Fireborn (23 page)

“Maybe.” My voice was grim. “It just depends who was actually following us and whether they placed a tracker on the truck at either your place or at the parking garage.”

Her gaze widened. “Do you think that's likely?”

I shrugged. “As I said, it depends who we're dealing with.”

She swore. “You might want to keep breaking speed limits.”

I snorted. “Not on Mount Alexandria Road, I'm not. The last thing we need is to be pulled over by the cops, and they tend to be a little thick on the ground in these parts.”

She swore again and flexed her fingers, making me wonder if she was intending to punch me out and take the truck.

We made it down Mount Alexandria without incident, and I could almost feel the tension slither from Amanda's body as we swung onto the Tullamarine Freeway. Which was stupid, because we weren't exactly home free yet. There was still a ten-minute drive before we got to the airport. Maybe I was being fatalistic, but anything could happen.

As it turned out, I wasn't being fatalistic.

Just as we'd crossed the Mickleham Road overpass, a big black van came out of nowhere and smashed into the rear side of Jackson's truck, sending us into an uncontrolled spin. I pulled my foot off the accelerator and fought the wheel, trying to drive out of the spin, only to be hit a second time. Amanda screamed, the sound almost lost to the roaring of the engine, the squealing of the tires, and my own cursing.

I saw the tree coming, but there was nothing I could do to stop us from hitting it.

The air bags exploded on impact, and Amanda's scream abruptly died. For several seconds, there was no sound other than an odd ringing in my head. Then I became aware of creaking metal, the hiss of water, the sound of an engine roaring. Of warm liquid pouring down the side of my face.

I looked up, saw the black van stop and two blurry figures get out. Wondered whether they were coming for Amanda or me.

The information,
some still-aware part of my
brain whispered.
They can't get Amanda's information.

Somehow, as the world started going black around me, I dragged the USBs from my pocket and slid them under the seat.

Then everything
did
go black, and I knew no more.

W
aking was a slow and agonizing process. As I climbed toward full awareness, various bruised and battered bits of my body came to life, and they all seemed overly determined to make consciousness a living hell.

I tried to shift position and ease some of the pain, but quickly discovered I couldn't move. It took several minutes to realize why—my hands and my feet were tied so tightly that red-hot lances of agony were shooting up my limbs. To make matters worse, a herd of people wearing hobnail boots were stomping about inside my head.

Waking, I decided, just wasn't worth it. But try as I might, I couldn't slip back into the peaceful bliss of unconsciousness. I took a deep, somewhat shuddery breath and forced my eyelids open. To be greeted by nothing but black.

But one thing was obvious immediately—wherever the hell I was, it was no longer in Jackson's truck. I had no idea how much time had passed, but surely I hadn't been unconscious long enough that day had turned into night. And even if it
had
, night wasn't usually
this
dark.

Thinking maybe there was something wrong with my vision, I blinked. It didn't help. Everything was still black.

But it was a blackness that was
not
uninhabited. Out there in the darkness, someone was watching. I couldn't hear him, I couldn't smell him, but I was nevertheless aware of him. The energy of his presence skittered across my senses, powerful and yet oddly repelling.

“I know you're there.” The words came out little more than a husky whisper. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Show yourself.”

For several minutes, there was no response. Tension crawled through me, and it was tempting—very tempting—to reach for whatever fire remained within and let it loose. But it was never a good move to reveal your trump card too soon—especially when that card wasn't up to scratch. The first thing I was going to do once I got out of this place—
if
I got out of this place—was reenergize with Rory so I could shift shape and burn the remnants of the drug from my system. I couldn't afford to be powerless—not when our investigations kept taking such nasty turns.

I flexed my fingers, desperate to get some life into them as much as trying to uncover what I'd been tied with. It didn't feel like rope. It was cool and smooth against my skin rather than rough, and there was odd warmth to it.

Silver, I realized. They'd tied me with silver. Which, under normal circumstances, wouldn't
have been much of a problem, as silver didn't actually restrain or hinder those of us who were spirits.

But the fact that my captors had tied me with silver suggested they suspected I was a nonhuman, even if they didn't exactly know what.

“Look, whatever it is you want, just get on with it.” Though I kept my voice low, it nevertheless spurred the hobnailed idiots in my head into greater action. Tears stung my eyes, and I blinked them away furiously. “I really haven't got the time to be playing games.”

As I half expected, it was a comment that finally got a response.

“And yet,” a cool voice replied, “we have.”

It wasn't my watcher who spoke, but someone I hadn't sensed until now. Someone who stood behind me. I didn't bother twisting around to try to spot him. Not only would the hobnailed folk be unappreciative of such an action, but the utter blanket of darkness made any hope of spotting him nigh on impossible. Phoenixes weren't blessed with the extraordinary eyesight of werewolves and vampires.

And that, I thought with a chill, was who held me now.

Vampires. And not just any old vampires, but the sindicati.

Fuck
.

“Well, good for you,” I said, trying to keep my voice even despite my heart hammering so hard I swear it was attempting to jump out of my chest.
“But, as I said, I have things to do. Can we please just move this along?”

“It is odd that you do not question who we are or why you are here.” He'd moved to my left, though I'd heard no footsteps.

A tremor ran through me. Only the very old ones could walk so silently. I licked my lips and tried to shove old fears back into their box. That I was still alive meant they had some use for me. Whether they'd let me go after I'd fulfilled those uses was another matter entirely.

“I don't question who you are because I already know that. As to why I am here—” I paused, then shrugged. I might not be able to see them, but I had no doubt that the two men in this room—if they
were
vamps—could see me as clear as day. Vamps were blessed with night sight very similar to infrared. Even if he couldn't taste my fear or hear the pounding of blood through my veins, he'd be able to see it. “I'm gathering it has something to do with Amanda Wilson.”

“Then you would gather wrong.”

Meaning I was in even deeper shit than I'd thought.

The voice, however, hadn't quite finished. “And just who do you think we are?”

“Sindicati, obviously.”

“Ah,” he said, his cool voice still giving little away. But then, if my guess was right and he
was
a very old vampire, that was no surprise. They had a tendency to become more remote—and far less
human—the longer they were alive. “Dear Amanda obviously talked far more than was wise.”

“Dear Amanda had little other choice given it was either talk to me or I'd leave her to the tender mercies of whatever goons you decided to send after her next.”

The speaker was silent for several minutes. I closed my eyes and tried to get some sense of him. But all I could feel was the man whose presence was beginning to scratch at my skin like some foul disease.
He
was the real power here, I suddenly realized, not the man who spoke.

“Ah, so you
are
the reason no one has heard from either of the subcontractors.”

“Well, I might be responsible for one being incommunicado, but not the other. He is, as far as I know, still in the hands of PIT.”

This news finally got a reaction. It was little more than a hiss of annoyed air, but it was nevertheless there. It made me wonder if the werewolf we'd questioned was more closely connected to the sindicati than just being a mere subcontractor. While wolves and vampires generally weren't overly fond of one another, there were certain elements within each society that happily coexisted. I suspected the sindicati and whatever the werewolf equivalent was would be one of those.

“And you are responsible for this?”

“Well, he did try to kill me.”

“An unfortunate mistake on his part,” was the response. “Especially since we still have need of you.”

And if they didn't, would I now be dead? The answer, very obviously, was yes. I flexed my hands, felt the surge of heat across my fingertips, but resisted the urge to let it show. I might have little more than sparks, but those sparks might yet save my life.

“Which leads neatly back to my original question,” I said. “What the hell do you want from me?”

“Ah,” the vampire said. “You are a being who obviously does not appreciate the complexities of bargaining.”

“It's hardly bargaining when you have me tied up tighter than a mummy in a pyramid.”

Amusement slid around me, its touch as foul as the silent presence in the corner. Who the
hell
was he? I had a vague feeling it was something I should know—that
not
knowing could prove very dangerous in the future.

Or was that merely fear speaking? Was it a combination of the uncertainty of the moment and the knowledge that my end in this lifetime might very well come at the hands of either of these men, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, I could do to stop it?

“You are tied up for your own protection as much as ours.” He'd moved around to the right side of my body and was close enough that his breath whispered past my ear.

I shivered and couldn't help wondering whether perhaps he was tempted to have a little taste . . . I swallowed, forced the thought away, and said,
“Yes, because one lone female of unknown heritage is such a danger to two very old vampires.”

Again surprise rippled across the darkness. “Interesting that you know there are two of us. You should not have been able to sense my colleague.”

“And why is that?”

“Because he is . . . not what I am.”

Meaning he
wasn't
a vampire? Then what the hell was he? And how was he connected to the sindicati?

“And that, of course, makes perfectly good sense.”

“Indeed.” Amusement laced his tone. “Let's just say he and his kin are something society will see far more of in coming months.”

Meaning another race of supernaturals was coming out of the proverbial closet? Or was it something more sinister? I didn't know, but I had a bad feeling it would be in my best interest to find out—and sooner rather than later.

“So why doesn't he show himself? In fact, why the darkness at all?”

“Because neither of us has any desire to reveal our identity.” He paused. “However, this is all beside the point. Let's, as you have requested, get down to the reason you are here.”

He'd moved again and was now standing directly in front of me. I couldn't see him. Couldn't even see a vague outline. It was an unnerving sensation.

“Excellent,” I said. “And to repeat . . . What do you want?”

“An exchange.”

Obviously, getting to the point was not one of this vampire's strong suits. “What kind of exchange?”

“You have something I want. I will exchange it for something you want.”

I raised an eyebrow. “If you're talking about Amanda, then forget it. There's nothing I have that I'm willing to exchange for her.”

It might have been a harsh thing to say, but it was nevertheless true. If Amanda was still alive, then I'm afraid it was time for her to lie in the bed she'd made. I'd done what I could to uphold my end of the deal. I wasn't about to do anything else. Not given what she was and how many lives she had already destroyed.

“Dear Amanda,” he replied, “is not the asset we hold.”

“Meaning she
is
still alive?” I couldn't help the surprise in my voice. Given that they'd sent two goons to kill her, I'd have thought completing the task would have been their first priority.

“Yes, she is, but only because my colleague has decided he has some use for her talents.”

I remembered the way his goons had tried to kill her and knew with a chill the talent he was speaking about was not
just
telepathy. Amanda would undoubtedly die, but it only would be
after
the dark presence was done using her—in bed and out.

It was a shitty way to go, but I still couldn't muster much in the way of sympathy. Amanda
had known what the sindicati were and what they were capable of when she'd thrown her towel in with them—she could hardly complain now that things had gone sour.

“If Amanda's not the card you're holding, then who is?” I asked.

“A very pertinent question,” the vampire replied. “And one that will be revealed in the fullness of time.”

I rolled my eyes. It was just my luck to be captured by a vampire who would
not
be hurried—although I guess that wasn't necessarily a
bad
thing if what lay at the end of this was my death. “Then what do you want in return?”

He didn't immediately answer, but I could feel his gaze on me, a weight that was both judgmental and condescending. “What we want is what you have hidden from us.”

I blinked. “How could I have hidden something from you when I've never had any contact with the sindicati up until now?”

“That is not entirely true,” he replied evenly. “And what we require is Professor Baltimore's missing notes.”

“I haven't got them. They were stolen—a fact you're no doubt aware of.”

“Yes,” he said. “But the set was not complete. There's a notebook missing.”

Meaning the sindicati
had
been behind the thefts. But did that also mean they'd killed Baltimore? It seemed logical and yet . . . my gaze drifted to the unclean presence hiding within the
deeper darkness of the room. He wasn't a vampire, and that meant he could cross thresholds uninvited. Maybe I was clutching at straws, but I had a suspicion that even if he hadn't killed Baltimore, he'd at least been there.

“Why in the hell would you think there's a notebook missing? You've not only stolen all the information the professor had on either the foundation's computers or his own, but the notebooks I had as well.”

“That is the problem. As I said, we do not possess all the notebooks. There's one missing.”

I frowned. “No, there's not. I had five; you took five. End of story.”

Again amusement swam around me. “You may have been given five, but we hold only four. You will find that missing notebook, and you will return it to us.”

“In exchange for what? We're hardly bargaining here, because, as far as I can tell, you have nothing to give me in return.”

“You do not consider your life good enough?”

“Well, no, because you actually need me alive to find the notebook. And trust me, you wouldn't want to try to kill me
after
the exchange, because that could go very badly for you.”

“So says the woman who—as she noted herself—is trussed up tighter than a mummy and reliant on our goodwill to remain alive.”

“And yet,” I replied, keeping my voice level despite the surge of both fear and fire—though the force of the latter suggested that while I wasn't
anywhere near full flame, I might yet be able to defend myself from at least one of them. “As you yourself noted, you have me so tightly contained because you're aware that I represent a very real danger to both you and your watcher.”