Darkness Hunts (Dark Angels #4)

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.

“I’m not sure I can help you,” Logan said. “He was just a client. I didn’t know much about him on a personal level.”

We’re not interested in his personal life, but rather his business one. I hesitated. What can you tell me about the deal he made with the heirs of James Trilby and Garvin Appleby?

Trilby and Appleby were the two other members of the consortium the fake Nadler had formed to purchase all the land around West Street. Their heirs had decided to sue the consortium—and therefore John Nadler, who had, when they died, become sole owner—for a bigger piece of the land pie. They’d reached an out-of-court settlement the day before Nadler had pulled the plug on his stolen identity.

“I’m not sure how that deal—”

Please, Mr. Logan, just answer the question.

He raked a hand through his hair. The action stirred the ghostly strands, making them whirl into the ether before settling back down.

From somewhere in the distance came a gentle vibration, and the sensation crept around me, making the shadowy world surrounding us tremble. It almost felt like the beginnings of a quake, but was that even possible on the astral fields? Even as the thought ran through my mind, the shadows around me began to quiver, and Adeline’s warning came back to me. I took a deep breath, imagining calmness. The shadowy world close to us stilled, but the distant vibration continued. It was a weird sensation—and it felt like trouble. I forced myself to ignore it and returned my attention to Logan.

“Nadler agreed to pay them several million dollars each,” he said, “in exchange for them signing an agreement to accept the wills as they currently stand.”

And will those payments proceed now that Nadler is dead?

He frowned. “Of course. The heirs just won’t get the payment as quickly, because it’ll be tied up until Nadler’s estate is sorted.”

And who is Nadler’s heir? He has no children and he divorced his wife a long time ago. A fact, I thought bitterly, that hadn’t stopped the fake Nadler from killing her.

“You know, there’s a good percentage of men and women who forget to change their wills even after a second marriage, and it’s not unknown for the first partner to get the estate.” He paused, eyeing me critically. “Have you got a will, young woman? It’s never too late to start. I can offer you excellent—”

Thanks, I interrupted quickly, and rubbed imaginary arms. That vibration was getting stronger, and it was not pleasant. But I’m good will-wise. Now, Nadler’s heirs?

“How am I supposed to remember?” His tone was cross. “I haven’t got the paperwork with me, and he’s not my only client, you know.”

I know. Just think back to the agreement. Imagine you have it in your hand.

He frowned and a second later ghostly paper began to form between his hands. I didn’t move, not wanting to startle him and lose the moment.

Who is his heir, Mr. Logan?

“He’s got three—Mr. Harry Bulter, Mr. Jim O’Reilly, and a Ms. Genevieve Sands.”

A woman? One of Nadler’s heirs was a woman? Are any of them related to Mr. Nadler?

“Not as far as I’m aware.” He glanced up. “I still can’t see why—”

Mr. Nadler was a very wealthy man, I said easily. And it’s not unknown for heirs to kill their benefactor to get hold of their money.

“That, unfortunately, is true.”

How was Nadler’s estate divided among the three?

He glanced at the paperwork again. “All three have equal shares in everything.”

I frowned. This wasn’t making sense. Why would the shape-shifter go to all the trouble of killing Nadler off, then divide the estate he’d murdered to get control of among three people?

When was the will drawn up?

His gaze flicked down to the bottom of the paper. “The same day he signed the deal with Trilby’s and Appleby’s heirs.”

Which suggested an on-the-spot decision, but I very much doubted the man we were chasing ever did anything without forethought. Is there anything else you can tell me about Nadler? Any reason you believe someone might want him dead?

He frowned. “Not really.”

I sighed. Logan hadn’t actually given us anything we couldn’t have found out via a little subversive hacking, so maybe his death had been nothing more than the face-shifter leaving no threads behind, no matter how small.

Thank you very much for your assistance, Mr. Logan—

“You could repay me by finding my limo, you know. It seems to have disappeared.”

Just use your phone and call it, Mr. Logan. He wouldn’t get anywhere with it, but hey, if it made him happy, then what the hell.

He made the right motions, and a somewhat fuzzy white limousine popped into existence. As Logan happily climbed in, I turned away. Time to return—

The thought was cut short by a scream.

A scream that suggested there was a woman on the astral plane in very big trouble.

I froze, not sure I could—or should—do anything. Then the scream echoed again, and it was so filled with fear and pain that goose bumps crawled across my imaginary skin. I glanced around for my watcher. He was standing about six feet away, his expression unconcerned as he looked in the direction from which the scream had come.

Are you going to do anything about that?

He turned to me, obviously surprised. Why would I? I am here to report your actions—nothing more, nothing less. But there is nothing to stop you from stepping in.

I guess not, I muttered, then closed my eyes and imagined myself standing near the screamer.

There was no obvious sense of movement, but I was suddenly somewhere I didn’t know. The building outlines, though still shadowed, were sharper here, but rubbish lay everywhere, rats ran in full view, and there were vast puddles of putrid-looking water.

Not the sort of place I’d ever want to be—on this plane, or in life.

A woman stood ten feet away. She was reed thin, with limp blond hair and an almost gaunt face. Her clothes were little more than gray rags and seemed to be unraveling of their own accord, exposing jigsaw sections of her torso and legs. She wasn’t trying to pull the threads back together, wasn’t trying to do much of anything other than scream.

But maybe she couldn’t do anything else. The man who stood in front of her had his palm pressed against her forehead and was burrowing ethereal fingers into her skull.