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Only it wasn’t really dark. Adeline’s aura lit the room with a deep violet, and Azriel’s was an intense gold. Which surprised me—I’d have put money on the fact that his would be the fierce white I saw on the fields. The black tats that decorated his skin—the biggest of which resembled half of a dragon, with a wing that swept around his ribs from underneath his arm and brushed the left side of his neck—shimmered in the darkness and seemed to hold no distinct color.
Only that half dragon wasn’t actually a tat. It was a Dušan—a darker, more abstract brother to the one that had crawled onto my left arm and now resided within my flesh. They were originally created to protect the Aedh priests who had once guarded the gates, but we had no idea who’d sent them to us—although Azriel suspected it was probably my father’s doing. He was one of the few left in this world—or the next—who had the power to make them.
Valdis, the sword at Azriel’s back, dripped the same blue fire on the astral field as she did in the real world, and it made me wonder if my own sword, Amaya, would be visible on this plane, given that she was little more than a deadly shadow normally.
I shoved the thought aside, then closed my eyes and conjured the image of the area where our ghost—Frank Logan—had met his doom.
In an instant, I was standing in front of the gigantic shed that was the Central Pier function center. On the night Logan had been murdered, this place had been filled with life and sound, and the pavement lined with taxis and limos waiting to pick up passengers. Now it was little more than a vague ghost town—figuratively and literally.
I looked around. The first thing I saw was a man, watching me. He was tall, with regal features and a body that was as lean as a whip. A fighter, I thought, staring at him.
As our gazes met, humor seemed to touch his lips and he bowed slightly.
I frowned, and thought, Do I know you?
No, but I know you rather well. I’ve been following you around for weeks.
His voice was cool, without inflection but not unpleasant.
Why would you— I stopped and suddenly realized just who he was. You’re the Cazador Madeline Hunter has following me?
I certainly am, ma’am.
I blinked at his politeness, although I wasn’t really sure why it surprised me. I had grown up hearing tales about the men and women who formed the ranks of the Cazadors—the high vampire council’s own personal hit squad—and I suppose I just expected them all to be fierce and fearsome.
He gave me another slight bow. Markel Sanchez, at your service.
Well, forgive me for saying this, Markel, but you’re a pain in my ass and I’d rather not have you following me around, on this plane or in life.
Trust me, ma’am, this is not my desire, either. But it has been ordered and I must obey.
I raised imaginary eyebrows. Meaning even the Cazadors are wary of Hunter?
If they are wise and value their lives, yes.
Which said a lot about Hunter’s power. She might be the head honcho at the Directorate of Other Races, but she was also a high-ranking member of the high vampire council and, I suspected, plotting to take it over completely.
I need to speak to a ghost. You’re not going to interfere, are you?
I’m here to listen and report. Nothing more, nothing less.
I nodded and turned away from him. A grayish figure stood not far away. He was standing side on, looking ahead rather than at me, and he was a big man with well-groomed hair, a Roman nose, and a sharp chin. Frank Logan.
I imagined myself standing beside him, and suddenly I was. If only it were this easy to travel in Aedh form.
Mr. Logan, I need to speak to you.
He jumped, then swung around so violently that tendrils of smoke swirled away from his body.
“Who the hell are you?” He wasn’t using thought, and his words were crisp and clear, echoing around me like the clap of thunder.
I’m Risa Jones. I was standing nearby when you were murdered.
His expression showed a mix of disbelief and confusion. “I’m dead? How can I be dead? I can see you. I can see the buildings around me. I can’t be dead. Damn it, where’s my limo? I want to go home.”
He was never going home. Never moving on. He’d died before his time, and no reaper had been waiting to collect his soul. He was one of the lost ones—doomed to roam the area of death for eternity.
But I suspected nothing I could say would ever convince him of this, and I wasn’t about to even try—that could take far more time than I probably had on this plane. Mr. Logan, I need to speak to you about John Nadler.
