He was in the kitchen when the pain hit. Fire flashed through his brain and sent him stumbling forward. He grabbed the bench, holding on as the kitchen danced around him. Sweat rolled into his eyes, stinging, blurring his vision. For an instant, everything went black.
Then it was gone, as swiftly as it had come. Leaving him with the certainty that Sam was in trouble.
"Assistant Director, you okay?"
He swung around. Michaels stood in the doorway, regarding him with concern.
"No. I think the smell finally got to me." He took a deep breath, fighting the urgency beating through his veins. "The body's upstairs."
"Foul play evident?"
"No. But look for it. I want cell analyses included."
Michaels frowned. "That'll take time."
"Emma Pierce has nothing but time. Get the sweepers into the second bedroom, too. Someone else has been staying here — see if you can pick up DNA traces."
Someone had cared enough to stay here and look after Emma as death approached. Why hadn't they cared enough to report the death and bury her?
Michaels nodded. "You want us to contact you if we find anything?"
"Yes. Send results through as soon as you have them."
"Right." Michaels headed for the stairs.
Gabriel dug out the viaphone. SIU's digital secretary answered almost immediately.
"Christine, we got a location signal on Agent Ryan?"
"Sector Five. One-five-six George Street, Fitzroy."
He raised his eyebrows. Right in the heart of the dance rave area. What the hell was she doing there? "Any reports of trouble in that area?"
"None, sir."
No reports of trouble, no indication that Sam herself was in trouble. So why was he so certain that she was? "Christine, send someone to collect my car. I'm heading out to join Agent Ryan."
"Yes sir."
He put the viaphone away, walked outside and called to his alternate shape. Power surged, burning through his body, snatching away sensation and pain as every nerve ending shuddered, twisted, to find new form. Then sensation died, and an odd sense of emptiness followed. A heartbeat later, he was a hawk soaring skyward, heading towards the city.
* * * *
Smoke tickled Sam's throat, making her cough. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry, empty of saliva. Her throat felt raw, parched, as if she'd been sucking in heat and had scalded it. Even her lungs burned.She groaned and rolled onto her back. Moisture ran past her ear, tickling her scalp. She swatted at it, and her fingers came away damp. It was a sticky dampness, like blood.
Why was she bleeding? Had someone hit her over the head? Maybe the budgie had been armed with a big brown club. The image made her smile, but only for a second. Smoke swirled, thicker than before, catching the air in her throat and sucking it away.
Urgency began to beat through her, but it was distant, muted, as if fighting its way through a veil.
She opened her eyes. The budgies flew above her, their movements frantic, panicked. High-pitched cries of terror itched at her ears, but it wasn't only the birds. One of them was human.
Frowning, she turned her head. Across the room a fire danced, all gold and red. It flung bloody fingers toward the ceiling, and sashayed across the floor towards the desk and the fat man. A fat man whose shoes burned.
"Please," he said, his voice a mix of hysteria and urgency. "Help me."
The flames were beginning to dance toward his trousers. His legs jumped and twitched, as if in time to the silent music of the fire.
"Officer Ryan! You must get up! You must help me!"