Darkness Hunts (Dark Angels 4)

Then he opened his eyes again. “Your father had his Razan deliver the note and, this time, he did not accompany him.”

“You’ve picked the Razan’s image from Larson’s brain?”

“Yes. And the good news is, Larson picked the Razan’s pocket.” He reached inside the rat-shifter’s jacket, slid a wallet from the pocket, and handed it to me.

I flipped it open and pulled out his driver’s license. The Razan pictured was average-looking with blond hair, blue eyes, and a scar running down the left side of his face. Even in the picture, he didn’t look like the sort of man you’d want to double-cross. “According to this, the Razan’s name is Pierre Danton, and he lives in Southbank.”

Which meant he had some money, because that area was expensive, thanks to its close proximity to the city.

“I do not believe the identity will be real,” Azriel commented. “And he has no doubt realized by now that this rat has been through his pockets. He may not be there if we check it.”

“I doubt a rat picking his pocket will overly worry him, other than the inconvenience of having to replace all his cards.” I waved the license lightly. “How come the Raziq’s Razan live in sewers, and my father’s live in plush apartments? And who the hell does the Razan working for the dark sorcerer belong to, given that they all bear the same sort of ownership tat?”

“I cannot explain why one group lives in luxury and the other not, especially as your father is not known for his generosity when it comes to Razan. As to the other question—” He hesitated. “There are many possibilities.”

I raised a querying eyebrow when he didn’t go on. “Such as?”

“It is always possible that either the Raziq or your father works with the sorcerer.”

I frowned. “Both were pretty damn pissed that he got the key rather than them.”

Azriel nodded. His fingers were still resting on the rat-shifter’s forehead, keeping him still and compliant. “But working with the sorcerer does not mean they ever intended him to get his hands on the keys.”

Then the sorcerer had outsmarted them all, and that made him doubly dangerous. “You didn’t mention the third possibility.”

This time he raised an eyebrow. “I was not aware there was one.”

“Lucian.”

“I had not forgotten. I merely discounted him on the basis that the Raziq tore away his power. Thus mutilated, he would not be capable of creating Razan.”

Meaning he hadn’t lied to me about everything. I guess that was something to be thankful for. “So you’re certain he hasn’t got full Aedh powers?”

“I’m certain, yes.” He hesitated. “But that does not preclude the possibility that remnants survive. It is far easier to kill an Aedh than to strip them completely of their powers.”

So maybe I hadn’t been imagining his fingers going through my flesh, after all. I shivered, and wondered what the hell else we didn’t know. A lot, I was beginning to suspect.

I shoved the license back into the wallet, then handed it to Azriel.

“You do not wish Stane to check his identity?” Azriel asked, surprised.

“Yes, but I can remember the name. It’s better if our rat-faced friend doesn’t suspect we went through his pockets.” I slid a fingernail under the seal and opened the envelope. The note inside was brief and to the point—Go to the station. It didn’t say when, so I presumed it meant immediately. I sighed. “You’d better release him.”

He did so, and the rat-shifter blinked. “What about a tip?”

Don’t pick the pockets of scar-faced men who work for would-be dictators. I reached into my pocket, dragged out a two-dollar coin, and flipped it to him.

He sneered. “Oh come on, a chick as classy as you has to have more than that on her. I went without coffee to deliver that note.”

“Take it or leave it,” I said, a touch irritably. I mean, a fucking courier telling me off for being stingy? He was lucky to even get a damn tip considering this wasn’t America and tipping certainly wasn’t the norm. “You were paid well enough to deliver the note, and we both know it.”

“Bitch,” he muttered.

And got a clip over the ear from Azriel for his trouble. “That is not polite language to use in the company of a lady.”

It was a comment that earned another sneer, but Larson wisely refrained from saying anything else and walked away.

“Since when have I been a lady?” I asked, amused.