Frostbound Page 11

  Unfortunately, the vampire had booked his holiday before the election date was set. He was missing all the fun. Lucky bloodsucker. Not that Caravelli didn’t deserve a break.

  The vampire was vacationing in Madrid, traveling with his wife, his wife’s grandmother, his baby daughter—that was a long story—his wife’s sister and her husband, and their eleven-year-old girl. The women were witches, the brother-in-law an ex-immortal still settling into life in the twenty-first century. That was one Christmas family vacation sure to be memorable by anyone’s standards.

  Lore pulled his head out of the fridge and tried the cupboards instead. There were dog bones and strawberry Pop-Tarts. He went for the Pop-Tarts, stuffing them in his old toaster.

  Caravelli had been excited about the trip. This would be the vampire’s first vacation in—what had he said?—a hundred and fifty years. He was finally getting some personal time, leaving with a good conscience because the hellhounds were there to keep an eye on things.

  The Pop-Tarts popped just as the appliance started to smoke. Time to fix it again. Lore pulled the plug out of the socket and grabbed a tart, burning his fingers, and ate it over the sink.

  I can’t call Caravelli at the first sign of trouble. That would be the worst thing—a holiday ruined, Lore losing face in front of the pack, and what would happen to Talia? For now, it was better if the Fanged One stayed in Spain, safely out of the way. The airports were probably snowed in, anyway.

  Lore chewed, feeling a nagging sense of guilt. Murder, arson, and dark sorcery weren’t exactly minor problems. Lore had a responsibility to ask for help if he needed it. He had a right to pride, but not to arrogance.

  Lore started on tart number two.

  He’d be an idiot if he didn’t ask for information. Lore looked at the clock. It would be night in Spain. Stuffing the last of the tart in his mouth, he picked up the phone and punched in Caravelli’s cell number.

  The vampire answered on the third ring. “Caravelli.”

  “It’s Lore. How’s the holiday?”

  “Women like to shop,” he replied in sepulchral tones. “The only thing keeping me from eating someone is that I am mercifully unconscious during the vast majority of store hours. And it’s a good thing the queen pays me well. I apparently need to keep my wife in overpriced shoes.”

  “Better you than me.” Lore didn’t buy the longsuffering husband routine. There was a vibrancy in Caravelli’s voice that said he was really having a good time.

  “Is this a purely social call?”

  “No. I met three vampires last night who made my nose twitch. Their names are Nia, Iskander, and Darak. Do you know them?”

  He heard his friend catch his breath. Given that vamps didn’t breathe unless they were talking, that was saying something. “What were they doing?”

  “Drinking at the Empire. They say they came into town for the election.”

  “They weren’t causing trouble?”

  “Not when I saw them.”

  “You’re lucky. They’re rogues. More like the rogues. They’ve been around since the time of Nero.”

  Lore’s grasp of human history was vague, but he knew that was a very long time. “What do they want?”

  “It’s hard to say.”

  “That’s helpful.”

  “They have a particular hatred for authority, probably because they began life as Roman slaves. Darak was a gladiator, famous in his own time. There are crowned heads who tremble at the mention of his name.”

  Yeah, whatever. “What did he do?”

  “Whatever he wanted to. Basically, the gladiator doesn’t pick favorites when it comes to the vampire clans. That’s why they hate him. He’s more likely to show up, cut off the heads of both sides of an argument, and then shower their wealth on the gardener and the scullery maid. He thinks he’s Robin Hood.”

  The reference was lost on Lore. “And he got away with killing both sides?”

  “No one will stand up to him.”

  We’ll see about that. Lore rubbed his eyes, still feeling his late, late night. “There’s more. You’re going to be home in three days, so you should know.”

  “Know what?”

  Lore told him the rest, keeping back only the fact that Talia was asleep in the next room. For a long moment afterward, Caravelli was silent. “I’ll try and get an earlier flight.”

  “Finish your vacation. Don’t spoil it for your family. What I need you to do is to get the queen to delay her arrival. She’d just be another target we need to guard.”

  “She’s on my speed dial.” Caravelli didn’t have an easy relationship with Omara, but he looked after her interests. “Look, I want to be there to help.”

  “I’m just doing legwork right now. Recon. I’m not pulling the trigger on anything until I know exactly what I’m up against. And I’ll warn you that it’s snowing hard here. The airports may not be open.”

  Caravelli made an exasperated noise. “Can I do anything else?”

  “No. That’s it. I’ll call if anything else comes up.”

  “Good. Keep me up to speed.”

  “I will. Bye.”

  “Later.”

  Lore put the phone down, mulling over what to do next. He would welcome Caravelli’s return, but he couldn’t count on it. Not with this weather.

  He was on his own.

  Chapter 14

  Wednesday, December 29, 2:30 p.m.

  Spookytown

  There might be Latin-spewing evil burning down the city, but Lore still was Alpha of the pack. Since questioning vampires in daylight was pointless and it was too soon for Errata to have found any answers, he would spend the afternoon finding out who had put Helver up to breaking into the campaign office.

  Lore stood on a street corner downtown, or where he thought the corner should be. Snow hid the curbsides and muted the shapes of fire hydrants and garbage cans. It was still coming down, too, the heavy clouds making a twilight out of midafternoon. The buses had wallowed down the main roads without getting stuck, but he didn’t hold out hope for tomorrow. The city didn’t have much snow-removal equipment, and this storm was freakish.

  Fortunately, he’d been born with an optional fur coat. Letting his human shape drop, Lore fell to a dark mist. The cold shocked him for a moment, seeping through the infinitesimal spaces between demon and nothingness. He swirled, buffeted by the rising wind. It took all his considerable strength to pull the particles of himself and re-form into a hound—ears, paws, tail, nose—his deep-chested body the last to form out of the churning mist. Lore shook himself, scattering the falling snow from his back. With a bound, he dove into the drifts, heading toward the cluster of city blocks the hellhounds called home.

  He saw the pups first, bouncing in and out of the snowdrifts, rolling and wiggling in the soft white mounds, and tossing clumps of snow with their noses. Lore slowed to a trot as they raced in circles around him, seeming to barely notice the cold. Where do children get all that energy? He mock-nipped at a stubby tail as it flashed past.

  He was tempted to give chase, giving in to the game, but a nudge of his psychic senses made him look down Heron Street. The urge to play vanished in a lurch of foreboding. There was a cluster of hounds in human form, hands in their pockets, standing in the intersection a block away.

  There were two groups of hounds in Spookytown: his own Lurcher pack, and these others, the Redbones. When Lore and his allies had rescued his pack from the Castle, they had freed the Redbones, too. There were many casualties, and survivors from the two packs had amalgamated under the Lurchers.

  Sort of. The Redbones’ idea of getting along seemed limited to sharing a zip code.

  Lore barked the pups out of the way and shifted back to human form. He turned down Heron Street to see what fresh hell the Redbones were plotting. He was willing to bet they were at the bottom of Helver’s sudden interest in crime.

  Blowing on his hands, he walked toward the group. They fell silent as they spotted him, leaving n
othing but the eerie quiet of the traffic-free streets and the soft crunch of his boots through the new-fallen snow. He counted five hounds, including the Redbones’ leader—the she-hound from his nightmare.

  As he drew near, the female put a hand to her chest and bowed. At her signal, the four males followed suit. Lore had no illusions about the greeting. Mavritte was an Alpha in her own right, bowing to Lore only because so few of the Redbones survived. As leader of a diminished pack, her position was awkward. She could only truly join her group with another by mating with the Alpha or by losing to him in a fight—and losing was usually fatal. Her best option was to do what she was doing—maintain a truce with the Lurchers and treat Lore as her king. If their positions had been reversed, she’d expect Lore to do the bowing.

  Not bloody likely. She was a bitch in every sense of the word. Beautiful, but in a spine-chilling way. Like all the hounds, she was tall, strong-boned, and leanly muscled. Her black hair was thick and cut to a shaggy cloud that framed her face and showed off huge, dark eyes. Despite the cold, she was dressed in more weapons than clothes, and a generous part of the clothing was rings, chains, and zippers.

  He’d heard a Castle warlord had used Mavritte as a body slave, tending to his physical requirements. She’d eventually slit his throat. After that, she’d ousted her pack leader and taken his place. Now she was looking at Lore with dark, serious eyes. He had a fleeting urge to duck.

  “Greetings, Madhyor,” she said, giving him his formal title.

  She never did that unless she wanted something.

  “Greetings, Mavritte.” He returned the bow, showing respect.

  Lore took a quick survey of the others. All Mavritte’s favorites, and probably bedmates. All heavily armed. Each one shifting to block an exit from the intersection. He unbuttoned his coat, just in case he needed the freedom to move.

  “I am glad we meet. There are matters concerning the Redbone pack that require your attention.”

  Lore felt like saying that the Redbones took threequarters of his time already, but thought better of it. “Is this a discussion that can be accomplished indoors?”

  She tilted her head, the gesture showing off the striking bone structure of her face. “It is better that we talk where no others can listen.”

  Lore looked pointedly at her friends.

  “They are no one,” she said with a wave of one hand. She wore gloves with the fingers cut out, all the better for gripping a weapon. “My business is with you.”

  “How fortunate for me.”

  Mavritte gave him a caustic look.

  If she was going to thrust a meeting on him, Lore would take advantage of the situation. “I am happy to listen to any member of my pack, but right now I have a whelp to discipline for breaking pack law. Perhaps you know something of that?”

  “Helver?”

  “Yes.”

  She shrugged. “I heard about that. We all need money. Can you blame him for using a hound’s natural gifts to get ahead? Besides, the bloodsuckers have wealth to spare. To listen to them, you’d think they were all emperors in their youth.”

  “Theft is lazy. There are means to earn our keep.”

  Building and fixing came as second nature to the hounds. Hauling lumber up a scaffold was easy. Engines surrendered their secrets with barely a struggle. The Lurcher pack had opened a business recycling everything from furniture to auto parts. As long as humans were wasteful, there was good money to be made by clever hounds.

  “Picking garbage?” Mavritte shifted her weight to one hip. “What sort of a future is that?”

  “We came from hell. Now we live in a place that lets us earn and pay our way. We have hope that we can send our young to good schools, so they will live even better lives.”

  She laughed, a throaty sound of sheer amusement. “You’re an idealist. I didn’t think that was possible after the way we grew up.”

  “I think it’s essential. What I say is also truth. We are living a life better than anything we dreamed of.”

  They were silent a moment, the snow drifting down. It caught in Mavritte’s dark hair, ephemeral stars.

  She shook it off. “The humans won’t let us get ahead unless we force them. We are like the insects that hide in their cupboards, stealing scraps of food. One day they will grow weary of us and call the exterminator.”

  Lore felt a niggle of doubt. “Not all of them are like that. Many welcome us. Remember when we first came to Fairview? Some sent food and blankets.”

  Her voice softened. “There are always a compassionate few. I would rather have the respectful many.”

  “I don’t see how raising a pack of thieves will gain respect.”

  “I grant you that, but it’s time we consolidate. Seek power.”

  “What are you hoping for?”

  She straightened, as if they’d finally reached the part of the conversation that mattered. “Wealth. A louder voice on the Supernatural Council. Fear, if necessary. You know how the Castle warlords worked. You learned their lessons as well as I did.”

  “Enough to know I never want to live in such a place again,” Lore shot back. “Why re-create the very thing we fled from?”

  She raised her hands in an exasperated gesture. “Because if we can’t defend ourselves, the pack will fail.”

  “We are the peacekeepers that patrol Fairview. We are the ones who break bones and smash heads. How are we not defended?”

  Mavritte thrust a finger into his chest. “You need to pick a mate. Pick me. Bind our packs once and for all.”

  Lore’s mouth dropped open for a heartbeat. Prophets save me!

  She folded her arms. “Do I not please you?”

  That’s what she said in the dream.

  “You are beautiful and fierce. Strong. Powerful. Smart.” Hellhounds could not lie, and she was all of those things.

  “But?”

  He hesitated. But I don’t trust you enough to give you half my power.

  She grabbed his face. His first instinct was to throw her to the ground, but then she pressed her lips to his. They were surprisingly soft, full, and hot. Her tongue danced at the entrance of his mouth, teasing, coaxing. He let her inside as her body pressed against his. They shifted slightly, adjusting for the bulge of weapons, the exact placement of hip and shoulder. They were a good fit. She was nearly six feet of warm, female hellhound, everything his genetic code had bred him to want. Someone who would give him litter after litter, and guard them with her last breath.

  Lore crushed her to him, savoring the musky, honeyed taste of bitch. He’d always noticed Mavritte. Now he slaked his male curiosity, letting his hands wander down the taut muscles of her back. He had slept with plenty of the pack’s women. Some would even say he’d been downright democratic in his interviews for a mate. Mavritte was certainly the most exciting, in a vaguely suicidal way.

  Someday, the mating urge—that drive to take a female in a permanent bond—would drive him mad. Mavritte was right. It was past time to pick somebody, but it wasn’t just a choice made by lust. There was more than pure biology involved. A hellhound chose with his soul.

  He released her. They panted slightly, gusts of breath forming clouds in the air. He could see the disappointment in her eyes. She would feel the failure as much as he did.

  “You’re not the right one.”

  Scent. Taste. Something was off. He’d found Talia more appealing, and she wasn’t even the right species. And yet Talia felt right. Was there something wrong with him?

  “I don’t care if we’re not the match for each other’s souls,” Mavritte returned, her voice soft. “There are too few of us left to search endlessly for one eternal mate. The ones we were supposed to bond with could be dead, killed in the Castle. We have to choose and move on.”

  Lore didn’t reply. There was a chance she was right, but they were still a bad pairing. They didn’t think the same way.

  “I’d never regret having you in my bed.” She looked him up and down, but her b
ravado wobbled. However she chose to spin it, her Alpha had rejected her.

  “I am honored that you considered me worthy of interest,” he said, and meant it.

  Nevertheless, anger flared in her eyes, flickering out of sight so fast he wasn’t sure he’d seen it. “Go, then,” she said. “Go look after the misbehaving whelp.”

  Lore made a move to leave, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Wait. How are you going to punish him?”

  “I must think of a way for him to make amends to the vampires. Then I will give him to a trainer for a few months.” A trainer acted as a strict but fair taskmaster, usually appointed to younger hounds who had transgressed. The sentence usually meant a span of hard labor on difficult, unpleasant jobs.

  “Let Grash be his trainer.” She nodded to one of her men. “He is good at working with wood. He could teach Helver much. Let the Redbones prove to the Lurchers that we are also invested in the pack’s welfare. If we can’t bond one way”—she gave a lopsided smile—“we’ll have to come up with other ways of integrating the packs.”

  It made political sense, but Lore didn’t like it. He didn’t trust Mavritte, especially in a conciliatory mood. Still, this was a low-risk way of extending goodwill. He would keep an eye on the situation, and set others to do the same. “Very well.”

  Mavritte nodded and folded her arms. “Good.”

  Lore studied her a moment. The snowflakes had made a crown in her hair. “Be well.”

  “Be well.”

  Lore turned. Grash stepped aside to let him pass, bowing as he did so. Lore nodded an acknowledgment, resisting an urge to growl. There was something about the Redbones that set his teeth on edge.

  He was still stewing when he reached Helver’s home. It was one in a string of ancient row houses, two stories high with identical green doors and peaked roofs. The hellhounds had repaired what they could, but the walls were crooked and the foundations cracked. The homes of refugees, Lore thought. One day, when there was enough time and money, he would tear them down and build afresh.