Mr. Logan, I need to speak to you.
He jumped, then swung around so violently that tendrils of smoke swirled away from his body.
"Who the hell are you?" He wasn't using thought, and his words were crisp and clear, echoing around me like the clap of thunder.
I'm Risa Jones. I was standing nearby when you were murdered.
His expression showed a mix of disbelief and confusion. "I'm dead? How can I be dead? I can see you. I can see the buildings around me. I can't be dead. Damn it, where's my limo? I want to go home."
He was never going home. Never moving on. He'd died before his time, and no reaper had been waiting to collect his soul. He was one of the lost ones—doomed to roam the area of death for eternity.
But I suspected nothing I could say would ever convince him of this, and I wasn't about to even try—that could take far more time than I probably had on this plane. Mr. Logan, I need to speak to you about John Nadler.
He frowned. "I'm sorry, young woman, but I can't talk to you about clients—"
Mr. Logan, John Nadler is dead—murdered. I imagined a cop's badge, then showed it to him. We'd appreciate your helping us willingly, Mr. Logan, but we will subpoena you if required.
His confusion deepened. "When was Nadler murdered? I was talking to him just today."
Logan's "today" had actually been several days ago. Which is why we need to speak to you. We believe you could be the last person to have seen him alive.
Or at least, the last person to have seen the face-shifter who'd killed the real Nadler and assumed his identity. The real Nadler had been dead—and frozen—for many, many years, and that was the body the cops now had.
The Nadler Logan had known had used Nadler's money and influence to purchase nearly all the buildings around West Street in Clifton Hill—a street that just happened to cross one of the most powerful ley-line intersections in Melbourne. It was also an intersection that seemed very tied up in the desperate scramble to find the portal keys. According to Azriel, the intersections could be used to manipulate time, reality, or fate, and it was likely that whoever had stolen the first key from us—or rather, from me—had used the intersection to access the gray fields and permanently open the first portal.
Suggesting that the face-shifter was either a sorcerer himself or worked for someone who was. Only those well versed in magic could use the ley lines.
Of course, why the hell anyone would want to weaken the only thing that stood between us and the hordes of hell, I had no idea. Not even Azriel could answer that one.