Flameout (13 page)

“Something has to go our way eventually,” he said. “Even fate isn't that big a bitch.”

“I wouldn't bet on it.” And considering we were still alive after all we'd been through, it was totally possible we were getting as much help from fate as we were ever likely to get.

We began to wind our way through the crowded but totally wonderful shop, but had barely taken more than half a dozen steps when a gorgeously Rubenesque woman in a multicolored gypsy skirt and white
shirt stepped through the silk curtains at the far end of the room. An equally colorful shawl lay loosely draped across her shoulders; its vivid colors were a stark contrast to the flat gray of her hair.

“Welcome to my haven. How may I . . .” She paused, her blue eyes narrowing fractionally. “Lan sent you here, didn't he?”

I exchanged a brief, somewhat surprised glance with Jackson. If she could tell who we were within a few seconds of us entering her shop, then she really
was
powerful.

So why on earth did she need our help?

“Yes, I'm afraid he did. I'm Jackson Miller, and this is Emberly Pearson.”

“Grace Harkwell,” she said. “It is a pleasure to meet you both. I only wish it could have been under different circumstances.”

“Lan didn't explain the circumstances,” I said. “And I have to say, we're a little perplexed as to what we can do that someone of your power cannot.”

“That's easily explained. But not here.” She caught the curtains with one hand and swept them aside. “Please, come into my workspace.”

I followed Jackson across the room, my nostrils flaring as I neared her. Not because of her scent—which was as sweet and as warm as her shop—but because of the sheer amount of power emanating from her. It was almost furnace hot, and its source was
very
familiar; this woman was locked into the energy of the earth, the energy of the mother herself. And it was very,
very
rare to find a human capable of such a feat.

The small room beyond the curtains was as plain
and understated as the main room was over-the-top. There was a large pentagram etched onto the floor, and though there were no candles sitting on each of the points—meaning it wasn't currently active—the droplets of white wax that surrounded each were evidence enough that it recently had been. There were also candles and a small collection of what I presumed would be spell stones in each corner of the room. This place was well and truly protected from evil.

She waved us toward the small sofa to one side of the pentagram then perched on the red velvet chair opposite.

“Two and a half weeks ago,” she said without preamble, “three of my kin went missing. No matter what any of us have done, we cannot find any trace of them.”

“By ‘kin,'” I asked, “are we talking blood relatives, or coven sisters and brothers?”

“The latter.” She caught the ends of her colorful shawl and wrapped it tighter around her shoulders. Fighting off a chill, or fear—I wasn't sure which.

“And there was no warning, no strange events or portents, nothing that made you suspect anything might be wrong beforehand?” Jackson asked.

She shook her head. “Nothing at all. There
is
an element up here now that are less than pleased about the small werewolf pack that has claimed a large swath of the Olinda State Forest as their own, but witches have been a part of this community for as long as anyone can remember. I do not believe a local could be responsible.”

“Is it possible that the three of them are dead?” It
would certainly explain why no one had been able to find them. When a soul moved on, it left nothing behind but inert flesh, and even magic found
that
difficult to trace. Certain psychics could, of course, but the ability to find a body and touch whatever memories might linger within was a dangerous gift, and one that often resulted in madness.

Grace waved a hand. “It's certainly possible, but I know in my heart that is not what has happened.”

“Tell us what you do know, then.” Jackson got out his phone then paused. “You don't mind if I record this conversation, do you?”

She shook her head. “All three were booked to appear at an alternative lifestyle expo in the city. We know they appeared on the Saturday, but not the Sunday.”

“Meaning they disappeared Saturday night?”

“Yes. The police have told us they have footage of them leaving the hotel together at eight forty-five, but they never returned. Nor did they check out.”

“And their luggage?” Jackson asked.

“Was still in their rooms. The police have passed it back to their families, as there's no evidence of a crime having been committed within the room.”

“They would have search the CCTV footage near the hotel,” Jackson said, glancing at me. “If anything had happened to them, they would have caught it.”

“Except if it happened in a black spot. There are still a few of them in Melbourne, apparently.” I glanced back at Grace. “I still can't see where we'd be able to achieve what you cannot. We're private investigators, and simply don't have access to the resources
a case like this needs. And we certainly haven't the metaphysical power at our disposal that you have.”

“Under normal circumstances, that would be true, but I suspect their disappearance is actually linked to whatever it is you're currently investigating.”

My eyebrows rose, even as my stomach sank. More shit, I suspected, was about to be piled on.

“How so?” Jackson asked. The tension in him was so fierce sparks danced sharply across his fingertips.

I frowned at him. He followed the direction of my gaze and instantly curled his fingers into a fist. But it was a worrying sign that he was doing it without thinking. Phoenixes learned control from a very early age, and even then, our fires could sometimes get away from us. And while Jackson was a fire fae and should certainly have no problem controlling
any
sort of fire, he'd obviously become something more than a fae but less than a phoenix when he'd merged with me. Which meant his inner fire might just grow faster—stronger—than his ability to contain it.

It was certainly something we'd better talk about sometime in the very near future.

If Grace noticed the sparks, she made no mention of it. But then, she obviously knew exactly what we both were. Which was, I thought grimly, a worrying trend.

“The reason I believe their disappearance holds a connection to your current investigation is simple,” Grace said, her voice solemn. “The week before that happened, three very different men made an appointment with me, and all of them were seeking the same thing.”

That bad feeling grew. I swallowed heavily and said, “And what was that, exactly?”

But even as I said it, I knew. God help me, I knew.

She took a deep breath and slowly released it. Her gaze, when it met mine, was filled with sympathy.

“They were after the means to restrict—and preferably kill—a phoenix.”

“F
uck.” Jackson scrubbed a hand through his short hair. “You didn't give it to them, did you?”

“No, of course not. Killing another soul goes against everything we believe in.”

“What about restricting them?” I asked. After all, more than one person
had
been using spell stones against me of late, and they had to be coming from somewhere. None of those who'd used them had the capacity to make them, of that much I was sure.

“That, too, would not be something we'd do, unless the soul in question was in league with the dark forces of this world. You, clearly, are not.”

“You couldn't have known that,” I said. “You've only just met me.”

She smiled. “True, but sometimes one does not have to meet a person to know their heart. Especially when both are connected to the mother herself.”

Finding another soul through the mother was not something I'd ever attempted to do—and probably couldn't, to be honest. That was not the way I connected to her.

“So you think your coven kin were kidnapped to do what you would not?” Jackson asked.

“I believe that was the original idea, yes.” Worry
creased her features. “But the fact that we can no longer sense them is not a good sign. We should be able to, you see.”

“Well, I
can
tell you that in the last couple of weeks, spell stones have been used against me on several occasions. So if your missing witches are
not
the source, then there's someone else in this city capable of creating them.”

“No, there isn't.” Her gaze met mine squarely. “If a dark sorcerer or witch had taken up residence here, we would have felt his or her stain.”

“Meaning,” Jackson said, “we've at least found the source of those damn spell stones.”

But even as he said it, Grace was shaking her head. “They wouldn't do it. They couldn't. It would be a knife to the heart of everything they believe in. They would die first.”

“And yet,” I said as gently as I could, “if there is no one else in this city capable of creating that sort of spell, then at least one of them is working with their kidnappers.”

She didn't look happy with that statement, but she didn't dispute it, either.

“Have you talked to their partners or families?” Jackson asked. “Is it possible that they're being used as a means of leverage?”

“All three are unattached.” Grace frowned. “Two do have well-off families, though, so I guess that
is
possible.”

“But you doubt it,” I said. “Why?”

She waved a hand. “Intuition. A gut feeling.”

I wasn't about to disbelieve her instincts—especially
when I tended to rely heavily on the damn things myself.

I crossed my legs and leaned on one knee. “The men who came to see you about the spells—can you describe them?”

She immediately rose and moved across to the corner of the room, collecting what looked like several sheets of art paper before returning to her chair.

“I did a sketch of the men after each of the visits,” she said, offering them to me. “I haven't got security cams in the shop, but the mother whispered the need of a record.”

Then her experience with the mother really
was
different from mine. Which, given she was human and I was not, was to be expected.

I studied the first sketch. He had thick sideburns that covered half his cheeks and were as black as the monotone brow that dominated the upper portion of his face. His nose was bulbous and his eyes somewhat beady.
Rat,
I thought instinctively, though I'd never seen the man before. But it would hardly be surprising if the rats were seeking some means of restricting my fire, given what Jackson and I had done to both Radcliffe and his men.

The next two men she'd sketched were, unfortunately, all too familiar—Theodore Hunt and Luke. The
last
thing I needed was for either of
them
to get their hands on a means of restricting me.

Although Luke
had
used magic to protect himself when I'd confronted him in that laneway. Had that spell come from the missing witches? I really hoped not—for their sakes. Because if he had them, they
would
be infected. It certainly would explain why Grace felt they were alive, and yet had no sense of them. The red cloaks—the mad ones at least—didn't seem to have any life in them. They were alive, they functioned, but all that they were, all that they thought and did, came from the hive mind rather than individual consciousness. What that did to their actual souls I have no idea. Maybe they were simply locked deep within their bodies, or maybe becoming one of the red cloaks meant a long, slow slide into death for body
and
soul.

It would certainly explain why Luke wasn't at all concerned by his losses. He probably figured that if they were going to die, then they might as well go down trying to achieve
his
desires.

“I'm gathering from your expression that you do indeed know them?” Grace said.

I nodded and handed the sketches to Jackson. He looked no happier than I felt.

“One has sworn vengeance on me because I've interfered with several of his missions,” I said. “And the other—”

“Is the source of the darkness that now holds Brooklyn hostage,” Grace finished for me.

I shared another glance with Jackson. Sassafras might be at the far end of Melbourne's outskirts and a long way from Brooklyn, but this witch didn't miss much.

“How much do you know about the troubles there?” Jackson said.

She shrugged. “Not a great deal. I have felt the darkness descending on this city for a while, of course,
and have spoken of my fears with Lan many a time. Brooklyn itself is but the beginning.”

“Yeah, he's told us that.” I scrubbed a hand across my eyes. How much should I tell her? Sam had warned us—under the threat of incarceration—not to tell anyone about the virus, but Grace deserved to know what might have happened to her friends.

Because if they
had
been infected, then finding them was just the first part of the problem.

“It is possible,” I said carefully, “that your missing friends have been infected by the darkness that now holds Brooklyn. And if that is the case—”

I hesitated, and Jackson stepped in, saying what I didn't want to. “If that
is
the case, then they are lost to both you and us. If we do find them, we may have no choice but to kill them.”

Grace's eyes went wide, and her cheeks lost color. For several minutes, she didn't say or do anything, and yet I had a feeling a whole lot was going on at a deeper level. Power stabbed the air, its touch so rich and heated and familiar that my skin tingled in response and the spirit within wanted to reach out and take.

Because that power was the mother.

Whatever Grace was doing, whomever she was contacting, she was doing it through the energy of the earth.

After a few minutes, tears shone in her eyes, and she blinked. “So be it,” she said, voice soft. Then her gaze refocused and swept between the two of us. “You must try to find them for us. And if they
are
affected by this darkness, you have to kill them. We cannot allow the earth mother to be tainted by this darkness via them. Not when we have deeper problems coming.”

“I'm not entirely sure there can be anything worse than what's currently happening in Brooklyn,” Jackson muttered. “And if there
is
, I don't want to know about it.”

Grace's sudden smile was almost sad. “That choice, I'm afraid, has long since departed. Like it or not, your fate is connected to hers”—she nodded at me—“and
hers
is connected to this city.”

Humans with power, it seemed, liked their prophecies filled with ominous warning that didn't really give you a whole lot of information to run with.

But then, if she and Lan were right, we'd understand it all too soon.

“I still don't know why you expect us to find them when neither you nor the police can,” I said.

“We do so because of this.” She rose once more and walked over to the desk. This time she picked up what looked to be a yellow Post-it note and handed it to Jackson. “It was written by Angie, one of those missing.”

“‘The Vic is the key, and fire is our savior,'” he read. “‘She must follow the ghost seen from room two nineteen at midnight on the tenth.'”

The tenth was tomorrow night, but the rest of it made little sense. “Where did you find it?”

“At her place yesterday. She obviously had a premonition something might happen.”

“And yet she didn't contact you or anyone else about her fears?”

Grace shook her head. “Premonitions are events that
may
happen, not must. We cannot go through life fearing to take a step out because of what
might
eventuate.”

True. And it wasn't like I spared much thought for
the consequences—or, at least, what it might mean for me—when I had a premonition.

“I'm gathering we're the fire reference,” I said. “But I'm not clear on the rest of it.”

“Neither are we. We Googled the name, of course, and there is both a Vic Bar and a Victoria Hotel in Melbourne. I suspect Angie meant the latter, as it is the only place with accommodation.”

“If it
is
the hotel, then surely you could deal with whatever it is—”

“No,” Grace said. “She would not have mentioned fire if you were not their best hope.”

The mention of fire didn't necessarily mean us, but I guess it was highly unlikely that it was a coincidence.

“Have you got a photo of the three of them?”

She pulled a small photograph from her pocket and handed it to me. There were five women in the picture—Grace and four others.

“Angie is the tall black woman to my right. On my left is Meredith, who is safe and well. The other two are Rennie and Neriana.”

Rennie was about five six, with frizzy brown hair and a well-lined, happy face. Neriana was small, blond, and cute.

I handed the photo to Jackson. He looked at it for a moment then put it and the note into his pocket.

“We'll do our best to find them alive and hopefully well,” he said, “but I wouldn't put a whole lot of hope—”

“You are their
only
hope,” Grace cut in again. “Angie believed that. I believe that. If you cannot achieve this, then I fear for their souls.”

And wasn't
that
just what we needed—the weight of souls on our consciences.

“We do not have the cash to pay you for your time,” Grace continued. “But we can perhaps offer something far more valuable.”

Jackson raised an eyebrow. “We weren't going to ask for payment, but I'm nevertheless intrigued.”

Grace smiled and for the first time since we'd entered the shop, it warmed the sadness from her eyes. “What we can offer is a means of protection against any spell that attempts to block your fire or restrict your access to the mother.”

I stared at her for a moment then somehow said, “God, if we could get something like
that
, it would be a huge help.”

She nodded. “It will not protect you from anything
other
than that particular type of spell, of course, but Lan tells me there
is
no protection for what comes at you in the nearest future.”

“And isn't
that
nice to know,” I muttered grimly.

Her smile faded. “You know in your heart things will grow worse. You feel it, as we do. All of us will be tested by what the future brings, but you three are certainly at the forefront of that battle.”

Three. That surely meant Rory as well.
Fuck
.

I batted away the fear that rose with the thought and said, “When will we be able to get hold of these charms?”

“We will start work on them tonight. Lan will contact you when they are ready.”

“And if we find your missing kin?”
And are forced to
kill them?
I didn't say those words, but they seemed to hang in the air regardless.

“We will know. We will feel the release of their souls if they move on.”

“Even if they are infected by the darkness?”

“Even if. Death frees the spirit from whatever assails it, be it physical, mental, or metaphysical.”

“Let's hope it's not the latter, for their sake, at least.” I held out the sketches then hesitated as my gaze fell on Hunt's image. “Neither you nor any of your coven kin has given this man a means of restricting my fire, have you?”

She frowned. “No, but that is not to say he can't find such a means. I do not believe it was chance that brought all three here, and I suspect—given the timing—that at least one witnessed the other's departure.”

Tension wound through me again. “Which one?”

She pointed instantly to Hunt. “That one would have seen the rat leave.”

I relaxed, but only a little. Hunt was already acquainted with the rats; it was Luke I didn't want him knowing, if only because Luke could very easily twist an already twisted mind. But if Hunt had seen the rat's representative leave, it was also possible he'd seen Luke, given what Grace had said about their arrival times.

Luke and Hunt working together was a very,
very
scary thought.

“Please call me if you do find them,” Grace said. “It matters not the time. When I'm not here, I divert calls to my private number.”

“We will.”

And with that, we left. We collected a coffee—or tea, in my case—from a nearby café, then climbed into the car and headed home. It was after midnight by the time we got back and, despite the sleep I'd had earlier, I was bone tired. Jackson must have felt the same, because he kissed me good night then climbed into his own bed. He was asleep within minutes.