Unbound

by Лори Девоти

  Kara stared after him, her eyes wide. Bull-headed little witches have a habit of disappearing. Was he threatening her? Had he taken Kelly? Swallowing the bile that had collected in the back of her throat, she pushed away from the bar and forced herself to follow him.

  The air in front of the door was still — unnaturally still. Stuffy without being hot, like an old attic no one had stepped into for a hundred years. Her mouth dry, she sniffed, halfway expecting the smell of mothballs and dust to greet her.

  Nothing, not even the stench of cigarettes and old beer that drenched the rest of the room.

  The doorway looked normal enough. No obvious signs of danger, death or mayhem, but something didn’t feel right. Her heart sped and her hands shook. There was something just wrong here.

  Wrong. Like Kelly being missing. That was wrong. Giving herself a mental shake, she held out her hand toward the open doorway. Nothing happened.

  She laughed. God, she was being so silly. It was just a door — probably led to the restrooms. Running her hand over her forehead, she stepped through the doorway and right back into the room she had left.

  What the hell. She looked around. The door was now behind her. How did that happen? Mumbling to herself, she turned around and rapped her fist on the door frame. The solid sound of her knuckles knocking against wood assured her she wasn’t completely losing it. Or was she?

  She stepped back to analyze the doorway again. Hairs on the back of her neck stood up, accompanied by the crawling feeling of someone watching her. As casually as she could, she cast a glance over her shoulder. Studying her from behind a half-smoked cigarette was the creepy little man in the stained hoodie.

  Kara resisted the embarrassed laugh that tickled the back of her throat.

  So some vagrant, probably lit up on heavens knew what, saw her talking to herself, walking through a door that led nowhere. No reason to be embarrassed. Probably an hourly occurrence for him. Still, she was feeling a little uncomfortable in the Guardian’s Keep right now. Not that it was ever welcoming.

  And she had learned some things. The bartender definitely knew something about witches and their disappearances. Then there was his odd comment about a hellhound. That certainly warranted at least an Internet search — and chatting with Risk.

  And she didn’t think the bartender was coming back anytime soon. She peered past the doorway into the darkness. No sign of anything — just a murky blackness. She should check again, though, right? She should. She really should.

  Balling up her fists and screwing up what courage she had, she took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway again. This time she landed on the front step of the bar.

  Damn. She glanced up, her heart pounding loudly in her chest. The blue-gray sign of the Guardian’s Keep swung above her head suspended by two chains. The creak of the metal links against each other and the damp feel of air laden with unshed snow assured her she was truly back outside.

  She spun, her hand on the cold metal doorknob before her rational mind caught up with her. That doorway beside the bar was taking her nowhere. Or worse, it might take her anywhere.

  A sudden gust hit the sign above; the chain let off a squealing complaint. Kara jumped, falling forward and knocking against the closed front door. She leaned there for a second, her breath escaping in quick huffs.

  That door could take her anywhere. The thought seeped into her brain. She pressed her forehead against the cold wood. Believing these things wasn’t easy. But she had to — if she blithely walked through that doorway again, she might land anywhere — northern Siberia, Mars, hell…She rapped her head against the door softly. Point was, it could most certainly be someplace she couldn’t easily escape.

  Right now, her Honda was parked a short walk away, waiting to be coaxed into life. A lot smarter choice than tempting whatever had control of that doorway. Even knowing the logic of leaving, she hesitated. Leaving felt like failure. She was fed up with failure.

  She curled her fingers into her palm and shook her head. Time to pack it in and go find Risk. Standing out here would get her nowhere. There was no shame in getting help to sort it all out.

  Her arms wrapped around her for warmth, she gazed across the parking lot where she’d encountered the dogs before. The sun blared down on her providing little heat, but plenty of cheerful light.

  No sign of any dogs today, she assured herself. Just a few empty feet of asphalt and snow, then she’d get in her Honda, say a few mantras and cajole the machine into taking her home.

  Nothing bad could happen in the face of such glorious sunshine. After one last glance around, she trekked toward her car.

  Risk fell to the ground with a grunt, Venge’s arms wrapped around his waist. Lusse, still on the dais above them, waved the bloody bandage like a hanky.

  The bitch.

  Risk muttered an oath and shoved his hands onto Venge’s shoulders, trying to push him away. The boy wouldn’t budge.

  His heels dug into the mud, Risk fought for leverage. Venge held tight. Without changing, Risk doubted he could break his son’s hold. And he wouldn’t change — too much was riding on him now. Kara, her sister, and his son, whether Venge realized it or not.

  Muscles straining to keep Venge from shifting his grip from Risk’s waist to his neck, Risk addressed his son. “This is what she wants. You. Me. All of us fighting. It only strengthens her control. She feeds off it. Steals our energy to use against us later.”

  Venge wedged his legs back underneath himself and burrowed his head into Risk’s rib cage, pushed them forward through the mud. The oily, bloody gunk caked into Risk’s hair, and chunked over his shoulders onto his stomach. But Venge’s change in posture also gave Risk a new opening.

  Forcing the back of his head deeper into the gunk, Risk curled his feet toward his body, catching Venge in the gut and sending his son flying over his head to land with a splat in the mud.

  Shaking the goo from his body, Risk stood up. Venge lay on his back for only seconds before flipping himself upright — into a crouch. Rage poured out of him.

  Risk’s own anger peaked in response. Clenching his fists, he tamped down the emotion and looked around for the other males. All five stood behind the power grid that separated spectators from participants. For the first time, Risk noticed the viewing area was full. All of Lusse’s hounds had turned out for today’s little event.

  Satisfied that at least the fight was solely between him and his son — at least until Lusse decided to interfere — Risk lowered into a fight stance.

  “You are playing into her hands. You’re smarter than that — or should be.” He flicked his hand, sending a black glob soaring into the crisp blue sky.

  Venge snorted, and took a step closer.

  Risk matched his move, his feet slogging sideways through the mud. His foot hit something solid. Without letting his gaze drop from Venge, he ran his bare foot over the object, round and hard. Sigurd’s staff.

  “Why so angry?” he asked, moving again until he was centered over the stick.

  Venge lowered his eyebrows, his hands curling closed in front of him.

  A sharp breeze cut through the ring, shooting the evidence of Venge’s emotions straight at Risk. Anger, determination and the first whiffs of power.

  Risk was losing him. Venge was on the verge of changing.

  There was only one way to stop him. Defeat him first.

  Mumbling words of regret that his son wouldn’t appreciate, Risk dropped to the ground, yanked the staff through the inches of mud that covered it, and bits of muck flying like a swarm of locusts, pole-vaulted across the fifteen feet that separated them. With a roar he landed an arm’s reach from his son.

  Venge stared back at him, his eyes turning crimson. Before Venge’s change could go further or Risk’s own hellhound nature could manifest, he raised the pole and cracked it across his son’s face.

  Venge crumpled to his knees, his face frozen in disbelief. Blood streamed from where Risk’s staff had struck, m
aking a trail down Venge’s forehead into his eyes. Eyes that glimmered red for one second. Then noiselessly, Venge dropped into the mud unconscious.

  With a growl, Risk flung the staff across the rink and into the grid. The pole exploded, sending chunks of wood and mud splattering around the arena. The hounds behind the grid stood silent, all eyes filled with assessment.

  Had Risk helped Venge or just endangered him more? The other males knew Risk’s trick. Knew he could have killed Venge outright or simply allowed him to change — a death sentence by forandre rules. Would they now see Venge as an easy mark? Realize his tie to Risk?

  Risk strode to his son’s unconscious body. Time to add to the act. Confuse them if nothing else. Arms raised to signal his victory, he lifted his bare foot and used it to smash his son’s face firmly into the mud.

  10

  With a roar, Risk stepped around his son’s prone body and stared up at Lusse. She leaned over the railing, the bandage in her hand waving in the breeze. Her eyes sparkling, she dropped the bloodied cloth. A flick of her hand diverted the wind, directing the strip to Risk’s feet.

  Nodding in acknowledgment, he bent to retrieve her favor then strode to the ramp that led out of the pit.

  “I don’t remember giving you permission to leave me.” She slapped his arm lightly with the riding crop.

  “But the fight met with your approval?” He held out the bandage she had tossed him.

  “Very entertaining, and very enlightening.” The expression in her eyes turned calculating.

  “Then I should consider my efforts rewarded.” He turned to look out over the arena.

  Enlightening. Had his performance at the end of the match failed?

  “So, Sigurd is still in charge of those in need of exercising?” He bit back a laugh at the term. Exercising. More like exorcism, but in reverse. Lusse’s goal was always to bring more demon into a hound, not relieve them of what they had.

  “You would know, if you spent more time behaving like the alpha, rather than playing with the humans. Of course, I could change that couldn’t I? Cut off your contact with humans altogether?”

  Risk tensed, then forced his muscles to relax. “But who would bring you your witches?”

  She tapped her chin with the crop. “Sigurd? Venge — when he’s done a bit more exercising?” She stepped forward until her body pressed against Risk’s back, the leather tail of the riding crop tickling his ear. “I smell her on you, you know. I may not have the nose of a hound — but you reek of witch and sex.”

  Risk stared blandly down at the ring. Sigurd strode out into the mud then signaled two other males to remove the still-unconscious Venge.

  “I only did as you asked — used my talents to gain her trust.”

  “Is that what you did?” Lusse murmured.

  Sigurd left the ring and began striding up the ramp; the two males dragging Venge followed close behind.

  “Of course. What else? And it worked. I learned of the other witch.”

  “The dead one — the focal tool.” Lusse pulled back. “I might know where to find our witch thief, or least who can lead us to her.” She turned, pressing her back against the railing beside him. “Have you met any garm, in this little human world of yours?”

  Risk frowned. Garm, a wolf forandre, were not friends of the hounds. Not that hellhound’s had any friends. But as hunters they were the natural enemies of garm whose only passion was to protect and guard — no matter who or what they had to destroy in the process.

  “I don’t search out garm too frequently.”

  “To find my witch, you may have to. Garm guard the portals. I suspect our thief has tucked herself away somewhere I and others can’t sense her attempts at improving her powers. Which means it has to be one of the protected worlds — one that can only be reached through a portal.

  “Find a garm, and you will find the portals,” she concluded.

  “Any garm?” Risk asked.

  Lusse sighed. “There’s a pecking order of some sort — not all garm have the strength to keep the portals controlled, but find one and he will surely know where to find a garm that does.”

  The strong scent of testosterone warned Risk that Sigurd and the other males had arrived. Widening his stance, he fixed a disinterested expression on his face.

  “Your whelp,” Sigurd announced as the two males rolled Venge across the stone dais.

  Thinking his old nemesis had learned Risk’s connection to the boy, Risk’s gaze shot to Sigurd, but his eyes were squarely on Lusse.

  “Yes, my whelp.” Lusse tilted her head toward Risk.

  Venge shifted, his head raising for a second, then plunking back onto the rock.

  “Did you have to shame him so thoroughly, my alpha?” She looped her arm through Risk’s. “It will make keeping him alive in the kennels all the harder, I’m afraid.”

  As was Risk.

  Venge stiffened.

  Risk stared at his son’s beaten form, before switching his gaze to Lusse. “Perhaps he should be caged.”

  “Caged?” Lusse’s eyebrows shot upward. “You surprise me. I thought perhaps you had some affection for the whelp.”

  “Only thinking to save your investment. As you have pointed out, he comes from good bloodlines. It would be a shame to lose him before he had a chance to show his merit.”

  “But the cages? That’s so cold.”

  And safe. It was the one place Risk knew the other males wouldn’t be able to get to his son.

  Placing her hands on her hips, Lusse surveyed the group. “I think I just might. And after our conversation, I realize you deserve a reward of some sort.”

  Risk’s throat tightened. He could not even guess what Lusse might consider a reward.

  “You’re on the trail of finding my witch — and who knows when you find the garm what other treasures you may uncover.

  “I’m going to offer you a little prize. You bring me back the two witches you’ve promised me and I’ll give you four—” she motioned to the males on the dais with them “—of my hounds in return.”

  The lines around Sigurd’s mouth deepened. His companions stood completely still, only their eyes darting from Lusse to Risk giving away their shock.

  Risk could do little more than mirror them, surprise holding him captive.

  She laughed. “A hound owning other hounds. I don’t think it’s ever been done.”

  A shuffling sounded from where Venge lay. He looked up, his gaze locked on Risk and his eyes glowing red. Sigurd stepped forward, his staff poised above Venge’s head.

  “He’s coming around,” he stated.

  Lusse tilted her head at Risk. “The cage?”

  Risk gave her a short nod.

  “To the cage,” she announced gaily, then with a laugh, she slipped her arm back through Risk’s. “Shall we ride?”

  Risk followed her back through the kennel, ignoring the bellowing rage of his son behind him.

  Why had she parked so far away the other night? The trip from the Guardian’s Keep to Kara’s car stretched out in front of her. Even in the bright daylight she was beginning to get that itchy feeling. As if someone was watching her, or sneaking up behind her.

  She wouldn’t give in to the fear. She would just stop, stand solid and prove to herself nothing was behind her. Lowering her chin, she spun, her hands ready to shoot out whatever power she could muster.

  Nothing but an empty parking lot covered in newly fallen snow greeted her.

  See; nothing. She turned back toward the street.

  The dull whoosh of feet brushing over damp pavement froze her in midstride. Almost immediately an arm smacked against her windpipe, momentarily cutting off her air, and something sharp pricked her neck.

  “Don’t move, witch,” a gravely voice mumbled. “I got me a stunner.” Blue lightning flashed in the corner of Kara’s eye.

  “I don’t want to use it, you understand. I hear tell it hurts right bad, worse than the knife.” He gouged her again. Kara p
ulled back, but her body was wedged against his. Her movement brought her face closer to his. The stench of stale beer, cigarettes and motor oil assaulted her. She twisted her head again, causing the knife to tear a thin trail across her skin. Her knees bent and her eyes flickered closed against the pain.

  She was such a fool. Why had she thought she could handle this?

  “Careful, bitch.” He chuckled. “I got that right this time. According to the Guardian you been bedding down with the dogs. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, mind you.” He laughed again, a high-pitched almost hysterical sound.

  Dog, hounds. What was with this talk of her and a hound?

  She angled her neck in an attempt to put space between her and the blade. “I think you have the wrong person. I don’t like dogs.”

  “Don’t like dogs. Well, that makes two of us.” He pulled her backward, her heels making parallel trails through the snow.

  What did he want? The knife. The bar. It was all too similar to the scene that had flitted through her head when she’d touched the witch in the morgue. Was this what had happened to Kelly?

  He reached one of the cement barriers that marked the parking places, and stopped, apparently deciding his best route from here.

  “We got about twenty feet between us and the Keep. You think you can be a good little witch and cooperate? ’Cause if not, I’m gonna have to…” Blue flame sizzled next to Kara’s face. “Hurts like the dickens, and it freezes all your powers. That’s the downside for me. Hard to get top dollar when you can’t perform.”

  A snowflake drifted from the blue sky and landed on Kara’s nose. She loved snow — or used to. Now she wondered, would she hate it as much as she hated dogs?

  “So, whatcha say? We got a deal? I get my fix and you get a pain-free trip through the portal.”

  Another bigger flake plopped onto Kara’s eyelash, then fell, a tiny shock of water into her eye.

  Funny. She wasn’t much in a deal-making mood. His arms held her around the biceps, but her hands were still free and with her elbows bent she should be able to use them to shoot whatever power she had over her shoulder and into his face.