Ravenous tdf-1

by Sharon Ashwood

  Necromancy—or rather, the dead it raised—might give specific answers, but that was useful only if you knew the right questions. This would give Holly a snapshot. If she was lucky, maybe she'd get some background as to what the hell was going on.

  At first there was nothing, just the mute knowledge of the earth and grass. Beneath that there was the shadow of the buried woman, a young mother taken a century ago by the weakness in her lungs. She was nothing but a wisp of memory, her soul long moved on to a new life. She was one of the good dead, the peaceful dead. No demons there. The cloaking spell had pointed Holly the wrong way, but she'd caught it in the act.

  Gotcha.

  Holly searched outward, her mind probing, ranging in larger and larger circles that spiraled out from the woman's grave. There was no feeling of disturbance. How much was the spell hiding from her sight?

  Then she felt something, like a cold finger down the back of her neck. Clumsy in her rain gear, she turned. In her mind's eye she saw a memory shadow, a residual imprint of a night not long ago. In the memory changelings were passing by, hurrying to join a group of others who were bowing down, cowering, terrified. Changelings and someone else—a man or a vampire—backlit by torches, reading from a book. Strange gear—sickle knives, torches, bottles made of colored glass—littered the ground around them. The smell of blood and ichor.

  The trappings of ritual, Holly thought. Not a nice ritual.

  The summoning ritual? Was that book the one Alessandro was after?

  Then the image flickered to nothing. Holly dropped her hand, now soaked from the cuff down.

  The ritual in the vision had taken place a dozen feet away, right in front of a tall stone angel with upstretched wings. Holly shifted uneasily, and a flood of water sheeted from the edge of her umbrella. A shiver coursed over her limbs, half cold and half creepiness.

  The angel was just a grave marker, but it made a perfect focus for the ritual. The changelings had made it represent whatever it was that they desired. The angel became a demon.

  Holly took a few steps forward, still searching the ground with her mind. Her senses were filled with the tang of damp cedar and wet earth, the drumroll of the rain on her umbrella, but she could find nothing more. As she approached the angel, nothing became less than nothing. The edges of the area's shield were detectable by only the subtlest probing.

  Holly sought more carefully now, teasing out one fact, then another, like silver tinsel lost in the grass. Thoughts, ideas, things that the participants of the ritual had known.

  Yes, this was where the summonings had taken place. They started in the warehouse of Alessandro's client, but the last, most elaborate, and ultimately successful rituals had happened where she stood. No wonder Mac—or whoever was giving him orders—had tricked her and Alessandro into coming here. This was a place of evil power.

  A scattering of junk covered the feet of the angel, telling the tale. Offerings. Holly bent, poking in the mud with one cold finger. Candle stubs. Half-burned tablets of incense. Miniature liquor bottles—either libations or party favors. There were a few round metal disks about the size of coins. Holly picked one up, holding the disk to catch the rainy daylight. The metal was stamped with the figure of a man with a lyre.

  She didn't know what it was, but it must have significance. She slipped it into her pocket, eyeing the stained, chipped features of the angel as she did so. Creepy. The blank stone gaze gave away nothing, but she could feel malevolence coming off it in waves.

  The consciousness of the place knew she was there. Magic stirred beneath her, an attack dog getting to its feet. The cloaking spell wanted her gone.

  Crap. Holly backed away from the grave as fast as the mud allowed, turning only when she had made it a few yards away. Her feet managed a slurping trot until she was well out of the graveyard.

  Well, that was interesting. She had assumed the demon was calling the shots. Maybe it was now but, in her vision, it was the hideous quasi-vampires who had desired the spell. The man with the book was no more than a technician. The changelings had opened the portals to call others of their kind. They had raised the army of ghouls. Only then did they summon the big demon guns.

  What did the changelings want? Were they planning another revolt against the vampires?

  Holly could imagine it all now: She pictured the dreadful creatures, uncool social outcasts hanging out in somebody's basement, sucking back the vampire equivalent of cheese puffs and beer and dreaming of vengeance. Now they had a demon, a supernatural bully to kick sand in the face of the queen who sneered at them. No doubt they'd bitten off far more than—No, she thought. No biting analogies where vamps were concerned.

  But who was the guy with the book?

  Someone was working with them. The summoner, surely, but it definitely didn't feel as though he were in charge. The energy he gave off in the vision was much more subdued.

  She had to tell Alessandro. She hitched up her sleeve to look at her watch. It was just past one. There were still hours to go before any vampire would be up. The only thing she could do right now was get home, where it was safe.

  As her feet splashed through the puddles, her right boot started to leak.

  "Holly!"

  She turned, just in the process of opening the front door. Mac was hurrying up the walk, the collar of his raincoat turned up. "Where have you been?" he asked. "It's long past lunchtime."

  What's he doing here? "Did we have a date?"

  "I think we should." His hair was damp, rain glistening in the dark waves, his eyes alight with warmth.

  Her hackles rose as he climbed the porch steps. He lured us to the attack in the cemetery last night—but he doesn't know I know that. Or does he? Did he see us fighting the ghouls? Did he watch while we kissed?

  Mac was carrying two paper grocery bags, one with each arm.

  "What have you got there?" she asked, forcing a friendly tone into her voice. Is he the one the changelings worked with to open the portals? The silhouette she had seen in her vision looked different, but she couldn't be certain. How could she find out?

  By luring him in. Gaining his confidence.

  "I brought food." Following at Holly's heels, he set his two bags on the floor of the entryway and bent to take off his wet shoes. "We had such a good time the other night that I thought we could do it again."

  The night I can't remember. Did he have something to do with that? Holly's skin crawled. "How could we possibly top that?"

  He winked. "You ain't seen nothin' yet. Lunch is my specialty. Have you eaten?"

  And Alessandro can't crash brunch. Holly pulled off one boot, losing a sock in the process. "No, I haven't had anything to eat today. Aren't you back at work yet?"

  "No. Bureaucratic crap."

  His irritation sounded real, but disbelief fingered its way down her spine. Holly summoned a smile. "Do you mind getting started while I change? I'm soaked through."

  She was taking a huge risk, possibly a stupid one. But I'm on my guard now.

  When she got upstairs Holly turned on the shower, stepping under the hot spray only long enough to get warm. Then she left it running, using the noise as an alibi to buy time.

  If she was going to confront the man who had tried to hand her over to the changelings, there was no way she was doing it unprepared. Holly dressed, but layered charms in every pocket and fold, tucking them into her bra, beneath her T-shirt, even inside her socks. Kibs sat on her bed, watching her, his yellow eyes following every motion.

  She got down on her hands and knees, groping under the bed for the long, flat box where she had stored many of her witch's tools out of Ben's sight. When she lifted the lid, it was as though she were being released from the confines of the box, too. She unpacked her silver knife, an incense burner of hammered brass, the square of Chinese silk she used as an altar cloth, and quickly arranged them on her dresser. She could set up a proper altar later.

  Why did I hide all this? How could I let myself do it? Was I that
desperate for a boyfriend? It seemed ridiculous now, but at the time she had been so anxious not to frighten Ben off. I'd like to think I was just being considerate, but I wasn't considering myself.

  As if commenting on her thoughts, Kibs yawned, showing every tooth in his head. Holly gave a small, silent laugh. Ben and his squeamishness were in the past, and she had a bigger worry making a late lunch in her kitchen.

  She prepared four candles, rubbing spell-saturated oils along their length and carving protective symbols into the wax. She went up to the third floor and placed one candle in a window on each side of the house. Standing at the top of the staircase, she invoked the fiery energy of the candles, reinforcing the protective wards that guarded her home. Mac was already inside, but the magic would help give her the upper hand. He was on her turf.

  Holly felt the heat of the spell course through her bones, sinking down to the house's foundations to draw energy from the earth beneath, then up to draw the power from the rainy skies above. She let it flow into the house, giving it strength. The house seemed to inhale, as if its natural vibration went up a notch. The evidence of success was heartening. The magic had come easily and with only a little pain, as if she had found a better groove. She had stretched herself these last few days. Maybe the exercise was paying off.

  Kibs bumped her ankle. She knelt, stroking the cat's thick, warm fur. I'm ready, but I don't want to face Mac. This isn't going to be pleasant.

  Kibs gave her wrist a hot, rough lick, then began cleaning his paw.

  The message was clear: Get going. Get it over with.

  By the time Holly joined Mac in the kitchen, he was pulling a pan out of the oven. It held an omelet, puffed and browned. The kitchen was heavy with the aroma of onions and cheese.

  Mac set the pan down on the stove. "So, can I ask what's between you and Caravelli? I get the idea he's a little more than a partner."

  Holly felt her face grow hot, wondering again what Mac might have seen in the cemetery. "Why? What does it look like to you?" She eyeballed a bottle of wine he had opened, but decided she needed a clear head.

  "From the sharp little edges on your words, I'd say you aren't comfortable with the subject."

  "I'm not."

  Mac picked up a whisk, examining it as if it were the most interesting invention. "I just want to know if I'm wasting my time here."

  "Are you asking if I'm available?" This is too strange.

  "Yeah. If you're not, just say so and I'll back off." He put the tool down and met her eyes. They were dark and serious. "Caravelli does seem like a nice guy, for a dead man."

  Holly's face flamed. "He is."

  "You're together?"

  "Yeah."

  He lowered his eyes. "Okay."

  Holly suddenly felt horrible. Maybe we were wrong. Maybe he is innocent, and all he wants is a girlfriend. "I'm sorry," she said.

  Mac gave his fleeting microsmile. "Nan, we still have lunch. No one can take that away from us." He cut the omelet and slid sections onto plates. Steaming cheese oozed out the edges.

  Holly set the table and they sat. Mac dug in right away, stopping only to pour the wine. Holly followed suit more slowly, her stomach clenched with tension.

  She took a bite. The omelet was airy, melting on her tongue in a kiss of butter and fresh tarragon. OK Goddess!

  "Hold still," he said, leaning across the table. He dabbed a bit of cheese from her mouth with a corner of his napkin.

  "Thank you." Holly self-consciously licked her lips.

  They ate in silence, but she wished she could relax. The food was amazing. Everything seemed normal. There has to have been some mistake. Why would he arrange for an attack one night and feed me like this the next afternoon?

  Still, her instincts were sending off flares like an exploding ammunitions dump.

  He tilted his head to one side, a flirtatious gesture. "Do you have room for dessert?"

  "You are obsessed with food and eating!" she protested, pointing her fork at their half-finished lunch.

  Mac blushed, as if she had truly embarrassed him. "Yeah, I seem to have a real appetite lately."

  "This is delicious, but—"

  "No, no," he said, hopping up to remove their plates. "I made too-large portions. We have to save room."

  Holly jumped up to wrest her plate away. It was still full of steamy, delicious eggs, and she wasn't ready to relinquish it. "Give that back!"

  He set the plates on the counter and put himself between Holly and her lunch, his face full of mischief. "Too tasty to waste, eh?"

  He grabbed her, holding her loosely, playfully. The feel of his hands sent a thrill up her spine, a mix of alarm and involuntary pleasure. Mac was solid and warm, his breath spicy with the scents of wine and tarragon. Holly put her hands on his shoulders, remembering the hot pressure of his lips the night he had cooked her dinner.

  "I'm taken," she reminded him, her voice firm.

  "So you said, but you're such a good kisser, I was hoping I'd get one for the road."

  His hands slid behind Holly's back, pulling her tight. "Hey!" she protested, trying to wrench away.

  He kissed her lightly, not on the mouth but everywhere else—eyes, cheeks, throat. The contact was firm but soft, a savoring more than a taking. He pressed into her as if the sheer act of touching were the most important thing in the world.

  What's going on here? Holly opened her senses. The flood of his need hit her, filled with uncertainly, loneliness, desperate hunger for human touch.

  Holly reeled. "Whoa! Slow down!"

  In their squirming, they had turned until her back was against the counter. She could feel the metal rim pressing into her spine, putting an edge of discomfort into the moment. She braced her hands against his shoulders and started to push.

  It had no effect. Alarm squeezed her breath, threatening to snowball into panic. As little as she wanted to, she would have to use real force. Holly started to gather her magic, but then his lips met hers. A tingling flowed from her toes up through her belly, making her a lightning rod for ecstatic energy. A feeling of life surged through her, blossoming in her chest and throat and coming to a pinpoint of rapture in their lips.

  Delight prickled along her nerves. This was not merely an effusion of lust, though that was an important part of the sensation. There was something more going on.

  Oh, Goddess. The charms she had tucked into her clothes were starting to heat up, burning where they touched her flesh.

  Demon? That's not possible!

  There had to be a mistake. She still didn't want to risk hurting Mac. Holly used her magic gently, just enough to push him away. "What kind of a kiss was that?"

  Mac fell back a step. His eyes, already dark and liquid, seemed to be all pupil. They were both breathing hard. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "That was incredible."

  "What were you doing?"

  "It feels wonderful!" he panted. "You have so much power, and it tastes just like I imagined it would."

  Holly braced herself against the counter. "What the hell?"

  A slow smile lit Mac's face, reaching his eyes with a mix of pleasure and craftiness. "That was just a sample of what I can do. Say yes and I'll do it all again."

  He took her hand, running his fingers down the length of her palm in a slow, erotic glide.

  "Omigod," she breathed, trying to banish the sensation of his touch, but failing. His hands felt hot, full of sensuous fever. If he could accomplish this much with hand-holding…

  "Yes is good," he murmured. "Yes is everything I can do for you."

  For one moment his pull was stronger than the protective magic of the charms. She stepped into his arms, giving an upward slide along his hip as she moved. As he moaned, she felt a surge of that exquisite energy pass between them, turning her belly into a liquid, molten ache.

  The moment wavered, poised like a drop of water about to fall. Holly yearned to fall, biblically speaking, right along with it. But even as she unraveled in Mac's
expert hands, the power of the house beat against her own, knocking, waking her up. The charms hidden in her clothes burned hot.

  Holly shook her head, unscrambling her thoughts. "Stop!"

  It came out as much a moan as a command. Mac took a deep breath, his power crawling like static all over her flesh. He has power. When did he get power? But that energy felt so good. Sweet Hecate, it's hard to stop.

  She felt the walls of the house pressing down on her, unraveling his hold on her. Like an invisible shell the magic she had put into the wards came flooding back to shield her from harm.

  "No," she whispered. "No, no. I have a lover. I told you that."

  "But I want to devour you," he whispered back, his words the merest movement of his lips. Holly could hear him fine, though. He was in her head, uninvited. Groping on the counter behind her, she picked up a knife, bringing it around slowly until she pricked his chin. "I'm not part of your gourmet menu."

  Mac snatched air in a quick, surprised breath. With glacial slowness he released her. "I used to be better at self-denial."

  "What's happened to you?"

  "My id got an upgrade." Then he grabbed for her knife hand faster than she could lash out. Hot before, now his touch was clammy as his fingers closed around her wrist. Holly tried to wrench free, but his grip was as strong as a vampire's. Feeling drained from her fingers, and the knife dropped from her hand, spinning under the table.

  "Mac, don't do this! I don't want to have to hurt you!" Trapped against the counter, she stayed still as a hunted rabbit, but coiled her power inside, ready.

  "You wouldn't."

  "I would," she replied hoarsely, fear knotting her throat. "I don't want to, but I'll get the job done. I'm not as nice as you think."

  "I'm not as bad as you think, either."

  "Prove it."