Darkness Hunts (Dark Angels 4)

I guess that was true—and certainly the last thing we needed right now was Stane passing out in shock. Once we were inside, the camera above us buzzed into action and began tracking our movements. Not that we could go far—the shimmer of light surrounding the small entrance was warning enough that a containment shield was in action.

“Stane, it’s Risa.” Impatience edged my voice as I stared up at the camera. “I need some help rather urgently.”

“Well, it’s about fucking time.” His voice sounded tinny as it echoed from the small speaker near the camera. The shimmer flared briefly, then died. “I’ve been bored as hell lately.”

“What?” I said, as I ran for the rear stairs. “The black market business isn’t going so well at the moment?”

He appeared at the landing and gave me a wide smile. “It’s going very well. But I’ve grown addicted to the challenges you give me. A little subversive hacking into government databases is good for the soul.”

Despite the urgency of the situation, I laughed and kissed his cheek. Stane rather looked like his building—a slender, unholy mess. With his somewhat long and scruffy brown hair, his wrinkled blue shirt, and loose, ill-fitting shorts, he certainly didn’t look like someone who was in any way dangerous—until you actually gazed into his honey-colored eyes. Stane was smarter and harder than he looked.

“So what is it this time?” he said, stepping to one side and waving us through.

“We have a life to save, and precisely eighteen minutes to do it in.”

“Fuck!” He scraped a hand across his bristly chin, then reclaimed his seat at the computer system that dominated his living area. He shoved a second chair in my direction. “You really are pushing it this time. How can I help?”

“I need you to work up an image of the woman I have to find, and then I need you to find her address.”

He swore again, then stretched out his fingers and cracked his knuckles. “Okay, hit me with the details.”

I gave him everything I could remember, and within a couple of minutes we had an image of the woman I’d seen on the planes. He flicked it across to another screen, and the search began.

And all I could do was wait.

I pushed to my feet and began pacing. Stane watched me for a moment, then said, “Anything else?”

I inhaled deeply, then slowly released it. It didn’t do much to ease the tension growing inside me. “Well, I also have the names of Nadler’s heirs.”

“How the hell did you manage that?”

I grimaced. “I had a conversation with a ghost.”

He eyed me for a moment, then said, “I won’t even ask. What are their names?”

“Harry Bulter, Jim O’Reilly, and Genevieve Sands.”

“A woman?” Stane frowned. “I can understand naming a number of men, because as a face-shifter, he could step into their lives anytime he wished. But a male face-shifter cannot take the form of a female, and vice versa.”

A fact that I knew, since I was a face-shifter myself. “He obviously has a reason for doing it, but it’s not like the man we’ve been calling Nadler is working on any logical playing field, anyway.”

“True.” Stane typed the names into his system, then swished them across to a separate light screen. “You want a coffee or Coke while we wait?”

“Coke, thanks.”

Stane glanced at Azriel, eyebrow raised in question. Azriel shook his head and I continued pacing, pausing only long enough to accept a can of Coke with a grunt of thanks. The time continued to tick away and it seemed to be taking forever to get our answer.

Stane reclaimed his seat and watched the screens, his expression intent, as if willing a prompt response. But another five minutes passed before the screen closest to him beeped. He put his coffee down and scooted forward.

“About time,” I grumbled, stopping to peer over his shoulder.

“Believe it or not, that was actually fast.” He ran a finger across the screen to highlight some lines, then enlarged them. “The woman you’re looking for is Dorothy Hendricks, from Craigieburn.”

I frowned. Craigieburn was a suburb on the northern edges of Melbourne, developed before the no-larger-than-a-postage-stamp housing plots of today, and popular with families thanks to its decent enough schools and leafy environs. It wasn’t the sort of place I’d expected last night’s woman to live. Given where I’d found her on the astral plane, I’d been expecting a suburb far grimmer. Grimier.

“What address? And what other information have you got on her?”

“Seventeen Crockett Avenue.” He paused, and quickly scanned the screen. “There doesn’t appear to be anything remarkable about her. Her parents are dead, and she has no siblings. According to her tax records, she works the night shift at the Nestlé factory in Campbellfield.”