Omara was watching her expression. “I know it was not your direct intention, but you have done me and the community as a whole great service in these matters.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” She’d just been trying to survive.
“In light of that service, consider yourself my subject. There is no reason to carry on as a rogue.” Omara gave her a smile that said no was not an option.
Talia felt a bittersweet relief. “I’m greatly honored. There is something I’d like to offer in exchange.”
The queen showed a moment of surprise, then smoothed it over. “What’s that?”
Talia held in the words for a moment, but then let them go in a rush. “I stole a great deal of money from King Belenos. I spent some of it, but I’d like to offer the rest to replace the medical clinic. I really don’t want any reminders of him, even in my bank account.”
For a moment, the night was heavy with surprise. Then Omara laughed, and it was an unexpectedly rich sound. “I like you, Talia Rostova.”
“I’m not a good thief.” She’d felt entitled to taking the money, but not spending it. It was useless to her, except as insulation under the floor.
Omara gave her a knowing look. “Lore of the hellhounds returned money one of his whelps stole from the campaign office. He offered free labor for replacing the clinic and campaign office as an apology for the theft. Between the two of you, we can have a very fine new building.”
At the mention of Lore’s name, Talia looked away. Her longing for him hadn’t dulled one bit, but she hadn’t wavered from her decision. He would get over her. Someday, he would thank her.
Again, Omara watched her carefully. “That brings me to my last topic. I am a sorceress, Talia, and I have been alive since Babylon was a great power. No one would accuse me of being a warm and fuzzy romantic, but—I dislike unnecessary grief.”
Talia inwardly cringed. A lot of people had tried to give her advice about Lore—Perry, Errata, and Joe included—and now the queen was throwing in her two cents. None of them had seen the fight between Mavritte and Lore. None had seen the faces of the pack, hoping she would release their Alpha to choose a proper mate.
Omara tucked her hands into her coat sleeves. The wind from the ocean was cold, biting deep into uncovered flesh. “I walked the earth before the hounds were sent to the Castle. They were made from men and demons and the great temple dogs of the Egyptian sands. I know their magic. I would be patient with it, if I were you, and see what happens with the pack.”
Despite herself, Talia was curious. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t underestimate your young hound’s willpower. One way or the other, magic is all about manipulating the energy of desire. He has plenty of that, I can tell. And don’t underestimate the time you spent in the Castle. It has been known to have a transformative effect.”
Talia flushed, wondering exactly how much the queen knew about the night she and Lore had spent there.
They had come in a full circle back to Michelle’s grave. The queen stopped, signaling in some invisible way that the conversation was done. “Good night, Talia Rostova. I wish you well.”
Without waiting for a reply, Omara turned and walked away, pausing only to call over her shoulder, “Don’t forget to vote! You’re not a rogue anymore!”
An hour later, Talia unlocked her condo door. She had voted, and she’d cast her ballot for de Winter. She was curious to see how a nonhuman would do. Plus, she’d never voted before. Exercising her opinion felt good. She was finally, ultimately her own woman.
She crossed to the balcony door, passing between the stacks of packing boxes she’d started to fill with her belongings and Michelle’s. She hadn’t started looking for a place yet. She’d made only one decision about what she would have in her very own solo living space. She’d keep the bobblehead poodle. It reminded her of the silly moments she’d shared with her cousin, and that was a memory she wanted to keep.
She stepped out onto the balcony, the cold an antidote to a wave of hot grief. The night was gauzy with moonlight, mist, and twinkling lights. She looked down at the cars passing below, the old neon signs of Spookytown flickering on and off.
Her reverie was interrupted by the sight of a tall, dark-haired hellhound standing on the sidewalk, gazing up at the balcony and waving at her. Fifteen floors up, the figure was tiny, but her vampire sight could pick him out. Talia inwardly groaned.
Lore. Everything about him—the way he moved, the set of his shoulders, his shaggy, thick hair—salted her wounds. She’d expected time to lessen what she felt. Part of her hoped maybe what they’d had was just a fling. An intro to the nonhuman dating pool. A walk on the furry side.
No. Not a bit of it, and it stung like sin every time they spoke, every time she saw him. She was never getting over him.
And here he was flagging her down for one more minute of torture. She started to back away, but Lore began making bizarre, urgent gestures. He looked like he was trying to direct traffic through the running of the bulls.
Irritated, she pulled out her phone. She somehow hadn’t been able to resist putting him on speed dial. It had helped feeling that he was just a button push away.
“What?” she said when he picked up.
“Go around to the parking lot.”
“Why?”
He held his arms out in mock exasperation. “Just do it.”
“Okay.” She shut the phone, feeling a lump in her throat. Dammit. She didn’t want to get close to him. Smelling his scent, standing next to him would undo her for sure. She’d cried buckets already. She was going to end up a mummy from the moisture loss.
She pulled on a coat again and went down the fire escape—the same one he’d dragged her through at gunpoint—and out the back door—the same one she’d used the night he’d finally let her go—and into the parking lot—where he’d offered her his hand and promised to build a fire and keep her warm. Oh, God, does everything have to be Lore-specific?
Standing in the parking lot, she caught a blast of mud-scented air. For a moment the wet earth made her think of spring.
Except that Lore was standing next to a seven-foot, fully decorated Christmas tree. It sat in a bucket of sand, smack in middle of the fire lane.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
That always threw her off guard. “What’s with the tree?”
He looked pleased with himself. “Do you like it?”
Talia blinked. “I’m missing the punch line. Did you check the calendar? It’s January.”
His self-congratulation became a full-on smirk. “The hounds celebrate their winter holiday on the first full moon after solstice. That’s today.”
“Um, okay. Happy hound day.”
He shifted from foot to foot, nerves creeping into his body language. “I thought we should have trees. A blending of cultures, humans and hounds.”
“Nice.”
He shifted again. “You said you didn’t celebrate Christmas as a child. I decorated this tree for you.”
“Oh.” Talia felt tears prickling under her lashes. “Thanks. That’s really sweet.”
“I’ll carry it upstairs.”
She sniffed, pretending it was the cold air making her nose run. “Safety tip—next time, get the tree where it’s going, then decorate it.”
“Oh.” He looked it up and down. “I guess that would be easier.”
He sounded like he really didn’t care, or that logic wasn’t what he was going for. What a weird conversation this is.
The parking lot was where they’d had their first real talk. She could barely think for wishing she was back at that moment where their brief happiness still lay ahead. Maybe he remembered that, too. Let me go, Lore. Just leave me alone and let me go!
She looked up at him. His dark eyes were sparkling—very different from the sadness that had been clinging to both of them the last few weeks.
He shouldn’t be happy. Talia was suddenly suspicious. “What’s up?”
“Like what?” As she’d predicted, his nearness was an aching, empty throb. If she’d had the willpower, she would have stopped talking, left him there, and gone back to her packing—but she simply didn’t have the strength to walk away from him twice.
“You saw that Errata published her article.”
Talia tried to focus on his words. “Yeah, she sent me a copy.”
The article on the fight in the tunnels had got the werecougar a foothold in the human press, and the paper wanted another story. “But her byline said Amanda Jones. Is that a pen name?”
“That’s her real name. She says it’s time to stop hiding behind her radio persona.”
“She doesn’t look like an Amanda.”
“Who knows what we hide inside?” For a dog, Lore still looked like the cat who got the canary.
Suddenly, Talia was tired. “Lore, you’ve got news. What is it?”
“Did you notice the decorations?” He pointed to the tree again.
“Are those little bones?”
“This is a hellhound tree. Candy canes are for humans. We wish for other things.” He tapped a gold foil star hung with thread. There were hundreds of them on the tree. “These are for the mates who have gone missing. We wish for them to be reborn and come back to us.”
“Weren’t they destroyed by magic?”
A funny look came over his face. “But maybe they weren’t destroyed.”
“Then why can’t they come back?” she asked, remembering their conversation in the Castle. And afterward, he covered the bed in flowers so I’d wake up knowing he was thinking of me.
“The pack likes you, you know. You put the common good before your own. You fought beside them. You’re a teacher, and you offered to help set up a school. Osan Mina likes the fact that you know how to darn socks.”
Talia didn’t know what to say. Why does any of that matter?
“You may not believe this, but they’ve changed their minds. They wish you were their queen.” He touched the star again, making it spin and sparkle. “I think that wishing is powerful.”
Talia wanted to scream with sadness and frustration. “I’m not a hellhound. I love you. I want you. You can’t doubt that. But I’m not the right species. I can’t make the right biological magic happen.”
His face fell, suddenly serious. “The female hounds went into heat.”
“They can’t do that.” She stopped cold. “Unless you took a mate.”
“You—I mean—you and I did. Then they did.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, suddenly looking very, very young. “I don’t know how. I mean I do, but—”
Talia’s mouth dropped open, and then she burst out laughing. “You want me to draw you a picture?”
He grinned at her, her laugh straightening his spine, opening his expression.
Her heart caught in her throat. “You’re serious?”
“Absolutely. It’s, um, active in the neighborhood right now. There will be a next generation. It just goes to show you the old traditions aren’t everything. Or else there’s a new kind of magic. Whatever the case, you’re my mate.”
Oh, my . . . He’d said if the Prophets wanted him as Alpha, they’d have to solve the Talia-as-mate problem. The double-dog dare had worked.
She flung her arms around his neck, smelling the delicious, musky scent of him. “I don’t understand. Why did this happen?”
He wrapped his arms around Talia, cradling her against his chest. “Perhaps our lost souls went to other species. Perhaps there are too few hellhounds left, so we have changed in order to survive.”
Perhaps a vampire queen who understood ancient hellhound magic had played a role? Or the Castle?
“The Prophets only know, Talia. I’m just a dog.”
“But something’s going on.” Yes, something was going on. She was happy. Deliriously. Emphatically.
“It means we share something deep. It means I’ll always find you, no matter where you go. I’ll walk at your side. I’ll sleep beside you and watch over you. I’ll walk the passages between life and death to come back to you.”
Did you miss the book that launched Sharon Ashwood’s Dark Forgotten series? Read on for a preview of
RAVENOUS
Available from Signet Eclipse.
Prologue
Being the evil Undead wasn’t fun anymore. For one thing, it was increasingly hard to get a library card.
Even borrowing a book required identification. The same applied to finding an apartment, renting a movie, or leasing a car. Sure, in the old days there was the whole vampire mind-control thing, but now the world was one big bar code. Just try hypnotizing a computer.
In the end, it was easier to give in than to hide an entire subpopulation from the electronic age. The vampires—along with werewolves, gargoyles, and the ever-unpopular ghouls—emerged into the public eye at the turn of the century. While Y2K alarmists had predicted millennial upheaval, they sure hadn’t seen this one coming.
In fact, they hadn’t seen anything yet.
Three Sisters Agency
Specializing in removal of
Hauntings * Poltergeists * Unwanted Imps
Keep your house happy, healthy, and human-friendly!
Best in the Pacific Northwest!
Holly Carver, Registered Witch
Chapter 1
“ Why didn’t you say you were calling about the old Flanders place?” Holly’s words were hushed in the street’s empty darkness.
Steve Raglan, her client, pulled off his cap and scratched the back of his head, the gesture sheepish yet defiant. “Would it have made a difference?”
“I’d have changed my quote.”
“Thought so.”
“Uh-huh. I’m not giving a final cost estimate until I see inside.” She let a smidgen of rising anxiety color her voice. “Why exactly did you buy this place?”
He didn’t answer.
From where they stood at the curb, the streetlights showed enough of the property to work up a good case of dread. Three stories of Victorian elegance had crumbled to Gothic cliché. The house should have fit into the commercial bustle at the edge of the Fairview campus, where century-old homes served as offices, cafés, or studios, but it sat vacant. During business hours, the area had a Bohemian charm. This place . . . not so much. Not in broad daylight, and especially not at night.
Gables and dormers sprouted at odd angles from the roof, black against the moon-hazed clouds. Pillars framed the shadowed maw of the entryway, and plywood covered an upstairs window like an eye patch. A real character place, all right.
“So,” said Raglan, sounding a bit nervous himself, “can you kick its haunted butt?”
Holly choked down a wash of irritation. She was a witch, not a SWAT team. “I’ll have to go in and take a look around.” She loved most of her job, but she hated house work, and that didn’t mean dusting. Some old places were smart, and neutralizing them was a dangerous, tricky business. They wanted to make you dinner in all the wrong ways. Lucky for Raglan, she needed tuition money. Badly. Tomorrow was the deadline to pay.
The chill September air was heavy with the tang of the ocean. Wind rustled the chestnut trees that lined the cramped street, sending an early fall of leaves scuttling along the gutters. The sound made Holly twitch, her nerves playing games. If she’d had more time, she would have come back to do the job when it was bright and sunny.
“Just pull its plug. I can’t close the sale with it going all Amityville on the buyers,” Raglan said. Fortyish, he wore a fretful expression, a plaid flannel shirt, and sweatpants with a rip in one thigh. Crossing his arms, he leaned like limp celery against his white SUV.
She had to ask again. “So why on earth did you buy this house?”
Raglan peeled himself off the door of the vehicle, taking a hesitant step toward the property. “It was on the market real cheap. One of those Phi Beta Feta Cheese frats was looking for a place. Thought
I could fix it up for next to nothing and flip it to them. They don’t care about looks, as long as there’s plenty of room for a kegger.”
He dug in his pocket and handed her a fold of bills. “Here’s your deposit.”
Prompt payment—heck, advance payment—was unprecedented, un-Raglanish behavior. She usually had to beg. Holly stared at the money, not sure what to say, but she took it. He’s worried. He’s never worried. Then again, this was his first rogue house. Before this he’d only ever called her to bust plain old ghosts.
He looked her up and down. “So, don’t you have any, like, gear? Equipment?”
“Don’t need much for this kind of job.” She saw herself through his eyes—a short woman, mid-twenties, in jeans and sneakers, who drove a rusty old Hyundai. No magic wand, no ray guns, no Men in Black couture. Well, house busting—house taming . . . whatever—wasn’t like in the movies. Tech toys weren’t going to help.
She did have one prop. Holly pulled an elastic from the pocket of her Windbreaker and scraped her long brown hair into a ponytail. The elastic was her uniform. When the hair was back, she was working.
“Surely you knew the Flanders house has a history of incidents,” she said. “The real estate companies have to disclose when a property has . . . um . . . issues.” Holly eyeballed the place, eerily certain it was eyeballing her back. As far as she knew, Raglan was the first to hire someone to de-spook this house. No one else had stuck around long enough to pony up the cash.
Not a good sign.
Maybe next summer I should try dishwashing for tuition money.
Raglan blew out his cheeks in a sigh, fiddling with a thread on his cuff. “I thought the whole haunted thing wouldn’t matter. The kids from the fraternity thought it was cool. Silly bastards. The sale was all but a done deal up until yesterday.”
Holly walked up to the fence and put one hand on the carved gatepost. The flaking paint felt rough on her fingers, the wood beneath crumbly with age. The house had a bad attitude, but still the neglect made her sad. The old place had been built from magic by a clan of witches, just like Holly’s ancestors had built her home.
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