Quinn hesitated, and glanced down at the Razan again. "There's three of them left. They live together in an old warehouse in Dawson Street, Brunswick West, and he's more than a little pissed about running these sorts of errands when he was trained as a soldier. He believes he could take care of any intruders and be a hell of a lot less conspicuous about it than hellhounds."
But hellhounds didn't need to eat or drink or go to the toilet—they were on watch twenty-four/seven, until ordered otherwise.
"Where did he serve?" Although he didn't look that old, Razan were linked to the life force of their masters and could live for centuries. Knowing which war might be handy to track down his real identity, because I very much doubted that the license and cards he carried were actually his.
Quinn hesitated. "He's a Middle East army veteran. Retired about eighty-five years ago."
Not very old in Razan terms at all. "And his name?"
"Mark Jackson. I can't tell you at what point he became Razan, because that memory lies behind the shield."
Damn. I squatted down beside the Razan, rolled him onto his side, and pointed to the barbwire tat. "Have you seen one like this before?"
Quinn shook his head. "But it is not usual for Raziq to mark their Razan with their own unique brand."
"This particular brand has been seen on Razan who we are fairly certain belong to different masters."
He half shrugged. "That is not unusual, either. There were Razan who served the Aedh priests at the gate temples who belonged to all. Maybe this tat signifies a joint venture of some kind."
Which again lent weight to the idea that my father and this dark sorcerer were in cahoots, but I just didn't think that was the case. Not now, at least.
Although it wasn't like I could be sure of anything when it came to my parent.
"What about the pillars?"
Quinn raised his eyebrows. "What about them?"
"Well, can you ferret out any information about them—where they go, how they operate, that sort of stuff?"