Darkness Hunts(10)

A fact that I knew, since I was a face-shifter myself. “He obviously has a reason for doing it, but it’s not like the man we’ve been calling Nadler is working on any logical playing field, anyway.”

“True.” Stane typed the names into his system, then swished them across to a separate light screen. “You want a coffee or Coke while we wait?”

“Coke, thanks.”

Stane glanced at Azriel, eyebrow raised in question. Azriel shook his head and I continued pacing, pausing only long enough to accept a can of Coke with a grunt of thanks. The time continued to tick away and it seemed to be taking forever to get our answer.

Stane reclaimed his seat and watched the screens, his expression intent, as if willing a prompt response. But another five minutes passed before the screen closest to him beeped. He put his coffee down and scooted forward.

“About time,” I grumbled, stopping to peer over his shoulder.

“Believe it or not, that was actually fast.” He ran a finger across the screen to highlight some lines, then enlarged them. “The woman you’re looking for is Dorothy Hendricks, from Craigieburn.”

I frowned. Craigieburn was a suburb on the northern edges of Melbourne, developed before the no-larger-than-a-postage-stamp housing plots of today, and popular with families thanks to its decent enough schools and leafy environs. It wasn’t the sort of place I’d expected last night’s woman to live. Given where I’d found her on the astral plane, I’d been expecting a suburb far grimmer. Grimier.

“What address? And what other information have you got on her?”

“Seventeen Crockett Avenue.” He paused, and quickly scanned the screen. “There doesn’t appear to be anything remarkable about her. Her parents are dead, and she has no siblings. According to her tax records, she works the night shift at the Nestlé factory in Campbellfield.”

That raised my eyebrows. She hadn’t looked like a factory worker, but then, what was a factory worker supposed to look like?

“Anything else?”

“No record of marriage or kids, no fines of any kind, good credit history, owns her home.” He paused. “She’s a vampire.”

I blinked. That was something I hadn’t expected. “When did she turn?”

He glanced at me. “About thirty years ago, according to the records. No history of trouble after her rebirth, and she was released from the care of her maker about twelve years ago.”

According to Uncle Quinn, fledglings could be in the care of their creators for anywhere between ten and fifty years—it just depended on how quickly the newly fledged vampire learned to cope with all the sensations and needs that came with the state of being undead. That Dorothy had been released after eighteen years suggested she’d been a reasonably fast learner. “Does it list her creator on the certificate?”

It had been law for a few decades now that everyone who underwent the ceremony to become a vampire registered their details with the Births, Deaths, and Marriages Bureau. Once they had turned, their creator then had to register their “birth.” There were still vamps who were turned illegally, of course, but the Directorate and the vampire council—both the high council and the local council—took a dim view of this and came down hard on the turnee and the turner.

Stane glanced briefly at the screen. “Bloke by the name of Martin Cresswell. You want me to do a search on him?”

“That would be great.” I dumped the empty Coke can into the bin, then said, “Let me know if you find anything else.”

He nodded, his expression concerned. “Good luck.”

“We’re going to need it.” Especially when there were only eight and a half minutes left. I glanced at Azriel. “Can you take us to Dorothy’s house?”

He didn’t say anything, just wrapped his arms around me again. In an instant, we’d zipped through the gray fields, reappearing on the other side so quickly that my head spun and the bitter taste of bile rose up my throat again.

“You,” he said, his voice severe as he stepped back but didn’t quite release me, “need to eat.”

“Like I’ve got the fucking time right now.”

“I did not mean right now.”

“Good.” I scanned the home in front of us. It was nothing remarkable—just an ordinary brick house in a street filled with similar buildings. I pushed open a picket gate that had seen better days and ran for the front steps. There was a doorbell to the left of the door, so I leaned on it heavily, then rapped impatiently on the door itself. Inside, the chime and knocks echoed, but there was no response. If there was anyone inside, he or she was either deaf or dead.