Flameout (28 page)

“You need to get here ASAP.”

“Where and why?”

She quickly gave me an address, then added, “The ‘why' will be obvious when you get here.”

“But surely you can—”

“No,” she said and hung up. I swore and slammed down the phone.

“Another problem has just raised its ugly head, I'm gathering.” There was little amusement in Jackson's expression, despite his light tone.

I stalked toward the door. “Yeah, PIT just ordered us across to Williamstown, STAT.”

He frowned. “What's in Williamstown?”

“I have no fucking clue. But I'm thinking whatever it is, isn't good.”

He slammed the door shut, and the sound rang across the otherwise quiet street. It sounded an awful lot like a death knell. I shivered and hoped like hell it wasn't another damn premonition, that whatever was waiting for us in Williamstown
wasn't
a dead body.

And I really,
really
hoped it wasn't the body of someone I knew.

It took just under twenty minutes to get around to the bayside suburb. Macquarie Street was blocked by
police cars, so Jackson found a parking spot farther down Stevedore Street and we walked back.

“I'm sorry,” a blue-coated cop said. “I'm afraid no one—”

“We're expected,” I cut in, showing him my badge.

He inspected it, then waved us on. It wasn't hard to spot number twelve—the place was practically bristling with officialdom, and a mix of police and unmarked cars jammed the street in front of it.

The house itself was an old miner's cottage. Unlike the ones on either side of it, it hadn't been extended, but it had obviously been lovingly restored. The weatherboard that lined the house had been painted a lovely cream, and the single-sash windows and the door were a deeper shade of that.

A lot of people were crowded onto the small front porch. Most ignored our approach, but one—a tall, slim-built man with odd, almost hawkish eyes—stepped forward and said, “Please put these on. The inspector is waiting for you both.”

He handed us some heavy-duty hazmat-type booties and, once we'd pulled them on over our shoes and the bottoms of our pants, led us inside. Like most of these old cottages, there was a central hall with rooms leading off either side. The first two were bedrooms. Then there was a bathroom and small study. None of them appeared to have been disturbed; nothing seemed out of place. My gaze went to the rear of the property, and chills ran down my spine.

Death had been here. Her scent lingered in the air.

My steps automatically slowed. Jackson didn't say anything, but his fingers pressed lightly against my
spine, offering me the comfort of not only his closeness, but also the heat of his touch. I drew on it, gathering strength for what was to come—not just here, in this beautiful old building, but out there, in Brooklyn.

Because what had happened here would lead us there.

I shivered and followed the man with the shifter's eyes into the rear of the property. This section of the house had been extended and was now a large kitchen and living area. I stopped just inside the kitchen door, and not even the light pressure of Jackson's touch could force me any farther.

As I'd feared, this end of the house was where death had come to collect her souls—and she certainly would have had plenty to collect. There was blood and gore and bodies everywhere. Not just one or two, but at least a dozen. I swallowed heavily, trying to ease the sick sense of uselessness rising up my throat, and scanned the nearest corpses. On the cheeks of at least three of them was a black mark in the shape of a scythe.

Red cloaks.

My gaze finally stopped on the tall woman standing in middle of all the carnage. Inspector Henrietta Richmond, of that I had no doubt, if only because she matched the image I'd formed, right down to the black glasses. What I hadn't expected was the mane of thick black hair that was tied back loosely at the nape of her neck and the almost luminous green eyes. The inspector was a shape-shifter—a panther, if the hair and eyes were anything to go by. But I guessed it made sense that an organization whose ranks were more than half-
filled by shape-shifters, vampires, and psychics would not be run by a mere human.

“Ms. Pearson, Mr. Miller, it is good of you to be so prompt.” Her plummy tone was cool but not without welcome.

“I have no doubt you would have organized someone to haul our asses over here if we'd looked likely to do anything else.” I waved a hand around the room. “Whose place is this?”

But even as I asked the question, I knew. God help me, I knew.

“It's Sam's.” Though neither her voice nor her expression showed much in the way of anger, it burned deep in her bright eyes.

I didn't react. I didn't
dare
. If I gave in to fear now, I might not climb back out of it.

“Is he here?”

I doubted he would be, but there was always the chance that Luke had decided I wasn't worth the trouble—that it was simply easier to kill his brother and move on.

“No. He's been taken.”

I briefly closed my eyes, but not in relief. He might currently be alive, but god only knew what was being done to him.

“And Rochelle?” Jackson asked.

Rather than answer, the inspector simply moved to one side, allowing us a full view of the body near her feet. It was Rochelle. She was lying in a pool of her own blood, and the knife that had been used to cut her throat lay beside her body. Two men wearing full hazmat suits
were in the process of vacuuming up the congealing blood while two more stood ready with a body bag. Not taking any chances, even if they believed the virus could be spread only via being bitten or scratched by one of the infected.

“Have you got any idea who did this to her? Was it the cloaks?”
Or was it Sam?
The question hovered on my lips, but I just couldn't force it out.

“No one. She killed herself.”

“Why the
fuck
would she do that?” Disbelief edged my voice.

“We have two theories.” The inspector's gaze dropped to the woman at her feet. “Either she was ordered to cut her own throat, or she did it to
stop
being ordered to attack Sam.”

I blinked. “So you locked the two of them in here, knowing full well that she was in contact with Luke?”

“We had little other choice.” The inspector's gaze was steely as it snapped to mine. “The possibility that one or both were in contact with Luke meant neither of them could be held at headquarters, and it was impractical to place them in cell confinement elsewhere.”

“Why?”

“Because both have started drinking blood to stave off the ravages of the virus. How would we have explained
that
given it's very obvious neither is a vampire?”

And keeping news of the virus secret was far more important than the lives of two agents. The inspector might be furious about events here, but she wouldn't have altered her actions
or
her decisions in any way.

“So why not hold them under house arrest in their own homes rather than together under one roof?”

“Because our manpower is stretched to the limit.” She hesitated. “I also did not believe that either was controlled by the virus or the man who leads the cloaks. I guess Rochelle's actions both shatters and confirms that belief.”

I took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. Rochelle had taken her own life rather than be forced to attack Sam and knowingly betray the people she worked with. It was a decision of courage, strength, and nerves of steel, and she deserved to be honored in the highest way possible. And while I might have been right about her, I was also very, very wrong.

“How long ago was the attack?”

“Prelim examinations suggest Rochelle died about two hours ago. Security footage revealed the attack happened
after
she'd died.”

Suggesting, perhaps, that Luke had been well aware that his hold on Rochelle wasn't very strong. Why else would he have had cloaks standing by?

Then I frowned. “If you have this place under watch, how did all these cloaks get past?”

The inspector's expression darkened. “They didn't, at least not initially. Our people raised the alarm before they were killed.”

I glanced at the carnage surrounding us again. “So Sam did all this?” Surely not. Surely even a man who'd become a pseudo vampire could not so easily tear apart flesh and bone. Not alone.

“Yes. He is . . . rather dangerous when enraged.”

I'd glimpsed slivers of that rage; I had no desire to see it fully blown. Not if this was an example of it.

But then, he'd witnessed his lover kill herself. That wouldn't have exactly put him in a great frame of mind.

“Have you been in contact with Rochelle's family?” Jackson asked.

The inspector's gaze shifted to him. “No. Nor will we. Her body will be held—”

“Inspector, she's
fae
. There are ceremonies that must be performed for her spirit to find peace. You need to contact whoever she listed as next of kin—”

“One soul is not my concern right now,” she cut in. “Not when I have a city full of them to worry about. Or have you forgotten what we're dealing with here?”

“Hardly,” he growled, “when I could possibly face the same outcome myself.”

The inspector's gaze swept him before she glanced away. “Rochelle will receive the appropriate rites as soon as possible. More than that cannot be promised right now.”

“Why did you call us here?” I said quickly, before the anger and heat I could feel building in the man behind me got out of control.

Her cool smile suggested she was not unaware of what I was doing. “You're here because we had no other choice.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” God, what was it about people speaking in riddles of late?

Instead of replying, she motioned us to follow. After a moment's hesitation, I did so, carefully picking my way through all the blood and body parts. The room opened out farther, revealing another large section to
the right of the kitchen. On the rear wall, written in what looked like blood, was a simple message:
Emberly. Get her here. ASAP.

Underneath the message, lying on the floor beside a bloody right arm I suspected might have been the tool used to write the message, was a phone.

Luke hadn't given up his dreams of torturing me in front of Sam. He'd just decided to up the stakes and make
me
come to
him.

Not go alone,
came Jackson's thought.
Together. Only way to kill.

I glanced at him but didn't get the chance to reply, because at that moment, the damn phone rang. I'm pretty sure I was the only one who jumped.

The inspector dug some gloves out of her pocket then tossed them to me. “You might as well answer it. Keep him speaking for as long as possible, so we can get a location.”

“He'll surely be aware you'll try that.”

“Probably, but the point is not so much his current location. We need to get a lock on his phone so that we can track his movements.”

Track him and kill him. She might not have said that, but that's what she intended. But Luke wasn't hers—or PIT's—to kill.

The bastard was mine.

I pulled on the gloves as I walked over to the phone, but didn't pick it up. Instead, I hit the
SPEAKER
button and said, “Hello?”

“Ah, Emberly, how are you this fine afternoon?” Luke's voice was loud in the sudden stillness of the room, and filled with smug satisfaction.

I clenched my fists and restrained the urge to pick up the phone and throw the damn thing. As satisfying as that might be, it'd be even more satisfying to throw the man himself—and to do that, I had to keep listening.

“Just get to the damn point, Luke,” I snapped back, “what the fuck do you want?”

“You know what I want.” He paused, and I could almost see the smile stretching his thin lips. “You.”

“Sorry—you can't have me. What have you done to Sam?”

“Why don't you come over to my place and find out?”

I snorted. “
That's
an invitation I can definitely refuse.”

“Sorry—that's not a choice you have.”

“Why not? It's not like you have anything I want.”

He made a low, disbelieving sound. “Your actions up until now would prove otherwise.”

“Well, we all make mistakes.” I paused. “How's that tame witch of yours? Have the hellhounds come a-calling yet?”

He laughed. It wasn't exactly a sane sound. “My tame witch, as you call him, cannot wait for a second encounter.”

I glanced at Jackson.
Definitely male, not female.

Need to tell witches,
he replied.
Make easier to find.

It certainly would. While male witches weren't exactly rare, most of the more powerful witches tended to be female. No one was sure why, but many seemed to think it was something to do with a more natural connection to the earth mother. Given
this
male witch had the power to call and control three hellhounds for an extended period, it surely wouldn't
be hard to track down who, exactly, we were dealing with.

“Yeah, well, you might want to warn him against calling the hounds again. They weren't too impressed to discover they'd been sent against a kindred spirit.” I paused. “On second thought, don't. It'll save me the problem of killing him myself.”

“I do
so
love your sense of humor—and I believe it's what attracted Sam to you, too.”

I smiled grimly. It hadn't taken him long to bring the conversation back to the point. “As I've mentioned before, Sam and I were over a long time ago. I'm not sure why you've got this fixation about the two of us, but you're way off base.”

“And yet here you are, in his house, as I demanded.”