Flameout (7 page)

“Em,” Jackson called. “You might want to come in here.”

“And where is ‘here'?” I walked out of the laundry and headed in the general direction of his voice.

“The third bedroom.”

“You've found something?” Something I'd missed?

“Just come and see.”

I walked into the room to see him standing in front of the huge desk, frowning at the wall behind it. I stopped beside him. The wall hadn't changed in the few minutes since I'd been in here, and there still wasn't anything out of place that I could see.

“What are we looking at?”

“The wall.”

“Yes, but why?”

“Because it's straight.”

I blinked. “Most walls are straight. In a place as expensive as this, you'd be up in arms if they weren't.”

“Unless, of course, they're deliberately curved, like the dividing wall in the living area is.” He pointed a finger. “This bedroom backs onto the living area, and that wall should therefore be curved.”

Damn, he was right. I hadn't even noticed that. “What does your device say about the wall?”

“That there's a void behind it that's larger at the left end, where what looks like shelving has been built.”

Meaning Rosen
did
have something to hide. Whether it was related to a case or not was the question that now had to be answered. I frowned and studied the small bookcase. Now that Jackson had mentioned the existence of a secret hidey-hole, it did strike me as odd that Rosen had built a bookcase on one side of the room but not the other. In an apartment that was all about clean lines and symmetry, the balance was definitely off
here—especially when the bookcase held only a scattering of dusty-looking books and nothing in the way of knickknacks.

I walked closer and ran my fingers along the wall just above the bookcase's top shelf. At the right edge of the there was a hairline break. It was barely noticeable thanks to the wallpaper's vertical stripes, but it ran from floor to ceiling, and I very much suspected it was one edge of a door. It was a similar story on the other side.

I glanced at Jackson. “You've already looked for locks, keypads, or pressure points, I gather?”

He nodded. “There's a small thumbprint scanner under the top shelf.”

I looked. It was tucked into the very edge, right next to the joint between wood and plaster. “Can Shona get us into it?”

“No. It was installed after her company took over management of apartment security, so she can't legally help us access it.”

“What about illegally?”

He shook his head. “We need a copy of his prints.”

“Which we can't get.” I paused, frowning. “What about short-circuiting it with fire?”

“Might work, but it could set off other alarms.”

“That's a chance we might have to take.”

He nodded in agreement. “And it's not like we have many other options anyway. Not if we want to find out what he's hiding in there.”

“Which might be nothing—nothing we need, at any rate.” I held up my hand to stop his protest. “But I agree: We need to try it.”

“Shall I do the honors?”

“By all means.” I grabbed the biggest of the books sitting on the shelf then stepped back and made a sweeping
after you
motion.

With a grin that was filled with anticipation, he placed the scanner on the desk then walked over to the bookcase. He studied the thumbprint box for several seconds, and then energy surged and flames flickered across his fingertips. The heat of them rolled across me, and the need to draw them into my body stirred. He might be a fire fae, but I was a spirit of flame. It was who I was,
what
I was, and fire—any sort of fire—was a siren's call I found hard to resist. Even the heat of the living could draw us—especially if our strength was low—but taking
that
path was an extremely dangerous one. It was all too easy to get lost in sensation and kill. Thankfully, that was something I hadn't ever done—not unknowingly, anyway.

Jackson shaped his flames into a thin, powerful lance then hit the scanner with it. As the plastic began to melt, I sucked in the radiating heat and waved the book to disperse the small amount of smoke. The inner circuitry was quickly exposed and, as Jackson's flame hit it, there was a short, sharp explosion. A second later, the whole apartment plunged into darkness.

In the ensuing silence, there was a soft click and a small gap appeared.

“What the fuck are you two doing in there?”

Shona appeared at the doorway, her expression less than pleased. Thankfully, Jackson had already shut down his flames.

“I just short-circuited the scanner.” He rose and
stepped back. “Sorry—I didn't expect it to be connected to the main power.”

“Well, it's hardly going to run only on batteries.” She paused as her phone rang. “That'll be Frank. You've probably only got a few minutes to play with, as he'll come up and check why the circuit breakers went off in the apartment.”

She unclipped her phone from her belt and walked out. I grabbed my phone and switched on the flashlight app. I might not be able to make calls or send texts without the SIM card, but that didn't mean the phone couldn't be used for other purposes. The bright light cut through the shadows, highlighting the newly created gap. Jackson squeezed in his fingers and pulled the door open. The void behind it was about three feet wide at this end but got gradually smaller as the curve of the original wall swept around to meet the false wall. In the larger portion there were multiple shelves built onto the original wall, each one stacked with a mix of artwork—small paintings and sculptures, both new and old—as well as several safes that had been secured to the concrete floor.

“I may not know much about art,” Jackson commented, “but I'm betting some of those pieces are worth a fortune.”

“Considering there's at least one Bernini bronze in there that I recognize, that's a bet you'd definitely win.” I ducked under his arm and swept the flashlight down the other end of the void. As the space got smaller, the artwork gave way to a collection of boxes and files. “We're not going to have the time to search all those.”

“No,” Jackson said. “Our best bet is to hope he moved with the times, and started storing important stuff on USBs. And given you're shorter and more agile than me, the job of checking falls to you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You're a fae. Agility comes with the territory. You just don't want to go in here.”

“Because tight spaces and me don't mix well.” He paused, and mischief suddenly gleamed in his eyes. “Unless, of course, there's a woman involved.”

I snorted softly and headed in. The phone's light cast crazy shadows across the walls and highlighted the dust and cobwebs—a sure sign Rosen hadn't used the deeper recesses in recent weeks. At the end of the shelving units there was a small filing cabinet. Unlike the boxes beyond, there was only a sprinkling of dust on the top of it—an indicator, perhaps, of more recent use. I pulled the first drawer open and scanned it. The contents seemed to be personal: household bills, medical records, and divorce paperwork—stuff like that. Though why he'd store that sort of information in a place like this, I have no idea.

“Anything?” Jackson said.

“Not yet.”

I closed the first drawer and opened the second. This one held a mix of personal and business stuff. I was just about to close it when a file stuffed right at the back of the cabinet caught my eye—
CORRESPOND
ENCE FROM FUCKWITS
.

I grinned and reached for it. Inside the folder there was a collection of notes, and one name immediately jumped out of me—
Reginald Heaton.

Heaton was the surname of the vampire who'd supposedly been bought in to replace Mark Baltimore at the Chase Medical Research Institute. Of course, that had been a lie, as the only reason he'd been there was for me. What he'd actually wanted I had no idea, because I'd done what any sensible person would do when instinct was screaming something was off—I ran.

Instinct hadn't been wrong, either, as Heaton had turned up again a few nights later, this time in our office. We'd caught his somewhat brief appearance on the security tapes when we'd played them back to uncover who'd delivered Rosen's body to our office. Heaton had come in sometime between Rosen's arrival and ours. While his actions there made it obvious he hadn't been involved in Rosen's murder, I doubted it was a coincidence that Rosen happened to have some correspondence mentioning him. And given we had no idea who he actually was, or how he was involved with either the sindicati, the red cloaks, or the missing research notes, anything we found on him could only help. Even if it was nothing more than a few malicious notes made by a man seemingly intent on destroying the empire he'd built from scratch.

“Em, come out,” Jackson whispered. “The guard just arrived.”

I slid the cabinet drawer closed, pulled a sleeve down over my hand and quickly swiped it over the cabinet's handles to blur any prints, then scampered out. Jackson grabbed the file and put both it and the infrared scanner in the backpack, then threw the pack over his shoulder and headed out. I pushed the hidden
door back to its original position, repeated the hand swipe, and then followed him out. Shona and the guard were walking down the hall toward us.

“Found the problem,” Jackson said, tone nonchalant. “There's a fused thumbprint scanner in here. Must be aftermarket, because it's not mentioned in the specs we have.”

“Typical.” Shona's cross tone was at odds with the mix of amusement and relief in her expression. “They own million-dollar apartments, yet don't want to spend the extra money to install additional devices and link them to the full system. Then they whine when it all goes ass-up.”

“At least you won't have to listen to Rosen whining,” Frank said. “He's dead.”

“So says the boss. Have you heard anything about it?”

“Only gossip.” Frank strolled over to the panel. The damage was easy enough to spot in the harsh glare of his flashlight. “Any idea how that happened?”

Shona followed him. “Looks like an electrical short circuit. I can get the boss to send in a qualified sparky to check it out, if you'd like.”

“Nah. If it's aftermarket, it's not your responsibility—especially if your firm had no idea it was here. I'll inform the cops and they can deal with it.”

“Why the cops?” I asked, surprised. “Surely whoever is handling Rosen's estate would be more appropriate?”

“Normally, yes, but we're under strict instructions to report any and all events related to this apartment.”

I shared a brief, somewhat concerned glance with Jackson. “Why would the cops be interested in a fuse
blowing, considering they haven't even placed crime tape at the front door?”

Frank grimaced. “The order didn't actually come from the regular cops. It came from some specialized unit.”

PIT, undoubtedly. Which meant they'd be keeping an eye on the security tapes and would become aware of our presence here. I hoped like hell we hadn't gotten either Shona or Frank in the shit with them.

“You finished here?” Frank added, looking at Shona.

“No, but we can't do anything more until the power comes back on,” she said. “I'll report what happened, and will probably be back once the power is restored.”

“Can't be sad about that.” Frank's smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. He made a motion with his hand. “After you.”

“What rumors did you hear about Rosen's death?” I asked as we headed out of the apartment. “The gossip at the office is that he was attacked by a vampire, but that can't be right, surely?”

Frank shrugged and punched the
CA
LL
button. “The men from the special unit didn't say much, but the two cops who initially searched the apartment did say it was a vampire.”

“I wouldn't have thought a man like Rosen would have much to do with vamps,” Jackson said.

The elevator appeared and we all stepped in. “You'd think so, but he seemed to get a lot of visits from them.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Really?”

Frank nodded. “Yeah. None of my business, of course, but it's hard not to notice things like that.”

Instinct began to prickle, and I wasn't entirely sure why. “Can you describe any of them?”

As the elevator began its descent, Frank shrugged and said, “The one who visited most was tall, with gray hair, thin features, and these weird old-fashioned rimmed glasses that seemed precariously perched at the end of his nose.”

Which was an almost exact description of the vampire we knew only as Professor Heaton. That prickle of wrongness got stronger. I glanced at Jackson and saw him surreptitiously open the backpack then roll up the file I'd taken.

I stepped forward, blocking Frank's view of him as the elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open. “I don't suppose you know why he visited so often, do you?”

“To be truly factual, I have never
actually
visited Rosen here,” a new voice said. “But if I had, it would be for the same reason as now. For information.”

Fear surged, and I had to clench my fists against the fire that instinctively sparked across my fingertips.

Because the man who was now blocking our exit was none other than Heaton himself.

“W
hat the fuck is going on?” Shona said, her tone a mix of outrage and fear. “Frank, do you know this man?”

“No, he doesn't.” Though amusement touched Heaton's lips, there was nothing warm or pleasant about his smile. “As I've already said, this is the first time I've appeared in this building.”

“Then why would he give such an accurate description of you?” The fear was stronger in Shona's voice. She glanced at Jackson, then at me, obviously seeking some sort of clarification.

“I'm afraid Frank was just relaying what Heaton here wished him to say,” I said softly. “He's under Heaton's control.”

“He's a vampire? Oh shit,” she muttered, and took a step back.

“To put it mildly.” Jackson placed himself in front of Shona. “Let them go, Heaton. Neither she nor the guard know anything about our purpose here.”

“Oh, that much I already know.” His smile gained a predatory edge. “Nor will they remember this little encounter. They are, however, excellent hostages against your good behavior.”

He made a brief motion with his hand, and both
Frank and Shona collapsed. Jackson swore and somehow managed to catch Shona before she hit the ground
and
keep his back to the wall.

I stared at Heaton, the unease becoming full-blown fear. While most vamps
could
read the minds of others, they rarely had carte blanche access, let alone the capability to take over the minds of their victims so completely that they could control body functions.

And I was suddenly very,
very
glad that both Jackson and I were immune to such mental invasions.

“They're fine.” Heaton's low, almost pleasant tone was totally at odds with the thick waves of viciousness rolling off him. “I have merely ordered them to sleep. Of course, I could also order them to stop breathing . . .”

“Do that, and you're ash,” I ground out. My fists were clenched so tight my nails were drawing blood.

“Oh, I'm
well
aware of your capabilities, Ms. Pearson, but the second I see flame, I
will
kill them. Do you really wish to test whether your fires are faster than my order?”

No, I didn't, and he was obviously banking on that. “What the hell do you want with us?”

“Information, as I said. But first, please hand over that backpack.”

Jackson did so. Heaton opened it up, pulled out the scanner, and frowned. “You found nothing behind the false wall?”

“No,” Jackson growled. “The fucking fuse blew and we had no real chance to examine anything before Frank appeared.”

“Unfortunate.” Heaton tossed the pack back. Jackson caught it in his free hand. “What were you looking for?”

“The same as you, undoubtedly,” I said. “Why did you risk coming here? If you wanted information from us, it would have been easier to confront us someplace PIT
isn't
monitoring.”

“This place is as secure as any other, given I had Frank switch off the security system before I entered the building.”

I snorted. “Like PIT won't think
that's
suspicious.”

“Oh, they undoubtedly will, but they won't get anything from Frank.” He paused, then added gently, “Of course, if
you
report my appearance here, I would be forced to kill them both. You wouldn't wish that, now, would you?”

I had a momentary vision of his ashes falling like black snow all around my feet, and wished like hell I could make it a reality. But while I could flame in the space of a heartbeat, I really couldn't risk his thoughts being faster than my fire.

So I took a deep breath in an effort to calm both instinct and anger, and simply said, “Why worry about the security here when you didn't appear concerned about it at our office? Or at Rosen's office? You
were
the reporter who visited him there, weren't you?”

“Yes, and more than once. The sindicati and the rats may need cruder methods such as drugs to get information, but I am above that.”

“And modest, besides.”

He smiled. It wasn't a pleasant thing to behold. “Modesty has no purpose or use in this day and age.”

But violence did. Though Heaton's demeanor was urbane and pleasant, he was anything but. “And our office?”

“That was a mistake. I was not aware then how closely PIT was monitoring you.”

Which begged the question—how had he become aware? Given I hadn't spotted whomever PIT had assigned to tail us recently, I doubted Heaton would have. PIT had been careless twice in that regard; I didn't think there would be a third time.

But if Heaton was now aware of PIT's interest in us, did he also know about my connection to Sam? I suspected he might, but again—how? Aside from Jackson and Rory, the only people who were aware of my past with Sam were Luke and Sam's current lover, Rochelle. I doubted Heaton was involved, in any way, with Luke. He didn't seem the sort to play second fiddle to
any
man. Or, in Luke's case, monster.

Which left Rochelle. While I suspected she might be Luke's source of information, I couldn't see her being connected with a vampire like Heaton. PIT was keeping too close an eye on both her and Sam now for that to happen.

But if Luke was reading her from a distance, why couldn't Heaton? While most vampires had to be close to their target to gain information, Heaton was obviously an unusually powerful telepath.

But which faction was he connected to? Or was he connected with neither, and simply playing his own particular game right now?

Once again instinct was suggesting the latter, and, if that was right, it wasn't good news. The last thing
we needed was another competitor throwing his hat into an already overcrowded ring.

“If you were in such close contact with Rosen, why are you seeking the notes?” Jackson said. “I would have thought you'd already have a copy of them.”

“No, because as a recent arrival in this town, I'd been wary of stepping on too many toes until I'd established a base. And that meant, by necessity, not showing too much interest in Rosen, given the rats already had their claws in him.” He flashed a smile that held very little in the way of warmth and civility. “Of course, now that I
am
established, I can lay my cards on the table and start pursuing my interests.”

“I'm betting the sindicati won't be pleased about
that
decision.” Nor PIT—although they undoubtedly knew about him, as I'd given Sam the photo I'd taken of Heaton after I'd fled from him at Chase.

“Oh, I'm betting you're right. Now, back to the matter at hand . . .” Heaton paused, and his gaze swept my length. There was something very unclean about its touch, and distaste crawled through me. “Where are the research notes Baltimore gave you to type up before he was murdered?”

“PIT has one of the notebooks. One of the sindicati factions has the rest of them.” My smile was brief and cold. “And who said Baltimore was actually dead?”

Heaton raised an eyebrow. “The coroner I interviewed just after his death.”

“Yeah, well, you might want to revisit him. Baltimore walked out of the morgue a few days ago.”

“He undertook the vampire ceremony?”

“
That
is entirely unclear.”

“Meaning he could also be infected.” The elevator doors began to beep. Heaton leaned a shoulder against them and crossed his arms. A second later, Frank rose, pulled out his keys, and locked the doors open. There was no animation in his face, no life in his eyes. I shivered.

“If you want those notes,” Jackson growled, “then go have a chat to the sindicati and the cloaks. In fact, please
do
go speak to the cloaks.”

Heaton smiled, but again there was little in the way of humor or warmth in it. Another chill ran through me. I really,
really
wanted to cinder this vampire—so much so that flames burned through my veins and it was taking every ounce of control to not only hold them back but prevent my skin from glowing. I had no doubt Heaton would make good on his promise if that happened.

“Oh,” he drawled. “I have no intention of revealing my presence to either party at the moment.”

“The cloaks appear to have a source within PIT,” I said, unable to keep the slight hint of satisfaction from my voice.
Anything
that inhibited this vampire's plans—whatever the hell his plans were—could only be a good thing. “And given your previously mentioned appearance on our security tapes,
that
horse might well and truly have bolted.”

“Which would be unfortunate, but not as disastrous as you are apparently hoping.”

“Pity.” I crossed my arms, hiding fingers that were beginning to glow. I was a creature of fire, and sometimes instinct got the better of control. “You didn't risk coming here just to ask about those notes, Heaton. What else do you want?”

“Rest assured I'm after nothing more than what I have already stated.” He paused, and something very dark and even more dangerous stepped into his gaze. I'd seen such a glint once before, and it had been in the eyes of a very old, very
insane
vampire. Heaton obviously wasn't insane, but old? Yeah, he was that. “At least that is the case for the moment.”

I really, really didn't want to know what else he might want. But, given that look, I had suspicions, and they would undoubtedly give me nightmares for nights to come.

“We've already told you we don't have the notes,” Jackson said. “There's nothing else we can give you, because we don't
know
anything else.”

“Yet,” Heaton said. “But I've been keeping an eye on all players in this particular little game, and I believe you two have the most chance of finding what is currently missing.”

“Well, I'm glad you have faith in us,” I bit back. “Because few others do. Not even us.”

“Ah, but PIT would not be monitoring you so fully if they did not think you could help them with their own investigations.”

“That monitoring isn't going to make it any easier for you to contact us,” Jackson noted. “And you certainly can't go about erasing the minds of security guards without drawing unwanted attention.”

Heaton waved a hand. “That is simply a matter of logistics and planning. I doubt, for example, that they are aware that you have already met with several of my men.”

“Your men?” Jackson and I shared a glance as he
added, “And which of the many psychos we've interacted with of late were yours?”

He raised an eyebrow. “They were in the BMW—”

“Ah,” I cut in. “Yes. The ones who attempted to shoot the crap out of me.”

“Well, you
did
have them trapped and ringed by fire. It was a somewhat justifiable reaction, even if an unwise one.”

“Especially given you wanted information out of me. Me being dead wouldn't have helped your cause.”

“No, it would not. But luckily for them—and you—phoenixes are capable of rebirth.”

This vampire knew entirely
too
much about me. I shifted from one foot to the other, my skin so damn hot sweat was trickling down my back.

“It's not as easy as that, Heaton, believe me.”

“Oh, I do believe.” He gave me another of those cool, threatening smiles. “But that is beside the point at this particular moment. I wish your help and you will provide it. Otherwise, I will kill everyone in PIT, including the man who was once your lover.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And what makes you think I'd care about the death of a former lover? Or about an organization that has caused us nothing but problems?”

“Because, my dear phoenix, you are a creature of fire, not stone, and if there is one thing I have learned over the last few weeks, it's that you care. You would not want those deaths on your conscience.” He paused again. “If, however, that is not threat enough, then I'm more than willing to add Miller here and the man you share your apartment with.”

Man, not phoenix. Heaton might know more than
he should about me, but he didn't know the truly important stuff.

“Please ease up on the threats,” I growled. “Because I'm seriously battling the urge to smite you right now.”

“Which only proves my assessment was correct. Had this situation been reversed, I would not have hesitated.”

“That's because you're an unfeeling monster.”

He bowed his head, the movement regal. It was almost as if I'd paid him a great compliment. “I expect daily updates.”

“How? We've gone dark in an effort to dodge our tails.”

“And quite successfully, too.”

“Not successfully enough, if you found us,” Jackson noted.

“Ah, but I merely did what was logical. If a target cannot be found, then you need to cover the places said target is likely to reappear.” He waved a hand toward the foyer behind him. “This is one of five we are watching.”

“The others being what?” In some respects, it was now a pointless question, but it would at least give us insight as to just how much he knew.

“Both Rosen's son and Professor Wilson's place are covered, as is your apartment and office. There was no need to keep a watch on Baltimore's building, as you were holding the only information of value—the notebooks—but we
are
also keeping an eye on the movements of a certain rat, given your recent altercation with him.”

Meaning Radcliffe, whose responsibility it was to
look after the everyday running of the rats' various businesses, had better watch his back. Otherwise, he might lose not only control, but maybe even his life.

But the question that really needed answering was, where was Heaton getting his information from—especially if he was new in town? He couldn't have had people following us to all those places, because if he knew about those, then he'd have known about our current hidey-hole. And if he'd known about
that
, he wouldn't have risked a confrontation here.