recording their presence? It wouldn’t have been that hard for someone who knew what they were doing—Stane could have managed it with his eyes shut.
“Meaning the two of them somehow hooked up when Zane arrived in Australia?”
“More than likely.” He glanced sideways, said something to whoever was in the car with him, then added, “We’re on our way to Bright’s last known address now.”
“What about Zane?”
“The address listed in the system was for an apartment that was torn down years ago. But his bank records show activity in the same vicinity as Bright’s house, so we’re hoping they share a residence and we can nab them both.”
It wouldn’t be that easy. No way, nohow. Our faceless killer might now have both a name and a face, but he seemed way too smart to leave such an obvious trail.
“You’ll call me after you raid the place?”
“Yes. But I’m sending through pics of both men, just in case this is little more than a diversion and they’re actually coming after you.”
A shiver ran through me. He was coming after me. I knew that for a fact, but at least knowing what he looked like would give me a small advantage.
Not that it would matter if he came in astral form.
“Be careful, won’t you? I’d hate to see—”
“Risa, I’ve been doing this for more years than you’ve been alive.” Amusement and warmth filled his voice. “Even if Taylor and Bright were aware of the cameras and have done a runner, they won’t have had time to clear away all the evidence. We’ll find them.”
I wasn’t worried about Rhoan and the Directorate finding them. I was worried about our killers finding him. After all, he was the one who’d pointed out how little respect Taylor seemed to have for the Directorate—and maybe that was because he was always one step ahead of them.
I had a horrible suspicion he was still one step ahead of all of us.
“I know,” I said. “Just . . . good luck.”
“Stop worrying about me, dear Risa, and just make sure you keep alert until we catch this bastard.”
“I will.”
“I’ll be in touch when we have him.”
He hung up, but the phone beeped immediately as two messages came in. I opened them to discover the faces of both my hunter and his assistant.
As Rhoan had noted, Zane was one hell of an ugly man. His face was round and puffy, the left side so scarred that it almost looked like it had melted. His hair was sparse and the same nondescript brown as his eyes, and his nose large.
Jason Bright, his companion in crime, had thin features, thick-framed black glasses, and dirty blond hair. He was the sort of man you wouldn’t look twice at on the street. The sort of man who looked totally and absolutely harmless.
And yet it was no doubt thanks to him that Zane had discovered my home address. If he could hack into the systems of high-profile companies, it would have been easy enough to gain access to the security company that monitored Vonda’s and Dani’s homes.
And maybe he was the reason the Directorate hadn’t been having much luck tracking Zane. If he was so damn good, then it wouldn’t have been too hard to get into the Directorate system and see what they were up to. After all, Stane could do exactly that—though he hadn’t recently because the Directorate had increased security and he preferred to stay out of jail.
I took one more look at the killer who was hunting me, then dumped the phone on the nearby pillow and closed my eyes. Weariness still rode me, but it was nowhere near as deep as it had been. I half wondered if Azriel had given me a little energy boost while I’d slept.
“No,” he said softly. “It would not have been wise.”
To touch you. The unspoken part of that sentence swam through my thoughts. Frustration rose like a wave and threatened to swamp me yet again.
Get it under control, I reminded myself fiercely. Accept the reality and just move on.
But saying that, and actually doing it, were two entirely different things.
“What time is it?” I asked eventually. I could have opened my eyes and looked at the nearby clock—hell, I could have picked up my phone and looked—but right now either required too much effort.
“Four o’clock.”
“A.m. or p.m.?”
“P.m.”
That did wake me. “So I’ve slept for over twelve hours?”
“You needed it. You were running far too close to the edge of exhaustion, Risa.”
“Hard to do anything else considering what keeps getting thrown at me,” I muttered. I flipped the covers away from my face and sat up.
Azriel’s gaze swept me briefly, then moved away. But not before I’d caught the flash of desire in his eyes.
“Tao has gone to the restaurant to deal with the council inspectors.” His voice was back to its formal self. “Stane has coffee percolating, Coke in the fridge, and bacon and eggs on standby.”
“I need all three. But I need a shower first.”
I forced myself out of bed, raided Stane’s closet for an old T-shirt to wear between here and the bathroom, then grabbed my toiletries and clothes and headed out.
Stane swiveled around in his chair and gave me an appreciative once-over. “That T-shirt looks a lot better on you than it does on me.”
I smiled. “How did the game go last night?”
“We thoroughly thrashed the opposition, and moved up several levels in the process. What would you like to eat?”
“Azriel mentioned bacon and eggs.”
“Done,” he said, and practically bounced toward his kitchen.
I quickly showered and dressed. Though Azriel wasn’t present in body, he was still nearby, still keeping watch. The heat of him washed across my skin like a summer breeze, warm and sultry.
I once again forced myself to thrust away the growing slithers of desire, and followed the delicious aroma of fried bacon back out into the kitchen portion of his open living area.
Stane slid both a Coke and a mug of steaming coffee over to me, then flipped the eggs. “I did that search for Henry Mack, Jason Marks, and Mark Jackson.”
It took me a moment to remember that Mack, Marks, and Jackson were the aliases of the Razan we’d knocked out in the cavern where the hellhounds had attacked us.
I propped on the nearby stool. “And?”
“As you might have already guessed, neither the Mack nor Marks identity actually exists. The Jackson one does, although if it is the same man, he’s over a hundred years old.” He served up the bacon and eggs, then picked up his coffee and leaned his elbows on the kitchen counter.
“If he’s listed as a Middle East war veteran,” I said, alternating between speaking, eating, {ingfaceand drinking, “then it’s the same man.”
“Interesting, given that the photos of his recent incarnations suggest he’s not more than forty.”
“He’s had a little magical help.”
Stane snorted. “Then they should package that and make a fortune.”
“Trust me, it’s the sort of magical help you wouldn’t want. It amounts to slavery.”
“Oh, well, that they can keep.” He grimaced and drank some more coffee. “The address listed for both the Mack and Marks identities is Railway Crescent, Broadmeadows, but I couldn’t find them listed as tenants in the apartments there.”
“Probably because he actually lives in Dawson Street, Brunswick West.” If what Uncle Quinn had pulled from his mind was to be believed, anyway. “Any chance of you checking to see if there’s a traffic camera nearby, and monitoring it?”
