Flameout (17 page)

T
he high-pitched scream of a train whistle blasted, accompanied by the screeching of metal against metal as it tried to stop.

“Jackson!” I screamed, and dove for the railing.

All I could see was train. I had no idea whether Jackson was under it or not. I ran to left and leaned over the railing farther, desperately scanning the track for any sign of life or blood or—god help me—body parts. There was nothing. Just sparks that danced like giddy fireflies as the train came to a shuddering halt.

Then a flash of movement caught my eye to the right of the train. Jackson, striding across the tracks, his jeans torn, shirt filthy, but very much alive and unhurt. And he had the satchel in his hand.

Tension fled, and I took a deep shuddering breath. I hadn't realized until that moment just how much I'd actually come to care for the damn man.

He looked up and gave me a wave, his grin wide as he motioned to the nearest platform. I gave him a thumbs-up then ran back through the concourse to meet him. There was little point in even trying to find Amanda—she'd long disappeared into the crowd.

Jackson met me near the exit gates.

“You,” I said, grabbing his shirt and dragging him
close, “just about gave me a heart attack. Don't ever do something like that again.”

“Like you wouldn't have done the exact same thing had our positions been reversed.” He dropped a quick kiss on my lips. “And Superman is not the only one who's faster than a speeding bullet—or fast-braking train, as was the case.”

I snorted then glanced past him. Security guards were heading our way. “Unless you want to spend some more time twiddling your thumbs at a police station, we'd better get out of here.”

After a quick look over his shoulder, he caught my arm and guided me quickly but efficiently through the crowd. It didn't take much time to lose the guards, and once we had, we headed back to the car. Jackson shoved the key into the ignition then opened the satchel. It had two compartments, and both were stuffed full with paper.

He pulled out one lot and handed them to me. “You check those; I'll check the rest.”

I quickly flicked through the paperwork. It was mostly handwritten stuff and reminded me somewhat of the notebooks Baltimore had given me to translate into readable English when I'd been his research assistant. I couldn't see any mention of the virus in any of it, though, just a whole lot of mumbo jumbo about DNA strands and misshapen molecules.

“Anything?” I said, glancing at Jackson.

He shook his head. “Nothing that jumps up and screams
red plague virus
. But you're the research assistant. You tell me.”

He handed over the notes, and I scanned them
quickly. They were much the same as mine. “I think what we might have is pre-virus notes. They're talking about vampire DNA and misshapen molecules, from what I can gather.”

“No mention of the virus?”

“Not that I can see.”

“So, useful, but not what we're looking for.” He paused, expression thoughtful. “Do you think it's worth taking a copy of them? Or shall we just hand them over to PIT and move on?”

“PIT will undoubtedly want them, but so will Rinaldo and the sindicati.”

“If the wolves are doing as they promised, Rinaldo isn't our biggest problem right now.”

“Yeah, but are you willing to risk Shona's safety to something as fragile as a promise to keep them safe?”

“No.” He scraped a hand across his jaw. “I think there's an office supplies place just up the road. Why don't we go there and get some photocopies?”

“I think that's the best option, but we both know PIT isn't going to be too impressed if we give this information to Rinaldo.” I hesitated, glancing down at the notes. “What about if we give both him and Parella a selection of pages rather than the entire lot? Neither of them are going to know any different.”

Unless, of course, one or the other had people within PIT, and that was an option I didn't want to contemplate.

“
That
sounds very sensible.”

“See, I can do sensible. Sometimes.”

His quick grin suggested disbelief, but he didn't say anything, just handed me the satchel then started the
car and drove out of the parking lot. Forty minutes later, we had our copies—two were a direct paper copy of only a select portion of the notes, and the other a full copy that had been scanned and stored as JPGs on a USB. The latter might have been overkill, but given how often we'd been accosted for information of late, it was better to be safe than sorry.

It was raining by the time we left. We made a mad dash for the car but still managed to get soaked through to the skin.

Jackson dumped the wet satchel with a partial copy of the notes onto the backseat then tucked the other copy under his seat. I pulled the originals from my sweater; the first couple of pages were damp, but they were still readable. I stuffed the lot of them into the glove compartment then shoved my hands in front of the warm air blasting out of the vents. I could have used my own internal heat to warm them, but sometimes it was nice to use old-fashioned methods.

“It might be best to ring Rinaldo now,” I said, noting it was close to six thirty. “That way, it won't matter if we get sidetracked tonight.”

“You might as well make a call to PIT, too.” He pulled back out into the traffic. “And we should probably check out the two gyms near where Wilson was attacked while we're out. You never know, we might get lucky.”

“I think you used today's allotment of luck when you jumped in front of that damn train.” My voice was dry. “And probably tomorrow's.”

He laughed. It was a sound so infectious a smile tugged at my lips.

“What fun is life if there isn't a bit of risk occasionally?” He glanced at me briefly, one eyebrow raised. “Don't try to tell me you're not enjoying the adrenaline rush of this whole situation, because I can't and won't believe it.”

“I'm not denying I enjoy taking the occasional chance, but this lifetime was
supposed
to be a staid one. My ‘sit back and chill' time.”

“No chance of that with me around.” Amusement crinkled the corners of his bright eyes.

“No chance at all,” I agreed sagely. “But I'm seriously hoping that once all this virus shit is sorted out, we can drop back to a more demure pace.”

“And I'm betting chasing wayward husbands or spying on welfare cheats . . .” He chopped the sentence off and slammed on the brakes as the car in front suddenly stopped.

Even though we weren't going fast, our car slewed sideways on the wet road. I swore, bracing myself for impact as the rear end of the vehicle loomed way too fast for my liking.

Somehow, Jackson managed to stop inches from the other car. But I'd barely released the breath I'd been holding when two men jumped out of the vehicle and ran toward ours—but not with any intention of checking that we were okay. Quite the opposite, if the guns they held by their sides were any indication.

I swore and undid my seat belt, but I was too close to the other car to get the door open even a fraction. Jackson was slightly faster than me—he had one foot out of the car when the one of the gunmen shouted, “Move, and she dies.”

Jackson's gaze met mine, one eyebrow raised in query and sparks flying across his fingertips. I shook my head minutely. If the gunmen had intended any immediate harm, they would have simply shot us. They'd had time enough in that brief moment of disorientation as our car had slithered to a stop.

He extinguished the sparks and held his hands up. “And who would you gentlemen be representing? The rats, the sindicati, Rinaldo, or the city pack?”

“City pack?” I muttered. Why the hell would he ask that given the agreement we had with them . . . then I realized why. At least one of these two men was a werewolf.

A look of intense concentration crossed his features. Then a heartbeat later, his voice whispered into my mind. It was distant, fuzzy, with some of the words dropping out. But I could nevertheless understand him.

Not sure other. Don't think city.

Surprise flitted through me, but with it came relief. If this link between us was two-way, it could be damnably handy in situations just like this.

I frowned, concentrating on mentally replying as succinctly and clearly as I could.
No, because they have no reason for this sort of action.

Then I crossed mental fingers and hoped he
did
hear me. Because if this link between us
was
telepathy, then it was a different form of it—at least if what telepaths had told me about the ability was true, anyway.

A second later, surprise and delight flitted across his expression. He'd heard me.

Outliers,
came his response.
This hard.

Yes
. I'd barely said anything, and yet a slight ache
was beginning to appear at the back of my brain. But maybe this skill, like any other skill, needed time and effort spent on it for it to get stronger and easier.

“Parella contracted us,” the wolf closest to Jackson said. “He wants the notes.”

I raised an eyebrow. The sindicati boss was keeping an even closer eye on us than we'd presumed if he knew about notes we'd only just gotten. And I hadn't seen either of these two in the station's concourse, which meant they were damn good at their job.

“If Parella wants the fucking notes,” Jackson replied, voice mild, “then he can come and get them himself.”

“That is not accept—”

“I don't care what is and isn't acceptable,” Jackson cut in. “I'm simply telling you how it's going to be. You might also want to know I've had my quota of being shot at for today, so get that damn gun out of my face.”

“Or what?” the idiot sneered. “You're not close enough to grab me, and I can shoot faster than—”

He didn't finish the sentence because Jackson unleashed his fire. It shot out with an audible
whoosh
and wrapped around the gunman's hand, melting both the metal
and
his flesh.

The thug screamed—a high-pitched sound of agony that almost drowned out the other gunman's “What the fuck?”

“Jackson . . .” I warned, even as he cursed and withdrew his fiery lasso.

The other man kept screaming. I can't say I blamed him—his hand was a mess.

Jackson glanced at the other thug. “Take your friend
to the hospital, then give Parella the message. And if we catch you following us again, the results will
not
be pretty.”

The second man didn't argue. He simply grabbed his companion and shoved him toward the car. No sympathy happening there, obviously.

I took a deep breath and looked around. While a few people had gathered on the sidewalk, expressions curious, everything had happened so fast—and was over so quickly—that I doubted they'd witnessed too much.

Jackson climbed back into the car then slammed the door shut and punched the steering wheel violently, making me jump.

“I didn't mean to do that.” His voice was soft, but anger vibrated through it—through him. “I simply meant to melt the trigger mechanism so he couldn't fire the damn thing.”

“So what happened?” I knew well enough what had happened—he'd lost control.

“I don't know.” He scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “It was weird. It was almost as if, just for an instant, the fire within me gained a life and a mind of its own.”

“Or, more likely, it was simply reacting to your anger.”

It sometimes happened with young phoenixes who'd yet to gain full control over the flames that were theirs by nature. The minute they got overemotional, they reacted instinctively, spewing forth fire at whatever—whoever—had threatened or upset them. Which was why, whenever I'd gotten pregnant, Rory and I had retreated to somewhere nice and secluded. It was easier
than explaining a six-month-old setting his surroundings alight.

“But what just happened was inexcusable,” he bit back. “I'm a damn fire fae . . .”

I reached across and placed my hand on his thigh. His muscles twitched in response, but he didn't reject my touch, as I half expected him to. “Who merged his life force with phoenix, with who knows what consequences?”

“That still doesn't—”

“Jackson,” I cut in, tone holding just a hint of steel. “Young phoenixes do not come out of the womb in full control of themselves, let alone their fires.”

“But I'm not—”

“For all intents and purposes, you might as well be. Maybe everything you learned as a fae will have to be relearned now that you're far more. Phoenixes are spirits with an intimate—and very dangerous—connection to the energy of the world itself. Even
you
can't be expected to control such a force without at least some tuition and practice.”

He glanced at me. His expression gave little away, and anger still radiated from every inch of his body. But it was now accompanied by the faintest hint of fear.

“What if it's the virus? What if this is just the first sign that our merging
didn't
work, and that I'm becoming one of them?”

I hesitated. It was possible—I had to admit that. Just because I burned off all human toxins and diseases when I took spirit form didn't mean the same had happened to him when we'd merged and he had—for the briefest of moments—become what I was.

“There's one way we can find out,” I said. “We can get PIT to do a blood test.”

“And if I'm fucking positive? Then what? We both know that will be the end of life as I know it. They're not about to let me run about the general population willy-nilly.”

“Sam and Rochelle were, at least until recently. That wouldn't have happened if they were, in any way, infectious.”