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.
He frowned. “I’m sorry, young woman, but I can’t talk to you about clients—”
Mr. Logan, John Nadler is dead—murdered. I imagined a cop’s badge, then showed it to him. We’d appreciate your helping us willingly, Mr. Logan, but we will subpoena you if required.
His confusion deepened. “When was Nadler murdered? I was talking to him just today.”
Logan’s “today” had actually been several days ago. Which is why we need to speak to you. We believe you could be the last person to have seen him alive.
Or at least, the last person to have seen the face-shifter who’d killed the real Nadler and assumed his identity. The real Nadler had been dead—and frozen—for many, many years, and that was the body the cops now had.
The Nadler Logan had known had used Nadler’s money and influence to purchase nearly all the buildings around West Street in Clifton Hill—a street that just happened to cross one of the most powerful ley-line intersections in Melbourne. It was also an intersection that seemed very tied up in the desperate scramble to find the portal keys. According to Azriel, the intersections could be used to manipulate time, reality, or fate, and it was likely that whoever had stolen the first key from us—or rather, from me—had used the intersection to access the gray fields and permanently open the first portal.
Suggesting that the face-shifter was either a sorcerer himself or worked for someone who was. Only those well versed in magic could use the ley lines.
Of course, why the hell anyone would want to weaken the only thing that stood between us and the hordes of hell, I had no idea. Not even Azriel could answer that one.
But we’d obviously gotten too close to uncovering who the face-shifter was, so he’d stepped out of Nadler’s life and into a new one. Unless Logan could reveal something about the man he’d known as Nadler, our search was right back at square one.