“Nice guilt trip. I can’t let you go.”
“Because you don’t trust me.” She lay down on the bed, her arm shielding her eyes from the overhead light. “I can’t trust my jailer. It’s a matter of principle.”
“Then we’re at a standoff.”
“Lock me in on your way out. I’ll look forward to an exciting evening of counting carpet lint. You should try hanging some pictures. Do you know how boring your bedroom is?”
Lore raised an eyebrow. “I’ll let that sleeping dog lie.”
A beat passed. “Oh, great. Now I have to wash my brain out with soap.”
Chapter 12
Lore set wards on the bedroom window and door, using the power over entryways that came effortlessly to the hellhounds. The wards would keep Talia in and everyone else out. He feared a door-to-door search by the police, so he set more at the front entrance, but these were designed primarily to make someone pass by. It wouldn’t do to blow up the local cops.
The downside of using magic was that other magic users could detect it. Handcuffs, while primitive, were a better choice for that reason. However, he couldn’t bring himself to put them back on Talia’s wrists. His doubts had shifted. Now he was less convinced that she was a murderer, but he was dead certain that she was in deep trouble—and had been for a long time. He’d seen that kind of grief in people’s eyes before. It didn’t come from a single tragedy. It came from circling the drain for years.
There were people who had done extraordinary things to make his life better, and for no other reason than that they could: Constance Moore, Perry Baker, Alessandro Caravelli, and Mac, the fire demon who had helped to rescue the hounds from hell. Talia needed someone to be her champion, whether she trusted him or not. How could he let her go until he knew that she would be safe? Besides, wasn’t clearing the name of an innocent woman the sort of thing a deputy sheriff was supposed to do?
The fact that he’d noticed Talia time and again in a very unsheriffly way had nothing to do with his protective instincts. Not at all. And nothing to do with the fact that the bow of her mouth drove him crazy.
Twenty minutes later, Lore stamped his feet as he pushed open the heavy oak door of the Empire Hotel restaurant lounge. A blast of heat and babbling voices swirled against the wall of frozen air outside. He took a moment, blinking the snow from his eyelashes. Christmas lights ringed the room, and pine swags adorned the walls. Frost veiled the windows, reflecting the lights in sparkles of red and green. Lore brushed the last of the melting flakes from his coat and headed into the gloom.
“Winter sucks. Can half demons get frostbite?” he asked the man behind the bar.
“You tell me,” Joe replied. “It’s coming down like crazy. You got your truck on the road?”
“Just. If this keeps up, the parking lot at the condo is going to be snowed in by morning.”
Joe put a mug of black coffee on the bar and splashed some brandy into it. Lore hitched himself onto one of the barstools, resting his feet on the gleaming brass rail of the bar. He gratefully wrapped his hands around the steaming drink, inhaling the brandy-soaked fumes.
“Snow sucks,” Lore said. “I thought it was supposed to be fun.”
“This storm is nothing,” Joe replied. “You should see the Caucasus in January.”
“Where’s that?”
“Mountains by the Black Sea. The most beautiful place in the world.”
Lore shot Joe a glance. The bartender was slicing lemons, each cut quick and exact. They looked about the same age, but Joe—Josef—was a cursed immortal, part vampire, part werebeast, although he looked like a healthy human male in his early thirties and had no problem at all with sunlight. He’d been an inmate of the Castle, escaping a few years before Lore had.
“Why did you not go back to your homeland?” Lore asked.
Joe gave him a wry smile, the same one that advertised his doomed-but-definitely-available status to the human women who came into the Empire. They lapped up his charm like starving cats would a bucket of cream. Lore always wondered what Joe lapped up in return.
The barkeeper swept the lemon slices into a metal bowl. “They have not forgotten my old mistress in Trencsén. If they figured out I’d been part of her household, I’d either become a tourist attraction or a throw rug.”
Lore had heard the stories of the Hungarian princess Joe called ecsedi Báthory Erzsébet. Elizabeth Bathory, the Blood Countess. She’d been rumored to bathe in the blood of virgins. That was likely more hysteria than fact. She’d probably just snacked on them.
“Besides.” Joe shrugged. “I have friends here. Opportunities. I’m an entrepreneur now.”
Lore followed Joe’s gaze around the lounge. The place was filled with dark paneling and upholstery. The heavily carved bar ran the length of one wall, the elaborate mirrored cabinetry behind it a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Lore knew every inch of that antique oak shelving. He’d restored it himself.
“Business must be good,” Lore said. “Only a few tables are empty.”
“I’m open. The snowstorm’s closed a lot of places.” Joe refilled Lore’s coffee. “What brings you here?”
“I’m meeting someone.” He’d made some phone calls on the way over. By human standards, it was an odd hour for an appointment, but some people were only available in the middle of the night.
“Better grab a table, then.”
Joe turned away to serve a couple of werebears that had lumbered in for a beer. Lore slipped off the stool and walked toward an empty table in the back corner. The clientele was mixed, some humans, some supernaturals. Since Joe had taken over the place, he’d tried to appeal to a more upscale crowd. It seemed to be working.
Lore wondered where he’d gotten the money. He’d started as a penniless waiter only a few years ago. Another thing about Joe that inspired question marks.
Halfway across the lounge, Lore picked up a familiar scent. He stopped so suddenly, the hot coffee sloshed in his cup, burning his hand. He ignored the pain as he swung around, searching for the male vampire that had been prowling the stairway of Lore’s condo.
He spotted him at once. Three figures were sprawled around a wooden table, two men and a female whose skin was so dark it was almost truly black. All were warriors—even more than their impressive muscles, Lore could see it in the alert carriage of their bodies. Weapons were out of sight, but their hands lingered close to belts, boots, and arm braces, all places Lore typically stashed his knives. These three were potential trouble.
They were also vampires.
His nose identified the larger male as the one who had been to the condo. He was big, hard-faced, and threw off a vibe that warned away other males. His hair was very short, elaborate designs shaved into the thick, dark stubble. His most striking feature was his eyes, an ice blue that contrasted sharply with an olive complexion. A scar ran along his jaw Lore would have sworn had been made by a cat’s claw. A very, very big cat.
At his feet lay the ugliest dog Lore had ever seen. The scarred bitch looked like a cross between a pit bull and a dozen other bad-ass breeds. Bandages wound around one leg and an ear was missing, the stump still pink. Dog fights.
Lore’s hackles rose. Sensing his anger, the bitch got to her feet, putting herself between the hellhound and her master.
“Easy, Daisy.” The big vampire patted the dog’s flank gently; then those ice-blue eyes searched Lore’s face. “You have a problem?”
Mostly Lore itched to rid the place of this vampire and his friends. The Alpha in him wanted to thin the testosterone haze hanging over the table. “Your dog is injured.”
“I found her in an alley behind a dive in Northern Cal. She’d lost her last match and whoever owned her didn’t waste a bullet to put her down.” His massive hand engulfed her head, rubbing her remaining ear. His voice was rough, as if someone had crushed his voice box. “Old fighters have to stick together, eh?”
The dog tried to lean in to his hand and lick it at the same time.
Lore relaxed, sensing the bitch’s trust in the huge vampire. It was the best character witness possible.
Encouraged, Lore pulled up a wooden chair and sat down. The vampires gave him a hard look, lips lifting to reveal the tips of fangs. His blood rose, urging him to snarl back, but he didn’t answer the challenge. His goal was to get information, not fight.
“Who are you?” the big vampire demanded.
“Lore, Alpha of the hellhounds and acting sheriff of the nonhumans.”
The ice-blue gaze flicked over him. “We are visiting. Election fever has us curious.”
Lore got straight to the point. The noise level in the place was loud enough to cover their conversation. “You were in the building where I live. Why?”
“Does it matter?”
“There was a murder.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Then—”
“He said he didn’t do it.” The second male picked up the pitcher of beer and refilled his glass.
He was of a different ethnic type, golden skinned and dark eyed. Black, curly hair framed features still soft with youth. He could have been no more than twenty when he was Turned, but he felt enormously old to Lore. All three of them did.
“I didn’t say he did,” Lore returned, pitching his tone between friendly and no-nonsense. “I’ve been told that I’m a bad interrogator, but I’m not that blunt.”
“Your technique needs work,” the young-looking one shot back, his eyes hostile.
Lore calculated the odds of taking all three vampires in a fight. They weren’t good. Still, he had no plans of backing down.
“Peace, Iskander.” The first one returned his attention to Lore. “I had an errand near your home. You can rest assured that I won’t be back. Is that good enough?”
“What kind of errand?”
His expression defied Lore to press further. “It was personal.”
And I’m a Chihuahua. “Do you know anything that would cast light on who beheaded the human woman?”
The dark-skinned female made a sudden gesture that rattled the golden bracelets at her wrists. Lore spared her a glance. She was slender and sleekly exotic, but obviously just as lethal as the men.
“Nia?” asked the first vampire.
“Darak,” she said in a voice that reminded Lore of dark fur sliding through the night. “You said nothing of a murder. You said you were chasing power.”
Nia, Iskander, and Darak. Lore at least had names.
“Because it is like saying the sun rose today. Innocents die. And I did not find the source of power. Yet.” Darak stood suddenly, pushing back his chair. “It is time for us to go.”
The other two exchanged startled looks, but rose. The dog stood, pressing close to Darak’s leg. The vampire turned to Lore. “You can tell your queen that we are neutral observers.”
The statement confused Lore. He got to his feet, disliking the sensation of the vampires looming over him. “Omara is not my queen. I’m not one of the Undead.”
Darak gave an odd smile. “She has not demanded your allegiance?”
“No.”
That seemed to surprise him. “Will you vote for de Winter?”
Lore shrugged. He cared little for politics. “I don’t know.”
“Then whose side are you on? Are you for integration with humans?”
The questions irritated Lore. He was the one doing the investigating. “What is it to you?”
“Nothing, but I grow tired of providing all the answers. It is only fair that I get equal time to play interviewer.”
Lore grudgingly played the game. “I am neither for nor against de Winter. I hope for peace but I have one hand on my weapon. The pack comes first.”
The vampire gave a low laugh. “We have a few things in common, Alpha of the hounds.”
He turned to go. Lore grabbed his hard-muscled arm. “Not so fast.”
Darak wheeled, eyes wide. “You think you can hold me here?”
“I need answers.”
“I don’t have any.”
“You know something.” Lore held the vampire’s cold blue gaze, the skin down his back prickling with tension. Darak was one scary mother, clearly expecting Lore to turn tail and run. He held his ground. Slowly, those ice-blue eyes narrowed, changing from angry to speculative.
Darak leaned forward, so that only Lore could hear what he had to say. “The dead woman has a cousin. A vampire.”
He could feel Darak’s age and power like an electrical field. Lore felt the hair along his neck rise. Talia. “Yes.”
“Keep her safe.”
The words made his guarding instinct go on high alert. “What do you know?”
“A necromancer set a fire earlier tonight. A spell that raises that much power needs a death. That’s why your neighbor was killed. Or part of it. Her cousin is in his sights. She will be next.”
Lore went cold. “How do you know this?”
A strange look came over the vampire’s face. Lore would almost say it was horror. “The dead sometimes speak to me. Leave the spell caster alone, deputy dog. Guard the girl and keep the town from going crazy over the election.”
“I can’t let the spell caster go,” Lore said flatly. “Murder is murder.”
Darak gave a shrug. “As you wish.”
Talia is in danger. He knew that, but hearing it from this stranger made the threat all the more concrete. “Did the dead mention the name of the killer?”
“No.” Darak stepped back, his enormous frame filling their corner of the lounge. “I don’t think she knew it.”
Darak turned and made his way toward the door, the dog and the other two vampires at his heels. This time, Lore let them leave.
What the hell am I supposed to make of that? Lore picked up his cup, then set it aside in disgust. The encounter with the vampires had made him edgy, itching to feel the crack of the necromancer’s bones against his knuckles. The only plus was that Talia was safely behind magical wards—and what Darak had said proved that she was innocent. Unfortunately, a secondhand account from a ghost would never stand up in court. Lore would have to do better to clear her name.
And to do that, he needed more information.
Checking his watch, Lore noted it was past his appointed meeting time. He looked around, but didn’t see the face he was looking for.
He also needed something stronger than coffee. By the time he got himself a beer from the bar, all the normal tables and chairs were taken, so Lore sat down in one of the soft leather seats clustered around a coffee table. Lore shifted uncomfortably, his jeans sliding on the leather seat. It was a bit like sitting on a giant black marshmallow. He just wasn’t trendy urbanite material.
Irritated, he checked his phone and found a voice message from Baines, demanding to talk to him again. Lore deleted it. He’d make himself available when he had time.
A woman left a nearby table and sat down across from him. “You called me, and here I am. What can I do for you?”
Lore did a double take. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”
The truth was, he hadn’t recognized Errata Jones. The celebrity werecougar talk show host of CSUP radio, she normally wore a Goth getup of black leather. Only the chin-length jet-black hair was familiar. Today she wore a heavy cream sweater and jeans beneath a tweed coat, and her face was bare. For the first time, Lore thought she was actually pretty.
“I need your help,” he said, deciding to be blunt.
“Do you? I wonder how I can help one of the mighty hellhounds?”
She tilted her head to one side a moment, considering him. Her eyes were green-flecked hazel, her skin more golden than he had expected. He’d bet good money the black hair was a dye job.
He waited patiently as she squirmed out of the coat, knowing better than to rush a cat toward a decision. She picked up her peppermint hot chocolate and crossed her legs. He could see her jeans were wet from the knees down, evidence of her trek through the snow. “Tell me,” she said.
“I always wanted to be Brenda Starr. I’m more than just a sultry voice, you know.”
She was indeed one of the smartest people Lore knew, though that intelligence was very different from Perry’s. Where Perry found facts, Errata made connections. “I need answers from someone who isn’t with the police. Strictly off the record for now, but you can have anything I know for an exclusive later.”
Errata raised one eyebrow slightly. “Really?”
“There was an incident.”
“Incident?”
“Beheading. Vampire. I don’t think it’s public knowledge yet. I didn’t see any reporters.”
“Hairballs!” She set down her mug again, leaning forward. “When? Are we talking slayers?”
“Not anything sanctioned by human or vampire law.” He sketched out the bare bones of Michelle Faulkner’s murder, finishing with what Darak had said. “My problem is that there are far too many strangers in town. Finding one spell caster won’t be easy. I’m counting on Perry’s help, too.”
Errata made a face. “And the spell guy isn’t the only new problem in town. There are rumors of pro-human fanatics arriving with plans to blow Spookytown to kingdom come. With so many visitors, mass carnage would be the height of efficiency.”
“Who are we talking about?”
“Some say the Hunters.”
“I didn’t think there were any outside of Europe.”
“There is one bunch who lives down east. They could be out here for the election along with everyone else.”
Lore swore, and then dropped his voice. “This has to stay just between you and me. I have the prime suspect in the murder locked in my bedroom.”
Errata stared. “What the hell?”
“It’s a long story.”
“You are such a dog. Who is it?”
“A female vampire.”
Her whole body tightened, like a compressing spring. “You know bondage is only cool if it’s consensual, right?”
He felt unwelcome heat creeping to his ears. “This is not for games. I can’t turn her in to the police. She’s not guilty. There’s a good chance they’ll execute her just to say they closed the case.”
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