Frostbound
( The Dark Forgotten - 4 )
Sharon Ashwood
Every dog might have his day, but the hellhound guards the night . . .
As a snowstorm locks down the city, more than the roads are getting iced. Someone's beheaded the wrong girl, and vampire-on-the-lam Talia Rostova thinks it was meant to be her. Now she's the prime suspect in her own botched murder—and the prisoner of her smoking-hot neighbor.
Lore is a hellhound, bred to serve and protect, so he's not freeing Talia until he's sure that she's the prey and not the hunter. You'd think a beautiful woman in his bedroom would be a good thing, but trouble-prone Talia has run afoul of someone more sinister than your average lunatic killer. An ancient Undead is wreaking vengeance on the city—and on her—and Lore will have to go far beyond a stake to put him back in his grave . . .
Frostbound
The Dark Forgotten 4
by
Sharon Ashwood
Prologue
“Till death do us part.
“Quite the statement, isn’t it? When we utter those words, are we describing love, the bond of hunter and prey, or both? That is the question of the night.
“Good evening, my darkling listeners, this is your night hostess, Errata Jones, on CSUP. I’m coming to you from the glorious U of Fairview campus, on the radio station that puts the ‘super’ in supernatural. Tonight’s program is filled with the usual basket of goodies, but first let’s take a sneak peek at the main event. We’re talking about love—and not the easy kind.
“Ever since the nonhumans came out of the shadows in Y2K, we’ve had to navigate the world with our claws in and our fangs firmly out of sight. Whether you’re a vampire, a hellhound, or a werecougar like me, we’ve been meek and mild, not just with our human neighbors, but with each other. We’ve learned to get along. To sit at the same table. To act like friends and family. It’s all been very civilized.
“But anyone who knows a real family, who knows what it is to truly love, will tell you passion isn’t about getting along. It’s the crash of undiluted personalities. It’s the thrill of the chase. It’s the scent of blood and the heat of skin against your lips as you struggle against an inevitable surrender. It is undoubtedly beautiful, but never pretty.
“So the question is, ghouls and girlies, what about interspecies romance? If we drop the masks and give our sad little monster hearts away, will anyone still respect us in the morning? If we show them our true selves, will anyone be left alive?
“The phone lines are open. Talk to me.”
Chapter 1
Tuesday, December 28, 7:30 p.m.
Downtown Fairview
Some nights it sucks to be Alpha.
Lore winced as his fist crashed into bone.
And other times it just rocks.
He’d made it a bruising face shot, knuckle action splitting skin. The vampire flew backward into the bar, scattering the few remaining patrons—the dedicated drunks—like bowling pins. Lore closed in with supernatural speed, getting in a pair of jabs and a cross before the piece of Undead garbage had a chance to rebound.
The vamp roared with rage, fangs bared. Lore slapped his face, hard, with an open palm. “Manners!” Lore snarled.
The roar quieted to a hiss that unfortunately sprayed blood, spit, and whiskey like a faulty lawn sprinkler. Lore hated drunken vampires. It wasn’t like they’d just had one too many. It took time and effort to pickle Undead blood, and most knew better than to lower their inhibitions that far.
With vampires, out of control was bad news. The guy’d already cut a swath through Fairview’s Old Town and damn near drained two humans before he’d even reached this bar called the Pit Stop—emphasis on the pit. Lore’s job was to settle his tab but good.
He didn’t see the fist coming for his solar plexus. Lore’s breath went out with a whoosh followed by a sickly wheeze. Lore was big, hard-bodied and, hell, halfdemon , but even a drunken bloodsucker packed a wallop. He doubled over, falling back just enough for the vampire to regain his feet.
The vamp tugged at the front of his filthy leather jacket, as if shaking out the creases left by Lore’s attack. He dressed like James Dean, but had a face like the tire treads on a farm tractor—ugly, pocked and furrowed. Lore’s aching ribs said that flat nose might have come from the fight ring.
Mr. Drunk and Ugly sneered, looking around at the last few patrons too stubborn or stupid to chug their drinks and go. One or two had figured out the ancient bartender had fled and were helping themselves to the stock.
The vamp pounded the bar, making glasses rattle. “Who let this mangy hellhound in here? No dogs allowed, or can’t you read?”
Pure, predatory rage flooded Lore, as if the slur had tripped a switch. He launched himself at Mr. Ugly, smashing him back against the bar rail. He heard ribs snap, and the sound thrilled along his nerves. Kill. Bite. Prey. The urge was primal, written in his genes, as was the constant need to be the fastest, strongest, smartest. Survival demanded it.
It made him Alpha.
Mr. Ugly kicked, connected with Lore’s knee. Lore’s leg buckled under him, but he had the vamp in a death grip. They both fell to the floor, sending the nearest table flying. Ugly tried to bite, venomous fangs snapping on air.
Irritated, Lore banged the vamp’s head on the dirty tiles. When the bloodsucker’s eyes rolled up, Lore flipped him over, clamping the vamp’s hands in his own massive grip. Lore reached for a pair of vampire-proof silver cuffs clipped to his belt. The sound of the metal closing around Ugly’s wrists sent a bolt of satisfaction through his gut.
He pulled the vamp to his feet, using the collar of the grungy jacket as a handle. “Where are you from? I thought I knew everyone in this neighborhood, and I haven’t seen you before.”
Ugly was already coming around. “Bite my ass.”
“No, thanks. I’ve already eaten.”
Which was one reason why he patrolled in human form. Hellhounds generally had iron stomachs, but some of the pond scum he was forced to capture—you just didn’t want them in your mouth.
Lore tried again. “Who’s your sire?”
“I staked him back in the fifties.”
“If you say so.” His work here was done. If there was no sire to contact, then the human cops could figure out what to do with Drunk and Ugly. The odds were he’d be beheaded. Human law was pretty cut-and-dried when it came to rogue vampires on a tear.
Lore might have felt sorry for the guy, but there was no element of accident or even slightly poor judgment here. After chowing down on humans in full view of witnesses, this vampire was too stupid to live.
Lore hauled him out of the dark bar and out onto the darker street. His breath steamed in the cold air. The human police were already there with the special van they used for transporting supernatural prisoners. It was lined with a silver and steel compound nicknamed stiver. Nothing, not even fey, could get out of it. Just looking at it gave Lore claustrophobia.
Wordlessly, a patrolman he didn’t know opened the rear doors of the van. Lore tossed his catch into the back, not bothering to make use of the three steps that folded down to street level. The cop slammed the door and looked up at him, his face tight with apprehension.
It wasn’t surprising. Lore was a head taller and had fifty more pounds of muscle on the man, plus he’d just taken out the vamp with his bare hands.
“Where’s Caravelli?” the cop asked. Alessandro Caravelli was the vampire sheriff in Fairview. Normally it was him breaking heads in the name of law and order. The other nonhumans paid his wages, but the Fairview City Police were more than grateful for the help.
Lore wiped his hands on his jeans, trying to get the vampire’s stink off his hands. “On vacat
ion. He hired me to fill in.”
“For how long?”
“A few more days.” Lore scribbled his signature on the clipboard the cop handed him. “Careful. That vamp’s drunk and a biter.”
“Another out of towner here for the election? Place is crawling with activists and looky-loos.”
For the first time, a vampire was standing for office in Fairview’s municipal election, and it was the first time nonhumans would be allowed to vote. Giving the monsters the vote was either Judgment Day or the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, depending on whom you asked.
Lore shrugged. “The vamp and I didn’t stop to chat.”
“What’s his name?”
Lore handed back the pen and clipboard. “I’ve no idea. You need anything else for your report?”
“Nope.”
“Have a good night,” Lore said.
The cop didn’t respond, but got in the passenger side. The van was in motion before the door closed. The cop was afraid, and the smell of it made Lore’s stomach cramp with hunger.
“Hey, there. Barking at the moon yet?”
Lore glanced in the direction of the voice. Perry Baker was ambling toward him from the direction of the corner store. The werewolf had a take-out coffee cup in one hand, mounded with whipping cream and chocolate shavings. Most shape-shifters had a sweet tooth. Something to do with the energy burn of changing forms.
“Hey,” Lore said as his friend came to a stop beside him. “What brings you here?”
The werewolf yawned, showing strong teeth. “I needed a break.”
“Feeling the need to get down and dirty on the streets?”
“The only thing I’m feeling right now is a slight sugar buzz.” Perry shrugged, slurping the elaborate coffee. Like Lore, he was in his late twenties, but where the hellhounds were tall and big-boned, built for brute strength, the wolves were lean and wiry. His young, intelligent face was drawn with fatigue. “And the onset of a migraine. I’ve been marking Comp Sci exams most of the day. Who knew a doctorate meant slow death by HB pencil?”
Lore took out his cell phone, checking messages. There were plenty from pack members, but no more reports of bar fights or break-ins. “Looks quiet.”
“Dinner?” Perry asked.
Lore still had the taste of the cop’s fear in his mouth. “Sure.”
By unspoken consent, they headed north toward Lore’s place. There was a good burger joint around the corner that served their meat extra-rare. They walked a few blocks in silence, Lore’s senses on alert.
“So,” Perry said. “How’s sheriff duty going?”
“There’s something evil in Fairview.”
Perry gave him a long look. “Uh, care to narrow that down?”
The wolf had a point. Fairview was supernatural central. Lore’s own people had escaped here through a portal from a prison dimension. A few short years ago, while Perry had been wondering what degree to take next, Lore had been fighting for survival in a demonfilled dungeon.
The memory of the Castle—the deaths, the deprivation and slavery of the hellhounds—pissed Lore off all over again. Wanting to bite something, he kicked the base of a lamppost instead. Tension sang in his muscles. “I felt something.”
“As in, an Alpha hellhound psychic gift kind of feeling?”
Lore frowned. It had been a premonition—the Alpha had the gift of prophetic dreams—but he could feel it too, just hovering on the edge of awareness. It was like a hair-raising charge of static. “I am the protector of my pack. Caravelli left me to guard the safety of the city. A large cloud of evil intent is floating around. I need to kill it.”
The werewolf raised an eyebrow. “You see, that’s why I hang out with you. Every time it’s like, wham, I’m in a Doctor Who episode.”
Lore grunted a reply. Now that he wasn’t working up a sweat fighting, his hands were starting to ache from the cold. He slid them into the pockets of his jacket. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Hey, you’re the premonition guy. You say there’s floaty badness, I believe you.” Perry slurped his drink again, but now he was watching the night, too, the set of his head and shoulders alert. Steam rose off the cup in filmy clouds, clogging the air with a syrupy-sweet smell.
Lore cast a glance at his friend. “Does floaty badness worry you?”
“I’m not sure yet. For me, magic is just another science.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t have your sixth sense. I like data.”
They were across the street from Lore’s condo building when a white and blue taxi pulled up at the building entrance. Both males watched as a young woman got out. The cabbie hauled a suitcase out of the trunk and held the door as she made her way into the lobby. She wore a navy blue uniform under a dark pea jacket. The short skirt left slim legs bare. Lore caught a glimpse of her face: long dark hair with bangs, high cheekbones, a pointed chin. Elfin more than beautiful.
Close, but not quite the woman he’d hoped to see. Not the one who reminded his body that it was past time to choose a mate.
I don’t have time to watch women. Something is out there. But he couldn’t turn away, even from this pale ghost of the one he wanted.
Suddenly his pulse felt hot and thick.
“Who’s that?” Perry asked with avid interest. “I mean, impending evil and all, but look at those legs.”
Lore had. Repeatedly. “She lives in fifteen-twenty-four.”
So did another woman who might have been her sister—someone less observant might have mistaken them for twins. Lore had never figured those two out. This one wasn’t home much. The other—the beautiful one—was a vamp, with all the mysterious allure of the Undead female. They were never home at the same time, and never with anyone else.
Perry cut Lore a glance. “You know her suite number off the top of your head?”
“Guarding is in my genetics. I watch the building for intruders. I know who belongs where.”
“I suppose you know her name and phone number, too.”
He had spoken to this woman—the human—once. They’d exchanged the bland chitchat of strangers while they’d waited for the elevator. “I know the name on the mailbox.”
Perry looked amused. “You could go borrow a cup of sugar. One look at her and I want to make cookies.”
“And they call me a hound dog.”
“Ooh, ouch.” Perry tossed his empty coffee cup into the concrete garbage bin by the curb. It arced neatly and clattered inside.
The door closed, and the woman disappeared.
Perry let out a gust of breath. “So, what do you want to do about the situation?”
Which situation was that?
Hellhounds couldn’t lie. Lore struggled a moment against a compulsion to tell his friend the truth. I want to find the beautiful one and take her, even if she isn’t one of my kind. Even if it’s utterly against hellhound law. But he would rather stick his head in a ghoul’s nest than have that conversation.
Fortunately, there was another way to answer. “You know your way around a spell book as well as a mainframe. Help me find out what dark presence I’m sensing, and I’ll pay for dinner.”
The werewolf rolled his eyes, obviously catching Lore’s evasion. “Okay, Romeo. Just don’t get ketchup on my grimoire.”
Chapter 2
Tuesday, December 28, 7:45 p.m.
North Central Shopping Center
N othing brings out the predators like a seventypercent-off sale.
Talia Rostova wheeled her Prius into the North Central Shopping Center for their After-Christmas Clearance Madness. The lot was jammed, vehicles crawling over the icy pavement in a slow-motion game of musical parking spaces. Exhaust clouded the cold air like the breath of dragons.
Talia thought of all those lovely bargains in the sales flyer, and felt a pang of unease. She’d been delayed at the nail salon, and now the door-crasher specials were in full swing. The mall was giving out half-price coupons for designer leather wear a
t eight o’clock sharp.
Unfortunately, it was now seven forty-five, and she still had to park.
Crum.
Aggression hung in the air, vibrating like a sour note above the rumble of engines and the crunch of tires on the frosty ground. Talia shivered, the mood rousing her own adrenaline. A vampire knew bloodlust when she sensed it. Bargain-hunters could be serious fiends, with or without pointy teeth.
Talia zipped into the last empty parking spot almost before she saw it. I may be dead, but I’m fast. Someone honked. Talia bared her fangs at the honker’s blinding headlights, and the noise stopped.
Talia locked the car door and trotted toward the entrance of Howard’s Department Store, the heels of her suede ankle boots slipping on the slick pavement. The temperature had been dropping all day, and the rain had frozen into treacherous patches of black ice. Vampire or not, she’d be flat on her designer-denim backside if she wasn’t careful.
Howard’s was still decked in Christmas splendor, all tinsel garlands and fairy lights. The glitter delighted her, pulling her through the doors like a fish on a line. Talia’s family hadn’t been into celebrating—that was Dad all over, every minute all about work even when she and her brother were little. Too bad she had to die to experience a little ho-ho-ho.
A kid of about fourteen shoulder-checked her as he pushed past. Jerked out of her thoughts, Talia grabbed him by the collar, hauling him up until his high-tops barely touched the floor. Bad for the manicure—after all, the polish was barely dry—but oh so squirmydelicious. Her jaws began to ache, itching to bite. The kid’s blood would be hot and tasty.
“Mind your manners,” she said, showing a bit of teeth.
“Says who?”
“Says your nightmares. Y’know, I used to dream of doing this when I taught school. So how are you doing in English Lit?” She grinned wider.
The boy turned the color of Cream of Wheat, kicking against the iron strength in Talia’s thin wrist. After a moment, the disbelief in his eyes melted to terror. She let him go, giving just enough shove to make him skitter.
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