Keri Arthur - Moon Sworn

He considered it for several heartbeats, then said, “How do I know you’re a fucking guardian?”

I shifted my grip slightly and pulled out my badge, showed it to him, then put it away again. “Now, why are you following me?”

“Because that’s what I’m being paid to do.”

“By whom?”

He shrugged. “I’m just a contractor.”

Meaning there was some sort an underworld job agency hiring out thugs? I’m not sure why I was surprised, given all that I’d seen over the last few years, but for some reason I was.

“So give me your boss’s name and we’ll call it quits.”

He snorted, spraying fine particles of snot over my hand. Charming. “Get real. He’ll kill me if I did that.”

“And I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

I wouldn’t—and couldn’t if he was human, thanks to the law—but it never hurt to make the threat. Both the general public and the criminals we hunted know so little about what guardians can and can’t do that making threats was often the easiest way of getting results.

“Fuck.” He shifted his stance a little, and I tensed, half expecting him to try and kick me. But he didn’t. “Okay. I’m not getting paid enough to mess with the likes of you.”

“So he didn’t tell you I was a guardian?” I reached out telepathically and lightly connected with his thoughts—

not enough for him to sense me but more than enough to tell truth from lies.

“No.” His voice was hostile, indicating he wasn’t too happy with his boss right now.

“And the plate number didn’t make you realize?” I mean, the Directorate, like all government departments, had their own plates. It would have been a little hard to miss the fact that he wasn’t following an ordinary car.

“Well, yeah, but you could have been an office worker for all I knew. I didn’t know we had female guardians who weren’t vamps.”

Few people did—mainly because I was the only one. “So, the name of your boss?”

“Henry. Henry Bottchelli.”

“And Bottchelli didn’t tell you why he wanted me followed?”

“Nope. Just that I had to follow you for the next couple of days, providing regular updates about your location.”

That bit of news sent a chill down my spine. “Did he say why he wanted this information?”

“Nope. I’m paid to do a job, not ask questions.”

And I was thinking it was more a case of “the less he knew, the less he could blab.” “Is Bottchelli his real name?”

“Yeah.” He hesitated. “As far as I know.”

“How do I find him?”

He moved again, and the quick desire to lash out ran through his thoughts. He dismissed it, but not easily. I squeezed his hand harder, making him concentrate on me and the pain rather than the escape he was contemplating.

“I’ve only got a cell number. He contacts me with the job, and I contact him when the job is done.”

Meaning whoever the boss was, he was extremely cautious. Which sounded very much like Blake.

“When did he contact you about this job?”

“Yesterday morning.”

“How did you find me in Melton?”

“Cell phone scanner. Heard them call you to the murder, so I just waited out of sight.”

Meaning I’d have to change my number, pronto. “Give me the number you use to contact your boss.”

Again he hesitated. And this time, the need to retaliate surged into action and he lashed out with a booted foot. I jumped away from the blow, but the tip of his steel-capped boots skimmed my shin with enough force behind it to make pain shimmer up my leg. But I didn’t let go of him and my sudden movement unbalanced him, pulling him away from the car. His free arm flailed as he tried to regain his balance, but I released his other hand and gave him an additional shove.

He landed heavily on his hands and knees. I planted a heel on his back and forced him into the dirt.

“Now, shall we try that again?” I said, voice cold. “Or shall I drive this stiletto right through your spine?”

“Bitch,” he muttered—though his thoughts were a whole lot more colorful and creative.

“Phone number,” I said, barely resisting the impulse to smile. Only to have the impulse die almost as suddenly as it had risen.

What had happened to the reluctance to do this job? What had happened to the fear that I could one day take it too far?

But I didn’t ease the pressure of my heel on his back. I might fear what I was becoming, but I feared whatever Blake had planned more.

He gave me the phone number. I shoved it into my memory banks, then said, “And your name?”

“Rudy White.”

His thoughts said he was telling the truth. They also told me where he lived, so I could find him again if I needed to.

“Well, Rudy, I suggest very strongly that you give up trailing, because you’re not very good at it.” I stepped away and he scrambled to his feet with surprising dexterity for such a big man. “And if I spot you following me again, I’ll throw your ass in jail and throw away the key.”

“You can’t do that—”

“I can do anything I want with scum like you. Remember that the next time you take on a job that involves Directorate personnel.”

He scowled but didn’t say anything.

“Now get into the car and drive away,” I added.

He obeyed. I waited until he’d left the parking lot, then pressed the com-link button and said, “You heard all that?”

“Yep,” Sal said, “Jack’s already applied for a new cell number for you. We should have it within an hour or so. The phone number White gave us is listed as belonging to a Frank Wise. Who, according to our records, was beheaded several months ago in a robbery gone wrong.”

Interesting. “What about Bottchelli?”

“He’s another man with no official records of any kind.”

I might not have any proof, but I’d bet my very last dollar that Blake was the man behind both identities.

“Meaning he has unofficial ones?”

“Actually, no. But his name has been linked to a number of armed robberies, including several that ended up with fatalities.”

Not a bad effort for a man who apparently didn’t exist. “Meaning we haven’t got as much as a license picture or an address for him?”

“No. Jack’s just given the go-ahead to break into the phone records of both men to see if we can find any connecting numbers. That’ll give us a starting place.”

Which meant Jack was taking this situation seriously, because even he could get into considerable trouble for doing that without approval from the higher-ups. Not that that had ever stopped any of us before. “Let me know what you get. I’m heading over to the vamp’s place now.”

“Right.”

I crossed the road and headed back to my car. Once there, I got rid of my bra, which had—as usual—been shredded by the shift into seagull form. One of these days, I thought, flinging it onto the backseat, the Directorate were going to have to pay me for the cost of replacements, because bras were costing me a small fortune. And while Quinn might have bags of money, and had offered more than once to provide for me, I refused to be looked after like that. I might want to spend the rest of my life with him, but I wanted to pay my own way whenever possible.

I got back onto the freeway and made my way down to Mount Martha. The vampire suspect lived in the middle of an estate situated between the Nepean and Moorooduc highways, and certainly didn’t have any of the sea views that the area was famous for. The house itself was a standard brick veneer—the type of house that could be seen in dozens of different estates all over Melbourne. But the gardens were well kept, the grass cut, and there was a average-looking station wagon parked in the carport. I wondered if the neighbors were even aware that they had a vampire living amongst them.