Frostbound

by Sharon Ashwood

  And he remembered the millions of webs they’d passed earlier. The snap-crackle-breakfast-cereal-maggoty sound was the patter of tiny feet. Spiders were swarming in rivulets down the tunnel walls and across the tunnel floors. They had no option but to run across the tide. Darak tried not to feel the slippery crunch of it, and then the tickle of something crawling under his pant legs.

  Vampires ran supernaturally fast, but the big spider was just as agile, squeezing through a narrow neck in the tunnel by flattening itself and folding sideways through what space there was.

  Crap! They reached the passage they wanted, but it was webbed completely over. Iskander, who had been ready to launch himself down the passage, recoiled with a backward leap, nearly crashing into Darak.

  Another exit up ahead was rimmed in webs, as if the spinners had just gotten started on that one. Darak thought he could see the white mesh growing in the few seconds he looked at it.

  “This way!” They wheeled and bolted through it.

  “I know where we are!” Iskander cried. “There’s a street exit about a block away!”

  Blessed Persephone. This passageway was wide and new, recently used for city maintenance because there were pieces of pipe and other construction materials stacked against one wall. Frost furred the odd piece of metal, giving the debris the look of an exotic beast.

  Darak had not gone fifty feet when he realized that the rustling sound wasn’t behind them anymore.

  It was up ahead, between them and the way out. His stomach dropped like a rock.

  Iskander gripped his gun as if it were a talisman. “We can’t go back. They’ll have our retreat webbed off.”

  Without answering, Darak stopped and picked up a length of thin pipe, testing its weight and balance. He handed his flashlight to Omara. “Then we go forward.” He took the lead, shifting the pipe to his left hand, the .357 in his right.

  I hate bugs. I really hate bugs. Spiders zigzagged across the ground, crawling over one another in their crazed haste to get—wherever. Darak couldn’t see a pattern in the movement, as if the creatures were driven by a panic of their own.

  They grew thicker with each foot of ground. Iskander raised his flashlight beam a fraction, catching the dull gleam of a ladder to the street. For an instant, Darak’s hopes lifted.

  Then the beam went up another notch. The huge spider was just in front of the ladder, splayed on the ceiling. Now Darak could see its full size—the body was as big as the wheel of a monster truck. The little spiders were weaving a thick web over the exit to the street.

  His whole body itched and prickled.

  Would a bullet kill it? Only one way to find out.

  He shot the spider. It fell with a heavy plop, flipping itself upright with surreal speed. The bullet had gashed its chitinous body, a grayish green ooze dribbling out. Its pincers worked manically, venom gleaming at the tips.

  A very different kind of venom from a vampire’s. One bite would surely kill a man.

  Omara shot, aiming for the cluster of eyes. It squealed like a saw shredding violin strings. The spider rose on its hind end, front legs thrust out. Darak rushed forward, ramming the pipe into its belly. The spider fell forward, pincers slashing. With a wild leap, Darak flung himself into a somersault, barely escaping the cage of its legs. The spider jerked, struggling against the metal lodged in its flesh.

  Darak aimed his Magnum and began firing with grim determination. Iskander and the queen followed suit.

  Making another bone-wrenching scream, the creature rushed them. Darak dropped the gun and fell into a crouch right in the spider’s path.

  “Darak!” Omara shrieked.

  As the thing swarmed over him, legs churning to grab and hold, he flung his arms around the pipe and thrust with a rasping scrunch. Green matter fountained from the wound.

  The screech pounded against the stone walls.

  The small spiders fled in a stampede of rustling feet.

  Darak heaved on the pipe, shoving the weight of the spider away as he leaped back. It collapsed to the ground, bouncing once before it lay in a stinking heap. Green continued to bubble from the fat belly.

  They stood for a moment, saying nothing. Darak stared at it, pissed that it dared to exist.

  “Where did that thing come from?” he growled.

  Omara answered. “Sorcery. Belenos surely made it.”

  “Do you think there’s more?”

  The queen shrugged, looking pale beneath her cinnamon skin.

  Iskander cleared his throat. “Just in case, let’s get out of here. Now.”

  Pulling a knife from his boot, Darak circled around the body, and climbed the stairs. The spiders’ web sealed the exit completely. He hacked through the web, peeling it back with a sound like masking tape coming off the roll. He pushed open the manhole cover with a clang and climbed out. He took a lungful of clean, chill air, glad to be free. A moment later, he saw Omara’s upturned face peering out of the manhole. He reached down to pull her out.

  Iskander followed, already on his phone. He flipped it shut. “Nia’s coming with the boys. There was a scuffle when a group of Hunters figured out the queen wasn’t in the car, but she took care of it.”

  “Good news.”

  The queen’s face was tight. “Even so, I underestimated Belenos. His forces are better organized than I assumed.”

  Darak gave her a long look. That was the problem with royals. They always figured they were smarter than the next guy. But Omara had guts, so he gave her the benefit of his opinion. “Look, Your Majesty. If he just kills you, there’s a good chance someone will step up and continue your work. He wants to obliterate your base in Fairview. He wants everything you stand for gone.”

  She turned angry eyes on him. “Then we need to finish this tonight.”

  “No shit.”

  Chapter 30

  Lore had less than a minute to save his people.

  He charged the enemy, ducking, weaving, leaping the fireballs in a deadly dance. Their ammunition wasn’t infinite, and he was determined to make them waste as much as he could. Every fouled shot was one less chance a hound would die.

  Twenty seconds spent.

  The scene was coming at him in a blur of detail: the sharp-edged rubble of the barricade, the startled faces of Belenos’s vampires as they wheeled around to see the red-eyed hound hurtling at them. Lore knew the ones he wanted. If he took out the leaders, the rest would scatter.

  Thirty seconds.

  He would have to brave the snipers. He was gambling they only had a few bullets filled with quicksilver. After all, just about every hellhound alive was somewhere in Fairview. Such bullets were a custom-made item.

  Thirty-five seconds.

  His pack had turned and were following him, but they were far behind. He was moving faster than the sorcerers could take aim. Faster than he could think. Lore let go and let his instincts run.

  Forty-five. Rifles cracked, the sound blaring against the stone, but he was too fast for them, too.

  Men swore.

  That’s right. Do it.

  Switching the rifles to automatic sacrificed accuracy for speed. It wasted lots of ammo.

  Lore leaped, spreading his paws wide to catch the leaders in the chest, to crush them to the dirt for putting his pack, his woman, and the city he called home in danger.

  Fireballs launched, and they were too close to avoid.

  Poisonous bullets pierced his flank, tearing through flesh and bone.

  He’d expected it. Lore let himself fall to dust.

  In the spark of consciousness that was his essential self, he counted. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. Holding himself between states was a difficult trick, one only the strongest hounds could pull off.

  And he re-formed, his jaws around the neck of the leader, the bullets and fireballs sailing through the air behind him. Bone and cartilage snapped beneath his teeth, blood rushing over his tongue.

  This was what hellhounds had been
bred for: to search out and destroy threats to the common good. It wasn’t pretty, but it was what they did.

  Mavritte and her Redbones answered the distress call, leaping the barricade like a black, rough-coated nightmare. It was exactly what was needed. Their numbers tipped the balance. The vampires scattered like the proverbial chickens, screaming as they bolted into the tunnels. Mavritte’s hounds followed, baying in choplicking excitement.

  Meanwhile, Lore’s hounds found the stairways up to the narrow ledge the snipers were using. Hellhounds died, but eventually the Hunters broke and ran.

  Lore had secured his quadrant and saved his pack.

  But the search had just begun. The tunnels were vast and there was still no sign of Talia.

  Or Belenos.

  Munching of bones.

  Talia’s legs cramped from being held immobile by the ankle chains. Because vampires didn’t exactly have circulation, her hands weren’t numb despite being cuffed behind her, but her shoulders ached from the awkward angle.

  Fear hovered like another presence in the room, poking at her with the claws of memory and dread. Talia tried to push it away, but somehow it managed to squirm past her refusals. It clung and it whispered, reminding her that her friends were in trouble, and what could she do? Talia was useless, stuck to a chair while Belenos and company studied www.WhatWouldVoldemortDo.com for evil inspiration.

  He hadn’t been back. Presumably he was busy stalking Omara.

  Talia looked around, using her dark-adapted eyes to search her surroundings one more time. She’d killed Lore’s clock and got out of her handcuffs once. Surely she could come up with a means of escape this time—but she wasn’t seeing the possibilities just yet. There was nothing in the room but dust, spiders, and wine barrels. If there was ever an AAA poll on places to be held captive, Lore’s bedroom beat this one-star underground hole hands down. Lore’s cuisine was abysmal, but he’d at least cleaned since 1905.

  Lore! She sent a silent prayer outward, to wherever he was. Be safe!

  Talia tensed as she heard the key in the lock. Someone came in, holding a lantern. She squeezed her eyes shut, momentarily blinded by the bright light. And then she smelled him. Max!

  When she opened her eyes, the sight of him sent a jolt through her. He was holding a gun. She made a noise around her gag, half hope, half fear. He set down the lantern and walked to where she was sitting. Then he hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Talia looked up at him, pleading with her eyes. You’re my brother. Don’t leave me here.

  It must have reached him. Wordlessly, he crouched behind her, working on her leg chains. She twisted her head around, making noises around the strip of cloth binding her mouth. Thank you. Thank you!

  He got her feet free and started working on her wrists. “Don’t talk,” he said gruffly. “I don’t want to talk to you. He’s going to kill you. Get out of here, and don’t look back. If he catches you, I was never here, get it?”

  Awooowowooo! The sound echoed through the tunnels, lonely and chilling. Hellhounds. Max’s hands shook, slipping on the ropes.

  She heard the thunder of heavy paws and heavy panting from massive lungs. It was so loud Talia could nearly reach out and touch the sound—the sliding, scraping, bumping of fur and muscle and claw in the narrow passage. Running right past the door.

  “Shit!” Max muttered, fumbling with the keys.

  He came back for me. My brother came back. Talia flexed her feet experimentally, the freedom of movement delicious. Part of him still loves me.

  Something else howled, the sound like the desolate thunder of the eternal gate shutting forever. Despite herself, Talia shivered. Then the silver chains fell from her wrists.

  “Get up,” Max said. She could smell his sweat, sour with nerves. He would hate that loss of self-control.

  Talia tore the gag from her mouth. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t talk to me.”

  She stood, the motion stiff and unsteady. She was shaking, but it wasn’t fear. It was pure emotion. She held out her hand to him, her fingers almost grazing his arm.

  He jerked back. “Don’t touch me. I wasn’t here, remember?”

  “Max,” she said, her voice pleading, but then she stopped. He had done what he could. He’d betrayed everything he believed in to save her. She couldn’t ask anything else.

  “You’d better be able to walk,” Max said darkly, opening the door.

  Omigod! Talia’s eyes flew wide, and Max wheeled back to the doorway. Her mind went blank with shock.

  Belenos stood there, watching a miniature image of them in his quartz ball. “Tsk, tsk. I told you I’d be watching. Both of you. You know what happens to children who don’t listen.”

  What was he doing back? Wasn’t he supposed to be out killing Queen Omara?

  Max blocked the entry, but Belenos brushed him aside. “Playing the big brother, are we? What will Daddy say about his beloved heir breaking the rules?”

  Talia watched Belenos move toward her, every past horror rearing up like a cobra dripping venom. Instead of making her afraid, it was making her angry. He’d hurt her. He’d hurt Max, and he was planning to do it all over again.

  She caught Max’s hand signal from the corner of her eye, one they’d used together time and again since they were children. An evil kind of satisfaction filled her, but she wiped it from her face.

  “You have to take care of this, Max. Plans have changed. We have to be prepared to move in a hurry.” Belenos reached out and gave a lock of Talia’s hair a tug. “She’s betrayed us both, and now she’s nothing but a nuisance.”

  “Leave her alone.” Max took a step to the left, getting into position.

  “Why should I?”

  “She’s my sister.”

  “Then the honor of taking her head is all yours, my boy.”

  Talia looked from one to the other, letting rage, terror, and incredulity flow over her features. Let him think she was frightened and helpless. Belenos undid the buttons on his jacket, exposing a shoulder holster that held both a gun and a long knife.

  Maybe the same blade he’d used to hack Michelle’s head from her body?

  Max’s face went hard and cold. “No way.”

  “Then you’ll be the first to die.” Belenos drew a Browning Hi-Power. “Loose ends need to be tied up.”

  It happened before Talia could form a thought. Vampire-quick, she grabbed for the knife at the same moment that Belenos aimed the gun at Max.

  Max kicked, knocking the Browning aside. Talia had the knife, the grip smooth and elegant in her hand. Silver hilt, silver blade.

  She shoved it between the Belenos’s ribs. On the left side, slanting upward. Instinctively, she aimed for the heart.

  But it wasn’t his only weapon. He had a boot knife.

  Searing pain sliced into Talia’s side, turning her whole body numb. The hilt of her knife slipped from her fingers. “Max! Make it stop! Make it stop!”

  Max fired his own gun, taking the top off Belenos’s head.

  The king fell to the ground, collapsing onto his right side. Talia dropped to her knees, blood oozing from her side. She pulled out the boot knife, feeling the ooze turn to a steady flow. Belenos was stirring. She groped for the Browning he had dropped, working by touch.

  Horribly, with brains and blood oozing down his face, the king was sitting up.

  Talia’s brain short-circuited. Vision was no more than blobs of color. There was a noise in her head like the steady screech of a car accident, waiting for the crash. “Stand back, Max.”

  She’d found the Browning. She raised it, knowing she was a good shot. At this range, an idiot couldn’t miss.

  She started firing. A spray of lukewarm blood caught her face and arms, blowback. It didn’t stop her. She kept firing.

  And firing until there was nothing left but the click of the gun.

  Belenos had no head left.

  Max was gone.

  And then the world began to fade to bla
ck.

  Chapter 31

  When she came to, Talia couldn’t figure out what she needed most: rest, water, blood, medication, or a therapist.

  A bath. She pulled herself upright. Her side twinged where Belenos had stuck her with the knife, but she’d stopped bleeding.

  Belenos.

  The gruesome ruin of his body lay there, an arm’s reach away. He was melting, dissolving into a dusty slime as vampires did when they died for the second time. She’d well and truly killed him, a vampire monarch. Her sire. Her persecutor. Her killer.

  She’d been a Hunter. She’d killed before. By rights, she should have felt remorse, jubilation, satisfaction, something—but no. Maybe those were emotions for later. Maybe this was too personal, too deep for ordinary feelings.

  Right now it was more like ticking a mental check box. Belenos needed killing. No question. Tick. Done that.

  Suddenly, she turned and threw up a spatter of liquid, missing herself but not missing the decaying splodge that had been his feet. Her body was experiencing something, even if her mind had checked out.

  I have to get out of here. Her senses were coming back, and the smell of him was staggering.

  Talia got to her feet, memories returning in a jumble. Michelle, finally avenged. Max, who had come to save his sister but had been too afraid to stay. Afraid of Dad.

  Belenos was a crazy, dangerous sonofabitch, but in some ways was a stand-in for the real villain of this piece. Her father—the great Mikhail Rostov—was the one who’d given his daughter her real wounds. Without him, Belenos would never have had a chance to touch her.

  And he was out there with the rest of the Hunters, killing her friends.

  Lore. She knew he could take care of himself, but he was facing magic and Hunters. I have to help him.