Ravenous tdf-1 Page 13

  That would be never.

  Holly is mine.

  Halfway out the door, he paused to survey the spacious lobby and the upscale boutiques that lined its perimeter. He remembered the queen's words. Try wearing something besides black.

  Alessandro strode to the adjoining mall with grim purpose.

  Chapter 13

  All too soon Holly faced the ultimate test of feminine protocol: what to wear when one was not sure whether business, pleasure, or both were on the dinner menu. As a rule, no lingerie decisions could be made until one decided how the evening should end. For instance, if one were reaching for the three-for-one panty hose in basic taupe, the night would be over before it began.

  Better in that case to stay at home with the remote.

  She'd barely met Macmillan but, cop mode aside, he seemed like a nice guy—maybe even worthy of fishnet stockings. But right now? There was a vampire she couldn't have and a demon mouse she wished would go away. Not to mention Ben. Maybe footed sleepers with a plunging neckline would send the right message.

  Then again, it was just a dinner invitation. A business thing. Maybe she could save the angst until after he offered to coat her in chocolate sauce and lick it off to the strains of the 1812 Overture. That would give hosiery choices some meaning.

  Ugh! She glowered at the closet. This is why I had a steady guy. After a while they don't notice what you 're wearing anyway.

  Up till then it had been a good afternoon. Holly had spent time with O'Shaughnessy's Charms and Protections. Reinforcing the protection spell over every door, window, chimney, and light plug—basically wherever there was an opening in the wall—was tedious, but not difficult. Her powers grudgingly rose to the occasion with no more than a few sharp twinges. By late afternoon she was exhausted but thoroughly satisfied. She wanted to keep that glow.

  Not so easy, once the wardrobing debate began. Why did Mac need her help with something personal! That one word held so many possible scenarios, some of them alarming. Better go with the little black dress.

  But then she wore the metallic teal spike heels. They looked like castoffs from Hookers from Outer Space, but there was no need to strike all the fun off the menu.

  Holly arrived a few minutes late. Macmillan lived in a nice but slightly older downtown condo block. As Fairview's housing prices caught up with the rest of the country, it was the kind of place working folk would soon find too expensive to afford. The woodwork in the lobby was faux mahogany; the fittings in the elevator were finger-smudged brass. Soft carpet in the hallway nearly mired her heels as she teetered her way to the corner suite, and her calves were aching by the time she knocked on Macmillan's door.

  Alessandro answered. Holly frowned in confusion. Did I get the right address?

  "Good evening," he said, just this side of Bela Lugosi. "Come in. May I take your wrap?"

  "What are you doing here?" she asked, handing over her mohair stole and the bottle of merlot she had brought.

  Fleeting irritation crossed Alessandro's face. "Detective Macmillan cannot abandon his culinary creation, so at the moment I am his butler."

  "Well, the uniform looks good on you. Nice, um, shirt."

  Alessandro shifted his weight to one hip, settling into his insouciant slouch. Hot-pink silk framed an expanse of pale, muscular chest. His long curls of pale blond hair slid with languid ease over the fabric, the sound a faint, suggestive whisper.

  "I came looking for you," he said. "Your grandmother mentioned where you were going, and that you would be coming alone."

  His eyes caught hers for a moment, but gave away nothing. She wondered how much exactly Grandma had said—but Holly couldn't reply, her mouth too dry for words. Her gaze lowered to the perfect pale chest in front of her. And the shirt. It was so… pink. Hot. Very hot.

  Finally he shrugged. "The detective and I agreed that we three could discuss what we know about recent events. He has been interviewing me as he chopped parsley."

  Holly felt a flicker of irritation. She felt confused, torn between Alessandro's bare chest and Macmillan's micro-grins. She hadn't wanted a steamy date with the detective, but now she felt unaccountably cheated that it wasn't even a possibility. Damn.

  "Why do you care about sharing information with the police?" she asked.

  Alessandro shrugged. "I need to know what he knows. He has forensics, databases, and all the rest of the modern world's monstrous wealth of information. I'm willing to dangle a few tidbits to get access to that."

  "Did you learn anything?"

  "Only that there was a fourth murder. Same as before. Apparently it was on the news tonight. The detective and I could make quite a team if he would simply get past the not commenting on an active investigation.

  "Besides all that," he said, leaning closer, "aren't you glad I'm here? What do you really know of this man? Why did he suddenly call you?"

  Holly raised an eyebrow. "I think I can look after myself."

  "No doubt, but I prefer to examine him before abandoning you to his clutches. I always wonder when people do something unexpected."

  "A man asking me to dinner is unexpected?"

  "You met over a pile of dead bodies mere days ago. Now he's carving little radish garnishes and humming to himself. It's creepy." Alessandro turned, nodding to his left. "The living room is through there. Make yourself comfortable while I open the wine."

  Just what I need, A chaperon. Piqued, she went to take a seat but then stopped cold as she entered the room. The sight made her breath catch in her throat. The room was small, but tall windows stretched across most of two walls, showing the glittering sweep of the harbor beneath a waxing moon. The city lights were so bright she could almost taste the colors like berries on her tongue.

  "Hi. Come on in." Macmillan walked into the room, casual in an oversized, V-necked red sweater. It showed off the strong muscles in his neck and shoulders.

  "Nice view," she said, doing her best to mean the skyline and not the man. This place is full of good scenery.

  Macmillan smiled. "Down there is your neighborhood." He pointed, and she leaned into him to follow the line of his finger. "And just along the horizon—yes, there—you can see the lights of Port Angeles."

  His hand moved to her shoulder and he turned her to see the blur of tiny sparkles wavering on the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Holly could feel the line of heat where his body nearly brushed hers. Her eyes traveled from the window to Macmillan.

  "Thank you for cooking dinner," she said. "I'm surprised, with the investigation, that you get a day off."

  Her words were light, but she'd been wondering a lot about that point. She'd have guessed Macmillan to be the workaholic type, and weren't homicide detectives supposed to be slaves to their jobs at times like this?

  His face tensed. "Actually, I was sick today. Nothing catching, I'm sure."

  She watched as the tips of his ears turned red. There was something he wasn't saying. "Are you okay?"

  He shrugged. "Yeah, I was starting to feel better by the time I called you. I'll live. In fact, right now I feel great. Maybe the rest did me good."

  He was so close, Holly could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek, driving away all other thoughts. "Well, I hope I can help you with whatever it is you need."

  He gave her a melting smile. "I hope you can, too."

  Okay, he said he wanted to talk for personal reasons, but just how personal did he mean?

  Alessandro clattered pots in the kitchen, breaking the moment. Holly took the opportunity to glance around the rest of the room. It was lived-in but tidy for a bachelor's place, old and new furniture blending in a comfortable sprawl. A litter of books and magazines showed a wide variety of interests, from mountain climbing to UFOs. There was a big, manly TV supporting framed photos of family, friends, and a grinning black Lab. One shot showed Macmillan receiving a police award. He looked good in uniform.

  Alessandro entered with a tray of wineglasses, a cloud of delicious cooking smells wafting a
round him. Holly's mouth started to water. Alessandro, on the other hand, looked vaguely green. Vampires hated strong food odors.

  Macmillan waved toward the couch and chairs. "Dinner'll be another few minutes. Shall we sit?"

  The detective clearly meant to sit next to Holly, but he was thwarted. With lazy grace Alessandro sprawled right where Macmillan was headed, taking up enough room with his long legs for three. He flung one arm along the back of the couch, the full sleeve of his pink shirt draped to advantage. As he looked up at the detective, eyes wide with innocence, a taunting smile played along his lips.

  Macmillan and Holly politely took the side chairs, effectively separated. More amused now than anything, she crossed her legs, dangling one hooker shoe. "Well, you two started the party without me. Where are we in the great information exchange?"

  Alessandro laced his fingers over his stomach. "I was about to begin discussing the mouse. It is, believe it or not, relevant to the murders. At least, that is my theory."

  Macmillan narrowed his eyes. "All right, I'll bite. Mouse?"

  Holly tilted her head, watching the two men. Macmillan didn't blink. The detective had guts. Few men dared to stand their ground with a vampire, much less Alessandro.

  Alessandro gave a lazy wave with one hand, but he regarded the detective intently. "What do you know about doorways to hell?"

  She saw Macmillan's jaw clench with tension. "I think there's one that leads to my desk at work."

  "We do not jest."

  "Hell, huh?" Macmillan gave a short laugh. "What, I'm going to be arresting the devil next?"

  "No, no, it's not really hell in the usual sense," said Holly. "Not fire and brimstone per se. It's called the Castle. It's a prison built for demons."

  "Then it's a jail. You're not talking literal hell?"

  Holly opened her mouth to reply, but Alessandro broke in. "Eternity imprisoned without hope or future. Do you have a better name?"

  Mac shrugged. "Okay, fine. What's hell—or prison, or the Castle, or whatever—got to do with a mouse?"

  Holly and Alessandro looked at each other, then took turns describing the portal in Holly's house. After that, Alessandro filled in more details about the portal that had opened up behind Sinsation. It was the first time Holly had heard the whole account of that night.

  "Y'know," Mac said incredulously, "I've worked in this town for years. Sure, there's some supernatural crime, but this stuff is outside the box."

  When he spoke, his strong-boned face was mobile and young. When he was still it fell into the lines of a mature man, tired and a bit hard. His eyes reminded Holly of a surgeon she knew, that same look of someone who had seen the insides of too many people.

  As a cop, perhaps he had.

  "So how do portals work?" he asked. "How do the prisoners break out?"

  Holly replied, because, between spellcasting and figuring out what to wear, she'd been thumbing through a couple of books Grandma had loaned her. "Demons might have the strength, but they can't find their way on their own. Someone has to summon one, usually by name. Set up a beacon to show it the path, if you like. At least, that's the theory. I don't have direct experience."

  "So the summoner sets the beacon and the demon opens the portal?"

  "If the summoner is powerful, he or she can send power to help the demon, but yeah, that's the basic idea. Sometimes the demon makes it through on the first try, or else it just keeps poking holes until it manages to crawl through. It can't stray far from the point of summoning. If it does, it'll lose the connection that allows it to cross over."

  As they talked, Macmillan's color rose. He looked fascinated and appalled. "So this is going to happen again?"

  "It already has," said Alessandro. "Several times."

  Holly picked up her wineglass and had a sip. "But the demon has come through now. I don't know if there'll be any more portals."

  Macmillan got up and then came back with his notebook. He flipped it open and started scribbling. The intensity in his movements and expression reassured Holly. She hadn't yet figured out why Macmillan was playing the host with the most tonight, but this was normal cop behavior she could understand.

  "So," he said, "there has to be a summoner out there somewhere."

  "There is," said Alessandro. "Holly, remember I asked you about tracking that spell when we first got to the Flanders place?"

  "Yeah, we never got back to that. You said your client was having problems with someone calling up a destructive entity in his warehouse."

  "When was that?" Macmillan asked sharply.

  Alessandro gave a wry smile. "A few weeks ago. About the same time as the murders. Violent death, or the blood from it, contains power of its own. It might be a necessary ingredient for opening a portal."

  Holly nodded. "I've seen that in some of the nastier spell books."

  "Then that's our connection. The summoner and the murderer—or whoever is directing the murders—might be working together. They might be one and the same." The detective thought for a moment, flipping notebook pages back and forth. "The murder of the girl in the Flanders house probably relates to the portal there. The murder in the wine cellar did happen right before your mouse. I don't know about the first two deaths. Maybe those are your warehouse incidents."

  "Would that be around the same time the changelings arrived in Fairview?" Holly asked.

  Alessandro refilled Macmillan's glass, then Holly's. His own was still full. "I don't know. I only saw them the once. I thought those two were the killers, but now there has been another murder."

  "Unless there're more… whaddya call 'em… changelings somewhere," Macmillan added. "Though I have to say we—the police—never found any others."

  Alessandro folded his arms. "Neither did the vampires."

  "But why would they be involved at all?" Holly wondered.

  "Vampire politics." Alessandro shrugged. "In the past they fought for territory. They lost badly. That is why there are so few of them now."

  "Are they servants of the demon?" Holly mused. "Are they looking for revenge?"

  "I don't know," said Alessandro.

  They fell silent. The only sound was the ticking of the kitchen timer.

  Alessandro sat back. "Those pieces fit together well enough to explain at least some of what's happened. That still doesn't tell us who's behind this, but last night they succeeded. They got their demon."

  "What are they—whoever they are—going to do with it?" Macmillan asked. "More important, what are we going to do about it?"

  "I was reading one of Grandma's books," said Holly. "It suggests finding the name of the demon. It won't get rid of it, but if you know its name, you're one step closer to controlling it."

  "Like finding its rap sheet? What it's capable of?" said Macmillan.

  "More than that. Names have magical significance,"

  Alessandro replied. "Holly, is there a way witch magic can find the demon's identity?"

  Holly squirmed, pulling her skirt down over her knees. Catching her breath, she held it a long moment, then released it slowly to still the butterflies in her stomach. She had an idea she really hated.

  "You mentioned necromancy. I could raise the dead," Holly said in a dull voice. It was easy to be brave and determined just talking to Grandma, but now that she was committing herself for real, her head was starting to throb. "We just need to identify the grave of someone who walks between the worlds. A restless ghost. Then I can bring that spirit forth for questioning."

  Alessandro shook his head, a somber look on his face. "That is an excellent idea. I would have liked to have made the suggestion myself, but I've been afraid that if you use the power required for necromancy, you will be hurt."

  Holly shrugged. As miserable as she was, she wasn't going to backpedal now. Holly tossed back her wine in a gulp and set the glass down on an end table with an audible click. "I don't want to do this, but this demon was in my house and threatening my life. It has to go. I'll do whatever it takes."<
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  The men looked at each other, clearly conflicted. "I don't know what the problem here is," said Macmillan, "but I'll help however you need me to."

  Alessandro just frowned.

  "All right then," Holly said softly, tension knotting her cold, cold stomach. A timer in the kitchen began to ding. The high pitched bell felt like a spike in Holly's skull. The detective headed to the kitchen to check on dinner.

  Alessandro leaned forward and fixed her with his amber gaze. "I don't like this, however useful necromancy may be. I'm not undermining your decision, but if you change your mind at any point, just say the word."

  "I can't. So much is at stake. Including me."

  "What are the risks?"

  "It's big-M magic."

  "And so I am right to believe that it will hurt?"

  "Yeah." Holly sighed. "And sometimes necromancy's just disgusting."

  She poured herself another glass of wine, her innards wobbling at the prospect of raising the dead. That was big-league stuff, the majors. What am I doing?

  Alessandro's cell rang—a tinny rendition of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. He made a face, then got up and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "As the detective said, whatever you need. Anything."

  He flipped open the phone. "Caravelli." He listened. "Excellent. I had a thought for you to follow up. Ask him where he was yesterday afternoon, about four thirty. I'm serious. Certainly."

  He walked into the next room, which looked like a study. She watched him go. Where was who yesterday afternoon? The last murder had been yesterday afternoon at about four thirty. What's going on?

  She could hear Alessandro, even though he was keeping his voice down. Curiosity won out. She rose and crept forward, her steps silent on the carpet, and paused just outside the door. It sounded as if he were having an argument.

  Alessandro was speaking. "Impossible." He shifted impatiently, listening to the reply. "Let me get my hands on the creature. Hold off for an hour or so, and I'll be there."

  There was no ambiguity in Alessandro's tone. There was an implied threat in the words that made Holly suddenly cold.