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“So the Rakshasa we hunted would be have been considered a higher-level spirit?”
“Yes. Although perhaps not as high as the spirit we seek here, because she could not ignore the call of the ghosts.”
“Does that mean she won’t be hunting tonight? I mean, she knows we’re looking for her after this afternoon’s events.”
“Yes, but remember, she is also in breeding mode. That is an imperative not even intelligence can ignore.” His grip tightened on my hip, and the tension suddenly evident in his touch echoed through my being. “We should go. Someone comes.”
“Who?”
He hesitated, then said, “Directorate. Your uncle.”
I swore softly, called to the Aedh, and hoped like hell that I hadn’t been in human form long enough for my scent to linger in the air. And thanked whatever gods that happened to be listening that I’d parked my bike around the corner rather than directly opposite the apartment as I’d first planned.
I swept out as Uncle Rhoan walked in. He hesitated, as if he’d sensed me, but I just kept going. Hanging around to see if he actually had would not have been a bright idea.
“What do you wish to do now?” Azriel said, the minute I re-formed beside the Ducati.
I grabbed my helmet and shoved it on. “Go home and make mad, passionate love to you.”
Amusement touched his lips, and desire flared briefly around me, bathing my skin with its warmth.
“That is something I would not find unpleasant.” His voice was even despite the desire that pulsed between us. “I suspect, however, you merely tease.”
“You suspect right. We need to check out Summer’s place before my uncle beats us to it.” Hell, for all I knew, he already had. Maybe there was a cleanup team there right now, photographing, cataloging, and pulling apart any clues that might be left. I had no doubt that Summer had suffered the same fate as Shard.
I flipped the helmet’s visor down. “I’ll see you there.”
He nodded and disappeared. I booted up the bike and headed across town. Thankfully, peak hour had eased now that night was setting in, and it was definitely more pleasant to be on the Ducati. At least I could weave my way through the traffic without having to worry about some impatient motorist suddenly swinging into my lane.
One twenty Newman Street turned out to be one of those modern, split-level town houses that had been popular with the upwardly mobile about fifty years ago. This one was showing its age more than most, the redbrick darkening with grime and the concrete portions showing remnants of past graffiti attacks. Still, it was in better shape than some of its neighbors, which looked to have been abandoned for many years—decidedly odd given how close to the city Kensington was. At the very least, a developer should have stepped in and purchased the land because it would have been worth a fortune if developed properly.
And maybe I was thinking about that sort of nonsense rather than contemplating what might be waiting inside.
I glanced around. There weren’t any Directorate cars about, and nobody seemed to be watching, so I shifted shape and silently made my way into the town house. Summer’s place, like Shard’s, looked lived in—there was an empty dinner plate sitting on the coffee table, a mug with a tea bag sitting ready near the kettle in the kitchen, and clothes in the dryer, ready to be pulled out. For all intents and purposes, it looked as if someone were living here. And maybe they were. Maybe this was where our dark spirit had made her lair. Which meant that maybe this was where all those tiny spiders were living . . . My gaze jumped to the ceiling, but it was free of movement or threat. There wasn’t even a spiderweb decorating any of the corners.>He snorted. “The Directorate could.”
“The Directorate could have just pulled their driver’s license details and gotten the information from there.”
I could have, too—or rather, Stane could have. But I needed to take all the right steps to satisfy Hunter, and that had to include talking to the people who employed the two women.
He studied me for several seconds, then half shrugged. “I guess it won’t hurt.”
He leaned forward, pulled an old wireless keyboard out from under his desk, and began typing. I glanced at Azriel. Don’t suppose you could take a sneaky look over his shoulder without him noticing?
I could. His tone was amused.
I smiled. Then would you?
Of course.
He appeared behind Parred. Shard lives in flat one, ten Martin Street, St. Kilda, and—he hesitated, waiting as Parred did some more typing—Sands lives in flat eleven, one twenty Newman Street, Kensington.
He reappeared on the seat beside me just as Parred grabbed a piece of paper and scrawled two phone numbers onto it. “Here,” he said, sliding the paper across to me. “The first is for Shard, the second for Sands. Hope you have better luck contacting them than I have of late.”
“Thanks for your help.”
“Anytime.”
We headed out. Once safely across the street and well out of earshot, I pulled out my phone and gave both women a call. Neither one answered. No surprise there, I guess. Especially when it was more than likely that both women were either incapacitated or dead.
