Flameout (10 page)

“Very true.” Especially given it wasn't either my life or Jackson's that the bastard had threatened. “What's your fee?”

“Our general fee for information is a grand, but given the subject, we'll quarter it.”

“Why?” I asked bluntly. “The city pack hasn't a reputation for generosity.”

“No, we do not—and with good reason.” His smile held the first real touches of warmth and it lifted the coldness from his features. He was never going to win any awards for looks, but that smile at least made
his sharp profile more interesting. “In this case, it's simply an admission that we do not, as yet, know a whole lot about Rinaldo.”

“Then tell us what
do
you know,” Jackson asked.

Baker merely raised an eyebrow. “The fee is agreed?”

Jackson got out his wallet, peeled out the appropriate number of bills, and put them on the table. “Now talk.”

Baker swept the bills into the top drawer of his desk. “Rinaldo appeared in Melbourne just over nine months ago and has very swiftly gathered a large following among those vampires disenchanted with the current sindicati split. We believe he's from interstate, but have not as yet tracked down from where.”

I frowned. “Why not? Surely the Australian Vampire Council would have some record of him?”

They were, after all, legally obliged to keep a record of not only all those who'd turned, but also those who'd undergone the ceremony—in which a human swore allegiance to a master vamp and shared his blood—so that both coroners and undertakers were not caught unawares by the dead rising.

“You would think so, would you not?” Baker agreed. “That they haven't suggests he is using an alias, or we are dealing with someone from overseas.”

“Immigration would have some form of record if it was the latter,” Jackson said. “And I'd imagine you'd be able to get your hands on that easily enough.”

“Having access does not help if you do not know the target's actual name.”

Suggesting Rinaldo was yet another alias. Either that, or he'd come into the country subversively. It didn't
happen very often these days, as border security had become quite adept at stopping vamps and weres trying to sneak into the country illegally, but it certainly
had
been a problem in the days before radar screening and sniffer dogs. And Rinaldo was old enough to have been here a very long time.

“What else do you know about him? Because we certainly haven't gotten our money's worth yet.”

“I did warn you we do not know much.” He held up a hand, stopping my annoyed response before I had the chance to make it. Which was probably just as well, because it's never wise to annoy wolves when you're on their turf. “The sindicati are aware of Rinaldo's presence but do not currently deem him a threat. They are, of course, fools, but that is neither here nor there.”

“If they know about him,” Jackson said, “surely they must be aware of his past, or where he came from?”

“If they do, they are not saying.”

“But they're aware Rinaldo approached you?”

Again Baker's smile flashed. “No. That is pack business. We would inform the sindicati of the event only if we decided to alter or even annul current contracts.”

Given what he'd said about the standoff between the pack and Rinaldo,
that
seemed unlikely. “Do you have any idea why the sindicati deem him such a low threat?”

“Because so far he has concentrated his efforts on taking over the businesses that are traditionally rat controlled.”

“Meaning minor black market trading, gambling
and the like?” I said. “I can't imagine the rats taking that lying down.”

“Oh, they are less than pleased. There have been several skirmishes already, and I would expect more, especially if the rumors are true and he has executed a bloody raid on one of Radcliffe's main gaming venues.”

“When did this happen?” Jackson asked, frowning. “There's been no mention of it on the news.”

“It happened an hour ago, and it won't hit the news because PIT has placed a embargo on the event.”

“But it was definitely Rinaldo's men?”

“Not just his men—he was seen there.”

Jackson and I shared a glance. “Impossible. An hour ago he was threatening us at Rosen's apartment.”

“Then perhaps we are not talking about the same man.”

I got out my phone, brought up Rinaldo's picture, and showed Baker. “This was taken at Chase Medical Research Institute a few weeks ago. He was going under the name of Professor Heaton at the time and was supposedly there to replace Professor Baltimore.”

“I'm gathering you and he had something of an disagreement over you continuing as his assistant?”

“No. I did the sensible thing and ran.”

This time Baker's smile was full-fledged. It briefly warmed the fierceness from his eyes. “Possibly a wise move.”

“I'm thinking so.” I put my phone away. “I believe PIT knows him as Heaton.”

“And yet, that is
definitely
the man I know as Rinaldo.” Baker leaned back in his chair, expression thoughtful.
“It is impossible for someone to be in two places at once, so perhaps my source was mistaken about seeing him at the gaming venue.”

“If your source happened to be working at the venue when it was hit,” Jackson commented, “it would be understandable if he
did
make a mistake.”

“Yes. But he said the gentleman in charge identified himself as Rinaldo, and that all the men accompanying him were vampires.”

“Could it have been one of the sindicati factions?” After all, what better way to get rid of a possible rival than to commit a crime in his name, and have half the rat world after him?

“That is also very possible, although it would be at odds with what the vampires have said to me.”

“And it's not like vampires to be dishonest about things like that,” Jackson said, voice dry.

Baker acknowledged the point with a somewhat regal nod. “I'll question my source and some of the other survivors when PIT has finished with them. Something very odd would appear to be going down right now.”

That right there had to be the understatement of the century. “What sort of deal did Rinaldo offer the wolves?”

“What sort of information is he blackmailing you for?” Baker countered. “I believe a fair exchange is warranted on this point.”

“It's hardly a fair exchange when we're paying you for information,” Jackson noted.

“You paid me for information on Rinaldo. At no point was his approach to us included in that price.”

Jackson snorted. “And they say rats are thieves.”

“Rats are. Just try to get information if you do not believe me. Our prices are modest by comparison.”

Having never dealt with the rats in a business sense, I had no idea whether that was true or not. I briefly glanced at Jackson. He half shrugged in response.

“Okay,” I said, returning my gaze to Baker. “A fair exchange. Rinaldo or Heaton or whoever the fucking hell he is wants any and all information regarding the missing research files.”

“Which ones?” Baker countered. “The ones supposedly hidden by Wilson or the ones De Luca stole from Parella's crew?”

Jackson raised his eyebrows. “You're very up-to-date with recent events.”

“We're dealing with vampires. It pays to keep up-to-date.”

One again his tone was dry, and I couldn't help smiling. Baker might be every bit as cool and ruthless as the vamps, but that certainly wasn't the sum of him. You had only to look at the artwork in his office to guess that.

“What did he want from you?”

“He stated his intentions on taking over sindacati operations, and desired to know if we would be agreeable to continuing joint operations with him in control.”

“I can't see the problem in that,” I said, frowning. “Especially given you're already working with the sindicati.”

“We have no problems with working with him per se,” he said. “It's the ‘him in control' bit we objected to.”

“Meaning he didn't actually want a working
relationship,” Jackson said. “I'm liking this vampire less and less.”

“Quite.” Baker's tone was heavy. “As I said, we have something of a standoff. He was less than pleased with our response, but has not yet the backing or the power to do anything about it.”

“I'm surprised you're sitting back waiting for him to gain such power,” I commented. “I would have thought dealing with the situation before it escalates would be your next move.”

“It would be, if we could find him. He is something of a ghost.”

“He's not too much of a ghost,” Jackson commented. “Not if the amount of times we've spotted him is any indication.”

“Then perhaps we could come to an arrangement,” Baker said. “You give us a call whenever you see him, or whenever you uncover anything about him, and we will offer protection to those he's threatened.”

Jackson's eyebrows rose. “That's a generous offer.”

“Yes, but we really
would
like to deal with him before the situation escalates.” He paused and grimaced. “This city has enough problems right now. It doesn't need a war between us and the vampires.”

“Okay, deal,” Jackson said, and offered Baker his hand.

Baker shook it then slid a pen and paper across the desk. “If you jot the names and addresses, we'll do our best to keep those people safe.”

As Jackson began writing, I said, “Have you talked to the rats about the situation?”

After all, Rinaldo, for all his air of sophistication,
had to be hiding somewhere very unusual; otherwise the wolves would have found him by now. And when it came to unusual—to places dark and dank—then the rats were the kings.

“Yes. I suspect they might be more willing to chat after this current episode, however.” Baker reached into his top shirt pocket and pulled out a business card. “You can contact me anytime on this number. Unlike the one Rinaldo has given you, it is a direct line.”

“Meaning Rinaldo's isn't?”

“No. It's a call center. Rinaldo contacts them once a day for his messages.”

Given the time frame he'd allotted us, what was the betting he collected them all right after eight? “Any chance of tapping the call center's lines and tracing where he calls from?”

“Unfortunately, no. And if I were him, I'd be calling from a public phone, not a private one.”

So would I. I blew out a frustrated breath, then shoved Baker's business card into my purse and rose. “Thanks for the help.”

He inclined his head somewhat regally. “I would suggest you call ahead next time you wish to enter this place. It will avoid future problems with Hunt.”

“Or you could simply keep him on a leash.”

“I could, but I won't.” His sudden grin was anticipatory and very much a reminder of the savagery that lurked beneath the cloak of civility. “You created the problem, so it's up to you to deal with it. I have warned the pack not to interfere or retaliate in any way, no matter what the result. Doing anything more would be bad for pack politics.”

Which basically meant he'd banned retaliations if we did kill Hunt. He
had
said he'd do that when we'd saved his ass, of course, but I wasn't entirely sure he'd meant it.

“We'll be in contact,” I said.

He smiled again. “I'll look forward to it.”

I glanced at Jackson, then led the way out the room. Our two guards were waiting for us in the corridor and escorted us down the elevator and through the foyer. I wasn't entirely sure if it was for our safety or to make sure we actually left.

“Well,” Jackson said as we headed down the front steps. “That was all very illuminating.”

“I'm not sure ‘illuminating' is the right word,” I said. “But it might be worthwhile trying to talk to Radcliffe again.”

Jackson snorted. “After what we did to the bastard, I'm betting the only meeting he'd agree to is one where we're incapacitated and he's armed with a fucking big gun.”

I grinned. “True. Except for one thing—we now have a common enemy.”

Jackson's expression became thoughtful. “We do. And he certainly might consider us the lesser of two evils.”

“Especially if we offer him the same sort of deal we gave Baker.”

“There's only one problem with that.” He lightly pressed a hand against my spine and guided me to the right. “As of this moment, the only information we have on Rinaldo is what Baker told us, and you can bet Radcliffe already knows all that. Remember, the raid
on his gaming venue wasn't the first. It was just the bloodiest.”

“It's still worth a . . .” I stopped as I spotted a familiar blond-haired figure just ahead.

“What?” Jackson said immediately.

I pointed at the woman. “Is that Amanda Wilson, by any chance?”

He followed the line of my finger and, after a moment, said, “It sure as hell looks like her. Let's find out.”

Without warning, he bellowed her name, just about blowing my eardrums in the process. The blonde turned her head and stared directly at us.

Just for an instant, there was no life, no emotion, in her face.

Unease crawled through me, but before I could say anything, before either of us had even taken more than a few steps toward her, recognition flared and she turned and ran.

“W
ell, I guess that's confirmation it
is
her, if nothing else,” Jackson said. “Shall we give chase?”

He didn't wait for my answer, just bolted after the fleeing woman. I followed, but running woke all the bruised bits and hurt like hell, and it was all I could do to ignore the pain and keep on going. But it was pretty much a pointless exercise; within half a dozen strides I was already well behind.

Amanda hit Spencer Street and bolted across it against the lights. Car horns blared, but she didn't acknowledge them, looking neither right nor left as she ran for Southern Cross Station. I cursed. Even though it wasn't peak hour yet, there were still enough people about that we could easily lose sight of her.

But, rather surprisingly, she didn't head inside. Instead, she stayed on the footpath and raced toward Bourke Street.

Jackson hit Spencer Street, checked his speed slightly, and then flung out a hand to stop the traffic as he raced across. More car horns blared, and abuse flew. He ignored them and ran on.

I was too far back to follow, so I swung left and followed their progress from the opposite side of the
street. But the pain was building, and my head was pounding. So much for following doctor's orders . . .

At least Jackson had gained on her . . . but even as that thought crossed my mind, she swung left and raced up the steps toward the Outlet Centre. Jackson followed several heartbeats later, and the two of them disappeared into the concourse between the rail station and the Outlet Centre. I cursed and stopped, one hand against my side and my breath ragged gasps of agony as I waited impatiently for a break in the traffic before running across. I took the steps as fast as I could then paused at the top and looked around for any clue as to where they'd gone. After a moment, I caught a brief glimpse of auburn hair far ahead and bolted after them again.

But by the time I reached that point, Jackson was already walking back toward me.

I frowned and stopped. “What happened?”

“The bitch knocked an old woman into my path.” He thrust a hand through his hair, the movement quick and filled with repressed anger. “By the time I'd helped the old girl, Amanda had disappeared.”

“Well, fuck.” It came out as little more than a wheeze. My lungs burned, but breathing properly hurt like hell. Logically, I knew that it was better to breathe deep than more shallowly, but knowing and doing were two very different things when pain was involved.

Rather annoyingly,
he
didn't even seem to be winded. And I very much suspected it had nothing to do with a lack of bruised ribs and a whole lot to do with the fact he was superfit and I wasn't.

“Wonder why she ran?”

Jackson shrugged and caught my arm, leading me at a far gentler pace back the way we'd come. “Given the last time you and she had a conversation, she ended up smashed against a tree and in the hands of the sindicati, you can't actually blame her.”

That was certainly true. And yet, the suspicion that something was off lingered. “There seemed to be this weird delay between her seeing, and then recognizing, us. Don't you find that odd?”

“Not when we're dealing with a someone who has spent a good part of her life sleeping with men to steal their secrets, and then either killing them or setting them up to take the fall.”

“The strength of her telepathic skills only make the whole situation even weirder. She should have sensed us long before we spotted her.” I wasn't telepathic, despite the connection Jackson and I were developing, but I'd certainly known them in the past. And for those involved in crime, skimming the thoughts of everyone around them to avoid trouble before it actually hit was almost second nature.

“Remember we're dealing with a telepath whose skills seemed to be intimacy based.” He guided me back down the steps then swung left and headed for Hungry Jack's.

“A burger?” I said, with a trace of disbelief. “At this hour of the morning?”

“There is no right or wrong time for a burger.” His grin flashed, and my hormones jolted to life. Everything might hurt right now, but there were small sections of me that weren't bruised and decidedly
un
satisfied. “And there is nothing quite like it for an energy hit.”

I raised my eyebrows at that, and his grin grew. “Well, there is
one
thing, but given you're all bruised and battered, that's off the table.”

“I appreciate the consideration.”

“I'll appreciate your appreciation as soon as you're up and able, let me tell you. What do you want to eat?”

I scanned the menu board for a second then said, “I'll go for the Aussie, with a cup of tea.”

He shuddered. “A hamburger with beetroot is just plain wrong, you know that, don't you?”

“It's an Australian tradition.”

“And one we can do without.”

“Says the man who slathers Vegemite on his toast as thickly as butter. You buying or am I?”

“My treat. You can return in kind later, if you like.”

The twinkle in his eyes was decidedly wicked and had me imagining all sorts of things—most of them involving his tongue, for some strange reason. Not that I was against oral in any way, shape, or form—far from it, in fact—but it was something he and I hadn't overly pursued.

“Perhaps that,” he murmured, “should change.”

Which totally explained those damn images—I was catching them from him. I snorted softly. “Feed me, and I might just consider it.”

His sigh was somewhat sorrowful. “Your priorities are not what they should be.”

“My priorities,” I replied drily, “are
exactly
what they should be, given where we are.”

“No sense of adventure, either,” he said as he joined the nearest queue.

I snorted again and moved across to the window to grab a table. He returned a short while later with not only four burgers, but also our hot drinks and a bag of fries. The latter was placed in the middle of the table so that we could share more easily. And while burgers and fries definitely weren't on anyone's list of recommended breakfast foods, right then I couldn't have damn well cared.

“So,” I said around a mouthful of food, “what do we do next?”

He shrugged. “Depends how tired you are. You could get some sleep while I check out the file we stole, or we could go search Wilson's place.”

I took another bite of the hamburger and considered the two options. Other than the bruises and the lingering pain that was a natural result of being smashed into a wall, I felt surprisingly okay, but that wasn't to say I wouldn't crash a couple of hours from now. Or that I wouldn't go out like a light once I closed my eyes.

“I think it'd be better to check out the file while we can. With the way our luck is running, someone will soon steal the damn thing.”

“Totally true.” He frowned as he opened his second burger. “I'll have to go back to the office at some stage, too. I need to commune with fire.”

Jackson, like most of the dark fae, had to be near his element regularly; otherwise he risked fading and, eventually, death. Which is why our office was situated close to both Queen Victoria Market and Flagstaff Gardens.
The rent was hideously high, but it had one thing cheaper places didn't—it was right next to a blacksmith's. Jackson had an ongoing agreement with the owner for twenty-four-hour, no-questions-asked access, even though Jackson tended to only go there at night.

I finished the last bit of my burger then licked my fingers. Jackson's gaze followed the movement and the air grew heated. I flared my nostrils and drew in the sweet scent. “We could kill two birds—I'll catch some Zs at the office while you go next door and commune. We can check out the file when you get back.”

“You're testing my strength, aren't you?” His voice was deliciously gravelly. “You know what fire does to me.”

“I know.” I picked up a fry and lightly licked the salt off it. His gaze darkened delightfully. “And maybe, after I rest, we could do something about it. But only if it's quid pro quo.”

“That,” he said heavily, “would be my pleasure.”

“And mine, I would hope.”

“Oh, you can be assured of
that
.”

My sudden grin was one of anticipation. We finished the rest of our breakfast in silence, then headed back to the car and drove to the office. Hellfire Investigations was located on Stanley Street, which contained not only an eclectic mix of light industrial and old Victorian buildings but was also filled with early blooming blossoms and wattles that scented the air with their sweetness.

Jackson didn't head directly there, however. He drove past our street and parked in the market's parking area.

“They may be watching our place,” he said, handing me the ticket. “Safer to park here and walk there.”

“Good thinking, Agent Ninety-nine.” I tucked the ticket away safely.

“See, my brain isn't entirely consumed by the need for sex.”

I thought it safer
not
to reply to that. He took my hand and we strolled back lazily. To anyone else we would have looked like just another couple out for a morning stroll. But my gaze was never still, studying and assessing everyone I saw even as I kept an eye out for those who might be watching from afar. I had no doubt he was doing the same. But, as far as I could see, no one was taking the slightest bit of notice of us.

“It's the ones we
can't
see that I'm worried about,” Jackson said.

“Then perhaps this is a bad idea.”

“No. I need fire.”

And sex.
He didn't say it, but the words hung in the air, hot and heavy.

“Then you go there now, and I'll continue on to the office alone. It's better that they don't realize we have private access to the blacksmith's.” Heaven only knew, we might well need another place to hide in the near future.

He nodded, then raised my hand and kissed my fingers. “Be careful. And lock the door.”

“I will.”

He walked away quickly. It only took me a few more minutes to reach our office. It was a pretty blue-painted double-story Victorian building and it looked no different now from when we'd left it a few days or
so ago. There was no sign of a break-in, no sign of police tape, and the door appeared locked. Hoping there was nothing—or no one—nasty waiting inside, I grabbed the mail out of the letterbox then opened the old wrought iron front gate and bounded up the steps.

Once I'd unlocked the door, I pushed it all the way open but didn't immediately step inside. The place was very much as I'd left it, except that Rosen no longer lay spread-eagle and very dead in the middle of it.

The place was still a mess, with files that had been emptied out of the filing cabinets or knocked off the desks still strewn everywhere. The hours I'd spent cleaning it up really hadn't made a dent in the paper storm. My gaze ran to the end of the room, where a sitting area and Jackson's industrial-sized coffee unit were. Nothing had changed there, either, and no new cups had been added to the trash can. If someone had been here, then they'd left no immediate evidence—unlike the vamps who'd originally trashed this place.

My gaze drifted to the circular staircase that led up to the next floor and Jackson's living area. I could hear no sound and feel no heat, but that didn't mean no one was up there waiting to jump out at me. Besides, it might not be a flesh-and-blood trap; too many people now knew magic could restrict me, so that was also a very real possibility. I took a tentative step inside. Nothing happened. I took another, my heart hammering and fire flickering across my skin. The latter I toned down immediately; the last thing we needed right now was me accidentally setting this place alight.

Still nothing. I locked the door then carefully made my way to the base of the stairs and looked up. Only
golden shafts of sunshine greeted my gaze. I was pretty sure I was the only person in this place, but that didn't stop me from climbing those stairs warily. The sunlight streaming in through the windows to my right lent a warmth to the lingering shadows of night and left absolutely nowhere for anyone to hide. I could neither see nor feel anything out of place, and something within me relaxed. Even so, I walked across the room to check the toilet—which was the only separate room on this entire floor—just to be doubly safe. It was, as expected, empty.

I swung around. While the upstairs area had escaped the paper storm of the floor below, the vampires had nevertheless searched the area. They'd stripped the bed, pulled the mattress away from the base, emptied out cupboards, and upended the couches. It was a freaking mess, but right then, I didn't care. What I needed was sleep and a bath, and not necessarily in that order. I spun around and walked over to the designated bathroom area to fill the large claw-foot bath. Fae, I'd learned, weren't into the whole privacy thing, and, from what Jackson had said, I should consider myself lucky he at least had a separate toilet.

Once the tub was full, I stripped off and stepped in. Heat shivered through me and the water steamed slightly as I slipped into it. And that's where I stayed until the aches in my body began to ease and I started feeling a whole lot better.

Jackson still wasn't back by the time I was done, so I dried myself off and headed over to the bed. I didn't want to risk starting up the aches again by righting the heavy mattress myself, so I simply tugged it the
rest of the way onto the floor then threw on the sheets and comforter and climbed inside. I was asleep in seconds.

*   *   *

Heat kissed my skin. It brushed sweetly across my shoulders then moved ever so slowly down my spine. It was a caress of flame that never lingered long enough for me to identify its source, but, oh, it felt good. I stirred, torn between the need for sleep and the desire to find the source of fire.