Ashes Reborn

by Keri Arthur

  “You were the one who set the time,” Radcliffe said, clearly amused. “If it was inconvenient, you should have said.”

  “Sorry, it’s been a long night. Hang on.” I closed the door again and glanced across at Jackson. He nodded and fired up the coffee machine. I undid the chain and opened the door wider. “Come on in.”

  Radcliffe stopped several steps in, his gaze sweeping the mess and the remains of the chalky outline of where Rosen’s body had been dumped. “I think you need to change your decorator, because this isn’t a look that would garner any sort of respect from clients.”

  He was, it seemed, in a rather jovial mood. Given both he and his goons were wearing expensive-looking suits, it was highly likely he’d come straight from the casino and a rather nice win. Radcliffe might run underground gaming venues, but he certainly didn’t spend his cash there—undoubtedly because he knew just how rigged the games were. Rats weren’t generous souls, and if the rumors I’d heard were true, his gaming venues were profit-generating machines—which was undoubtedly why Rinaldo wanted to take them over.

  I waited until his two goons had entered, then closed the door. “You got the tape?”

  He glanced at one of his men, who reached into his pocket and produced it. “You got the file?”

  Jackson picked it up from the coffee table and walked across. “There’s not a whole lot of information in it, but it does state Rinaldo’s first name is Reginald and that he arrived in Melbourne three years ago.”

  “Wonder how Rosen uncovered that when the rest of us can’t get squat against the man.” Radcliffe opened the file and flicked through. “Not much, as you said, but more than we’d previously had. The deal proceeds.”

  “Good.” I paused. “How do we make contact if we find anything else?”

  Radcliffe produced a card. “It’s a messenger service, but any call you make will be treated as a priority.”

  I accepted the card and tucked it into my shirt pocket. “We expect the same sort of courtesy. You can use the office number.”

  “Excellent. But I’m not leaving without the tape, as I have no desire for it to land in PIT hands. View it, and tell me what you see.”

  I glanced at Jackson, who shrugged minutely. Can’t see the harm.

  I tossed it to him. He walked across to the desk, switched on the computer, and then slipped the tape into the attached player. A second later, images began to scroll across the screen. The tape had clearly been edited, because the action started almost immediately. Unsurprisingly, Rinaldo and his men were the poster boys of efficient brutality, and the gaming venue was theirs in a matter of minutes.

  “Play it back at half speed.” I pulled a chair closer and sat down.

  Jackson did so. “If he’s using a glamor to hide his form, it’s a damn good one.”

  “What makes you say that?” Radcliffe said.

  He was standing behind us, and his nearness was making my spine itch. We might have a truce, but I still wasn’t trusting it would hold up against his desire to slip a knife into my back.

  “A glamor usually can’t withstand any sort of touch. No matter how perfect it is from either a distance or close up, if it brushes against either an object or a person, there is a telltale shimmer.” I pointed at the screen. “But if you watch carefully, when Rinaldo snaps the neck of your security guard, there’s no such shimmer. This is him. It’s not someone else using a glamor.”

  “Which means,” Jackson said, “Rinaldo might, in fact, be two people rather than one.”

  “Turn up the sound,” I said.

  He did so, and we listened to Rinaldo barking orders and threats. “It’s not the same voice. The tone is slightly different.”

  Jackson nodded. “Yeah, it is.”

  I swore and leaned back in the chair. “Well, this just makes things all the more difficult.”

  “Not really,” Jackson said. “The only thing that’s changed is that we’re now hunting two people, not one.”

  “It does at least explain how he can be in two places at once,” Radcliffe said. “And surely there can’t be too many identical twin vampires turned in the last few hundred years.”

  “Rinaldo’s a very ancient vampire,” I said. “The council isn’t likely to have a record of him.”

  “That may be true of the Australian branch,” Radcliffe said, “but I’m betting their European counterparts might be a little more helpful.”

  I swung around to look at him. “You have contacts over there?”

  His smile flashed. “I have contacts everywhere.”

  I resisted the urge to smite the smug look from his face. “Then contact them; we’ll see if PIT can dig up anything.”

  They may be able to, Jackson said. Whether they’ll actually tell us anything is a totally different thing.

  That could be said about Radcliffe, too. He might be emitting all the right signals when it came to being cooperative, but I doubted it would last if he actually got a worthwhile lead on our vampire. I very much suspected Radcliffe would not, in any way, share his chance of retribution.

  “Deal,” Radcliffe said. “Talk to you soon.”

  With that, he collected his tape and strode to the door, one goon in front, the other behind. The latter did not shut the door after him.

  “Pricks,” I muttered as I pushed up and walked across to lock up again.

  Jackson’s arms slid around my waist as I slammed the dead bolt home. “I’m thinking we finally have a few moments to ourselves,” he murmured, his warm breath teasing my left ear. “Care to spend them relieving a mild ache or two?”

  I spun around and draped my arms around his neck. “Mild tension? Does that mean you actually took care of business while I was asleep?”

  He laughed. “No, it most certainly does not. But stating the obvious—that I’m going to explode if I don’t get inside you soon—sounded a little crude.”

  “Since when has that stopped you?”

  “I do occasionally like to surprise people, you know.”

  “What time did you tell Rinaldo to drop by and pick up the laptops?”

  “This afternoon, when we’re not here.”

  “Shame you didn’t say ten. It would have given Radcliffe his chance at killing the bastard.”

  “Rinaldo is hardly likely to come here himself, given he’s well aware we have a deal going with the sindicati.” He pressed me tighter against his groin. “And can we change the topic? Talking about those two is seriously deflating.”

  I smiled. If anything was deflating, I sure as hell wasn’t feeling it. “Well, that can’t be allowed to happen. What can I do to fix it?”

  “Kiss me.”

  Even as he said it, his lips came down upon mine. Hard. As kisses went, it was glorious—all passion and need and urgency. It drew me in and swept me away, until I couldn’t think of anything more than him and me, and the desire that threatened to burn out of control between us.

  Eventually he pulled away, his breathing harsh and unsteady. He didn’t say anything; he simply grabbed the ends of my shirt and ripped it open. As buttons went flying, his mouth came down on my right breast, and he began to alternately suck and lick my nipple. As a gasp escaped my lips, I threw my head back against the door and arched my spine to give him greater access. He moved from one breast to the other, continuing to tease, until my body was quivering under the delicious assault of teeth and tongue. I slipped my hands down his muscular stomach and quickly undid his jeans, pushing them down his hips. His cock was thick and hard and oh so ready for action, but Jackson jerked away from my touch, his laugh vibrating against my chest.

  “Do that, and this all will be over far too soon.”

  “I thought that was the point.”

  “Oh, it is, but a little foreplay never goes astray. Slip off your jeans.”

  I did so, kicking
them to one side. His jeans swiftly joined mine; then he claimed my nipple again and lightly nipped. A shudder ran through me even as his tongue replaced his teeth, gently soothing. Then his free hand found my clit, and he began to stroke and tease me, bringing me close to the edge, then pulling me back, until my whole body was shuddering with the need for release.

  “Oh god, don’t,” I somehow managed as he pulled his touch away yet again.

  “Don’t what?” he murmured. “Do this?”

  His fingers brushed my clit and slipped inside. A shuddering gasp escaped.

  “Or this?” he added, and removed his caress.

  I didn’t reply. I couldn’t reply. I just tightened my grip around his neck, wrapped my legs around his waist, and thrust him deep inside. His groan was every bit as deep and needy as mine had been only moments before; then his hands cupped my butt and he began to thrust, his movements so violent, the door rattled in rhythm. I didn’t care. All I wanted, all I needed, was him—deep, hard, and fast. Then the dam of pleasure he’d built so masterfully finally broke and, just for an instant, I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only feel. And lord, it was glorious.

  He came a heartbeat later. As the last shudders of pleasure left his body, he leaned his forehead against mine and closed his eyes. Neither of us moved. The only sound was the harsh rasp of our breathing and the light ticking of the wall clock. It really hadn’t taken all that long, foreplay or not.

  “Well,” he said, pulling back enough to look me in the eyes, “I think we both needed that.”

  I brushed sweaty strands of hair away from his forehead and then dropped a kiss on his nose. “So, back to work?”

  “Hell no.”

  He shifted his grip on my butt, then swung around and walked toward the stairs. “I have a bed upstairs, and I’m not afraid to use it.”

  “If you can get me up those stairs without either separation or breaking something, I’ll give you two hours.”

  He raised an eyebrow, amusement touching his lips. “And if I don’t?”

  “Half an hour.”

  “Challenge accepted.”

  And, needless to say, overcome.

  • • •

  Jackson slowed the Range Rover and turned left into Scott Grove. “What number are we looking for again?”

  I opened the file sitting on my knee and scanned the somewhat scant information on Janice Green, Rosen Senior’s secretary. We were vaguely hoping that she might be able to cast some light on Professor Wilson’s habits, which in turn might help us find the lock that matched the second key we’d found in his shed.

  “Thirty-eight,” I said.

  “Keep an eye on the numbers. I’ll concentrate on getting this tank through the cars.”

  “Wonder how many of them belong to residents, and how many belong to students trying to avoid the university’s parking fees?”

  “Probably most.” He paused to squeeze the big SUV between two similar-sized vehicles. It was a tight fit. “I know when I was a uni kid, I’d do anything and everything to avoid paying parking fees—including walking a fair distance to get to the place.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” I checked the street numbers and added, “Have you heard anything about Rosen’s replacement?”

  We certainly hadn’t heard anything from the company itself, and were currently working on the presumption they still wanted us to find Professor Wilson’s missing research notes. But that didn’t mean Jackson hadn’t heard other rumors about the company. He had more contacts than I had years behind me.

  “I seriously doubt that,” he said with a half laugh, replying to my thought rather than my actual question. “And I haven’t got a contact who’d actually know anything about Rosen Pharmaceuticals.”

  “Then how did you find out all this stuff about Janice? Via your police contact?”

  “No, taxation. There’s no better source for basic information.”

  That was true given just how much information the Taxation Department wanted from people these days. “Janice’s place is on the right—the one with the high picket fence.”

  He drove past and pulled into a driveway two houses down. I twisted around. Thirty-eight was a small, white-painted weatherboard home with a weatherworn tile roof and a small green carport on one side. There were two cars in the driveway—one a Hyundai, the other a small Honda.

  I looked at Jackson’s notes again. “Janice drives the Honda.”

  “Wonder who the other one belongs to. Because if I remember right, she isn’t married and had no lovers.”

  “It might be a friend rather than a lover.”

  He glanced at me, amusement evident. “At lunchtime? On a workday?”

  “People have been known to go home for lunch.”

  “They’ve also been known to go home for a bit of afternoon delight.”

  “Did she seem like the type for a little lunchtime rendezvous to you?”

  “Well, no, but never judge a book by its cover and all that.”

  I snorted and glanced back at the house—just in time to see the front door open and Amanda Wilson—the professor’s less-than-loving wife, and a woman who’d been bleeding him of information for the sindicati from the very first time they’d slept together—step out. “Duck,” I said, and slid down behind the headrest.

  “I’d really prefer just to grab the bitch.”

  “Do that, and we might just lose our one chance of uncovering who her controller is.”

  Jackson grunted and lifted up enough to look at the side mirror. “She’s in the car.”

  “You follow her. I’ll go inside and see if Janice survived the encounter with our black widow.”

  He frowned at me. “Do you really think it’s a wise move to split up?”

  “Given Amanda’s history, yeah, I do.”

  “But she has a history of seducing men for information, not women—”

  “Which doesn’t mean anything if her mind has been seized.” I watched the Hyundai reverse out of the driveway. “Wish we had a damn tracker.”

  “We do. It’s in the little bag of tricks I threw onto the backseat.”

  I gave him the look—the one that said, Don’t be daft. “I meant on the car.”

  “Something that can still be achieved if you get your lovely ass out of the car so I can go stalk our quarry. I’ll call once I know anything.”

  “Ditto.” I stripped off my sweater and wrapped it around my head to conceal my hair. Amanda was far enough away now that she’d probably think the sweater was a scarf of some sort, which was infinitely better than her spotting the blaze of coppery red that was my hair.

  I climbed out and waited until Jackson had reversed out of the driveway, then ran across the road to Janice’s. The Honda’s hood was still warm, suggesting she hadn’t been home all that long.

  The front door was locked, but a quick spurt of fire soon fixed that. I pushed it open with my fingertips. “Janice? It’s Emberly Pearson—I’m with Hellfire Investigations. We need to ask you a couple of questions.”

  There was no answer. Aside from the soft ticking of an unseen clock, the house was silent. I frowned and took a wary step inside. “Janice?”

  Still nothing. There were four doorways along the somewhat narrow hallway, but only one of those was open. Instinct was annoyingly silent when it came to suggesting which one to investigate first.

  I took another step forward, then stopped. Heat teased my senses, but its flame was little more than a soft caress. It was coming from the room to my right, from what was most likely a bedroom, given most houses of this age tended to have their bathrooms either in the middle of the house or off the kitchen at the rear.

  I moved toward it, only to stop as I realized the air smelled . . . odd. I took a deeper breath.

  Fuck, gas.

  I b
olted into the room that held that flickering heat source. Janice lay in among the tangled blankets; her eyes were closed and her face slack. On the bedside tables there were at least half a dozen lit candles.

  I waved a hand to snuff them out, then quickly felt Janice’s neck for a pulse. Not only was it there, but it was strong and steady. Relief surged, but we weren’t out of the woods just yet.

  I spun and ran for the kitchen, opening the doors to check each room as I went past. There were at least another dozen lit candles split between the various rooms. I erased every tiny flame, then slid into the combined kitchen and living area, found the oven, and quickly turned off all the jets. The stink of gas in this area was particularly strong, and it wouldn’t have taken all that much longer for the buildup to reach the other rooms. Amanda had obviously intended to be well away from the place before it blew. I opened the back door and as many windows as I could, then went back into the bedroom.

  “Janice, wake up.” I sat on the edge of the bed and roughly shook her shoulder.

  She didn’t open her eyes, just waved a hand at me somewhat airily. “Need sleep. Go away.”

  “Who was the woman who just left? What is her name?”

  “Felicity.” Her slow smile basically confirmed what the state of the bed suggested. “It was the oh-so-lovely Felicity.”

  “And she’s your lover?”

  “Yes.” Her smile grew. “So lovely.”

  And she seemed to be answering my questions altogether too readily—especially given she probably had no idea who I was. There should have at least been some sort of reaction to my presence in her bedroom—something other than this happy compliancy, anyway.

  “Does Felicity have a last name?”

  I couldn’t smell any alcohol on her breath, so I gently opened one eyelid. Her pupils were heavily dilated, suggesting she’d been drugged. But why, when Amanda was a powerful telepath who’d made a fortune stealing secrets from the minds of her lovers during intercourse?

  And while it was obvious Amanda had intended to blow the house apart—taking Janice and any evidence she might hold with it—it was also possible that whatever drug she’d given the older woman to make her talk might be lethal. I dragged out my phone, called an ambulance, and then repeated my question.