“If not, we go back to the waitress who tried to seduce me and do a little backroom interrogating of our own.”
I nodded. “We also need to talk to Wilson’s wife. And the friends.”
“I really don’t think the wife will be able to tell us anything more.”
“Doesn’t hurt to be sure.”
His expression was dubious, but he didn’t disagree any further. We finished our meals in companionable silence; then I grabbed my purse and borrowed coat and we headed out.
Though it was after seven, the rush-hour traffic lingered and it took forever to cut across town. Along the way, I rang the number Sam had given me, telling him the GPS coordinates for Jones’s location and letting him know what had happened—but not what Jones had said. He’d be pissed—I knew that—but having made the decision to see this thing through to the end, that was exactly what I intended to do. And while I knew it probably wasn’t the smartest decision I’d made in my many lifetimes, it would hardly rate among the worst, either. That honor went to the time I’d decided to become a nun. The vows of poverty, chastity, and—worst of all—obedience had not sat well.
Darkness had well and truly settled in by the time we reached the park. As Jackson paid the driver, I climbed out and studied the huge wrought-iron struts that jutted out of the ground at an angle. How anyone could call it a sculpture, I had no idea. But then, I’d lived through some of the greatest eras when it came to sculpture and painting. When compared to the sculptures Rodin and Bernini—both of whom I’d known—had produced, this might as well be scrap metal randomly stuck in the ground.
Jackson shoved his hands into his pockets and stopped beside me. “The last four spikes are unlit. I’m thinking that’s not a coincidence.”
“Probably not.”
He glanced at me. “You realize I’ll have to carry you over my shoulder to the meeting—he’ll be jumpy enough when he realizes it’s not Sherman.”
I nodded. “It’s probably the only way of getting me close enough to encircle him with fire anyway.”
Jackson glanced at his watch. “Eight minutes. I’m betting it’ll pay to be early.”
“I’m betting you’re right.”
He touched my elbow, lightly guiding me across the road, then, in the shadows of the bridge, hauled me over his shoulder fireman’s style.
“Play dead,” he said.
“As long as you don’t play with my ass,” I retorted.
He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through my body. “As tempting as it is to have such a lovely ass so close to my hand, I suspect shifting my grip and risking dropping you would not be a wise move on my part.”
“Too right,” I muttered. “And can we please move? Despite what the literature says, this is not the most comfortable way of being carried.”
“It’s supposed to be more comfortable for me rather than you.”
“Just get on with it.”
He laughed softly and headed under the bridge and down to the canal. It was fenced off with high wire but had been cut in several places, so it was easy enough for Jackson to squeeze through, even carrying me.
He walked along the banks of the concrete canal, following the line of red-painted metal until he neared the shadowed section.
There he paused. “Lee Rawlings?” he said, not raising his voice. If the vamp was out there, he’d hear us. “I have a parcel delivery for you.”
For several seconds there was no response, then, “You’re not who I was expecting.”
The voice was smooth and urbane, but it wasn’t the voice of the vampire who’d claimed to be Professor Heaton.
“Jones decided he couldn’t risk being seen,” Jackson said. “The police want to question him about some murder, and he’d rather not talk.”
“And who might you be?”
“Let’s just call me a subcontractor,” Jackson said. “Now, do you want your delivery or not? She may look light but trust me, she ain’t.”
I resisted the urge to dig an elbow in and remained still. While we had no idea just how well the vamp could see, he would be able to hear the beat of blood through my body. I had to keep my pulse rate slow for this to work.
“You may leave her there and go,” Rawlings said. “I shall pay Jones himself when I catch up with him.”
Jackson snorted. “Hardly. The deal was half before, half after. Cash on the line, buddy, or no delivery.”
Rawlings was quiet for several seconds and I wished I knew what the hell was going on. But with my nose stuck in Jackson’s back, I couldn’t see a damn thing.
After several moments, Rawlings said, “Very well. You may approach.”
“So generous of you,” Jackson muttered, making me smile.
He carefully navigated the steep canal sides, then splashed his way through the thin layer of water lying at the bottom.
“Far enough,” Rawlings said.
Jackson stopped slightly sideways, and suddenly, I could see. And what I could see was feet. Jackson’s. It wasn’t a lot of help.
“Money first,” Jackson said. “If you think you can throw twenty feet, that is. I don’t appreciate wet cash.”
Thank you; thank you, I thought, and called to the fire. Only this time, instead of using the flames that burned within me, I called to the heat of the world around us—the fire of the earth and the energy in the air—gathering it, weaving it, then casting it out to form a circle that was bright and fierce but also surreal. This wasn’t normal flame; this was the flame of the mother herself, and she burned with a fire that danced with the colors of all creation.
“What in Hades . . . ?” Rawlings said, even as Jackson said, “Holy fuck, that’s impressive.”
“You can lower me now,” I said, and he hastily did so.
Even in the vivid brightness of the flames that surrounded him, Lee Rawlings was a tall, thin shadow of a man. His eyes were as dark as his skin, and his thick glossy hair glinted with blue highlights. He was also very, very angry. It poured off him like sweat, stinging the air and making it hard to breathe.
Not telepathic, but empathic, meaning he could not only sense the emotions of others, but—as he was doing right now—use them as a weapon. Although in this case, he was amplifying his anger rather than ours.
“Stop projecting and remain still,” I said flatly, “or the flames will burn you.”
That thickening sensation eased, and suddenly I could breathe again.
“What trickery is this?” Rawlings’s hands were clenched, and the anger that no longer burned through the air vibrated through his body.
“What this is,” Jackson replied evenly, “is an information exchange. You tell us what we want to know, and you can walk away with your skin unburned.”
His gaze flickered between the two of us. Him walking away didn’t seem to be on his agenda right now.
“Trust me,” I said softly, “any attempt to do anything more than walk away would not be wise.”
I flicked a finger, and a slither of flame danced apart from the main ring of fire, shimmering softly as it curled toward Rawlings and almost lovingly wrapped around his ankle. His pants instantly began to melt away, but I withdrew the flame before it did any real damage.
Rawlings didn’t scream, didn’t react in any way, really. And, oddly enough, the anger in him seemed to fizzle away. But old vampires were very good at that sort of thing, and I very much suspected Rawlings was one of the old ones. His speech was too formal for him to be a more recent recruit into the vampire ranks. “What do you wish to know?”
“Who do you work for,” Jackson said immediately, “and why do they want Emberly?”