"That sounds about right." She studied me for a moment. "I gather you've come across him in your investigations?"

"You might say that." Unfortunately, Radcliffe was now in Sam's hands, and he no doubt now knew about Rosen's debt problems. Of course, that didn't preclude the possibility of us talking to him. Who knew? We might uncover some morsel Sam had missed.

And at midday tomorrow, vampires would start walking the streets.

I turned onto Spencer Street and said, "Okay, where in Southern Cross have you stashed your bags?"

"It's locker number ninety-two in the train concourse."

I grunted and swung into the station's parking garage. After finding a spot on an upper level, I said, "Do I need a locker key or code?"

"Code. Nine zero five seven."

I opened the door, then hesitated. "Be here when I get back."

"I can't go anywhere without pa.s.sports or clothes," she said, expression amused. "I'll be here."

I studied her for a moment, not convinced, then half shrugged and got out of the car. But I didn't go all that far. Once I was out of immediate sight, I stopped the phone recording, ducked down behind an old four-wheel-drive, and waited.

Sure enough, five minutes later, Amanda walked by, my coat fully zipped up so that only the ends of the hospital gown were visible. Unless you looked really close, it simply appeared as if she were wearing a light summer dress. I waited until she'd stepped inside the elevator, watched it descend until it was obvious it was going straight to the ground floor, then ran for the stairs. I called to my spirit form as I did so, felt the fires within surge to life, but-just as quickly-splutter into nothing. G.o.dd.a.m.n it, I was still too low in energy to become fire. I ran down the stairs as fast as I could and prayed like h.e.l.l the parking garage's elevator was as slow as most of them seemed to be. I was almost at the bottom of the stairwell when the door opened and a mom and two kids stepped in. Only fast footwork on her part saved us all. I gave her a quick apology, then dashed out. The concourse was packed. I paused and scanned the crowd heading to and from the retail center above us.

After a second or so, I found Amanda. I tagged along after her, remaining at a distance but nevertheless keeping her in sight. Unsurprisingly, she didn't head for the lockers in the main train station, but rather the ones located at the bus interchange terminal.

I waited until she'd opened the locker; then, phone in hand and Sam's number on the screen ready to call, I walked up behind her and said, "Just as well I wasn't inclined to take the word of a thief and a wh.o.r.e."

She jumped and turned around, but her expression was one of annoyance more than surprise. "Well, it was worth a shot." She grimaced. "I guess you're not as gullible as you seemed."

"No." I showed her the phone. "Give me one reason not to hit this number and hand you over."

She raised an eyebrow. "Go for it. I know for a fact that is neither Henry Morretti's number nor anyone else who provides a contactable front for the sindicati."

"No, it's not," I agreed. "It's actually the number of someone I think might be much worse where you're concerned."

"And who might that be? The cops? They're hardly likely to be concerned about a widow deciding to take a holiday."

"Maybe not, but I'm betting the police might be interested in our little conversation-which, by the way, I recorded. However, this isn't a direct line to any cop." I watched the amus.e.m.e.nt flee her face. The fury that took its place was an ugly thing to behold. Finally, I was glimpsing the real Amanda Wilson. "This is the number of a PIT detective."

"And what is PIT?"

"They're the Paranormal Investigations Team, and sit somewhere between the police and the military." I plucked the duffel bag from her hands. She resisted, but only briefly. "Basically, they have carte blanche to do whatever it takes to investigate and solve paranormal crimes. I'm afraid your husband's death falls under that umbrella."

"And this should scare me because . . . ?"

"Because they are not bound by the same rules as the police." I slung the bag over my shoulder, then stepped back and waved her ahead of me. "I was in their hands recently. They gave me a drug that not only forced me to answer their questions, but restrained my psychic abilities, leaving me unable to defend myself for several hours afterward."

Her gaze shot to mine. "And what abilities might you have?"

I gave her a smile that held very little humor. "Run again without holding up your end of our bargain, and you just might find out."

Her gaze lingered on mine for a minute, as if to a.s.sess whether I meant what I said; then she sighed. "There's a USB in the side pocket. That holds all the promised information."

"Conveniently, I have no computer to check this fact." Nevertheless, I found the USB and shoved it in my pocket. Then I searched the rest of the bag, found two more, and took those, too.

Her expression became even more sour, and I hadn't thought that was possible. "And now it's my turn to demand you uphold your end of the bargain."

It was tempting-very tempting-to tell her to go to h.e.l.l, but I'd learned over my many years that karma had a way of biting you on the a.s.s. Breaking a deal-even if it was with someone like Amanda-was never a wise move.

"You know where the car is, so lead the way."

She did so. Five minutes later, we were driving out of the garage and heading down Spencer Street.

A casual look in the rearview mirror revealed we were once again being followed by a white Ford. This time, that niggling sense of wrongness became a rock.

"What's wrong?"

I glanced at Amanda. "We're being followed."

She lowered the sun visor and slid open the vanity mirror. "White Ford?"

"Yes. How did you guess?"

"I noticed it parked down the street and remembered the plates." Her smile held very little in the way of humor. "You tend to notice details in my line of work."

I bet you did. "Do you still want to head for the airport?"

She hesitated. "Yes. Once I'm through screening, I can acquire someone's ticket, get out of the state, then disappear overseas."

A statement that just made me want to stop the car and toss her out. "Then let's see if we can lose them."

I didn't immediately alter my speed, just kept cruising down Spencer Street until we hit a set of lights that were changing. I slowed, as if to stop, then, at the last possible moment, hit the accelerator and shot through the intersection. Car horns blared and I had to swerve around the pedestrian who'd already started crossing, but we got through unscathed.

A glance in the rearview mirror revealed the white Ford pulling out onto the wrong side of the road with the obvious intent of repeating our actions. If another truck or a car didn't take them out, we had-at best-a couple of minutes. And I wasn't sure that was going to be enough time given Jackson's truck was bright red and orange and rather easy to spot among the more mundanely colored vehicles.

I swung onto a side street. The tires screamed and the truck swerved dangerously. I fought for control, then hit the accelerator again. At the end of the street, I made a sharp left and belted down a narrow lane.

Up ahead, someone flung open the door of a parked car.

"f.u.c.k!" Amanda slapped her hands against the dash to brace herself. "Watch out!"

I hit the horn and kept my foot planted. I had a brief glimpse of the driver's rear end as he dove back inside the car; then I hit the door. The force of the impact wrenched the door free and flung it up and over the truck's roof. Thankfully, it didn't appear to touch Jackson's s.h.i.+ny paintwork, but rather hit the road behind us and bounced into another parked car. I swung right onto another road and didn't slow as I made my way through the maze of side streets, all the time heading toward the airport.

I eased up only once we turned left onto Mount Alexandria Road. Amanda released a long breath and said, "I'm guessing we lost them?"

I studied the cars behind us. No white Ford, but-given who we were dealing with-that was no guarantee that we were safe. Especially given Jackson's truck had been parked in front of Amanda's place for quite a while.

"Maybe." My voice was grim. "It just depends who was actually following us and whether they placed a tracker on the truck at either your place or at the parking garage."

Her gaze widened. "Do you think that's likely?"

I shrugged. "As I said, it depends who we're dealing with."

She swore. "You might want to keep breaking speed limits."

I snorted. "Not on Mount Alexandria Road, I'm not. The last thing we need is to be pulled over by the cops, and they tend to be a little thick on the ground in these parts."

She swore again and flexed her fingers, making me wonder if she was intending to punch me out and take the truck.

We made it down Mount Alexandria without incident, and I could almost feel the tension slither from Amanda's body as we swung onto the Tullamarine Freeway. Which was stupid, because we weren't exactly home free yet. There was still a ten-minute drive before we got to the airport. Maybe I was being fatalistic, but anything could happen.

As it turned out, I wasn't being fatalistic.

Just as we'd crossed the Mickleham Road overpa.s.s, a big black van came out of nowhere and smashed into the rear side of Jackson's truck, sending us into an uncontrolled spin. I pulled my foot off the accelerator and fought the wheel, trying to drive out of the spin, only to be hit a second time. Amanda screamed, the sound almost lost to the roaring of the engine, the squealing of the tires, and my own cursing.

I saw the tree coming, but there was nothing I could do to stop us from hitting it.

The air bags exploded on impact, and Amanda's scream abruptly died. For several seconds, there was no sound other than an odd ringing in my head. Then I became aware of creaking metal, the hiss of water, the sound of an engine roaring. Of warm liquid pouring down the side of my face.

I looked up, saw the black van stop and two blurry figures get out. Wondered whether they were coming for Amanda or me.

The information, some still-aware part of my brain whispered. They can't get Amanda's information.

Somehow, as the world started going black around me, I dragged the USBs from my pocket and slid them under the seat.

Then everything did go black, and I knew no more.

CHAPTER 11.

Waking was a slow and agonizing process. As I climbed toward full awareness, various bruised and battered bits of my body came to life, and they all seemed overly determined to make consciousness a living h.e.l.l.

I tried to s.h.i.+ft position and ease some of the pain, but quickly discovered I couldn't move. It took several minutes to realize why-my hands and my feet were tied so tightly that red-hot lances of agony were shooting up my limbs. To make matters worse, a herd of people wearing hobnail boots were stomping about inside my head.

Waking, I decided, just wasn't worth it. But try as I might, I couldn't slip back into the peaceful bliss of unconsciousness. I took a deep, somewhat shuddery breath and forced my eyelids open. To be greeted by nothing but black.

But one thing was obvious immediately-wherever the h.e.l.l I was, it was no longer in Jackson's truck. I had no idea how much time had pa.s.sed, but surely I hadn't been unconscious long enough that day had turned into night. And even if it had, night wasn't usually this dark.

Thinking maybe there was something wrong with my vision, I blinked. It didn't help. Everything was still black.

But it was a blackness that was not uninhabited. Out there in the darkness, someone was watching. I couldn't hear him, I couldn't smell him, but I was nevertheless aware of him. The energy of his presence skittered across my senses, powerful and yet oddly repelling.

"I know you're there." The words came out little more than a husky whisper. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Show yourself."

For several minutes, there was no response. Tension crawled through me, and it was tempting-very tempting-to reach for whatever fire remained within and let it loose. But it was never a good move to reveal your trump card too soon-especially when that card wasn't up to scratch. The first thing I was going to do once I got out of this place-if I got out of this place-was reenergize with Rory so I could s.h.i.+ft shape and burn the remnants of the drug from my system. I couldn't afford to be powerless-not when our investigations kept taking such nasty turns.

I flexed my fingers, desperate to get some life into them as much as trying to uncover what I'd been tied with. It didn't feel like rope. It was cool and smooth against my skin rather than rough, and there was odd warmth to it.

Silver, I realized. They'd tied me with silver. Which, under normal circ.u.mstances, wouldn't have been much of a problem, as silver didn't actually restrain or hinder those of us who were spirits.

But the fact that my captors had tied me with silver suggested they suspected I was a nonhuman, even if they didn't exactly know what.

"Look, whatever it is you want, just get on with it." Though I kept my voice low, it nevertheless spurred the hobnailed idiots in my head into greater action. Tears stung my eyes, and I blinked them away furiously. "I really haven't got the time to be playing games."

As I half expected, it was a comment that finally got a response.

"And yet," a cool voice replied, "we have."

It wasn't my watcher who spoke, but someone I hadn't sensed until now. Someone who stood behind me. I didn't bother twisting around to try to spot him. Not only would the hobnailed folk be unappreciative of such an action, but the utter blanket of darkness made any hope of spotting him nigh on impossible. Phoenixes weren't blessed with the extraordinary eyesight of werewolves and vampires.

And that, I thought with a chill, was who held me now.

Vampires. And not just any old vampires, but the sindicati.

f.u.c.k.

"Well, good for you," I said, trying to keep my voice even despite my heart hammering so hard I swear it was attempting to jump out of my chest. "But, as I said, I have things to do. Can we please just move this along?"

"It is odd that you do not question who we are or why you are here." He'd moved to my left, though I'd heard no footsteps.

A tremor ran through me. Only the very old ones could walk so silently. I licked my lips and tried to shove old fears back into their box. That I was still alive meant they had some use for me. Whether they'd let me go after I'd fulfilled those uses was another matter entirely.

"I don't question who you are because I already know that. As to why I am here-" I paused, then shrugged. I might not be able to see them, but I had no doubt that the two men in this room-if they were vamps-could see me as clear as day. Vamps were blessed with night sight very similar to infrared. Even if he couldn't taste my fear or hear the pounding of blood through my veins, he'd be able to see it. "I'm gathering it has something to do with Amanda Wilson."

"Then you would gather wrong."

Meaning I was in even deeper s.h.i.+t than I'd thought.

The voice, however, hadn't quite finished. "And just who do you think we are?"

"Sindicati, obviously."

"Ah," he said, his cool voice still giving little away. But then, if my guess was right and he was a very old vampire, that was no surprise. They had a tendency to become more remote-and far less human-the longer they were alive. "Dear Amanda obviously talked far more than was wise."

"Dear Amanda had little other choice given it was either talk to me or I'd leave her to the tender mercies of whatever goons you decided to send after her next."

The speaker was silent for several minutes. I closed my eyes and tried to get some sense of him. But all I could feel was the man whose presence was beginning to scratch at my skin like some foul disease. He was the real power here, I suddenly realized, not the man who spoke.

"Ah, so you are the reason no one has heard from either of the subcontractors."

"Well, I might be responsible for one being incommunicado, but not the other. He is, as far as I know, still in the hands of PIT."

This news finally got a reaction. It was little more than a hiss of annoyed air, but it was nevertheless there. It made me wonder if the werewolf we'd questioned was more closely connected to the sindicati than just being a mere subcontractor. While wolves and vampires generally weren't overly fond of one another, there were certain elements within each society that happily coexisted. I suspected the sindicati and whatever the werewolf equivalent was would be one of those.