Mallory's Hunt

by Jory Strong

  The tracker made it an easy choice.

  He followed the Jeep, going hot and cold when he realized they were close to where Grace and his parents would have been, should have been right now, instead of trapped in a nightmare.

  Hayden parked and went into Starbucks. Sabin sauntered away like he didn't have a care in the world while the app showed Mallory closing in on Korotkin's place, probably checking to see if he'd missed something.

  Caleb's guts cramped. Adrenaline dumped out of his system, leaving him nauseous. They didn't have anything, not yet. They were still looking for clues.

  * * * * *

  Linden's chest swelled as Aubrey and her classmates, along with their dogs, took a fourth bow on the makeshift stage. Like the other parents, and Julia at his side, he had his phone up, recording images he would cherish for years to come.

  The cell buzzed with a text he ignored. Nothing was as important as these moments watching Aubrey.

  His daughter far outshone her classmates. But even if she hadn't, it wouldn't diminish his love and pride.

  A fifth bow and the instructor stepped forward, thanking everyone and officially ending the program. Squeals of laughter were accompanied by excited barks as the show participants jumped from the stage and raced to their families.

  "You were wonderful!" he said, hugging Aubrey tightly, Julia joining him.

  Aubrey bounced on her toes. "Zeus was too!"

  He laughed, disengaging long enough to scratch behind the sheepdog's ears. "He certainly was."

  "I can hardly wait for the next class to start!"

  Around them, he heard other children expressing the same sentiment, other parents telling their child they'd been the best. He smiled, it was their prerogative, though far too quickly the mood of the crowd shifted.

  In this town, the show always went on. But ears sharply attuned to it, fed by the high that lingered from his daring, brilliant acquisition and the heady anticipation of returning to the house and starting a new relationship, caught the hushed mentions of Grace North.

  There was worry in some of the voices, titillation in others, at being even peripherally involved in something now at the forefront of the news. But along with the talk, the speculation, came glances at Aubrey, who looked so much like her missing classmate. And that he couldn't tolerate. He wouldn't have her happiness, her moment of glory tainted in any way.

  "What do you say we celebrate with ice cream at Andretti's?"

  It earned him another hug. Aubrey's face shone, her eyes alight with love as she looked up at him. "Can we eat outside so Zeus can have some?"

  "Absolutely."

  He took her hand, placing his other at the center of Julia's back.

  They were steps away from the exit when a blond blocked their way, eyes like blue ice, his presence creating inexplicable fear.

  "A moment of your time," the man said. "For Vadim."

  Linden's skin chilled. His hand tightened involuntarily on Aubrey's before releasing it. "You go with your mother in her car. I'll meet you at Andretti's."

  Julia hesitated, attuned to him, picking up on his fear of this man the same way she could spot him needing rescue at a party.

  "I'll catch up to you," he said.

  She and Aubrey stepped around the blond.

  "A lovely family," he said, and there was no mistaking the threat in his voice. "Vadim wishes you to join him. You are to go to his house now. You know the way?"

  Linden retrieved his phone, saw that the text he'd missed was from the Russian. He would make his excuses to Korotkin, arranging to meet when it was convenient.

  The call went to voicemail. Before he could leave a message, the blond said, "Vadim is not a man to slight. He wishes to meet with you now. It would be smarter to tell your wife you will be delayed rather than risk his sending men to Andretti's or to your home to persuade you to join him."

  Linden's heart sped. If Korotkin thought he could make threats against Julia and Aubrey he was mistaken.

  Perhaps it was time to learn how to channel the magic in a different way, to use it to kill rather than only capturing it by killing. It would mean making a concerted effort to find a black-magic practitioner.

  His skin crawled at the prospect. He was not so naive as to believe he was the only one in Los Angeles touched by magic. He'd just preferred not to make himself known to them.

  Secrets in this glittering, shallow town were often the currency that got results. He'd believed he had far too much to lose to risk exposing any of his. But going forward he would begin making discreet inquiries.

  Until then, he would deal with the Russian. Nothing had changed.

  Korotkin's lackey was not Korotkin. Quite possibly the Russian wanted to apologize in person for not being able to deliver as promised last night. Maybe Korotkin meant to offer an alternative selection, even compensate by making it a gift.

  Linden wet his lips. If he killed a girl who would most definitely be damaged goods, it would add months to his enjoyment of Grace.

  How much risk could there be when he was free to let others know his destination?

  "Tell Vadim I am on my way."

  * * * * *

  Mallory's phone buzzed with a text message.

  He's all yours.

  "He's coming," she said, not moving from the window.

  She fisted her hand rather than feel the cold phantom weight of the gun she'd be offered for a third time.

  Mikhail joined her, touching his shoulder to hers. "We'll have to take him quickly, Mal, before he can cast a spell."

  No hesitating. No crisis of conscience. No second guessing.

  She slipped an arm around his waist. "I'll do what I have to do."

  "It gets easier."

  That's what I'm afraid of.

  The minutes crawled, until Linden Spiller pulled into the driveway, then they sped.

  He looked ordinary, or Hollywood ordinary, anyway.

  Average build, attractive looks, a confidence that came with money and power and perceived entitlement.

  She positioned herself to the right of the door, so she'd remain out of sight until it had closed.

  Dane stretched out to the left of it, appearing more pet than predator.

  Mikhail opened the door even as the bell rang, grabbing Spiller and jerking him into the house.

  Mallory slammed the door shut. Rammed into Spiller from behind.

  Dane sprang, the three of them taking their prey to the floor as they'd once done together in Hell, the air thick with the smell of sulfur.

  Spiller fought like the merely human.

  Writhed and bucked.

  Panted and gasped.

  The scent of his fear intensified, becoming lush bouquet so howl welled inside her, hot and dry like the Santa Anna winds, a call to violence that threatened to climb out of her throat.

  They got his wrists bound behind his back, rolled him so he lay on his arms, his hands pressed to his spine.

  "Do you have any idea who I am?" he panted.

  "We know," she said, pulling her knife.

  A snick and it opened, shiny and sharp and deadly.

  They had to be right. She thought they were but there were no guarantees.

  If they were wrong, it would come down to a choice between conscience and survival. Spiller had seen their faces.

  She slid the blade beneath the chain he wore, lifted until a medallion slid free of the shirt.

  Mikhail's hand encircled her wrist. "He gets to keep it."

  "Maven Stone thought he was a witch, but he's not one, is he?"

  Beneath them Spiller jolted at hearing a name not in the news, the name of a girl whose parents had sought a different brand of justice, one that wouldn't allow for escape by hiring expensive lawyers or fleeing the country. His heart thundered at recognizing he was in the presence of others who knew about magic, whose lives touched the supernatural.

  Mikhail used the hand on her wrist to slide the blade beneath the medallion, to flip it ove
r so he could read the sigils and symbols on both sides. "He's only human, Mal. A human preying on other humans. He's diseased, not just because he likes molesting little girls. In the end he sacrifices them to keep himself alive."

  She remembered the Reaper Lord's sly smile. The stomp and crush of the mouse, leaving a cockroach to scuttle away. The touch, moments later, of his hand to Mikhail's mother, the transfer of magic that transformed her from gray and wraithlike to a red-lipped Snow White awaiting her lover's kiss. Souls were just another type of sustenance in Hell.

  He'd duplicated what the man he wanted to hunt did, and she understood that even with bone or ash or hair, the girls Spiller had sacrificed couldn't have been summoned and made aware enough to provide answers. He hadn't been able to capture and consume all their soul-magic, but he'd taken enough, what was left was like what remained after meeting the heel of her sire's boot.

  Mikhail released her wrist. She let the witch charm fall to Spiller's chest.

  They had him now. Before they left, she'd have answers, not just for Matthew, but for those who cared about the other girls.

  "Let's start at the beginning. Was the Jane Doe the first person you sacrificed?"

  "You don't know what kind of power you're dealing with. The witch who created the medallion for me will come after you."

  The carrion scent assaulting her said otherwise.

  "Lie," she said and touched the blade to his neck.

  The reflexive jerk of his head opened skin. The rich metallic scent of his blood stirred predatory nature and made her want to exchange cold steel for sharp canines.

  She let her eyes become amber.

  He began trembling.

  Her mouth watered. "Was the Jane Doe your first sacrifice?"

  "Yes."

  "What was her name?"

  "Elizabeth Sayers. That's what she called herself."

  And with no additional threat, he answered her questions as to where he'd dumped the bodies of Caitlyn Lawrence, Bailey Morsey, Maven Stone and Zinaida Gruzinsky.

  The scent of jalapenos eradicated the smell of fear at mention of Iosif's daughter. Remembering the captured fog and howling desolation of the soul in Rahmiel's orb, Mallory asked, "What did Zinaida do to you?"

  The jalapeno scent deepened. "I saved her from years of abuse and she killed herself. She wasted the lives of the others. She reduced me to slaughtering animals."

  Or Rahmiel had.

  Mallory's hand dipped, the urge to slash across Spiller's throat so strong that she only barely stopped herself from doing it.

  "Where's Grace North?"

  Cunning entered his eyes. He smiled. "Kill me and she slowly starves to death."

  She leaned in, touched her hand to his chest and could feel his soul fluttering frantically against her palm, as desperate and terrified as those in the morgue had been.

  "You don't think you'll tell me what I want to know in Hell?"

  His bowels let loose.

  She rocked backward, a futile human move to escape the stink, though the Hound part of her had a far different reaction.

  Dane bristled and growled. His muscles rippled, clamoring for that moment when prey was brought down and savaged.

  "Not so much fun when you're the victim, is it?" she said, blanking her mind to what it must have been like for the girls Spiller had molested and killed.

  Mikhail rolled his shoulders. Bones subtly popped with his desire to shed skin for fur. His magic rose along with his desire to run beneath the moon. It brushed against her like a sleek Hound.

  "Tell him he'll get his chance at freedom, if he can outrun us. Let's get out of here, Mal."

  "Where's Grace North?"

  Where there's life, there's hope, Linden thought.

  It had been his mother's mantra as the disease advanced, as she sought out more and more unorthodox treatments for him, finally dragging him to a hovel in Haiti, a place where the mud stank of goats.

  He believed them. They'd let him go. They'd hunt him.

  But they'd allow him to keep the medallion. While he possessed it, he stood a chance of surviving.

  He could outthink them, outwit them, outrun them. At their core they were beasts, though he kept his eyes off the dog.

  My family is looking for me. They're praying for me. The demon lord will send his hounds for you.

  The girl's voice rang in his head—smug taunt now instead of the fearful threat it had been then.

  When he'd seen the tattoo at her wrist, a goat's head made part of a pentacle, he should have released her, should have learned more about her family as insurance. If he escaped—

  When he escaped, he'd act on the intention to find a way to use magic to kill, or he'd buy the magic that would allow him to defend himself and his family. He wouldn't be caught again.

  Where there's life, there's hope.

  He gave them the address, hesitated over giving them the code to the room, then decided withholding it might delay his own freedom.

  He thought it reasonable to ask, "When will I be set free?"

  "At sunset," the man answered, standing. "Let's leave, Mal. The others should be close by now."

  They hauled him into the garage and put him in a sedan's trunk as if he were garbage to be disposed of, as if he were already a carcass or a corpse. But they were underestimating him.

  He would survive. Not just survive, but come out of this stronger, smarter, more powerful.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 34

  A ping had Caleb's pulse spiking. Mallory was on the move and heading his way, toward Hayden and Sabin four blocks ahead of him.

  Attention flicking from car to cell, he waited until the last possible moment to make a quick turn and pull over to the curb. He couldn't risk getting caught tailing them, couldn't be sure Mikhail didn't have a description of the car after retrieving Bela from the motel room and questioning her.

  The tracker stopped moving, just for a heartbeat, two, three, then kept coming his way. He watched the red dot marking Mallory's approach, eyes finally shifting from cell to rearview mirror.

  They'd switched cars. She was driving the Jeep now instead of the sedan and it looked like she was alone.

  He jerked away from the curb on a surge of adrenaline. Fuck! He couldn't let the others get out of sight.

  His cell chimed with Mallory's tone. A fist plowed through his chest, cracking it open and sucking the breath out of him. "Tell me something."

  "I know where Grace is."

  She gave him an address, a code to get into Grace's prison.

  "It's up to you how you handle it," she said.

  The call dropped without her making any promises that his sister was alive.

  Moment of choice and he made his. He grabbed the burner phone and called Zack. "I have a lead on Grace. I'm going in."

  "Not alone. I'm going with you. This needs to be on record, official, the scene uncompromised and your ass covered, with no reporters showing up to catch you on film."

  "Then you better get moving."

  Let her be alive.

  Please let her be alive.

  It circled through his head as he sped toward the address.

  They'd get through this. Counseling. Love. Whatever it took. They'd get through this, just let her be alive.

  He reached the address a minute before Zack.

  The house was brown adobe with barred windows, not a terrible neighborhood, but not a great one either.

  Zack popped his trunk, pulled out a thirty-five-pound door ram, handing it off as they both pounded to the front door.

  All of Caleb's fear, all his rage went into the first strike.

  The second.

  The door crashed open, and they surged into the house, guns drawn.

  "Jesus," Caleb said, heart banging against his ribs and throbbing in his throat, his chest like a balloon expanding to the point of popping.

  Stacks of cages lined the wall, all of them empty.

  The place reeked of urine-s
oaked newspaper.

  They checked for possible threats.

  Room by room by room.

  Adrenaline surging faster and faster.

  Pulse pounding harder and harder.

  Anxiety mounting with every second spent doing anything but reaching Grace.

  A final, "Clear," and he stood in front of the key pad. He stabbed the numbers, breath locked down tight in his throat, heart pounding fast enough to explode if—

  The lock disengaged.

  He shoved into the room.

  His sister huddled defensively on the bed, a tight donut of misery.

  "Grace," he choked out, a near sob.

  She jerked upright. Scrambled off the bed, eyes shining.

  They met, her body colliding with his, an arm going around him, a deep sob escaping her slight frame.

  Her tears wet his shirt.

  His wet her hair.

  He hugged her. Rocked.

  Thank you, Mallory.

  "You're okay now," he said. "It's going to be okay now."

  He repeated it over and over. Minute after minute, like a needle stuck on an old vinyl record track, needing to hear it, needing to believe it, needing it to be true.

  He hung on to her, wanting the relief and joy to last, wanting to hold the what comes next at bay—Grace's thinking about what had been done to her, reliving it.

  Pinpricks of pain lanced his chest.

  Something squirmed between them.

  Grace struggled and his arms tightened, making her wriggle harder.

  "You're squishing him," she said against his chest, and he heard the sound of a squeaky mew.

  He released her.

  She clutched an orange tabby kitten.

  Something left for her by the man who'd kidnapped her, who ultimately intended to kill her after he'd—

  Caleb's mind shied away, returned to it.

  "We need to call Mom and Dad. We'll have them meet us at the hospital."

  Grace jerked. Paled. Clutched the kitten against her chest with both hands.

  Incendiary rage poured into him. He hoped the hellhounds had the man who'd taken Grace. He didn't care if they killed him.

  "Did you recognize the guy who took you? Did he tell you his name?"

  "I never saw him. When I woke up I was in here and Marmalade was licking my face."