Nadler was the man behind the company who’d purchased most of the properties surrounding the ley-line intersection. In fact, only Stane’s shop and the pub down the road remained independent. He was also, more than likely, one of the sorcerers.
I glanced at Stane briefly. “So have you found either Bulter or O’Reilly?”
Stane shook his head. “No. And I’ve been keeping an eye on the solicitors handling his estate – they haven’t tracked them down, either.”
“Well, they have to have existed at some point, because Nadler couldn’t just appear out of nowhere as one of them and expect to be handed everything on a platter.”
“Totally,” Stane said. “Which is why I’ve been searching overseas databases. Not having much luck, though.”
That seemed to be the story of this whole damn quest. I sighed and continued watching the images scroll across the screen as the time in the left-hand corner of the screen counted down toward the explosion at the storage place. At the twenty-minutes-before mark, my double strolled into view.
“Well,” Stane said. “You were right.”
Yes. And it was somewhat disturbing to look at the woman on the screen, knowing the face and body were the image of mine but someone else was inside the shell. Hell, she was even dressed like I was most of the time these days, in blue jeans and a tank top. My gaze skimmed down to her feet.
“Holy shit, the shoes.”
I leaned forward so abruptly that coffee splashed over the rim of my mug and splattered onto my legs. I swore and jumped up, spilling yet more coffee. Azriel plucked the mug from my hand – thereby preventing more damage to either me or Stane’s floor – while I quickly pulled the soaked dress away from my skin to prevent further burning.
“You okay?” Stane asked. “Do you want a cloth or something?”
“I’m fine,” I said, flapping the dress a little to cool it down. “Just freeze the screen and enlarge her feet.”
He did so. “I don’t see anything special about the shoes, aside from the fact they’re kinda ugly.”
“What’s special about them,” I said, “is the fact I not only saw those same shoes on Genevieve Sands when we were talking to her outside the storage place earlier in the day, but in one of the boxes those shifters were moving out of Lauren Macintyre’s wardrobe.”
“Thereby confirming she is indeed our face shifter,” Azriel murmured.
“I wouldn’t call a pair of shoes a defining piece of evidence,” Stane said. “It’s not like a thousand other women couldn’t have had the same bad taste.”
“Agreed, but I just can’t buy the coincidence factor in this particular case.”
“But you’d think someone canny enough to be involved in the planning of this gate-creation and key-stealing venture would be smart enough to remember to change a pair of shoes when she was changing identity.”
“Not if the decision to impersonate Risa and blow up the storage unit was a decision made in haste after we’d confronted her outside that building,” Azriel commented.
“I still wouldn’t bank my fortune on the evidence of one pair of shoes,” Stane said.
“Perhaps she just didn’t think anyone would notice them.” After all, from what Aunt Riley had said over the years, witnesses often had trouble agreeing on what suspects looked like, let alone the smaller details of what they were wearing, like shoes.
Stane studied the image frozen onto the screen for a moment. “Suspecting this shifter is both Sands and Macintyre doesn’t actually leave us any closer to finding any of them.”
“No.” I stood up and began to pace. “How the hell are we going to find someone who can change their features at will?”
“Your only real hope is to chase the paper trail,” Stane said. “Both Macintyre and Sands own properties. Perhaps our best bet is to track both purchases, and see if there’s a common link. Maybe a company they both went through or something.”
I nodded. It was probably a long shot, but it was better than doing nothing. “While you’re doing that, check for a bloke named Michael Greenfield or a company called Pénombre Manufacturing. They own an empty warehouse in Maribyrnong that just happens to be sitting on another ley line. Jak” – I hesitated as tears stung my eyes again; I blinked them away and cleared my throat before continuing – “wasn’t able to find much about them.”
“Will do.”
I glanced at Azriel. “In the meantime, we should go search Genevieve Sands’s place. Maybe she hasn’t had the chance to clear it out yet.”
“Unlikely,” Azriel said, his expression grim. “She blew up the storage unit hours after we talked to her, remember. It is doubtful she’d risk remaining in Prahan, given she undoubtedly knows about Stane and his computer skills, thanks to her association with the Aedh.”
“God,” I muttered, “the bastard is dead and he’s still causing us problems.”
“And will no doubt continue to do so until both sorcerers are dealt with.”
Dealt with – the polite way of saying dead. Not that I was, in any way, doubting the necessity of it.
I sighed and walked back to Azriel. “You’ll let us know if you find anything useful,” I said to Stane.
He nodded. “I’ll also check if the autopsy results are ready on the body parts found in the locker. If it was Genevieve Sands, then at least it basically confirms the shifter theory.”
Because it wasn’t Genevieve who’d walked back into that building just before the blast, but a shifter wearing my face. And it was a wonder the police hadn’t contacted me about the events – unless, of course, Uncle Rhoan was running interference with them.
“Draw your sword,” Azriel said, as he caught my hand and tugged me toward him. Valdis was already in his free hand.
“Why?”
“Because she might have more guards waiting in this place.”
I drew Amaya. A high-pitched humming began to flow across the outer reaches of my thoughts as she happily anticipated devouring more shag-pile demons. She really was a bloodthirsty little person.
Not person. Demon. Better.
I grinned as Azriel whisked us across the fields. He released my hand as we re-formed in the middle of a bright and airy hallway, his gaze watchful and blue fire running down Valdis’s steel sides.
The place was silent. The air held an oddly smoky, somehow electrical scent that reminded me of the smell in air just before a thunderstorm, but there was nothing to suggest there was anything or anyone else in this place but the two of us.
“There’s not.” Azriel sheathed Valdis. “Not even her resonance lingers.”
“Something does.” I held on to Amaya and swung around. “It smells like magic.”
“It is, though it does not feel recent or primed to attack.”
“Why would she set a trap in one home, and not the other?” I cautiously walked into the first room off the hallway, my footsteps echoing on the polished floorboards. The double bed had been stripped of linen, and the drawers from the bedside tables had been thrown on top of the mattress, suggesting someone had emptied them in haste. I walked across to the wardrobe and used Amaya’s tip to open the door. It too was empty.
The rest of the house provided a similar story – beds and wardrobes stripped, rooms empty of everything other than large pieces of furniture. Genevieve Sands had taken everything that might have provided us with some sort of clue as to who she really was or where she might now be found.
The sudden urge to scream rolled up my throat, and I had to bite down on my lip to stop it. I sheathed Amaya and walked through the kitchen-diner, heading for the windows that lined the rear of the house. The small garden was immaculately tended and very pretty, filled with roses and other flowering plants. There was no sign of a cuneiform stone, however. Not even a bare spot in the garden to mark where one had once stood. I sighed and rubbed my forehead wearily.