Fireborn (20 page)

I glanced at the empty driveway. “Someone's removed the GPS system.”

“Which suggests the itchy feeling may have been spot-on.” A devilish light entered his eyes. “Shall we go investigate?”

“If you break and enter, Sam
will
throw you in jail.”

“Only if he catches us. Come on.”

I shook my head, but climbed out and waited while he fidgeted in the back of the truck for several minutes. The day was bright and warm, and I tugged off the light sweater I'd borrowed from Jackson, allowing the sunshine to caress my skin and continue the refuel of my inner fires—although soon I'd need more than just sunshine and the threads of energy I could steal from Jackson, and that meant getting back to Rory.

Jackson shoved several items into his pockets and then headed up the driveway. I followed, then watched from several steps away as he knocked on the door. It was loud, but had an oddly hollow sound, which, for some reason, had visions of death stirring.

I rubbed my arms lightly. I was no stranger to the variations of death, but that didn't mean I ever welcomed its appearance.

Jackson stepped to one side and peered in through the window. “Not a lot to see—other than dust.”

“Given her husband just died, dusting would be the last thing on her mind.”

He gave me a wry look. “Remember we're talking about a potential black widow here.”

“I know, but she'd at least want to stay in character until the inquest into her husband's death was over.”

“True.”

He stepped back, gave the front of the house a once-over, then stepped off the veranda and moved around to the backyard. He peered in a few windows, then gripped the back door handle and hit the door hard with his left shoulder. The lock gave way with very little fuss.

“Remind me to get our locks replaced with stronger ones when I get home,” I said.

He gave me a somewhat absent grin. “There is no such thing as a Fae-proof lock.”

“Then I shall coat the door with silver or something.”

“Which would not stop me or anyone else from getting into your home if we were determined enough.” He took two cautious steps inside, then stopped abruptly and swore.

“What?” I said immediately.

“Blood.” He put a hand into a pocket and pulled out some rubber gloves, handing one pair to me. “Wipe the door handle with your sweater, will you?”

“How bad is the blood scent?” I tugged the sweater free from my waist and gave the handle a thorough wipe-down.

“Bad enough.” He hesitated and lowered his voice. “But there's something else here, a scent I can't quite put my finger on.”

“Something you've smelled before?”

“Or
someone
.”

Sparks flickered across my fingertips, bright but not dangerous. I wasn't sure whether it was a result of the drug or my own lack of strength, but either way, it meant that if we
were
attacked, I'd be relying on my earthier skills rather than my elemental ones. I licked the trepidation from my lips and said, “Is that someone still here?”

“I don't know. I can't smell anything that suggests he is, but then, I didn't last time, either.” He glanced over his shoulder and added, “Close the door behind you. We don't want the neighbors seeing the open door and reporting it.”

I pulled on the gloves, then closed the door and drew in several deep breaths. The scents he could smell so clearly weren't evident to me.

We moved quietly from the laundry room into the kitchen. It was small but neat, but there were dishes draining on the sink and fat congealed on the top of the water. I dipped my gloved fingers into it. Stone-cold. Much like the house, really.

I followed Jackson into the next room. Again, it was as neat as a pin, and other than the light coating of dust over the wooden surfaces, there was nothing out of place. But the living room was
even colder than the kitchen, and as I rubbed my arms, I realized why. The AC was not only on, but set to near freezing.

Jackson moved into the shadowed hallway beyond the living area. A cautious check of several rooms that led off it revealed neither our black widow nor anyone else, yet the tension in Jackson seemed to be growing. Whatever he smelled was obviously getting stronger. The final room turned out to be the main bedroom, and it was in here that we found Amanda Wilson. She lay on her back, one hand tucked under her neck and her long hair streaming across her pillow. If not for red splatters across the nearby pillow and the paleness of her skin, it would have been easy to believe she was asleep. She looked at peace. Happy even.

But maybe
that
was because she hadn't been alone in the bed before her death. Not if the indent in the other pillows and the state of the sheets and blankets were anything to go by. Obviously, the vampire responsible for this had taken his pleasure both physically and through her blood—although judging by the blood on the pillow, he was one messy feeder.

Jackson stepped over the bundle of bedsheets dumped on the carpet near the end of the bed and carefully gripped her chin, turning her head to one side to reveal a deep and ugly bite wound. I closed my eyes briefly and took a deep breath, but it did little to calm the instinctive rush of distaste and fear. Though I was more than aware that not
all vamps got off on vicious blood taking—that indeed it was usually an orgasmic experience for
both
parties—my encounter with the vamp who'd sucked me dry had left me more than a little wary of them. Not to mention a total unwillingness to get anywhere near them sexually.

Obviously, though, Amanda had shared no such unwillingness.

“Oh fuck,” Jackson said suddenly. “She's
alive
.”

“What? How? Her lips are blue and she's not breathing—”

“She
is
, but it's so shallow it's practically unnoticeable. Call an ambulance before we lose her.”

I dragged out my phone as he pulled the covers up and spread them over her.

But before I could dial, something solid hit the back of my head and sent me flying.

I
hit the wall face-first and pain exploded. For several seconds I saw nothing but stars dancing happily in black space; then hands grabbed me, pulled me around, and threw me again. This time, when I hit, there was a splintering sound, and I came down in a shower of wood and glass.

Dressing table, I thought fuzzily, and instinctively reached for my flames. Nothing happened. Nothing more than a slight fizz of heat that faded as quickly as it rose. I swore and groped for something, anything, to use as a weapon. There was blood in my mouth, my vision was blurry, and there was a roaring in my head.

But I still heard the heavy approach of footsteps.

My fingers found wood, but it was too small, too thin, to use as a weapon. I swept my fingers around desperately for something better and hit glass. A long, thick shard. I wrapped my fingers around it and gripped it tight. The ragged edges sliced into my skin, but I made no move, no sound, as those steps drew closer.

Feet appeared in front of my face. Big feet
encased in heavy black boots. The kind that could do serious damage if they stomped down on my head. Tension slithered through me, the need to move warring with the need to be still and play helpless. Whoever this was, he was strong. Without my fires, all I had was surprise. My grip on the glass tightened. Blood began to ooze past my fingers and soak into the carpet.

He bent down, grabbed the back of my shirt, and hauled me upright. Heat rolled over me—heat and the pungent musk of man and sweat—and I realized my attacker was a werewolf rather than a vampire. Which explained the strength. It was a thought that quickly vanished as he held me at arm's length and gave me a toothy grin.

“You should have done as the cop suggested,” he said. “Because now you have to die.”

Shock rolled through me. Sam had been the only cop to warn me away from the case, but surely even
he
wouldn't resort to this sort of violence.

But he's changed,
the internal voice whispered.
He's not the man you once knew.

No, I thought, he wasn't, but I still refused to believe he was behind this attack. I battered away the lingering uncertainty and said, through puffing lips, “I've done the whole death thing more than once, and I have to say, I'm not quite ready to do it again.”

With that, I plunged the shard of glass as hard as I could into his gut.

He released me instinctively and screamed—
but it was a sound that held fury rather than pain. I landed in a heap at his feet, but I didn't stay there. I twisted, swept my leg around, and knocked him off balance. He half fell, and I threw myself forward, knocking him back and sideways.

But he was a man
and
a werewolf, and that meant fast reflexes and greater strength. The advantage I'd gained in unbalancing him lay in seconds, not minutes, and he was up almost as fast as I was. I hastily wiped at the blood gushing from my nose, then ran at him again. I hit shoulder first, and the jagged edge of the shard sliced into me even as I drove it deeper into his gut. He flailed backward and crashed into the closet doors. With a howl that was still more fury than pain, he ripped the shard from his flesh and flung it away.

And in that instant, I knew my time was up. If I didn't drop him now, it'd be me on the floor, not him.

I leapt at him, feet-first. He saw me coming and twisted sideways, but his gut wound had at least slowed him enough that it didn't matter. I hit his left knee side-on, and there was a loud crack. His leg collapsed from underneath him and he went down hard to one knee.

But the bastard just wouldn't
fall
.

I hit the carpet yet again, sucked in a shuddery breath, and half turned. Saw his fist arcing toward me and flung myself desperately out of the way. The punch missed, but the heavy rings on his
fingers gouged my skin. It hurt. God, how it hurt. But I thrust the pain aside and scrambled away from him.

Hands grabbed my right leg and dragged me back. I half yelped, then twisted around, kicking at his face with my free leg. It missed and he laughed, the sound fierce and cold. His gaze met mine, and all I saw was death.

Flames flared across my fingertips. They contained little in the way of heat, but it was all I had left, so I flung them at him. His eyes went wide; then he released me and threw himself out of their way. Another roar escaped his lips as he came down on the knee I'd broken; then the flames hit him, and he screamed again as they shimmered up his legs.

I didn't wait for him to realize they contained no heat. I lunged at him, slipped my hand under the cuff of his jeans, and grabbed his ankle. The minute my fingers wrapped around his flesh, the fires within responded, sucking in the heat of him, feeding on it. I drank it fast, robbing him of warmth and energy, until his skin was gray and shivers racked his body. It wasn't enough; I wanted—needed—more, but if I took it all, I'd kill him. And as desperately appealing as that thought was, we needed answers more.

I unlocked my fingers and peeled them away from his flesh, leaving the imprint of my hand on his skin—a lasting reminder of our fight—then took a deep, shuddering breath. It did little to quell the urge to finish what I'd started.

But as my breathing calmed, I became aware of the sounds. Grunts and the smack of flesh against flesh.

The werewolf hadn't come alone.

Jackson.

I scrambled to my feet, lunged for the biggest piece of splintered wood I could manage, then ran for the door. Jackson fought a man who was little more than a shadow. The two of them appeared evenly matched, going blow for blow, their bodies shuddering under the impact of each hit. Jackson had the mother of a bruise forming under his eye and slashes along his cheeks and arms. The vamp obviously wasn't afraid to use his nails.

I took a step toward them. The vamp hit Jackson hard, sending him staggering, then spun and ran for me. He was lightning fast, and I really had no time to do anything more than raise the wood.

He didn't see it. He just ran straight into it.

The jagged edges rammed into his body just below his ribs, and blue fire instantly exploded from the wound, consuming the wood as it rolled across his body.

He screamed, burned, blackened. Fell.

I stepped back and rubbed my arms, my stomach rolling as the pungent scent of burning flesh and meat filled the air. He stopped screaming, stopped writhing, but still the fire consumed him, until there was nothing left but ashes and the cindered remains of the carpet underneath him. At least it was a quick death, and that was probably more than he deserved.

“Damn it, Em,” Jackson growled. “I wanted to question him.”

My gaze shot to his. “It wasn't like I
meant
to do that. It was more luck and instinct than thought.”

“Yeah, I know. It's just damn annoying that every step forward in this case is followed by two steps back.”

“In this particular case, it's only one step. The other one is still alive.”

“Really? Well done, you.” He thrust a bloodied hand through his hair. “We'd better check Amanda before we interrogate him, though. You want to make that call to the paramedics?”

I followed him into the bedroom to retrieve my phone. Jackson glanced at the werewolf and then back at me. “Damn, that's a mountain, not a wolf.
Very
well done, you.”

“The bastard very nearly got the better of me.” I bent to pick up my phone, but that just made the blood oozing from my nose flow faster, and half the screen was covered in an instant. I walked over to the bedside table and grabbed some tissues.

“He didn't, and that's all that matters.”

I guess. I shoved the tissues up my nose to help stop the bleeding, then called an ambulance.

“How is she?” I asked when I'd finished.

“She's still alive.” He tossed me a handkerchief. “It's clean. You might want to use it on your hand.”

I quickly wrapped it around the cut, but it didn't do a whole lot. “Let's hope she remains
that way. If the wolf can't tell us much, she could be our only hope.”

“I can't imagine your ex is going to allow us to talk to her once he finds out about our adventures here.”

He was right. Sam would close out this avenue of investigation just as surely as he'd closed off Morretti. He might not use a drug to do it, but he didn't need to. All he had to do was place Amanda under protective custody.

“We could always ring the police rather than him. It might only delay the inevitable confrontation, but it would at least give us
some
time to question her.”

“It's worth a shot. But when you
do
talk to the bastard again, give him a fucking earful about drugging us. Not having our fires could have gotten us both killed today.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And do you think he'd care?”

“Probably not.” He walked around the bed. “Ring the cops. I'll tie up our thug and do a quick search through the house.”

“It might be a good idea to drag him into another room. If the paramedics arrive before his healing fully kicks in, they'll want to treat the bastard.”

And while I wasn't against scum getting medical help when they needed it, after what he'd helped do to Amanda Wilson, a little bit of pain and suffering was the least he deserved. Besides, his wounds were already showing signs of healing.

“
That
is another good idea.”

“I'm full of them today,” I said, voice dry.

“My usual response to a statement like that is ‘full of shit, more likely.'” He sent a cheeky grin my way. “However, I sincerely desire you in my bed tonight, so I shall restrain the urge.”

“Oh, I'm
so
glad to hear it.”

He laughed, then grabbed the wolf's arms and none too gently dragged him into the next room. While he tied up our captive with some wire coat hangers he found in the closet—which, under normal circumstances, wouldn't have held him for long—I called the cops. With that done, we searched Amanda's house.

Unsurprisingly, we didn't find anything useful.

As the distant wail of the approaching ambulance began to cut through the air, Jackson said, “We're out of time. Let's go question that wolf.”

I followed him into the back bedroom. The wolf hadn't moved, but his skin had lost its gray pallor and his breathing seemed easier. If he wasn't yet conscious, he was damn close to it.

Jackson grabbed a fistful of the wolf's shirt, pulled him partially upright, then slapped his face. Hard. The sound reverberated through the stillness. “Stop foxing, you furry bastard.”

The wolf made a low sound that seemed to rumble up from the depths of his boots. It wasn't a particularly dangerous sound, but that he was conscious enough to even do it meant he was a whole lot stronger than I'd presumed. I could have drained him more.
Should
have drained him
more. I crossed my arms and tried to ignore the somewhat angry thought.

After another slap from Jackson, the wolf's eyes opened into slits and he all but growled, “What?”

“Who sent you here?” Jackson said, voice sharp.

“Sindi—” The wolf's voice petered out, and he coughed. Blood speckled his lips. I wondered if the cause was internal damage or Jackson's slap, but I didn't really care either way.

Jackson shook him. “The sindicati?”

The wolf groaned. Jackson's expression showed very little in the way of pity. “Why would the sindicati want Amanda Wilson dead?”

“Connected—”

“She's working for them?” I cut in, though I wasn't entirely surprised. If Amanda had been an ordinary black widow, surely she would have aimed for millionaires rather than researchers. She certainly had the looks to snag one. And researchers, while very well paid, didn't make
bundles
of money, especially those who worked for the military or the government. Or at least, my boss hadn't.

Unless, of course, it was the thrill of the chase she enjoyed more than anything else.

“Not just them. Subcontractor.” His answer this time was stronger. Clearer.

Angrier.

Jackson's gaze met mine. “A black widow who subcontracts her services?
That's
a new one.”

It certainly was. I returned my gaze to the werewolf. “So the sindicati employed her to keep tabs on Wilson?”

“And report on his research, yeah.” He took a shuddering breath, and I could almost see the tide of strength flush through his body.

“But if that's the case,” I began, letting sparks dance across my fingertips. It couldn't hurt to remind him he wasn't the only nonhuman in the room, even if the sparks were as dangerous as I got right now. “Why were you sent here to kill her?”

If the look the werewolf gave me was any indication, I was dead meat the next time we met. “Because Wilson's dead and they have no further use for her.”

“But why not give her a new victim?” Jackson asked. “Surely she's too valuable an asset to waste?”

“Don't ask me—I'm just a subcontractor. You're lucky I know as much as I do.”

“Meaning we obviously need to talk to the man who employed you—his name?”

The wolf hesitated. Jackson shook him. Hard. Breath hissed through the wolf's clenched teeth and his eyes narrowed even further—and yet again promised death.

After a moment, he said, “Henry Morretti.”

“Surprise, surprise,” I muttered.

Jackson's expression was as grim as mine undoubtedly was. “And how were you supposed to contact Morretti after the job had been done?”

“Phone call. Payment is cash, sent by courier.”

Which was all very clinical and efficient. No face-to-face contact, no paper trails to trace. I was
betting even the courier who delivered the cash wouldn't tell us much—especially given we were dealing with vamps who could easily erase or rearrange memories. It made me wonder whether Henry Morretti even existed. It was more than possible it was just a cover name.