“Who are you?” the big vampire demanded.
“Lore, Alpha of the hellhounds and acting sheriff of the nonhumans.”
The ice-blue gaze flicked over him. “We are visiting. Election fever has us curious.”
Lore got straight to the point. The noise level in the place was loud enough to cover their conversation. “You were in the building where I live. Why?”
“Does it matter?”
“There was a murder.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Then—”
“He said he didn’t do it.” The second male picked up the pitcher of beer and refilled his glass.
He was of a different ethnic type, golden skinned and dark eyed. Black, curly hair framed features still soft with youth. He could have been no more than twenty when he was Turned, but he felt enormously old to Lore. All three of them did.
“I didn’t say he did,” Lore returned, pitching his tone between friendly and no-nonsense. “I’ve been told that I’m a bad interrogator, but I’m not that blunt.”
“Your technique needs work,” the young-looking one shot back, his eyes hostile.
Lore calculated the odds of taking all three vampires in a fight. They weren’t good. Still, he had no plans of backing down.
“Peace, Iskander.” The first one returned his attention to Lore. “I had an errand near your home. You can rest assured that I won’t be back. Is that good enough?”
“What kind of errand?”
His expression defied Lore to press further. “It was personal.”
And I’m a Chihuahua. “Do you know anything that would cast light on who beheaded the human woman?”
The dark-skinned female made a sudden gesture that rattled the golden bracelets at her wrists. Lore spared her a glance. She was slender and sleekly exotic, but obviously just as lethal as the men.
“Nia?” asked the first vampire.
“Darak,” she said in a voice that reminded Lore of dark fur sliding through the night. “You said nothing of a murder. You said you were chasing power.”
Nia, Iskander, and Darak. Lore at least had names.
“Because it is like saying the sun rose today. Innocents die. And I did not find the source of power. Yet.” Darak stood suddenly, pushing back his chair. “It is time for us to go.”
The other two exchanged startled looks, but rose. The dog stood, pressing close to Darak’s leg. The vampire turned to Lore. “You can tell your queen that we are neutral observers.”
The statement confused Lore. He got to his feet, disliking the sensation of the vampires looming over him. “Omara is not my queen. I’m not one of the Undead.”
Darak gave an odd smile. “She has not demanded your allegiance?”
“No.”
That seemed to surprise him. “Will you vote for de Winter?”
Lore shrugged. He cared little for politics. “I don’t know.”
“Then whose side are you on? Are you for integration with humans?”
The questions irritated Lore. He was the one doing the investigating. “What is it to you?”
“Nothing, but I grow tired of providing all the answers. It is only fair that I get equal time to play interviewer.”
Lore grudgingly played the game. “I am neither for nor against de Winter. I hope for peace but I have one hand on my weapon. The pack comes first.”
The vampire gave a low laugh. “We have a few things in common, Alpha of the hounds.”
He turned to go. Lore grabbed his hard-muscled arm. “Not so fast.”
Darak wheeled, eyes wide. “You think you can hold me here?”
“I need answers.”
“I don’t have any.”
“You know something.” Lore held the vampire’s cold blue gaze, the skin down his back prickling with tension. Darak was one scary mother, clearly expecting Lore to turn tail and run. He held his ground. Slowly, those ice-blue eyes narrowed, changing from angry to speculative.
Darak leaned forward, so that only Lore could hear what he had to say. “The dead woman has a cousin. A vampire.”
He could feel Darak’s age and power like an electrical field. Lore felt the hair along his neck rise. Talia. “Yes.”
“Keep her safe.”
The words made his guarding instinct go on high alert. “What do you know?”
“A necromancer set a fire earlier tonight. A spell that raises that much power needs a death. That’s why your neighbor was killed. Or part of it. Her cousin is in his sights. She will be next.”
Lore went cold. “How do you know this?”
A strange look came over the vampire’s face. Lore would almost say it was horror. “The dead sometimes speak to me. Leave the spell caster alone, deputy dog. Guard the girl and keep the town from going crazy over the election.”
“I can’t let the spell caster go,” Lore said flatly. “Murder is murder.”
Darak gave a shrug. “As you wish.”
Talia is in danger. He knew that, but hearing it from this stranger made the threat all the more concrete. “Did the dead mention the name of the killer?”
“No.” Darak stepped back, his enormous frame filling their corner of the lounge. “I don’t think she knew it.”
Darak turned and made his way toward the door, the dog and the other two vampires at his heels. This time, Lore let them leave.
What the hell am I supposed to make of that? Lore picked up his cup, then set it aside in disgust. The encounter with the vampires had made him edgy, itching to feel the crack of the necromancer’s bones against his knuckles. The only plus was that Talia was safely behind magical wards—and what Darak had said proved that she was innocent. Unfortunately, a secondhand account from a ghost would never stand up in court. Lore would have to do better to clear her name.
And to do that, he needed more information.
Checking his watch, Lore noted it was past his appointed meeting time. He looked around, but didn’t see the face he was looking for.
He also needed something stronger than coffee. By the time he got himself a beer from the bar, all the normal tables and chairs were taken, so Lore sat down in one of the soft leather seats clustered around a coffee table. Lore shifted uncomfortably, his jeans sliding on the leather seat. It was a bit like sitting on a giant black marshmallow. He just wasn’t trendy urbanite material.
Irritated, he checked his phone and found a voice message from Baines, demanding to talk to him again. Lore deleted it. He’d make himself available when he had time.
A woman left a nearby table and sat down across from him. “You called me, and here I am. What can I do for you?”
Lore did a double take. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”
The truth was, he hadn’t recognized Errata Jones. The celebrity werecougar talk show host of CSUP radio, she normally wore a Goth getup of black leather. Only the chin-length jet-black hair was familiar. Today she wore a heavy cream sweater and jeans beneath a tweed coat, and her face was bare. For the first time, Lore thought she was actually pretty.
“I need your help,” he said, deciding to be blunt.
“Do you? I wonder how I can help one of the mighty hellhounds?”
She tilted her head to one side a moment, considering him. Her eyes were green-flecked hazel, her skin more golden than he had expected. He’d bet good money the black hair was a dye job.
He waited patiently as she squirmed out of the coat, knowing better than to rush a cat toward a decision. She picked up her peppermint hot chocolate and crossed her legs. He could see her jeans were wet from the knees down, evidence of her trek through the snow. “Tell me,” she said.
“Are you up for doing some investigative work?”
“I always wanted to be Brenda Starr. I’m more than just a sultry voice, you know.”
She was indeed one of the smartest people Lore knew, though that intelligence was very different from Perry’s. Where Perry found facts, Errata made connections. “I need answers from someone
who isn’t with the police. Strictly off the record for now, but you can have anything I know for an exclusive later.”
Errata raised one eyebrow slightly. “Really?”
“There was an incident.”
“Incident?”
“Beheading. Vampire. I don’t think it’s public knowledge yet. I didn’t see any reporters.”
“Hairballs!” She set down her mug again, leaning forward. “When? Are we talking slayers?”
“Not anything sanctioned by human or vampire law.” He sketched out the bare bones of Michelle Faulkner’s murder, finishing with what Darak had said. “My problem is that there are far too many strangers in town. Finding one spell caster won’t be easy. I’m counting on Perry’s help, too.”
Errata made a face. “And the spell guy isn’t the only new problem in town. There are rumors of pro-human fanatics arriving with plans to blow Spookytown to kingdom come. With so many visitors, mass carnage would be the height of efficiency.”
“Who are we talking about?”
“Some say the Hunters.”
“I didn’t think there were any outside of Europe.”
“There is one bunch who lives down east. They could be out here for the election along with everyone else.”
Lore swore, and then dropped his voice. “This has to stay just between you and me. I have the prime suspect in the murder locked in my bedroom.”
Errata stared. “What the hell?”
“It’s a long story.”
“You are such a dog. Who is it?”
“A female vampire.”
Her whole body tightened, like a compressing spring. “You know bondage is only cool if it’s consensual, right?”
He felt unwelcome heat creeping to his ears. “This is not for games. I can’t turn her in to the police. She’s not guilty. There’s a good chance they’ll execute her just to say they closed the case.”
“So she’s hiding with you?”
“Yes.”
“Was that her idea?”
“Not exactly.”
Errata sat back, looking away. “I get that you grew up in the Castle, where locking someone up was considered normal, but you can’t do that here. This is, y’know, the real world.”
He wanted to snap at her. “It’s not like that. Help me prove her innocence.”
Errata turned back to him, her hazel eyes grim. “What do you need?”
“Tell me if you can find out anything about Talia Rostova’s history with her sire, starting with who that is. Something happened between them. This is more than just a rogue-on-the-run story.” It had left a sadness in Talia he itched to fix.
“Is that part idle curiosity, or do you really think knowing her history will help you catch her cousin’s killer?”
“Maybe.” He sounded defensive even to himself.
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Just be sure you know what you’re doing.”
I wish. “We don’t have much time. She’s a target.”
Errata stood, a graceful movement worthy of a feline. “Then I’ll let you know what I find out ASAP.”
“Be careful.”
Her lips quirked. “You and Perry. So good at stating the obvious.”
“He should be there next time we meet.”
Errata gave him a sly look as she picked up her coat and purse. “Tomorrow night. Your place. I want to see this vampire of yours. She must be something if you’re going to so much trouble.”
Lore experienced a wave of possessiveness for his territory and for Talia. “Yeah, okay,” he said reluctantly.
“One condition.”
“What?”
She was serious again. “You have to let her go. You can’t keep a bloodsucker in custody without reporting it to the vamp authorities.”
Lore narrowed his eyes. “Don’t go there.”
Errata leaned over him, showing tiny, sharp canines. “Caravelli’s only a phone call away. If anyone else finds out . . .”
Lore made an irritated noise. “I’ve had her for only a few hours. Once it’s safe, you can watch me shoo her out the door.”
“That’s what I needed to hear. I like you, Lore. I don’t want you in trouble with the Undead, and I don’t want to find out you have a hobby dungeon filled with pretty young vampires.”
Lore gave her a caustic look, trying not to remember Talia’s lips. “I’m a hellhound, not a sociopath.”
“I think you just want to keep her for yourself.”
“Scat!”
“Aha, you’re blushing. You like her.” She gave him a finger wave as she headed for the door.
“Just be cautious,” he said again to her retreating back. “Be careful who you talk to.”
“Yeah, yeah. Ta-ta, my brave puppy.” She was moving briskly, like a mouser on a mission. Cats never listened.
Lore felt a stab of worry, afraid he’d sent Errata into danger.
Chapter 13
Wednesday, December 29, noon
Lore’s condo
Lore dreamed of demons. Not half demons, not hellhounds or incubi, but the real thing, pitiless and hungry. He dreamed of them chasing the hounds through the Castle corridors, shredding the stragglers with claws as cruel and curved as the blades of warrior fey.
Run! Run quickly! He was dreaming a memory, his breath quick with the echo of panic.
But there were the demon’s searing balls of energy, sailing low over their heads, singeing the fur from their backs. The heat cut like a razor. Lore flattened his ears against his head, making himself as long and low as he could. He heard a yelp of pain. One of the other hounds wasn’t as quick or as lucky.
The tunnel narrowed, the side tunnels coming less and less frequently. They ran so fast, the stonework blurred into a gray wash. They were being stampeded. At the end of the tunnel was a dead end. It was a trap!
There was one last chance, barely a crack in the wall to wiggle through, that would get them to safety. One by one the hounds dove for it, the youngest first, then the mothers, but it was taking too long. Everything in the dream slowed to an excruciating slowness. They wouldn’t all make it through . . .
Stop!
Lore jerked awake but lay still a moment, letting the scene shred and fall away in the calm, rational daylight. He tried not to remember the old Alpha turning, hurrying the other hounds past, and putting himself between the demons and the pack.
The old Alpha. His father.
That was the end of the dream, but Lore hadn’t witnessed his father’s death yet again. He’d awakened in time. For once.
Lore had been the last through that crack in the wall. There had been others who’d died.
Lore had just turned eighteen. He’d become the new Alpha that day.
It was a long time ago. He could feel the pressure of the nightmare like something scrabbling at the doors of his mind. It wanted to finish, to show him the whole gruesome scene. No. Don’t think about it.
Lore sucked in a deep breath, forcing himself into the waking world like a swimmer breaching the waves. Wake up! There was a new threat to the pack and the yoke of responsibility was on his shoulders now. Get up, get moving.
But he slipped into a different dream. He saw Mavritte, one of the female hellhounds, looking at him with accusation in her eyes. “Do I not please you?” she asked, and then held up a long, thin knife, ready to strike it into his heart.
Lore came fully awake with a jerk, heart pounding. He looked around, letting the shock of the dream fade and the objects in his apartment become familiar and welcoming again.
He’d slept through the morning, making up for the long night. Because his bed was otherwise occupied, he’d curled up in dog form, taking advantage of the soft lambskin throw in front of the TV. Now he got to all fours, shook himself, and padded to middle of the room.
A glance out the balcony doors told him the world was buried in snow. It was still coming down, the stuff mounding into a white caterpillar along the balcony rail. Along the streets, cars wer
e slowly disappearing into drifts. Lore couldn’t believe so much had fallen, and it was still coming down. A hush had fallen over Fairview. There was no hum of traffic—a bad omen for the state of the roads.
He thought of the dream of snow, and the mysterious terror he had to face. He thought of the she-hound Mavritte and the knife. Prophecy? Or anxiety that, as Alpha, soon he had to choose a mate from the pack? The urge to bond rode him like a constant thirst, and yet there was no one he wanted. It was a diplomatic disaster, and he couldn’t even lie about it.
If only one of the hounds fascinated him half as much as the vampire in his bed. But we never want what’s good for us. With a mutter of disgust, Lore turned from the window and headed for the kitchen.
Calling his magic, his hound form fell away, dissolving to mist and reassembling in his two-legged body. The sensation was like falling, every cell surrendering the subtle tension that glued it to its neighbor—floating free a terrifying instant—then gathering himself back together with the whoosh of an inhaled breath.
As the coffee brewed, he shook cereal from a box, feeling pleasant anticipation as the nuggets of Cap’n Crunch pinged into his bowl. Changing forms made him hungry.
Females were only one of his problems. There was the fire, the murder, the election, and the mysterious vampires he had met last night.
Where do I start?
Lore finished the cereal and looked in the fridge for something else to eat. He hadn’t gone shopping in a while, so all the good snacking food was gone. How do I expect to catch the perpetrators of dark sorcery, arson, and murder if I can’t even remember to buy groceries?
Annoyed, he pulled open the vegetable crisper and then quickly shut it. Prophets save me! He was a hellhound, not a biologist.
When it came to keeping the peace in Fairview’s nonhuman community, the hounds were basically hired muscle. They guarded VIPs, broke up bar fights and sat on troublemakers until the sheriff, Alessandro Caravelli, showed up to dispense justice. The hound/vampire partnership worked, but now one half was on holiday. Lore would get the job done, but he missed Caravelli’s knowledge of the supernatural community outside of Fairview.
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