app that showed the sewers I had no idea, but I wasn't about to grumble. Not if it got us out of this stinking place sooner rather than later.

After about twenty minutes, I'd finished my tea and we'd finally reached our exit point. Once he'd checked that there was no one close, we climbed out. I took several deep breaths of air unfouled by rubbish and excrement, then looked around as Jackson replaced the cover. “Where are we?”

“Dorcas Street, South Melbourne. The hotel is just down the road.” He caught my hand and tugged me forward.

“If I know Sam, he's probably got an electronic eye on all the hotel bookings, so he's going to discover our location sooner rather than later.”

“He would, if I were using my own card. But I'm not.”

“Another friend?” I said dryly.

He smiled at me. He really did have a nice smile. “He owes me several large favors. I saved his wife once.”

“From what?”

“From a rather nasty kidnapping and extortion attempt.” He shrugged. “The police weren't happy about my involvement, but who fucking cares when there's a life at stake?”

“That,” I said with a smile, “is the alpha speaking, not the beta.”

He glanced at me, eyes twinkling. “And also the reason the cops in this city and I don't see eye to eye.”

He tugged me through the hotel's lobby. I blinked at the vibrancy of the red feature wall, but didn't get much of a chance to see more than that as we strode quickly to the elevators. In no time at all we were zooming up to the eighth floor. As it turned out, we didn't have a room, but rather a suite with a generous living area, separate bedroom, and a small kitchen.

“The shower is in the en suite,” Jackson said, “and the fresh clothes are on the bed. What would you like to eat?”

“A big steak with lots of potatoes and another mug of green tea.” I stripped off and headed for the shower. He was right—my clothes stank.

“A woman after my own heart. Except for the whole green tea bit.”

“I've had enough coffee over the centuries. Time for a change.”

“You know, I always wondered what being with a much older woman would be like. I have to say, it's better than I imagined.”

I laughed as I shucked off the remainder of my
clothes, then headed in to clean up. Twenty minutes later, the luscious aroma of roasted meat told me dinner had arrived, so I hurriedly finished dressing. Though there was no underclothing—a fact for which I was grateful, because I drew the line at wearing cast-off bras and panties—the rest of the clothes he'd borrowed fit me nicely. My butt was obviously a little bigger than the wife's, because the jeans were rather tight, and the shirt fit like a glove, exposing more than it covered—a deliberate choice, I suspected. Thankfully, he'd also borrowed a coat—I could cover up and keep warm when I needed to.

His gaze skimmed me as I walked out, and a grin split his face. “Nice,” he murmured, his gaze coming to rest on what the shirt wasn't covering. “Shame we haven't got time to peel off that shirt and explore what lies beneath.”

“You know what lies beneath,” I said, amused. “You've explored them once or twice already.”

“Ah, but a good explorer is never afraid to retrace his steps on the off chance he missed something vital.”

I snorted. “Let's concentrate on the business at hand, shall we?”

“Oh, I was,” he murmured. But he sat down and uncovered the two plates—steak, mashed potatoes, and several helpings of vegetables.

“Right,” he said as he picked up his cutlery and began to tuck in. “While I was twiddling my thumbs, waiting for your former boyfriend—”

“And just how do you know he's a former boyfriend?” I inquired mildly.

He waved a fork. “It's obvious given the way you talk about him. I'm guessing it ended badly, but some part of you isn't quite over it.”

He'd guessed entirely too much. I waved him on irritably.

Amusement danced in his bright eyes as he continued. “My friend got back to me about that pic I sent her. She couldn't find a match.”

“So, our mysterious Professor Heaton hasn't got a criminal record.”

“Nor a driver's license.”

“Inconvenient.”

“Yeah.” He munched on some steak for several minutes, then said, “Said friend is going to do an overseas search to see if anything comes up, but that may take a while.”

“Which leaves us with the vamp tonight. Hopefully, he'll be able to enlighten us more than Jones did.”

“If not, we go back to the waitress who tried to seduce me and do a little backroom interrogating of our own.”

I nodded. “We also need to talk to Wilson's wife. And the friends.”

“I really don't think the wife will be able to tell us anything more.”

“Doesn't hurt to be sure.”

His expression was dubious, but he didn't disagree any further. We finished our meals in companionable silence; then I grabbed my purse and borrowed coat and we headed out.

Though it was after seven, the rush-hour traffic
lingered and it took forever to cut across town. Along the way, I rang the number Sam had given me, telling him the GPS coordinates for Jones's location and letting him know what had happened—but not what Jones had said. He'd be pissed—I knew that—but having made the decision to see this thing through to the end, that was exactly what I intended to do. And while I knew it probably wasn't the smartest decision I'd made in my many lifetimes, it would hardly rate among the worst, either. That honor went to the time I'd decided to become a nun. The vows of poverty, chastity, and—worst of all—obedience had not sat well.

Darkness had well and truly settled in by the time we reached the park. As Jackson paid the driver, I climbed out and studied the huge wrought-iron struts that jutted out of the ground at an angle. How anyone could call it a sculpture, I had no idea. But then, I'd lived through some of the greatest eras when it came to sculpture and painting. When compared to the sculptures Rodin and Bernini—both of whom I'd known—had produced, this might as well be scrap metal randomly stuck in the ground.

Jackson shoved his hands into his pockets and stopped beside me. “The last four spikes are unlit. I'm thinking that's not a coincidence.”

“Probably not.”

He glanced at me. “You realize I'll have to carry you over my shoulder to the meeting—he'll be jumpy enough when he realizes it's not Sherman.”

I nodded. “It's probably the only way of getting me close enough to encircle him with fire anyway.”

Jackson glanced at his watch. “Eight minutes. I'm betting it'll pay to be early.”

“I'm betting you're right.”

He touched my elbow, lightly guiding me across the road, then, in the shadows of the bridge, hauled me over his shoulder fireman's style.

“Play dead,” he said.

“As long as you don't play with my ass,” I retorted.

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through my body. “As tempting as it is to have such a lovely ass so close to my hand, I suspect shifting my grip and risking dropping you would not be a wise move on my part.”

“Too right,” I muttered. “And can we please move? Despite what the literature says, this is not the most comfortable way of being carried.”

“It's supposed to be more comfortable for me rather than you.”

“Just get on with it.”

He laughed softly and headed under the bridge and down to the canal. It was fenced off with high wire but had been cut in several places, so it was easy enough for Jackson to squeeze through, even carrying me.

He walked along the banks of the concrete canal, following the line of red-painted metal until he neared the shadowed section.

There he paused. “Lee Rawlings?” he said, not
raising his voice. If the vamp was out there, he'd hear us. “I have a parcel delivery for you.”

For several seconds there was no response, then, “You're not who I was expecting.”

The voice was smooth and urbane, but it wasn't the voice of the vampire who'd claimed to be Professor Heaton.

“Jones decided he couldn't risk being seen,” Jackson said. “The police want to question him about some murder, and he'd rather not talk.”

“And who might you be?”

“Let's just call me a subcontractor,” Jackson said. “Now, do you want your delivery or not? She may look light but trust me, she ain't.”

I resisted the urge to dig an elbow in and remained still. While we had no idea just how well the vamp could see, he
would
be able to hear the beat of blood through my body. I had to keep my pulse rate slow for this to work.

“You may leave her there and go,” Rawlings said. “I shall pay Jones himself when I catch up with him.”

Jackson snorted. “Hardly. The deal was half before, half after. Cash on the line, buddy, or no delivery.”

Rawlings was quiet for several seconds and I wished I knew what the hell was going on. But with my nose stuck in Jackson's back, I couldn't see a damn thing.

After several moments, Rawlings said, “Very well. You may approach.”

“So generous of you,” Jackson muttered, making me smile.

He carefully navigated the steep canal sides, then splashed his way through the thin layer of water lying at the bottom.

“Far enough,” Rawlings said.

Jackson stopped slightly sideways, and suddenly, I could see. And what I could see was feet. Jackson's. It wasn't a lot of help.

“Money first,” Jackson said. “If you think you can throw twenty feet, that is. I don't appreciate wet cash.”

Thank you; thank you,
I thought, and called to the fire. Only this time, instead of using the flames that burned within me, I called to the heat of the world around us—the fire of the earth and the energy in the air—gathering it, weaving it, then casting it out to form a circle that was bright and fierce but also surreal. This wasn't normal flame; this was the flame of the mother herself, and she burned with a fire that danced with the colors of all creation.

“What in Hades . . . ?” Rawlings said, even as Jackson said, “Holy fuck,
that's
impressive.”

“You can lower me now,” I said, and he hastily did so.

Even in the vivid brightness of the flames that surrounded him, Lee Rawlings was a tall, thin shadow of a man. His eyes were as dark as his skin, and his thick glossy hair glinted with blue highlights. He was also very, very angry. It poured off him like sweat, stinging the air and making it hard to breathe.

Not telepathic, but empathic, meaning he could not only sense the emotions of others, but—as he was doing right now—use them as a weapon. Although in this case, he was amplifying
his
anger rather than ours.

“Stop projecting and remain still,” I said flatly, “or the flames
will
burn you.”

That thickening sensation eased, and suddenly I could breathe again.

“What trickery is this?” Rawlings's hands were clenched, and the anger that no longer burned through the air vibrated through his body.

“What this is,” Jackson replied evenly, “is an information exchange. You tell us what we want to know, and you can walk away with your skin unburned.”