“What makes you believe there’re two people using the Rinaldo alias?” His voice held a less accusatory note now—which was a good thing, because anything else would have tempted me to burn his ass. “What have you seen that we haven’t?”

“The rats let us view the tape showing Rinaldo’s hit on his gaming venue.” I picked up a T-shirt and sniffed it. I was no wolf, and my olfactory senses weren’t all that much sharper than an ordinary human’s, but I could nevertheless smell the scent of sweat and cool mint on the T-shirt—a rather odd combination. “At the same time as he was doing that, he was confronting us at Rosen’s apartment building.”

I swung around, walked into the other bedroom, and picked up the identical T-shirt. The scent on this one was woody—spicy. So while the two men might look and dress exactly the same, it seemed they preferred very different colognes.

“Are you sure one of them wasn’t using some form of mask or a glamor?”

“Positive. And there’re two of everything up here in the bedrooms.”

“At least that explains a few inconsistencies,” Adam said. “Though it doesn’t make finding him any easier.”

“What else did the rats say?” Sam said. “And how did you convince them to even talk to you in the first place?”

“Radcliffe wants Rinaldo far more than he wants me.” I headed out of the bedroom. “And he didn’t say much else, other than that he believes Rinaldo hasn’t yet set up a den.”

“His use of this place would certainly suggest that,” Adam said. “Although he is using interstate vampires who don’t appear to have a record anywhere.”

Sam grunted. “We’ll take over operations from here. Jackson, Em, go home and get some rest.”

Annoyance surged, but it wasn’t mine. Don’t bite back, I warned. This is PIT’s operation, not ours. Besides, I could really use the sleep right now.

And, I’m thinking, fire.

Yes.

Then we head to the blacksmith’s first so we can fuel up, then find a hotel and see if PIT really does have a mole.

Excellent plan. I clattered down the stairs and joined the three men in the combined living room, kitchen, and what appeared to be an office area. It also resembled something a cyclone had left behind.

Sam was picking through the paperwork and files on the desk, but he glanced up as I entered the room. “Thanks for your help—both of you.”

That almost sounded genuine, Jackson said, mental tones wry. Maybe he’s going soft in his old age.

Unlikely. Out loud I added, “You know that formula we found in Brooklyn? The one written in the dust?”

He raised an eyebrow. “The same one that’s currently got us investigating every building in Melbourne with even the slightest connection to vinegar? Yeah, I do.”