Keri Arthur - Fireborn

I smiled up at the waitress as she delivered his coffee and my tea, then, once she’d left, said, “But you’re human. I would have thought a team designed to handle paranormal creatures and crime would consist mainly of paranormal personnel.”

A human, even one as fast and as strong as Sam, wouldn’t have much hope against a vampire—or most other nonhumans, for that matter—even if he was armed to the teeth. And while white-ash stakes and silver bullets did work, vampires moved so fast they could be on you before you were able to use a weapon—something I knew from experience.

“A good percentage of the team is nonhuman,” he said eventually. “But there are humans on the team—although they are generally blessed with extraordinary abilities.”

“So telepaths, pyrokinetics, stuff like that?”

He nodded. “They’re mostly used in off-field areas, but they are sometimes placed in the less . . . tenuous . . . field operations.”

“None of which explains why you’re out in the field. You’re human, but you certainly haven’t any sort of psychic abilities.”

“I’m there because I can be.” His voice was flat. Obviously, it was a subject he wasn’t about to get into. Not yet, anyway. And I very much suspected that if I pushed, he’d clam up totally, and I still had plenty of other questions. “So why are the red cloaks still after me?”

“That I don’t know.” He frowned as he dumped several sugars into his coffee—which was surprising given he never used to take sugar. “They obviously still want something, but what, I have no idea.”

“But even that night I saved your ass, they came after me. And that was before Mark was killed.”

He nodded. His gaze, when it met mine, held little of the recent darkness. All I could see was concern—not just about what was happening, but for my safety. It was gone almost as soon as I registered it, but it nevertheless had hope fluttering.

Which was stupid. Even if the man I knew did still exist somewhere beneath the cloak of darkness and anger, he’d certainly shown no desire toward me. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“But,” he said, “we’re not entirely sure Baltimore’s killing is connected to his work on the red plague virus—the way he was killed is not the norm for them.”

“Meaning if they’d been involved, he would have died the same way Professor Wilson died?”

His gaze suddenly sharpened, and again a tremor ran down my spine. Yet I wasn’t entirely sure that tremor was all fear. Then he all but spat, “Jackson Miller.”

“Yes.” My voice was noncommittal. “It seems you were right. My meeting him wasn’t a coincidence.”

“I should break his fucking neck—”

“Touch him,” I warned, “and I’ll break yours.”

He studied me for several long minutes. “So, it’s like that, is it?”

“Yes,” I said, though it wasn’t. Not yet. “He’s at least been honest with me, Sam. Unlike you.”

“I’m being more honest right now than I fucking should be,” he growled. “Don’t push me, Emberly.”

I didn’t. “Why didn’t those things burn up in daylight?”

“Because the earth’s ozone layer blocks ninety-seven to ninety-nine percent of UV radiation from entering the atmosphere.”

“But vampires still burn when touched by sunlight.”

“Yes, but that’s because there’s three bands of ultraviolet radiation in sunlight—UVA, UVB, and UVC. It’s the combination of all three that kills vampires, whereas the red plague victims seem only affected by UVA—or black light, as it’s known.”

I frowned. “But from what I understand, UVA is the main source of radiation hitting earth, meaning the red cloaks should burn in sunlight.”

“It’s the main source, yes, but for some reason, when it’s combined with the other two types, the red plague victims are immune. That was the second part of your boss’s brief—pinpoint what gave the red plague victims their immunity.”

“I bet there are quite a few vamps in town who’d love to get their hands on that sort of research.” Especially the sindicati—which was a point in favor of Jackson’s suspicions they were involved somewhere along the line.

“Given he was killed at night, it’s certainly an option we’re exploring. The only flaw is that vampires can’t cross thresholds uninvited, and that invitation has to be freely given.”

I nodded. “Which doesn’t preclude the possibility of vampires hiring human thugs to do their dirty work. Did you find any prints in Mark’s apartment?”

“That,” he said, somewhat dryly, “is not information I’m about to hand over to someone who is not a police officer. Why did you and Miller drive away from the accident?”

The darkness in him seemed to have receded, but my reaction to his closeness hadn’t. It was a constant push-pull of fear and desire that was as confusing as hell.

“It wasn’t an accident,” I said bluntly. “And we both know it. We were intending to question them, but one came at us—”

“There were two?” he interrupted sharply. “We only found one.”

I nodded. “The second one was shot and cindered.”

He frowned. “Your flames shouldn’t stop them.”

“They didn’t. The bullets in the head did. My flames just rendered his body to ash, which blew away on the wind.”

“But why would your flames work in daylight but not at night?”

“Well, technically they did work; it’s just that the UV lights burned them quicker.”

“But Rochelle’s flames can’t render them to ash.”

“That would be because a Fae doesn’t create flames; they can only use and control them. And a regular fire, however hot, is totally different from the flames of a phoenix.” I couldn’t quite keep the sarcasm from my voice. “We’re spirits and we burn far hotter, trust me.”

Just for a moment, the past seemed to echo in the blue of his eyes. Him and me and the heat that had once burned unquenched between us. A heat that could still burn between us if the dying embers were given the slightest chance of rebirth. Then the echoes were gone, and all that was left was the anger of our final words. Words I doubted we could ever get past.

I pulled my gaze from his and drank some tea. “Did you find anything of interest in Baltimore’s notes?”

“Not as yet.”

“What about Wilson?”

“What about him?”

I frowned at him. “Well, why was he taken out by the red cloaks?”

“We don’t know.”

“And wouldn’t tell me even if you did?”

He half smiled. Or maybe that should be quarter smiled, because it was little more than a ghost, barely there and yet breathtaking nonetheless.

“Jackson Miller is a private investigator who’s been hired to investigate Wilson’s murder. I’m not about to give him—via you—that sort of information.” He paused, and that ghost disappeared. “You should keep away from him, Emberly. This case is far more dangerous than you know, and Miller is renowned for not knowing when to retreat.”

“Which sounds a whole lot like someone I once knew.” And it was what had made him such a good cop. But was it also responsible for the darkness I sensed in him today? Had he finally run into a situation that went way beyond his control? A situation far worse than having to shoot his own brother?

“Which is why I’m giving you a warning, Red. I know just how badly things can go.” He half reached out, as if to caress my cheek; then his fingers clenched and he abruptly stood up. “Please be sensible. Don’t stick your nose into the investigation, and don’t skip out on your tail again.”

I leaned back in my chair and met his gaze for several heartbeats. “Fine,” I said eventually. “I’ll be sensible.”