I closed my eyes and released awareness of everything and everyone else around me, concentrating on nothing more than slowing my breathing. The beat of my heart became more measured, and warmth began to throb at my neck as the charm Ilianna—my best friend and housemate—had made me kicked into action. It was little more than a small piece of petrified wood, to connect me to the earth, and two small stones—agate and serpentine—for protection, but it had saved my life when a spirit had attacked me on the gray fields, and I’d been wearing it ever since. That it was glowing now meant it would protect me on the astral plane as fiercely as it did on the gray fields, and I was suddenly glad of that.
Though why I thought I might need that protection I had no idea.
“Let your mind be the wind,” Adeline intoned. “Let it be without thought or direction, free and easy.”
A sense of peace settled around me. My breathing slowed even further, until I was on the cusp of sleep.
“A rope hangs above your chest. You cannot see it in ther see it e darkness, but it is there. Believe in it. When you are ready, reach for it. Not physically—metaphysically. Feel it in your hands, feel the roughness of the fibers against your skin, feel the strength within it.”
I reached up with imaginary hands and grasped the rope. It felt thick and real, and as strong as steel.
“Ignore physical sensation and use the rope to pull yourself upright. Imagine yourself rising from your body and stepping free of all constraints.”
I gripped harder with my imaginary hands and pulled myself upward along the rope. Dizziness swept over me, seeming to come from the center of my chest. I kept pulling myself upright and the pressure grew, until my whole body felt heavy. I ignored it, as ordered, and every inch of me began to vibrate. Then, with a suddenness that surprised me, I was free and floating in the darkness above my prone form.
Only it wasn’t really dark. Adeline’s aura lit the room with a deep violet, and Azriel’s was an intense gold. Which surprised me—I’d have put money on the fact that his would be the fierce white I saw on the fields. The black tats that decorated his skin—the biggest of which resembled half of a dragon, with a wing that swept around his ribs from underneath his arm and brushed the left side of his neck—shimmered in the darkness and seemed to hold no distinct color.
Only that half dragon wasn’t actually a tat. It was a Dusan—a darker, more abstract brother to the one that had crawled onto my left arm and now resided within my flesh. They were originally created to protect the Aedh priests who had once guarded the gates, but we had no idea who’d sent them to us—although Azriel suspected it was probably my father’s doing. He was one of the few left in this world—or the next—who had the power to make them.
Valdis, the sword at Azriel’s back, dripped the same blue fire on the astral field as she did in the real world, and it made me wonder if my own sword, Amaya, would be visible on this plane, given that she was little more than a deadly shadow normally.
I shoved the thought aside, then closed my eyes and conjured the image of the area where our ghost— Frank Logan—had met his doom.
In an instant, I was standing in front of the gigantic shed that was the Central Pier function center. On the night Logan had been murdered, this place had been filled with life and sound, and the pavement lined with taxis and limos waiting to pick up passengers. Now it was little more than a vague ghost town—figuratively and literally.
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 subp o we wilpoena 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.
