Flameout (12 page)

“I know
of
him, but we can't go talk to him.” His voice was grim. “He's dead.”

“I'm gathering it wasn't from natural causes.”

“No. He was found floating in the river about a month after Rosen made that comment.” He grimaced. “I had my source check the autopsy results. He was knifed the same day as Rosen hired him.”

My eyes widened. “There's a mole in Rosen's company.”

“It would seem like it. And it would surely have to be the secretary. She's the one who made the initial contact with me. I don't doubt it was the same for Barrett.”

“Then maybe the secretary is someone we need to talk to.”

“Yes.” He glanced at his watch. “But she would have more than likely left work by now. We'll have to catch her tomorrow.”

“But not at work,” I said. “If she isn't the leak, then maybe the place is bugged.”

Rosen's building would undoubtedly be regularly swept for such devices—all government places and most nongovernment ones dealing with anything high-level and supersecret were these days—but that didn't mean bugs couldn't exist. Or that there wasn't someone in the building—someone capable of telepathy—doing regular mind raids.

I drank some more tea then said, “I wonder why Rosen kept a file like this.”

“The mind of an egomaniac is sometimes hard to understand.” Jackson shrugged. “Maybe he simply liked reading about his perceived conquest over the fuckwits.”

I snorted. Once again,
that
was totally possible. “So what do we do next?”

“We hide the file in case we need it later. Then I suggest we return to our apartment, before Rory starts getting antsy.”

“Good point.” Especially considering that as far as Rory was aware, we'd been doing nothing more than a simple raid on Rosen's place—over twelve hours ago.

He drained his coffee then picked up the file and walked over to the coffee machine. He pulled it away from the wall slightly, shoved the file behind it, then slid it back into place. I guessed it was as safe there as it was anywhere else in this place—and it was certainly a spot few would think to look.

I finished the last of my tea, then put the cup in the sink and collected my bag. Twenty minutes later we were in the car and cruising back to the apartment.

Rory glanced up as we walked in the door, and the relief that swept his face had guilt slithering through me.

“We need a means of contacting each other,” he said. “Because the last few hours have been the worst.”

“I know, and I'm sorry.” I waved a hand inanely. “But lots of things happened.”

He leaned back in the chair and raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

I put the Chinese we'd bought on the way back here on the table then sat down beside him and gave him a quick update. Jackson collected some plates and cutlery from the kitchen then dumped them on the table and began opening the various tubs of food.

“Do you trust the wolves to carry through with their promise and protect both the guard and your friend?” Rory reached for a plate and the nearest tub of chicken and cashews. “They don't usually do that sort of thing for free.”

“It's not free,” I said. “They expect any and all information we get about Rinaldo in return.”

“And are you including Rinaldo's visit to Rosen in that? Because I'm thinking PIT wouldn't be pleased if you did.”

“No, but if Rinaldo knows about the device, you can bet the sindicati and the rats do.” Jackson scooped half the contents of the black bean steak onto his plate then handed the container to me. “And yes, I believe the pack will protect the guard and Shona. As well as anyone could, given who we're dealing with, anyway.”

Rory grunted and began eating. “So your first report has to be made in less than an hour?”

I glanced at the clock. I hadn't realized it was that late. “Yes. Not that we've much to report. Why?”

“Because a couple of hours ago, I had another of those interesting conversations with Lan.”

Lan was the old Filipino shaman who'd helped us stop an Aswang's recent killing spree. But he'd left us with a rather dire warning—that a time of metaphysical darkness was approaching this city, and it was a darkness that would draw dire creatures and black events to this place. The Aswang, and the virus, was just the beginning of our troubles, apparently.

“So what did he come for this time?” Jackson asked.

Rory grabbed one of the containers of special fried rice and added most of that to the pile on his plate. “He wants us to help out a friend.”

Jackson grimaced. “We really don't need to be dealing with another problem right now.”

“No, we don't,” I agreed. “But if weren't for him, who knows how many more people that Aswang would have killed. We owe him.”

“I guess.” Jackson didn't exactly look convinced. “Did he say what sort of trouble his friend was in?”

“No,” Rory said, “but he was very insistent that you and Jackson go see said friend tonight.”

I couldn't help smiling. If there was one thing all true shaman had in common, it was that if they wanted something done, it had to be done
now
.

But it was an urgency I could understand. My dreams didn't have anywhere near the power or scope of a shaman's, but when they struck, I generally didn't have the luxury of sitting back to contemplate them. “I'm gathering he left a name and address?”

Rory nodded and pushed a business card toward
me. “Lan also said she could help us with our current problem.”

“Did he also happen to mention which of our many problems he was actually referring to?” Jackson's tone was amused.

“I'm betting the answer to
that
would be no.” I picked up the business card. It was a pretty pink color, and a cute black graphic of a cat sitting in front of an old-fashioned straw broom dominated the right side of the page. On the left, it simply said,
Grace Harkwell, Consulting Witch
. Underneath that was an address and phone number. Unsurprisingly, she lived—or maybe just worked—in Sassafras, which had become something of a witch and psychic haven over recent years.

“I'm thinking she's a fairly high-ranking member of the local coven,” Rory said. “Because very few witches can legally advertise themselves like that.”

“That's because most of the so-called witches are either psychics or charlatans,” Jackson said. “There aren't many around these days who are truly gifted.”

“How old are you again?” Rory said. “Because
that
sounds like something a cynical old soul would say.”

Jackson grinned and acknowledged the point with a wave of his fork. “No,
that
was spoken like someone who has come across far too many of the latter in his brief time on this planet.”

I finished the rest of the food on my plate, then rose and put it in the sink. “Did Lan say what time she was expecting us?”

“Eight o'clock.” He paused. “And I contacted work today. They need me in tonight. A couple of the boys have called in sick.”

I frowned. “I don't know if that's wise—”

“Em,” he said patiently, “I'll be fine. Nothing will happen at the station house, because there are far too many witnesses. Besides, the wrong sort of people might start putting two and two together if I completely disappear.”

“They've already done
that
,” I muttered. “Luke made a direct threat against you, remember, and he has the manpower to carry it out.”

“And between my fire and the mother's, he hasn't a hope of pulling anything off.” He smiled, but his eyes were serious. “I can't sit around here all day and night, Em. I'll go stir-crazy.”

“And,” Jackson said, “if Rory is out and about, then at least he's taking some of the heat from us.”

I crossed my arms and glared at him. I
could
see the sense in Rory going back to work, but that slither of unease was back. Intuition, once again murmuring rather unhelpfully that something was going to go very wrong in our near future, something that might involve Rory. I really wished intuition would either give it a rest or become a full-blown dream and give me something concrete to work with.

“I promise, I'll be careful, and I'll come back here after each shift,” he continued, “but I need to do something—something apart from helping you two out. As I said, it's better I'm only involved in direct attacks.”

“Fine,” I muttered. “Just . . .”

My voice faded, and he smiled. “We made a pact to live out this lifetime, remember? I have no intention of being the one who breaks it.”

Goose bumps fled across my skin, and I rubbed my
arms. Fate, I suspected, had just been tempted. But I didn't say anything because, in truth, I would have hated being cooped up here just as much as he did.

“You might as well source some alternate form of communication while you're out,” I said. “I know we can use Wi-Fi to remain in contact, but that's not practical in most situations. Maybe you could ask Mike about acquiring some black market phones?”

Mike was a street kid who'd started coming to Rory's kung fu classes when he was barely a teen. He and Rory had become friends, mainly because Rory didn't judge him. Over the years, Mike had moved from selling his body to selling drugs and whatever else he could get his hands on. These days, he was an extremely successful black market “tracker.” If it was illegal and it could be bought or stolen, he'd find it. For a price, of course. Why the rats let him do business in their territory I had no idea, but maybe it was simply a matter of the stuff he was moving not being of a high enough volume to worry them.

“New cell phones will only be useful if someone else buys and activates the SIM cards for us,” Jackson said. “Otherwise, we might as well start using our own phones again.”

“Trust me, Mike
can
arrange that.” Rory pushed up from his chair. “I'll ring him tonight.”

“Not from the work phone,” I said. “It might be bugged.”

“I'm not that dumb, Em.”

I grinned. “Well, good, because one of us really does need to be sensible in this outfit.”

He snorted softly, then gave us a wave and headed
upstairs. A few seconds later, the water pipes rattled as he turned on the shower. I glanced at Jackson. “We might as well get our phone call over with, then go see Lan's friend.”

“Agreed.” He rose, dumped the empty containers in the nearby bin, then ushered me out. We found a public phone on the way to Grace's, and I jumped out and made the required check-in—which didn't take long because we really had nothing to report. There was a bakery nearby, so I grabbed some pastries and returned to the car.

“I do have to wonder,” Jackson said as he pulled back out into the traffic, “how the hell Rinaldo is ever going to know if we're holding something back?”

“Maybe he's trusting the fact that his threat will be enough to keep us honest.” Because in truth, it was.

Jackson took one the pastries from the bag then said, “Possibly, but he doesn't seem the type to trust a person's honesty. I suspect he's probably got something else planned to keep us in line.”

I frowned. “Like what? We're not being followed, are we?”

“Not that I can see. Doesn't stop the uneasy feeling, though.”

“Great,” I muttered. “Just what we need—another person in this outfit getting bad feelings.”

“Well, you have no one to blame but yourself. If you'd kept your premonition and fire abilities to yourself when we shared energy—”

I grinned and lightly punched his arm. “Idiot.”

He chuckled. “Are we going to charge the witches for whatever favor they want?”

My smile faded. “I'm thinking it's probably not wise. We may in the future need their help, and it'd be good to have a favor owed.”

“My thinking exactly.” He paused and made a right-hand turn. “Which is why I offered you the partnership. Our thought trains are very alike.”

“And here I was thinking I was offered the partnership because you were hoping it meant sex on tap.”

“Never tried sex on a tap,” he mused. “I'd imagine it would be very painful.”

I laughed and decided to concentrate on the serious business of eating my pastry. It was far safer than replying to a comment like
that
.

The address on Grace's business card did indeed turn out to be a shop rather than a residence. It was a wide, glass-fronted, purple building in a long row of shops, and even from the street, it looked magical.

Once Jackson found parking, I grabbed my jacket and climbed out. The night air was crisp and filled with the scent of eucalyptus.

Jackson breathed deep, and delight touched his expression. “Ah, I do so love trees.”

“Which totally explains why you live in a major city.”

He smiled, caught my hand, and tugged me across the road. “Trees have no hope against lust. And, as I've said, the city holds the lure of a female fae who will come into season sooner rather than later.”

He was referring to Rochelle, but it was a liaison fraught with danger—and not only because she was currently in a relationship with Sam. “
That
fae is also infected with the red plague and totally off-limits
until they find a cure or at least develop a vaccine. Or have you conveniently forgotten about that?”

“I forget very little when it pertains to sex.” He released my hand and pushed the shop's door open. A small bell chimed softly, the sound as sweet as the scents in the air. “There's always hope a cure will be found before she comes into season.”

“Yeah, because luck has totally been running our way up until now.”

“Well, at least it can't get any worse.”

I snorted and stepped through the door. It was as if I'd entered wonderland. Books, stones, incense, herbs, crystals . . . everything a witch might need was here. There were also gifts, artwork, and jewelry, as well as tarot reading for those seeking advice from the other side, and meditation for those who simply sought peace. All manner of mobiles, scarves, and flowers trailed from the ceiling, many strung with cobwebs that only added to the charm. And the smell of the place . . . “Divine” was the only way to truly describe it, though I daresay a werewolf might have found it more than a little overwhelming.