Keri Arthur - Fireborn

“Rosen wasn’t very forthcoming about what, exactly, Wilson was working on, but I gather it’s something to do with finding a cure for some new kind of virus.” Jackson picked up the wine and filled my glass. “He inferred Baltimore might be working on a similar project and therefore could be behind the theft.”

“What’s the bet Wilson’s project has something to do with the virus the red cloaks are infected with?” I said heavily. It had to be. It was too much of a coincidence to be anything else.

“Rosen simply called it the NSV01 virus—”

“And Baltimore’s virus was NSV01A. I doubt it was a coincidence.”

“Highly unlikely,” Jackson said. “Rosen didn’t say what it was or who’d employed him to work on it. I suspect, given how clammy he got, that it was a deep-level government initiative.”

I frowned. “The government has its own labs—”

“Yeah, but it’s not always easy to keep research a secret inside those labs. Too much red tape, too many management fingers in the pie. It’s far easier to have a black slush fund and get it done privately.”

“It doesn’t explain why they’d be coming after me, though. If they were the ones who beat Baltimore to death, they must know I can’t tell them anything more.”

“What if it wasn’t the red cloaks who beat him up? What if it was someone else entirely?”

I frowned. “Mark was the most harmless guy in the world. I can’t imagine someone having a reason to kill him other than wanting his research. And as I said, I don’t think he was onto anything monumental before he died.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Let me get something.” He rose in one fluid movement and walked up the hill to his truck. His strides were long and easy but nevertheless filled with a sense of heated energy. Much like the man himself, really.

He came back with a manila folder. This time, he sat down beside me, his shoulders pressed against mine and the heat of him flowing across my senses, a siren call to the fires deep within. I took a shuddery breath, trying to concentrate as he flipped open the folder, rifled through some paperwork, then picked out a photo. “You ever seen this man before?” he asked, handing it to me.

The photo was grainy and speckled, as if it had been blown up from a much smaller picture. The man in it had half turned from the camera, but he was obviously a big man, bald, with heavy brows and a beaklike nose that seemed to jut out over thin, humorless lips.

He wasn’t anyone I’d seen before, and I said as much before adding, “Who is he?”

“Sherman Jones, a thug for hire and petty thief.”

I handed him back the photo and then picked up my wine. It didn’t do a whole lot to quench the awareness surging through me. “You think he beat up Mark?”

“This was snapped by one of the street security cameras just up the road from Baltimore’s apartment.” His voice seemed suddenly deeper, edged with a huskiness that spoke of desire. “According to one of the waitresses in the café across the road, he’d been hanging around the nearby bus stop most of the day.”

I frowned. “But if you know about this Jones person, the cops surely would, and they’d have interviewed him already.”

“They would have, if they could find him. He disappeared not long after this picture was taken.”

“Before or after Mark’s murder?”

“After.”

I finished my wine and held it out for a refill. Too much more and I’d get tipsy, but after the events of the last few days, that might not be a bad thing.

“And no body has been found, I take it?”

“No. However, Jones wasn’t the type to completely freelance. I have it from a good source that he had several regular employers, including this man.”

He held out another photo. This man had a thin, pockmarked face, small, beady eyes, and dark, greasy hair. He reminded me of a rat. “Who is he?”

“Marcus Radcliffe the third. He owns a chain of secondhand stores that are little more than a front for a roaring trade in black-market goods and information.”

“You’ve talked to him?”

“Not yet. He tends to be surrounded by some rather large goons, has high-level lawyers on call, and he can smell a cop—or a PI—a mile away.”

“Meaning you’ve hit a wall information-wise?”

“Not exactly. I’ve now got you.”

“Maybe.”

He grinned. It was sexy as all get-out, but also very confident. “Your turn, my dear.”

I told him the little I knew, all the while trying to ignore the hunger in his eyes, the feel of heat barely restrained that flowed over my senses every time he moved.

When I finished, he said, “Given the research of both men has been taken, it suggests they might have had some sort of breakthrough.”

“Yeah, but the question is, how would the people behind the murders have known?”

He shrugged. “Rosen told me Wilson presented weekly reports; it’s possible someone, somewhere, talked.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t explain what happened to Baltimore. Trust me. No one would risk Lady Harriet’s ire by indiscreetly talking.” I pursed my lips, my thoughts going a mile a minute. “Could the labs be bugged?”

Jackson shook his head. His auburn hair, I noticed idly, gleamed like fire in the sunlight. “Rosen apparently doesn’t trust his ex as far as he could throw her. He has a team of specialists who sweep the labs weekly.”

Well, at least Lady Harriet wasn’t that paranoid. She had them swept only every other week. I downed more wine, then said, “So basically, we’re as stuck for ideas as the cops.”

His sudden smile was blinding in its intensity. “ We’re stuck? Does this mean you’ve forgiven my initial lie and are now intending to help me on my quest?”

Did it?

I hadn’t meant it that way, but now that I’d said it, it was tempting. Very tempting. And it wasn’t as if Sam was going to give me any answers.

“I don’t know,” I said, honestly enough. “I’m not sure it would be wise for either of us to tangle with the things that are carrying the virus.”

“Can the virus affect nonhumans? Rosen gave me the impression it was human only.”

I hesitated, but it wasn’t like I hadn’t already told him enough to get us both into trouble. In for a penny, in for a pound, as the saying went. Besides, he needed to know what he might be dealing with. “From the little I’ve been told, it very definitely affects humans and vampires. Some shifters seemed able to escape the virus as long as they shift immediately after being infected, but it’s too new for anyone to be certain. Until we know for sure, I don’t think you should be taking any unnecessary risks.”

“Oh, I don’t plan to when it comes to those things.” He frowned. “What about phoenixes?”

I shrugged. “I’m spirit, not flesh, so any virus or drug that does get into my system will be burned away when I resume my true form.”

“Handy trick.”

“And one that doesn’t stop me from getting hurt or dying before my time,” I said, voice dry. “A phoenix making it through a full hundred years of life is something of a rarity.”

“So how many lifetimes have—” He paused, listening intently for several seconds; then his gaze hit mine, sharp and intent. “Do you want to be found right now?”

Confusion swirled. “What?”

“There’s a helicopter on the way. It’s a fair bet that, given we’ve eluded your police tail, it’s someone looking for you. So, make your decision. Come with me and not be found until you wish to be, or stay here and return to the safety of your police followers.”

I stared at him, tossing between the insane need to know what was going on and the desire to stay safe.