In some ways it was a blessing the danger was here, in the supernatural ghetto called Spookytown. Its people knew how to fight. Some of the foes Lore had faced could pick off humans as if they were cheese puffs on an hors d’oeuvres tray.
Not that he knew a thing about fancy food, but the image fit.
Close, very close. He could nearly reach up and touch the edge of evil.
But between one pulse and the next, the night changed. The presence had been a veil, a mist. Now dread filled the air like a liquid, filling his lungs and mouth, pressing against his skin as if to force fear into his very pores. Lore skidded to a stop, his feet sliding on the slick ground. His puffing breath smoked the air, his heart hammering in an instant of mindless terror.
The street went dead quiet.
A hellhound’s deep bell sounded in the distance, howling a warning that something awful had brushed past. The dread was so palpable now, the rest of the pack had felt it. The cry was picked up by another baying awooooo, and another. Somewhere, a wolf joined. Then the common dogs, barking in backyards and alleys.
In every house and apartment window, lights flicked on.
Danger! Danger! Lore snapped back to himself, shoving the fear aside. Then a distant alarm began to whoop, coming from somewhere deep in Spookytown. Fire? Burglar? Had whatever it was gathered its strength and struck?
He couldn’t wait any longer. Their town was in danger. Tonight, he was the sheriff, in charge of keeping it safe. It was time to gather the pack.
Come! With his mind and will, Lore sent the call to his people.
The response was instant. The hounds poured from alleys and empty lots, running in twos and threes. They flickered just on the edge of sight, rarely seen but for the instant of the kill—but Lore knew them all. They were his creatures of nightmare, with eyes like the inside of a red-hot coal. Bulky and deep-chested, they stood nearly as tall as man, the long snout and upright ears like the Egyptian carvings of Anubis. Each fang was as long as Lore’s hand, each claw a killing scythe.
The few other pedestrians out on the streets vanished as if by sorcery.
Still in man-form, Lore ran at the head of the pack, his half-demon nature giving him speed. Following the sound of the alarm, they raced almost to the harbor, the cold, damp wind telling tales of kelp and the merciless deep. The rain needling through the glow of the streetlights was turning to sleet. Before long, it would be snow.
Ahead and to the left was the quay. Here and there, sailboats decked with Christmas lights shimmered above the black sea, reflections glittering like scattered jewels. Lore didn’t stop, but turned right into one of the alleys that cut deep into Spookytown.
Abruptly, the alarm shut off. Now there were sirens: fire, police, and ambulance sending up an eerie wail. Lore cursed under his breath, noticing an odd glow overhead. When Lore left the alley and stepped onto lower Fort Street, his eyes confirmed what his nose had been telling him for blocks.
Fire. Scrolls of smoke—a black paler than the night—billowed against the sky in roiling curls. Scraps of brilliant orange and yellow waved in the cold black night, snapping like flags in a stiff breeze.
Lore swore again, the houndish language giving the words extra edge. The building on fire was the South Fairview Medical Clinic, the one place in town the supernaturals could find a doctor willing to help them.
As loss hammered into him, the sense of evil retreated a step. It was as if whatever vile intelligence was behind it had relaxed to admire its work. In that instant, it became an individual. It wasn’t just a something but a someone.
Who are you? Lore demanded of the dark presence, but there was only silence. Did he detect smugness, or was he just imagining it? Anger ached in his jaw. Why did you do this? What do you want?
Lore scanned the scene. By sheer luck, the parking lot that wrapped around the clinic was empty. No cars, no garbage, nothing to burn between it and the buildings on either side. The fire hadn’t spread yet.
It was a miracle. The building seemed to sag into itself, the walls folding inward amidst veils of white and orange. Lore could feel the blaze from where he stood. He’d seen fires before, but this was hotter than he remembered. Even the roar of it seemed wrong, not a crackle but the whisper of a thousand tongues.
He shuddered, fighting the urge to strike out in rage. He had to think, let human reason do the work. He needed a proper target before he let the killer inside slip his leash.
Down, boy. Lore took a long, shuddering breath. Police and fire crews were already there, ladder trucks clogging the street. The firefighters were hanging back, pointing and arguing. They sensed something was different about the fire, too.
Evacuees of the nearby apartments milled at the perimeter tape, joined by the patrons of several neighborhood bars. Fort Street was a noisy, crowded scene, but beneath the chaos the taint of evil simmered like a bad memory.
The pack had gathered behind Lore. He glanced over his shoulder, feeling their presence like a weight on his back. Their shaggy, black outlines seemed to merge, creating one massive beast with two dozen pairs of glowing yellow eyes. They were waiting for their Alpha to give orders.
Nothing worked in a vacuum, especially not magic. Sorcery left stink and mess. Lore turned to the pack and raised his voice. “Mix with the neighbors. Ask what they saw, smelled, heard, anything. Find out everything you can.”
Although it was too dark to pick out details, Lore had the impression of pricking ears, the wag of tails. Then the many-eyed shadow dissolved into a mist. Moments later, the dogs were replaced by a group of young men and women, dark-haired and big-boned like Lore. Unlike werebeasts, half demons didn’t have to get naked to change form. They rematerialized dressed like humans, but in ripped jeans and motorcycle boots, leather bracelets and knives that glinted like teeth.
The shaggy, wild aura around the hounds didn’t vanish with their fur. It lurked in the strength of their hands and the fluid glide of their walk. Silently, they melted into the crowd.
He turned and began pacing the perimeter of the fire scene, silently wishing his pack good hunting. Residue from the evil presence hung in the air, drifting around them with the ash. To someone with his gifts, it had a smell and taste. Bitter as poison.
And then a shadow flickered in the darkness to the left of the burning building.
Chapter 4
Prey!
Lore launched himself after it, his body responding before his mind had time to consider. The shadow was a figure, darting toward the mouth of a lane on the far side of the parking lot. Beyond was a jumble of byways and Dumpsters with myriad hiding places. Once in there, a fugitive would be difficult to find.
The figure was supernaturally fast, and only guilt made someone bolt like that. Lore poured on the speed, not daring to take the time to change to hound form. Other pack members were breaking from the crowd to help, but they were far behind.
His quarry was only a stone’s throw ahead now, dark clothing a blur against the night. Lore lengthened his stride as far as he could, lungs straining against the chill air. The pavement was slick with frost, the sound of pounding feet magnified by the cold. He lunged forward, snagging the rough wool of the runner’s sleeve.
The figure jerked away, springing forward with a desperate burst of energy. Lore bounded, using both hands this time to grab the coat. The runner crumpled to the ground with a frightened cry, Lore pinning him with his weight.
They both grunted as they hit the ground. Lore rolled the figure over, smelling the sharp tang of smoke on his clothes.
“Madhyor!” cried his captive. Master.
With a wrench, Lore saw the runner was one of his own people.
“Helver!” he snarled, putting an extra sting in the young hound’s name. He dropped into the hounds’ own language. “What are you doing?”
Lore fought the urge to howl with frustration. He was supposed to be chasing his invisible enemy! Instead, he’d caught a whelp pulling some kind of prank.
“Forgive me! ” Helver blocked his face with his hands, as if expecting a blow. “The building was closed and empty. I went to see what I could take.”
It was an easy enough thing to do. Locks were no problem for a half-demon hellhound—but that only made respecting property all the more important. It was a pup’s first lesson.
“You stole from the clinic?” Furious, Lore ran his hands over Helver’s coat, finding the pockets. There are police everywhere. Humans were quick to judge their supernatural neighbors, and harsh with their retribution. The whole pack would suffer for Helver’s stupidity. Lore couldn’t let that happen.
He expected pill bottles, but he found money instead. He froze, staring at the double fistful of fifties and hundreds. “Where did you get this?”
“The campaign office. They keep the donations in the safe.”
For a heartbeat, Lore was stunned. Of course. The municipal election. The vampire candidate’s headquarters occupied two rooms on the building’s east side. Lore had been so focused on the loss of the medical facility, he’d momentarily forgotten.
He shouldn’t have. The election added a whole new layer to everything that had happened that night—political angst galore—but he would have to think about that once he’d dealt with Helver.
The other hounds were catching up. He held up a hand, keeping them back. They gathered, standing at a distance with arms crossed and hips cocked.
Lore put on his Angry Alpha face. It wasn’t hard. “How dare you touch what does not belong to you? Do you want to ruin the rest of your life? Bring dishonor on your elders?”
Helver lifted his face from his hands, eyes stricken with shame and fright. His cheeks were still rounded, not the hard angles and planes of the adult hellhound male. Lore’s gut twisted with anger and fear for the youth. He wasn’t a bad whelp, but not the smartest, and this new world they lived in was crammed with temptation. The hell they’d left had been brutal, but much, much simpler.
Lore was damned if he’d watch one of his pack lose his way.
He hauled the youth to his feet and gave him a savage shake, showing his strength. Helver took it meekly, not even lifting his head. Lore was his king. To fight back meant a fight to the death, and they both knew Lore would win.
The shaking didn’t hurt. The real discipline would come later. So would a lot of questions, like who had put him up to the theft, but Lore had to focus on the crisis in front of him.
“Who set the fire?” he demanded.
Helver hung his head, breathing hard. If he had been in dog form, his tail would have been tucked in as far as it would go. “I didn’t see anyone. I just felt—it was bad. And then it was hot. It was really weird—there was nothing, just heat, and then there were flames everywhere. I grabbed a fire extinguisher, but then things started to explode in the clinic—oxygen and I don’t know what else—and it stank. I couldn’t breathe past the chemicals, and it was just too hot. I had to go.”
The hounds muttered among themselves, the sound both angry and concerned.
“There was no other person inside?”
“No, no one I could hear or smell. I hid behind the building until . . .” He trailed off.
“Until what?”
“I thought I could get away. With all the trucks and stuff around.”
“Count yourself lucky that it was me who caught you.” Lore could hear the sound of pounding feet. The humans were catching up to them. Lore pushed Helver away. The youth staggered several steps before finding his balance. “Go home. Stay there. Burn those clothes. They stink. I’ll deal with you later.”
Helver bowed, his hands over his face again in a gesture of submission.
“Run! ” Lore growled. He waved at the hounds standing there. “Take him home.”
They obeyed, crowding Helver into their midst before they ran in long, fluid strides. Lore stuffed the campaign money in his pocket, wondering how the hell he was going to return it to the vampires without starting World War III. They weren’t the types to laugh off a youthful prank.
He turned to face the humans running toward them.
The one in front was one of those cops that looked like a cop: tall, chiseled, dark-haired, somewhere between thirty and fifty. Lore knew him. He was one of the few human detectives assigned to cover the supernatural beat.
“Detective Baines!” Lore stepped in his path. At the same time, he pulled his jacket closed and zipped it to hide the weapons strapped to his body. All hellhound warriors went armed to the teeth. Human police often took that the wrong way.
“Who was that boy?” Baines demanded, slowing to a stop. His men stayed a distance away, as if they were afraid Lore would bite.
“Why did you let him go?” Baines’s voice vibrated with anger.
Lore’s blood felt acidic with disappointment in Helver, but pack was pack. “He’s not your arsonist.”
Baines gave him a hard look, as if taking a mental snapshot. “I want a name.”
“No.” Lore kept his expression blank.
“What’s your name?”
“Lore.”
“Lore what?”
“Just Lore. I don’t need two names.”
“Well, Lore-with-one-name, your boy might be a material witness.”
“He saw nothing.”
The evil was gone now. Just the memory of it hovered in the air, mixing with occasional spits of sleet. The jacko’-lantern orange of the fire mocked them, turning the sky to a sickly bronze. Nothing in nature had made that blaze.
“How do you know what he did or didn’t see?” asked Baines between clenched teeth.
“I asked him, and hounds cannot lie.”
Baines narrowed his eyes. “Won’t, you mean.”
“Can’t. It’s impossible for us.”
He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “No shit?”
“No shit,” said Lore. “We’re your dream witnesses.”
Baines held his gaze another moment, then grudgingly backed off. He lifted his chin, the gesture subtly aggressive, as if he were still burning to face off with more than words. It would have been a bad idea. Baines wasn’t small, but Lore could snap his neck in an instant.
The detective flexed his fists. “Thanks to you, I don’t have any witnesses. Yet.”
“Sure you do,” said Lore.
“Who?”
He nodded toward the fire. “The building itself. A few years ago, that clinic used to be a machine shop. It’s all concrete and steel.”
The detective’s expression tightened, understanding dawning in his eyes. “Concrete doesn’t burn.”
“Concrete walls can be subjected to gas flames at one thousand degrees centigrade for four hours without structural damage. That’s why they make fire walls out of concrete.”
Baines stared.
“I was renovating a warehouse,” Lore added. “I had to look it up.”
“No kid set that fire,” Baines conceded in a low voice.
“The walls are melting.”
Baines gave him a look. “What the hell does that?”
“A spell.”
Baines’s frown deepened.
Lore stared at the fire, feeling the echo of sorcery deep in the heart of the flames. The hellhounds had not faced this enemy before, but it was old and powerful. Now that he wasn’t chasing his foe, he could test the flavor of the leftover magic, rolling it over and over in his mind.
Necromancy.
Chapter 5
Tuesday, December 28, 10:30 p.m.
Talia’s condo
Talia might be dead, but she still had a bad case of the creeps.
The scent of blood swamped her brain, swallowing sight and sound. She hesitated where she stood, her vampire senses screaming that something was wrong. That much blood was far too much of a good thing. The elevator doors whooshed shut behind her, stirring a gust of recycled air. Stirring up that maddening, tantalizing, revolting smell.
And there was something oddly familiar about it, a specific top
note stirring the memory like a complex perfume.
Talia blinked the hallway back into focus. This was her floor of the condo building, and home and Michelle were at the end of the hall. She fished her door keys out of her purse and started walking, the glossy pink bag from Howard’s banging against her leg as she walked.
Now her stomach hurt, her jaws ached to bite, but more from panic than hunger. That much blood meant someone was hurt. There were a lot of elderly people in the building. Many lived alone. One of them might have slipped and fallen, or maybe cut themselves in the kitchen. Or maybe someone had broken in?
Talia quickened her stride, following the scent. She pulled her phone out of her shoulder bag, the rhinestones on its bright blue case winking in the dim overhead light. She flipped it open, ready to dial Emergency as soon as she figured out who was in trouble. She was no superhero, but she could force open a door and control her hunger long enough for basic first aid. If there were bad guys, oh well. She’d had a light dinner.
She passed units fifteen-oh-eight, fifteen-ten, and fifteen-twelve, her high-heeled ankle boots silent on the soft green carpet. Fifteen-fourteen, fifteen-sixteen. She paused at each door, listening for clues. A television muttered here and there. No sounds of a predator attacking its prey.
Fifteen-twenty, fifteen-twenty-two. The smell was coming from fifteen-twenty-four at the end of the hall. Oh. Oh!
Fifteen-twenty-four was her place. Michelle!
She grasped the cool metal of the door handle and turned it. It was unlocked. The door swung open, and the smell of death rushed into the hall like the surf, drowning Talia all over again. That familiar note in the scent pounded at her, but she pushed it out of her mind, refusing to acknowledge that it reminded her of her cousin.
Instinct froze her where she stood, listening. There was no heartbeat, but that didn’t mean much. Lots of things, herself included, didn’t have a pulse. Reaching out her left hand, she pushed the door all the way open. The entry looked straight through to the living room, where a big picture window let in the glow of city lights. It was plenty of light for a vampire to see by.
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