His cop side jumped to attention. Good to know it still worked. “Hit me.”
“They’re not exactly common, but they’re not rare, either. I popped into my grandma’s place and had a look through some of her books. Sure enough, I found some thing. I made up a charm that should stop you from being sucked inside.”
“Great!”
“Lore was over here about something else. I’m sending him to you with the charm. He should be there in about fifteen minutes.”
“Great,” he said again, inwardly cursing. He wasn’t ready for visitors, but after the effort Holly had gone to, there was no way he was going to complain about timing. “I owe you big time.”
“No problem, Mac. Take care.” She hung up.
He hung up, grappling with the jumble of problems he had to solve, starting with the most basic. Crap, what am I going to wear? Nothing was going to fit.
Mac paused, remembering his raincoat. He’d noticed the sleeves felt short a couple of days ago, when he had been talking to Holly. Had the first signs of this change already started then?
What if it wasn’t over?
His stomach growled. He ached. He got up to head to the shower and knocked over the hallway lamp. Everything was too close, too cramped.
I hate this. He was an alien in his own landscape. Just call me Ogg, cousin of Tarzan.
After the shower, he grabbed his largest pair of sweat pants and a muscle shirt. The shirt, straining across his chest, made him look like something from a cheesecake boy-toy calendar.
Great. Just great.
The door buzzer rang. Mac walked to the hall and pressed the button for the outside door, not bothering with a greeting. As he moved, he could feel muscle shirt pulling tight across his back. Prowling back to the kitchen, he rummaged in the cupboard until he found some soda crackers. He tore the package open as Lore walked in.
The hellhound reached the kitchen, stopped in his tracks, and looked Mac up and down, the only change in his expression a slight lift of his dark brows. “You’ve been working out.”
Mac chewed a cracker. “I had a makeover.”
Lore narrowed his eyes, considering. Hounds seldom showed emotion to outsiders. The merest flicker was like anyone else having a spazz attack. “Did you mean to do this?”
“No.”
“Then it’s not an illusion.”
“Nope.”
“Huh.” Lore was silent for a moment, and then held out a brown paper bag. His hands were large, the type that would deliver a bruising blow in a fight. Mac could have crushed them in his.
“Holly asked me to give you this,” Lore said.
Mac stuffed another two crackers in his mouth and took the bag, unrolling the top. It held a small cloth pouch pulled shut by a drawstring long enough to hang around his neck. Mac pulled it out of the bag slowly, cautious just in case it didn’t mix well with whatever transforming spell he was packing. When it seemed safe, he slipped the string over his head and tossed the bag on the counter. The pouch looked primitive, filled with who-knew-what witchy herbs and rocks, but it was small enough to stuff under his shirt and out of the way.
Lore watched him silently, dark eyes following Mac’s every movement. “Holly said that charm protects against demon boxes. You’re going after Sylvius.”
Mac looked at Lore sharply. The hellhound’s expression was guarded. It was like looking into the gaze of a street-tough stray. Which, in a way, he was.
“How do you know about Sylvius?” Mac asked.
“He’s a friend.” Lore folded his arms and leaned his shoulder against the refrigerator. “I would have said it was sure death to attempt to rescue any prisoner of the guardsmen, but you can do it. The gods have obviously prepared you.”
For a moment, Mac forgot about refueling. He had no idea what hellhounds believed in, but he didn’t like the idea of being prepared by some entity. That smacked of being the anointed one, or inflated one, or whatever. More crap he’d never signed off on.
“How do you know what I can do?” he asked. “How do you know what goes on in the Castle? You haven’t been there for a year.”
For the briefest instant, Lore looked smug. “Hounds are good with locks.”
“What does that mean?”
“We’re half demons. We have power over doorways and thresholds. Things between one realm and the next. Prophecy. Now that I’m free, the Castle door is no problem for me.”
Mac choked on a cracker crumb. He poured a glass of water and drank it down. Then he started back in on the crackers.
Lore watched him with steady eyes. “We’ve been watching you.”
“That’s creepy.” The hellhounds in general were pretty weird—not harmful, but too silent, too watchful for comfort.
As if reading Mac’s mind, Lore lowered his gaze, studying the kitchen floor. “When you returned to Fairview, some thought it was a miracle. You had fallen into the dark, but came back in defiance of your curse. Our elders thought the gods had called you here for a purpose.”
Mac made a dismissive noise. If the gods were calling, they could leave a voice mail.
Thoughts chased across the hound’s strong-boned features, whole arguments Mac would never hear because he didn’t belong to their closed, silent community. Finally, Lore said, “You don’t believe me. Hounds don’t lie. We can’t.” -
“Whatever.” Mac reached for another cracker, and realized the box was empty. He crumpled it in disgust.
The hound stiffened, pulling away from the fridge to stand straight, his hands half clenched at his sides. “Events are moving quickly. You need to listen.”
Mac threw the box back on the counter, a white haze of frustration flooding his mind. “Screw all that. I need to eat. You wouldn’t like me when I’m hungry.”
The words came out between clenched teeth. The alternative was roaring like a wounded bear. He didn’t want to deal with gods and legends. He had more immediate problems.
Lore edged back, cautious now.
Mac steadied his breath. “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it. I’m done with being special. I don’t do destiny.”
“That’s your decision.”
“Damned straight.”
Lore held on to the ensuing silence until Mac met his eyes. Then he carried on as if Mac had been listening intently all along. “Nothing happens without reason. If you’ve been brought back and changed, there’s something you need to do. Something even bigger than rescuing my friend.”
Mac felt irritation bunching his shoulders. “Like what?”
“If the task is yours, you already know.”
“That’s crazy.”
“That’s the way it works.”
“I don’t want to play.”
The hound’s expression went from neutral to icy. “Destiny doesn’t make you special. It’s simply more responsibility.”
“I just want my life back.”
The words, however true, suddenly sounded childish in Mac’s ears. That just made him more annoyed. “Get out of here.”
Disappointment flickered in Lore’s eyes, then vanished as he shuttered his expression. “When you need help, call us.”
He left without another word. From the kitchen, Mac heard the door click shut.
Crap. That was stupid.
Mac had never asked Lore why he had brought up the prophecy in the first place. Or why he had offered the hounds’ help.
Hellhounds never involved themselves in other people’s business. What was their interest in whatever it was the Sparkly One was supposed to do? Was there trouble in the hellhound kennel?
He’d been so wrapped up in his own shit, he’d missed all that. Motivation was something a cop should never overlook. He’d be damned if that would happen twice.
There was something going on there. He could smell it.
God, I’m hungry.
Chapter 14
October 5, 2:00 p.m. 101.5 FM
“That’s what I mean, Oscar. What can the sup
ernatural community do about humans who believe they have the right to kill us on sight? We all know there’re even tribes of so-called Hunters that have existed for centuries in Eastern Europe. Some say they’ve even evolved into a species of their own. Their whole culture is based on exterminating vampires. What have I, George de Winter, ever done to them? And yet they would still kill me at a moment’s notice and the law protects them from retaliation. How do we shield ourselves from something like that?”
“But really, isn’t there a greater threat from random violence against supernaturals, the vampire slayers who appoint themselves vigilantes?”
“Most of them are rank amateurs, but you’re right. Every so often they do get in a lucky stake.”
Alessandro slept. For vampires, dreams were usually lost in the deep, deep sleep of the Undead, slipping away during the long climb back to consciousness.
The odd quality of this one stuck with him, though.
There was a magpie the size of city hall trying to carry off the T-Bird, and he was trying to stop it with a garden hose.
Why the hell am I spraying it with water? The hose is long enough to wrap around its neck. This is a stupid dream.
The image blanked as absolutely as if someone had pulled the power cord.
Merda!
His hand shot out from beneath the covers, grabbing the stake inches from his chest. It was pure vampire survival reflex. His eyes squinted open a moment later, tears forming in reaction to the daylight peeking from beneath the blinds.
Through the haze, he saw Ashe’s rage-mottled face. His other hand shot up, snatching her throat. Delicate rings of cartilage tempted him to squeeze and crush.
He really wasn’t a morning person.
Ashe wasn’t letting go of the stake, but was yanking on it with rabid persistence. Alessandro started to sit up. She tried to poke her thumb in his eye. That did it. With a snarl, he flipped her over onto the bed, knocking the stake from her hand. It hit the wall and skidded under the bed.
“Agh!” she yelped, clawing at the hand he still had wrapped around her throat.
He snarled, letting her see the fangs. “I’ve had it with you, hunter. I’ve held back for Holly’s sake. You crossed the line.”
She brought her knee up sharply, catching him in the ribs. He grabbed her hair, using the leverage to tip her head back and sniff her throat. Her eyes went perfectly round in a moment of pure abject terror. The stink of it roused the predator in him. In the single tick of the clock, Ashe wiped the look from her face, but she couldn’t hide the slight trembling of her chin.
Fear was spice. Saliva pooled in his mouth. As Holly’s Chosen, blessed by her magic, he didn’t need to feed on blood any more than a human needed a candy bar. That didn’t mean the temptation wasn’t there. Just ask a chocoholic.
“You aren’t supposed to be awake,” she said, her voice shaking just on the last syllable. She cleared her throat.
“Really?” The light was making his head pound.
“You can’t move in daylight.” She squeezed her eyes closed, for a moment looking so much like Holly it made him loosen his grip on her hair.
“Of course I can.”
He was kneeling beside her on the soft mattress, bracing with one hand while he held her down with the other around her throat. Ashe was strong enough to break the grip of a human male. Against him, she didn’t stand a chance. Both her hands clutched his wrist. Any moment she’d start trying to pry herself free because survival instinct demanded it.
She wouldn’t win.
He gave a deadly leer. “Trade secret. Any vampire that is old enough can wake during the day. It just makes us very, very cranky.”
At the moment, he felt like he had the mother of all hangovers.
“What’s Holly going to say when she finds me dead?” A low growl slipped out. “What’s to say she’ll ever find you?”
Ashe made a tiny, rebellious noise. “You’re a monster.”
“Your point?”
The floor shook, a brief rumble. The tension between them was waking the house’s sentient magic.
Ashe hauled on his wrist, her fight coming back. “You won’t win. I’ve never lost yet!”
She bit him.
Alessandro ripped his hand away, swearing as the blood welled up. “Son of a whore!”
Ashe sprang off the other side of the bed and whipped a second stake out of her boot. “Hurts, doesn’t it, asshole? How do you think Holly felt when you bit her?”
Alessandro reached the end of his rope. With vampire speed, he hurled a pillow straight at her face. Reflexively, she stabbed, releasing a snowstorm of feathers. He used the moment to sail over the bed and grab her from behind, twisting her arms behind her back.
The house trembled again, this time rattling the blinds on the window. Soon it would become dangerous, but to which one of them? Both?
Ashe gave a bitter laugh. “You can kill me if you want, but that doesn’t make you a living man. You can’t be part of my sister’s life. You’re death.”
Her words sliced so deep, he didn’t feel the sting until a second had passed. Then it seared him to the marrow, too deep for any real response. He twisted the second stake out of her fingers, not caring if he hurt her. “I’m still better than the family she has. I wouldn’t send my child away to be raised by strangers.”
“I’m keeping my daughter safe from the likes of you.”
Alessandro bit back a profane retort. He had few options. He could kill Ashe, lock her in the basement, or toss her down the front steps. He dropped his voice to his coldest, cruelest tones. “How do you feel about family counseling?”
“Fuck you.”
His conscience was clear enough to introduce a final option.
“Then I have a very special place for you to go where you can kill all the monsters you want.”
“Pissed” didn’t begin to cover Mac’s mood.
He’d bought groceries, stuffed himself to bursting, and, suddenly exhausted, fallen asleep on the couch. He remembered getting up for a midnight snack that had involved another normal day’s supply of food. When he woke up midmorning, he was sure he’d changed even more. He felt like an ox. Maybe somebody out of Alice in Wonderland. It would have been funny if it had been happening to anybody else.
He was not amused.
That was just the physical stuff. The demon had put his aggression on high, something he’d noticed the second time he’d been forced out of the apartment to find clothes and food. He’d nearly attacked a guy who’d cut him off in the beef aisle in the supermarket. Yeah, Mac was pissed, and there was fear underneath the anger. At moments, he was hanging on to his self-control by the fingernails. The demon was taking over.
He tried to call Holly, but she wasn’t home. He’d hung up without leaving a message. He had a sixth sense that this was his problem to solve, anyway. Or maybe he’d listened to Lore too long and all that prophecy crap was curdling his brain.
He was hungry again. Mac piled sliced ham onto a bun, feeling like he spent his life at the fridge door.
There were only two things keeping him focused. One, he’d made a promise to Constance to rescue her son. Two, he needed answers—all kinds of them. He was determined not to let his brain slack off just because his body had gone into overdrive. The slip with Lore had been warning enough.
Mac bit into the sandwich and chewed while he split and buttered a second bun. Ham or beef on this one? Why not both?
His plan was simple: Get Sylvius. Interrogate Atreus. After that he’d find out what Lore was really up to. If the hounds had a clue about what was going on, he needed to know. The Castle had done something to him, and he needed it undone just as soon as he’d rescued Connie’s son. There had to be a way to get back to his life as a human. For one thing, he couldn’t afford his demon’s insane grocery bill.
After eating his third sandwich, Mac slung the charm Holly had sent him around his neck. The shirt he’d just bought already felt tight through
the shoulders and chest.
Whatever was happening to him, it wasn’t over. The simple truth was, if he didn’t do something—take charge, act, focus—he would give in to the panic bubbling up inside him. It was hard to hide from the monster when it was the very flesh you lived in.
But turning into a monster didn’t mean he would go back on his word. He’d let the demon infection distract him long enough. It was time to go back to work.
He grabbed the sword he had taken from Bran from the umbrella rack, testing its balance. This body would know how to use it in a way his old one hadn’t, but he still took his semiautomatic—the holster’s seven-way comfort adjustments worked to their XXL limits—and all the ammo he had. No point in giving up the tried and true.
He dusted from his condo to the door of the Castle. The first challenge was finding out where the guardsmen kept their special prisoners. Constance’s advice might cut hours off his search. She’d been following Bran before. She would at least have an idea which corner of this cavernous Goth-o-rama to start with.
No doubt he could find her in the Summer Room, like a tiny, dark pearl in the safety of its oyster shell. He’d made her promise to stay out of trouble, but that didn’t cover the trouble she represented to him. Just the memory of the place—and what had nearly happened there—was intoxicating. That much temptation should have been a warning in itself to stay away, but his body remembered the feel of her pressing against him. It made the decision.
Finding the room involved only a few wrong turns. It was exactly as Mac had left it. The candlelight was soft, glittering in the silver light of the tapestries, casting misty shadows on swooping fabric that draped the ceiling and swathed the great canopied bed.
He lingered for a moment in the doorway, and then closed the door behind him and slid the bolt that locked it home. It was true he had all but fled from the room— and Constance—only days before, fearing what his demon might do to her, what her blood thirst and the room’s lust-filled magic might do to him.
This time would be different. He was in control. He had come for her.
But I didn’t come here for her. Not that way. I came here for information on how to find her son.
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