Dangerous Games

"The more blood used, the greater the risk, and the greater the power gifted," Rhoan commented. "Makes sense."

"It may make sense but that still doesn't mean the people being sliced open aren't some part of the mage's effort to raise demons."

"No, it doesn't, but I doubt it," Jack replied. "I've seen ritual blood magic, and these murders just don't have the same feel."

Meaning we had three kooks ru

"Okay, so they're not co

Jack grimaced. "Not really."

I raised my eyebrows and said, teasingly, "So sexual frustration isn't the only reason for the temper overload earlier?"

He had the grace to look uncomfortable. Which was why I liked him—he acted more like regular folk than a vampire. Mostly, anyway. "Well, I'm sure it had a bit to do with it. And being nagged by my PA is never pleasant."

"And now you appreciate my do-the-work-fast-gotta-get-out-of-here attitude, don't you?"

"Yeah. Though I have to say her scenery is better."

I gri

"Mixing work with pleasure is never a good idea."

"Then she's going to keep doing what she must to keep her voice and her body in your mind."

"Meaning the tops will get more revealing?" Rhoan piped up. "Cool."

I picked up a pen and flicked it at him. "You bat for the other side, remember?"

"Never stopped me from admiring a well-stacked frame."

I looked back at Jack. "So, besides Sal breaking your balls over me putting in an unapproved search request, what else went wrong?"

"Everything." He blew out a breath and grabbed another coffee from the dispenser. "We've had a report of another body. Rhoan, I want you to check it out."

Jack grabbed two files from the top of the coffee dispenser and tossed one of them to Rhoan. "This one has been found up near the Ford factory in Campbellfield."

Rhoan frowned. "Near? The rest of the bodies have been found in abandoned factories, not near fully functioning ones."

"I know, but we have to check it out."

"What about sending cops in?"

"If this is one of ours, I don't want them fouling the area. Peri Knowles will be waiting upstairs and will accompany you. Because this death is apparently very fresh, she might be able to sense some residual magic and give us more a clue as to the people behind these murders."

Peri? I glanced at my brother and he shrugged. Obviously, it was a new name to him, too. Rhoan slapped the folder against his thigh as he rose. "I'll report in as soon as I get there."

He walked out. Jack handed me the second file.

"I want you to go chat with this man."

The man's name was Bob Dunleavy, and a quick flick through the file's paperwork and photos revealed a petty criminal who'd scored numerous jail terms that had never curbed his thieving ways. "He doesn't seem the sharpest knife in the drawer," I commented. "So why am I going to talk to him?"

"Because Dunleavy has, over the years, provided some good information in exchange for lighter sentences. He rang yesterday evening to say he desperately needed some help and that he'd trade some information he'd picked up from his girlfriend. Information about our current case."

"So if he called yesterday, why are you only acting on it now?"

"Because I didn't have any free staff until now. And if that free staff doesn't get her butt off the desk and get it moving, I'll give it a good kick-start."

"You're such a charmer when you're sexually frustrated," I said dryly, then waved the folder in the air. "To go chat to Dunleavy, I need a car."

"You dented the last one."

"Not my fault."

"The owner of the other car is disagreeing with that assessment."

Well, he would. The idiot didn't have insurance, so he'd have to pay for the mess his car was in himself if he couldn't shift the blame to me. "It'll take me at least an hour on public transport to get to Springvale."

"I know, which is why I've asked Salliane to allocate you another car. Just try not to dent it. Or write it off."

I refrained from pointing out that I didn't actually write off the last one, and jumped off the desk. "I'll report back in once I talk to Dunleavy."

"Do that. Alex is working on the young vamp, so we might yet find out what Gautier is really up to."

I frowned. "The baby vamp is dead. How the hell can she work on someone who is dead?"

"He's a vampire. Unless you fry us with sunlight, basic brain functions—including the ability to regenerate—can survive for many hours. Some of the older, stronger ones can even survive having their neck broken. Which means there may be enough consciousness left to read."

A thought that was entirely too creepy. But I didn't exactly break the young vamp's neck, I severed it. I would have thought that to be an entirely different prospect. "I thought breaking a vamp's neck was the second surest way to kill them?"

"It is, except for the very old. If the old ones are in a safe enough position, they will eventually regenerate. The young and very young simply take longer to truly die."

"So someone as old as Qui

"No. Director Hunter could. Qui

The longer I worked with vampires, the more I learned about them. And the more secretive the bastards seemed. "So what other juicy little tidbits are you vamps hiding from the rest of us?"

"Not a whole lot, I assure you."

"Yeah, believing the sincerity behind that statement."

Jack glanced at his watch rather than replying. I took the hint and quickly headed out to collect the car keys from the caramel cow.

Bob Dunleavy lived in a small house—or town house, as the estate agents liked to call them—a couple of house blocks down from the Springvale police station. Maybe the boys in blue wanted to keep an eye on him. Or maybe Dunleavy figured that he'd fly under their radar by living so close. Though if his record was anything to go by, it hadn't worked so far.

Smiling slightly, I rested my arms on the steering wheel and studied the town houses opposite, not only checking tor indications that Dunleavy was home but also looking for hints about the man himself.

If his house was anything to go by, Dunleavy was a slob. Which pretty much explained his lengthy record—a neat thief was often harder to catch than a messy one.

This section of Springvale was an old, established area and the house blocks around here were large enough to have three smaller houses built on them. Most of the old houses in this street had already been torn down to make way for their smaller cousins, and the "for sale" signs dominating the front yards of the remaining two suggested it wouldn't be long before the whole street was shared residential.

Dunleavy's town house was the rear one—the one closest to the back fence and the railway lines behind it. It was clearly visible from the road thanks to the fact it sat front-on to the driveway rather than side-on, like the other two. Dunleavy's neighbors had to hate that fact. While their little places were neat and tidy, his was anything but. Talk about bringing the tone of the neighborhood down.

Two of his front windows had been smashed, the holes covered by soggy-looking cardboard that was held in place by long strips of black tape. Scraggy-looking curtains hung sadly from either side of these windows, and were yellowed with age and slashed in places. The other windows were covered by taped-up newspaper. The front door was a mess of peeling paintwork and holes, and even the brickwork looked worse for wear—almost as if it had the dust of eons coating its surface.