The door was flung open. I stuck a foot out as the first man appeared, tripping him and sending him stumbling; then I lunged around the doorway, grabbed the second man before he could realize what had happened, and sent him flying into the first man. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs, their heads smashing against each other, knocking each other out cold. They fell in a heap, one pinned beneath the other.
More steps approached. I tensed, the fireflies becoming flames inches high, then caught the warm, sunshiny scent and relaxed.
Jackson appeared a heartbeat later, his gaze sweeping me, then moving to the two men. “Good work,” he said, then nodded back toward the house. “Call the cops and an ambulance. I’m afraid they made a bit of a mess of the woman.”
“Then don’t be gentle with them,” I said as I stepped inside the house.
“Oh, I won’t be.”
His voice was grim, and I realized why a moment later. A dark-haired woman lay sprawled unconscious across the sofa in the living room. Her lip was split, her face bruised and bloody, and her dress was shucked up around her armpits. I doubted they’d had the time to rape her, but that had certainly been their intention.
I resisted the urge to march outside and punch the shit out of the two men and moved closer to the woman, carefully checking her pulse. It was fast but strong, and she didn’t seem to be having any trouble breathing.
I stepped back and called the cops, telling them what we’d found and requesting medical assistance. Then I spun around and went looking for a blanket. I couldn’t move her or tidy her clothes without the risk of disturbing any DNA evidence that might be present, but I couldn’t bear to see her sprawled out like that, either.
I found a closet in the small hallway and opened it up. Blankets, sheets, and towels sat in neat little stacks inside. I reached for one of the blankets, but as I did, something stung the side of my neck.
I swiped at it irritably, but a hand caught mine and something cool and sharp pressed against the side of my head.
“Make a sound,” a soft voice whispered, “and you die.”
CHAPTER 8
Fire howled through me, thick and angry, but I couldn’t focus and everything seemed fuzzy. The fire dancing around my fingertips seemed to be fading, and the roaring in my head was getting louder and louder, but it wasn’t flame.
My knees buckled, but before I could slump to the floor, someone grabbed me. They ripped my purse from my shoulder, but everything after that became hazy. I wasn’t knocked out, not entirely, but what I heard and saw seemed to be coming from a very great distance and didn’t have a whole lot of impact.
Something was thrown over my body; then I was carried like a sack out of the house. Wind. Sunlight. Darkness and metal vibrating underneath me. Then nothing for a long period of time.
Rising to full consciousness seemed to take forever. My head was back to throbbing with an intensity that suggested it was about to tear apart, and there was a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth. My shoulders burned, and there was something tight around my wrists and ankles. It took a few minutes to register it was rope. I was tied.
Which was better than being dead, I guess.
As awareness grew, I remained still and listened to the sounds around me, trying to discover where I was and who might be near.
I was lying on something cold and hard. Not concrete, but smallish rectangular shapes. Bricks, I thought. Bricks that were slick with moisture. In the distance water trickled, the sound echoing lightly. The air that swirled around me was stale and heavy with the scents of excrement and rubbish. Either I was in a very old, not-often-cleaned lane or I was in a sewer.
My vote was on the latter option.
After a few seconds, I became aware of footsteps. They were barely audible, and I could hear only one set. But until I knew whether there was more than one person nearby, I wasn’t about to give any indication that I was awake.
Time seemed to creep by. The pain in my shoulders flared downward until it felt like my arms were locked in agony. And the ropes around my legs were so damn tight they were cutting into my skin and making my toes numb. It was just as well I could take another form, because if I had to rely on this one to react with any sort of speed, I’d be in serious trouble.
A phone rang sharply into the silence and I jumped. Thankfully, whoever was out there didn’t seem to notice.
“Got your parcel,” a gruff voice said. “You were right—they did go for the waitress.”
God, I thought, the waitress had been a trap. I should have known that it had all been a little too conveniently timed.
“She did get a call off to the cops,” he continued, “so I didn’t get the chance to kill the waitress. And the Fae took out my two men.”
He didn’t get the chance? He’d had plenty of time to kill the waitress before we got there, if simple murder had been his intention. I wasn’t close enough to hear the other side of the conversation, and that was irritating. I cracked open an eye and peered around. My captor was standing near what looked like a sewer’s edge ten feet away. He was tall, broad shouldered, and thickset, with a bald head that seemed to gleam even in the thick shadows that surrounded us.
Even though I couldn’t see his face, I knew who he was, having seen a photograph not so long ago. It was Sherman Jones, the man who’d mysteriously disappeared after Mark’s murder.
“Don’t worry. They can’t tell anyone anything,” Sherman said. He swung around, and I quickly shut my eye. “So there’s no problem with the cops interrogating them. What do you want me to do about the waitress, though?”
He listened for several seconds, then grunted. “And this one?”
Again silence fell; then he said, “Fine. See you then.”
He walked toward me and bent down. Even though he was close enough that I could feel the wash of his breath across my cheek, I couldn’t really smell him. It was as if something had completely erased his scent. Maybe that was why Jackson hadn’t realized he was in the house—either that, or the scent of the other two had been so strong he simply hadn’t had the chance to look beyond it.
“So,” he said softly, his rough fingertips trailing across my cheek. “It seems we have an entire afternoon to fill in before I have to hand you over.”
“Well, you’re not passing that time with me,” I spat, and flamed. The force of it threw him backward even though he was barely touching me, and it cindered the ropes holding me captive in an instant. I let the flames take me fully into spirit form, then flowed forward. Sherman scrambled backward, his sharp face twisted with fear and his mouth open, though if he was screaming, he made no sound. I reached out and grabbed him with one molten hand. My flames danced across his clothing, setting them alight but not actually burning them. Not yet, not until I intended it. I slammed him against the slick brick walls and held him there.
“Tell me who you’re working for,” I said softly. “Or the flames that surround you will consume you.”
He made several attempts to speak and eventually croaked, “What the hell are you?”
“Something you don’t want to mess with.” I shook him lightly. “Now, answer the question.”
He licked his lips, then said, “I don’t know his name. I was contracted through an intermediary.”
“Marcus Radcliffe?”
He shook his head violently. “No. Haven’t worked for him in weeks.”
“Then who?”
I directed the flames up toward his face, letting them tease his chin and lightly burn. He gulped. “Lee Rawlings. I was supposed to hand you over to him this evening.”