“You’re testing my patience, Early,” Lockhart said.
“And you’re testing mine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an ogre to save. Ozzy?” He looked at me and jerked his head toward the crumpled pickup truck.
I offered Lockhart a smile. “Duty calls.”
Early stomped away. I followed, leaving Lockhart standing alone in the rain.
The old man and I trudged in silence toward the crashed truck. I could feel the eyes of both ogre and vampire on us, but neither of us acknowledged them.
One-tusk hadn’t moved. I hadn’t dared remove the piece of twisted metal that had pierced his abdomen, so I’d dripped a tincture between his lips and scattered some stasis charms around his massive body to keep him as stable as possible until Early arrived. Even with the eye of faith, I couldn’t tell if he was still breathing.
Early peered in through the broken window at the unconscious ogre, his eyebrows lowered. He stroked his damp beard with long, slow movements. Then, with a grunt, he moved to the passenger door and opened up his bag.
“What do you think?” I asked, leaning against the warped door frame.
“Ogres are remarkably resilient.”
“So he’ll live?”
The only answer Early gave was another grunt. It didn’t fill me with confidence.
Still, Early was the ogre’s best chance of survival. The old man had a talent for healing that I couldn’t hope to compete with.
As Early began to pull potions and poultices from his bag, he glanced back toward the ogres and the vampires. While the shadowed shapes of the ogres stood tall and silent in the rain, the vampires and their slaves were much more animated. A couple of groups of umbrella-shrouded figures were beginning to back away, while Lockhart was locked in conversation with both Booker and Atwood. It was clear from Booker’s gestures that an argument was taking place.
“Is Lockhart right?” Early asked quietly, though we were far outside the earshot of anyone except the unconscious One-tusk. “Did One-tusk kill Eventide?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Nothing quite fits.”
“Bounding Rabbit doesn’t believe it. She thinks this is a vampire plot.”
Bounding Rabbit, I remembered, was the matriarch of the Mother’s House, the strongest clan of ogres in Lost Falls. Which wasn’t saying much. There were only four clans left now, and most of them numbered fewer than a dozen adult ogres. Hell, from what Early had told me, the clans were so interbred they were practically one big family.
I’d never had many dealings with the ogres before. They tended to keep to themselves. Early, though, knew them better. He was the only one in town who could help when one of them was afflicted with the Wasting—a particularly nasty disease that could kill a healthy ogre in less than 48 hours. Or at least he was the only one who didn’t charge an arm and a leg for the treatment.
So it was no surprise that Early had already been talking with Bounding Rabbit. I didn’t know where she’d got her information, but she’d almost certainly been the one to dispatch Holdfast and his buddies.
I glanced back at the vampires. “I’m not sure what good a near-dead ogre does Lockhart and her brood. But I’m a simple man. Vampire plots are beyond me.” I jerked my head in Lockhart’s direction. The argument seemed to have come to an end with Booker storming off. “Looks like you won, though. They’re packing up.”
Early nodded without looking up. His attention was fixed on One-tusk now. He set up some clay jars on what remained of the dashboard and then began to prepare his own charms.
“You have to go with them,” he said.
I paused. “What?”
“We have to figure out what happened here, Ozzy. Lockhart’s wrong. Even if One-tusk dies, this won’t end here. The ogres and the vampires are both too proud to let the matter drop. We need to find the truth.”
“And what if the truth only makes things worse? What if it gives one side or the other the justification they need to take this little feud to the next level?”
Early’s mouth formed a tight line within his beard. “It’s a risk. But it has to be done. You know that.”
I sighed and looked over the bloodied, battered ogre in front of me.
“You’re worried about something,” Early said, looking up from his work to read my face.
“You mean I might be a tiny bit concerned about the prospect of getting caught in the middle of a blood feud?”
He studied me a second, then shook his head. “Something else.”
I grunted. “The ogre’s thigh. The right one.” I nodded at One-tusk’s lap. “That cut. You see it?”
Early peered down, and I switched on my phone light to help him out. There was a tear in the ogre’s jeans, the denim sticky with blood. With the point of a small silver knife, he pulled back the torn denim to reveal a straight, shallow wound in the ogre’s thigh.
“That’s not a mark from a vampire’s claw,” Early said.
I shook my head. “No.”
He leaned down and sniffed the wound. “Poison?”
“Maybe.”
“Was Eventide armed? Has anyone found a weapon? A blade?”
I shook my head again.
Early looked at me. “A third party?”
“That,” I said, “is what’s making me worried.”
Most of the vampires and their swains were already back in their cars by the time I made my way back over to them. The four ogres watched silently from across the field, while over at the crashed pickup Early worked to save the life of One-tusk. Exhaust smoke puffed from the line of the vampires’ luxury cars and danced in the relentless rain.
Lockhart and her swain, Isaac, were the last to embark. Lockhart’s back was to me, but she seemed to sense my approach. She turned to face me, her expression neutral.
“How does the ogre fare?” she called over the rain.
“Too soon to tell.”
She nodded. “Your assistance tonight is appreciated. Your presence here may have kept a terrible situation from becoming worse. When things have calmed down, I’ll arrange for you to have supervised access to our archives.”
She stopped and waited, the look on her face clear that I’d been dismissed. I didn’t move.
Isaac glanced at Lockhart, who cocked her head to the side. “Is there something else, cunning man?”
“We’re not done.”
“Are we not?”
“You wanted an independent observer? Well, you’ve got one. Until we work out what the fuck happened here, you’ve got one.”
Lockhart stared at me for three full seconds, saying nothing. Then, without taking her eyes off me, she inclined her head an inch.
“Then we had better get started,” she said.
7
Lockart, I knew, had properties all over Lost Falls, and probably further afield as well. Aside from the restaurant, she owned a lodge out near Crucible Lake, a medical clinic in downtown Lost Falls, and some unknown number of private residences scattered about town.
Vampires love having bolt holes. I guess if I lived in fear of the briefest touch of sunlight, I’d want some nice dark hiding places all around town as well.
I got the feeling, though, that the place I’d been brought to wasn’t just some property Lockhart owned. It was her home.
From the moment I drove through the gate, I could see her touches everywhere. There was a sense of wildness in the gardens, like a half-tamed jungle barely held in check by civilization. Stone paths led through the dense foliage, vanishing into the black. There could be any number of dark, hidden places amid the trees and flowers.
The house itself was only a single story, though I’d put money on the existence of multiple basement levels. Two large wings stretched off the main body of the house, the full extent of them hidden by the thick gardens. Large, iron-framed windows were darkened by what I could only assume were industrial-grade blackout curtains. Peaked roofs perched atop cream-colored walls.
Lockhart’s BMW slipped int
o a discreet garage connected to the side of the house. Before I could follow, though, an umbrella-wielding swain standing near the front of the house waved to me to park out near the front door. I obliged.
The swain met me with the umbrella and escorted me inside. This one was older than most of the swains I’d seen at the restaurant. She had to be in her late sixties at least. Silver hair was pinned into a neat bun on the top of her head. She probably would’ve been quite the looker in her day. Still was, really. I wondered how long she’d served Lockhart. I didn’t ask.
I was about halfway across the wide, well-lit entrance hall when I realized I was traipsing mud all across the polished marble floor. I glanced an apology at the swain, who just offered me a kindly smile.
“Tonight,” she said, “Mistress Lockhart isn’t worried about a little mud.”
That said nothing about how Lockhart would feel in the morning, but there was nothing for it. Ignoring the squelching of my soaked shoes, I followed the swain through a wide, arching doorway.
As I’d expected, the interior of the house was just as refined as everything else that Lockhart had a hand in. Dozens of inset lights cast a warm glow across walls and floors that might otherwise appear cold, considering all the marble. Potted plants decorated the place at tasteful intervals.
Lockhart’s taste in artwork was a little eclectic—paintings in Renaissance styles mingled with abstract modern sculptures. Somehow she’d managed to keep it from looking like a random hodgepodge. Instead, it reminded me more of a fancy art gallery.
A painting of a mother and baby caught my attention. It seemed a strangely intimate picture for someone like Lockhart—she didn’t strike me as a particularly maternal woman. I turned to my swain escort, intending to ask her about the painting. But before I could open my mouth, a scream came echoing down the wide hallway.
It was a scream that I could only describe as bloodcurdling. A scream of utter horror.
I was running before the first echoes began to fade.
The elderly swain shouted something after me, but I couldn’t make it out over the wet pounding of my shoes against the marble. Doors leading to bedrooms and private alcoves flashed past me as I hurtled toward the dying scream.
The hallway came to an end in a grand dining room with no windows. The dozen high-backed chairs that sat around the oval table were all empty. I skidded to a halt, nearly slipping over in the puddle I was leaving on the polished floor.
Another sound came from a doorway off to the right. Not a scream this time, but a pained, animalistic groan. I found my footing and staggered through the doorway, truncheon in hand.
I found myself in a large sitting room. A black stone fireplace stood cold and empty. Leather couches surrounded a large stone slab of a coffee table, while on the far side of the room was a grand piano that seemed a twin to the one in Lockhart’s restaurant. The lights here were dimmed slightly to provide a more relaxed atmosphere. It didn’t seem to be working.
A young woman was being held upright by two swains—Isaac and Nolan. She was wearing a dressing gown and a pair of sneakers. Raindrops dotted her disheveled hair. She was tall, with an athletic build, but right now she seemed to have no strength left. She slipped through the swains’ grips like she was made of water.
Her groan became a keening sound. She didn’t seem to have any control over it. As the two swains struggled to keep her from falling, her dressing gown slipped down and I caught a glimpse of shiny scar tissue dotting her throat. Another swain.
In front of her stood Lockhart and Atwood. Atwood lingered a couple of steps back, her features touched by anguish. Lockhart was more stoic. Her face was fixed in something that approximated compassion, but the emotion didn’t touch her eyes.
Lockhart was holding the severed head of Selene Eventide. The dead vampire’s features were still fixed in a monstrous, snarling visage. Glassy eyes glared out at the room.
Atwood and the two male swains glanced at me as I came barreling into the room, but Lockhart’s eyes never left the face of the moaning woman.
The female swain began to shake her head wildly, like she was trying to will something into non-existence. Then she raised her head, looked at Eventide’s frozen features, and began to keen again.
“Her death is painful for all of us,” Lockhart said to the swain. “But none will feel that pain as sharply as you, Rachel. You needn’t fear, though. You will be taken care of.”
The woman, Rachel, gave no sign that she’d heard. From where she was slumped, she was at eye level with the severed head in Lockhart’s hands. Every time her eyes were drawn back to it she let out a new wail.
“What the hell are you doing?” I barked.
Lockhart responded without looking at me. “Stay out of this, Mr. Turner.”
Ignoring her, I stomped across the room. The squelching of my shoes didn’t seem to be enough to undercut the threat in my advance. Isaac released the woman’s arm and reached into his coat for a weapon, but he didn’t draw it. I realized I was still gripping my truncheon tightly.
“Get that thing out of her face,” I snapped.
Lockhart’s eyes flashed toward me. “For once, Osric, please do as you’re told.”
I pointed with my truncheon toward Eventide’s severed head. “She doesn’t need to see that shit.”
“Yes, she does. Rachel was Selene’s swain. She’s still bound to her mistress. That connection needs to be broken. The shock to her system will be painful, but if she doesn’t accept it, it will eat her up from the inside.”
“Your concern is touching.” I gestured to the distraught woman. “I think she gets the picture.”
Lockhart narrowed her eyes at me, but Nolan interrupted before she could speak again.
“If it pleases you, Mistress Lockhart,” he said, still trying to keep the woman upright now that Isaac had released her, “perhaps it would be best if I get Rachel settled in a guest bedroom. With a stiff drink, maybe. It may ease the transition.”
Atwood’s eyes widened slightly, and she glanced nervously toward Lockhart. “Quiet, Nolan.”
Lockhart raised a hand, waving away further admonition. For a few moments, she stared at Nolan, then at me. She sighed.
“It’s all right, Carlotta.” Lockhart looked down at Selene Eventide’s head, then held it out to Isaac. “Begin the preparations, Isaac.”
Isaac hesitated, still eying me warily. With an expression that was almost a sneer, he withdrew his empty hand from beneath his coat and moved to take the severed head from his mistress. He held it as easily as if it were a basketball.
As he began to retreat from the room, Lockhart nodded to Nolan. “I’ll check on her shortly.”
Nolan bowed his head, then took Rachel under the arm and hauled her back to her feet. Speaking quietly in her ear, he ushered the woman toward the doorway I’d come storming through. As he passed me, he met my eyes and gave me a nod that was so small I almost missed it.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm my hammering heart.
“What will happen to her?” I asked Lockhart when Nolan and the woman’s footsteps faded away.
Lockhart glided past me and settled heavily into a leather armchair. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of something like exhaustion passing across her face. Then she lifted her hand, brushed a damp hair from her forehead, and her tired slump became regal and unconcerned.
“I will take Rachel in,” Lockhart said. “She shall become my swain.”
While Atwood sat down in another chair, I moved to put myself in front of Lockhart.
“You could set her free,” I said.
“She wouldn’t survive.”
“You don’t know that.”
Lockhart shook her head. “If we let her go, her grief will consume her. She will stop eating. Stop drinking. She will be wracked with pain. She will wander, cold and alone and in agony, nothing but a shell. A ghost. Until either she starves to death or finds a way to end her own existence. That is what happens to swa
ins who are cast free.”
“Not always,” I said.
“No. But often enough.”
“We could try,” I said quietly. “Early found a way, once.”
Predatory eyes flashed to meet mine. I got the feeling Lockhart hadn’t realized I knew that particular tale.
“And what did it cost him?” she whispered. “Was it worth it?”
I didn’t answer that. It wasn’t for me to say.
“You despise us, don’t you?” Lockhart asked. “I can see it in your eyes.”
My mouth grew dry. “That’s not what this is about.”
“Is it not?” She studied me. “You would rather die than become like Rachel, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation.
“You would rather die than surrender yourself to another. Better to die on your feet than live on your knees, yes?”
“Something like that.”
She cocked her head to the side, then seemed to come to a decision. “Ask her, then.”
“What?”
“When Rachel has collected herself, ask her whether she would rather become my swain or be…rehabilitated…by you and Early. I will accept her decision either way.”
I narrowed my eyes. “This is a trick.”
“No trick. Carlotta, you can be our witness.”
The other vampire looked a little startled to be called upon. She bobbed her head in agreement. “Of course.”
“There you go,” Lockhart said to me.
“Even if the bond between her and Eventide is broken, she’s still addicted to the bite,” I said. “She won’t know what she wants.”
“Nonetheless, it will be her choice. You don’t want to take that freedom away from her, do you?”
I grunted. I’d got what I wanted—or at least as close to that as I was likely to get. So why did I feel like I’d walked into a trap?
“Take a seat, cunning man,” Lockhart said after several seconds of silence. “You’re making me nervous, standing there like that.”
I stood there another second, then grunted again and lowered myself onto a couch. It wasn’t until I sat down and felt myself sink into the padded leather that I realized how tense I was.
Tooth and Nail Page 5