by Meg Benjamin
A moment later, the door opened and Augie filled the space. His eyebrows arched as he looked at her. “Well, well, Rosie. Twice in one day!”
If she hadn’t learned her listening skills from Skag, she might not have caught the faint strain in his voice. She peered up at his face and saw the slightly tightened skin around his eyes and the firm set of his jaw. She smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring way. “This afternoon you said you might have a customer for Locators, Augie. I didn’t get the details.”
Augie glanced behind her into the darkness of the Nightmare. “Delwin here with you?”
Curiouser and curiouser. “Nope. Just me. So what can you tell me about the job?”
“Don’t have the details with me, Rosie.” Augie’s mouth moved into a stiff smile. “Can I call you in a couple of days?”
Rose shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”
“Come on, have a glass of wine. On the house.” Augie put one immense paw on her shoulder, steering her back toward the bar as he closed the office door behind him. “Didn’t mean to make you come all the way down here for nothing.”
Augie’s slight push was meant to be friendly, Rose knew, but somehow it felt a little more like he was propelling her away from the office. She found herself wondering just what Augie had in there he didn’t want her to see. Or who.
Rudy poured her a glass of Vampire merlot, the house wine, and she took a few decorous sips, watching the goth girls circulate around the dance floor. The DJ had the techno turned up to mild-hearing-loss level.
“Have a good time tonight, Rosie,” Augie bellowed in her ear. “Call me if you need anything.”
Rose watched him hurry back to his office. Hmm. Augie the man-mountain wasn’t normally the hurrying type. She craned her neck, but the office door closed too quickly for more than a quick glimpse of the darkened interior.
Thirty minutes later, after a glass of merlot and a couple of dances, she felt depressingly ready to leave. A boy whose pimples were cruelly emphasized by the black light had made a weak pass. A middle-aged man in a vintage polyester shirt wanted to buy her a drink. She’d turned them both down politely, but nobody else in the club looked any more interesting. Even the goth girls had already drifted away to some other destination.
For an evening of hell-raising, this one had been a complete bust.
Sighing, Rose gathered her purse and slipped out the door, pulling her jacket over her blouse as she walked down the deserted sidewalk toward the side street where she’d parked. The presence of the bouncer at the door was supposed to discourage predators, but Rose gripped her keys just in case.
In the distance she heard dogs barking—baying, actually. Like hounds on the hunt, only bigger. A sliver of unease crept across her shoulders, but she shrugged it off. Somebody’s yard dogs. A lot of the houses in this part of town kept a couple of pit bulls or German shepherd descendants for insurance against burglars.
She unlocked the car door and slid into the front seat, relocking the door immediately. She wasn’t nervous, really, just cautious. But she did leave her cell phone on the passenger seat where she could reach it quickly if she needed to.
Even with the windows closed she could still hear the dogs. Grimacing, she started the engine and pulled out into the street, heading for the freeway on-ramp. Must be hell trying to sleep around here. Maybe animal control doesn’t come out at night. For just a moment she was aware of vague shadows dancing in her rearview mirror, but when she looked more closely, the street was deserted.
Nothing out there, Rosie. Nothing at all. Still, she pulled onto the brightly lighted interstate with a feeling of relief.
A few minutes later, she turned onto South Alamo, heading for home. The streetlights seemed fainter all of a sudden, dimmer. Mist. Another foggy evening. Must be a symptom of global warming or something. As a rule, San Antonio wasn’t known for this kind of autumn weather.
She parked in her driveway, then glanced down toward the river at the end of the backyard. Mist hung in the live oak leaves, reflecting the shrouded lights along the river paths, just like fog on the Thames in an old Sherlock Holmes movie. On an impulse, Rose slipped her purse over her shoulder and headed toward the hiking path.
As she strolled along the sidewalk near the Johnson Street Bridge, she realized she wasn’t the only one who wanted to see what the river looked like in the fog. A few couples ambled along the near path, and she saw some of her neighbors standing in their yards. Well, she assumed they were her neighbors—with the fog it was hard to tell. Sort of people-sized lumps, anyway.
There wouldn’t be this many people around in a Sherlock Holmes movie. On the other hand, having this many people around made it less likely she’d run into Jack the Ripper. Not that she was uneasy or anything.
For some reason Alana DuBois popped into her mind. Rose’s jaw tightened. Alana DuBois definitely hadn’t been done in by Jack the Ripper, at least so far as she knew.
She walked to the center of the bridge and rested her elbows on the wrought iron railing, leaning forward to look down into the black water. The fog muffled sounds as well as lights, making the voices around her indistinct in the darkness. Sherlock Holmes on the Guadalupe.
Far down the river, she could hear dogs barking. She frowned, turning slightly toward the other side of the bridge. That baying sounded a lot like the dogs she’d heard at the Nightmare. She couldn’t remember ever hearing dogs in her neighborhood before, particularly not at night. She was fairly certain the King William Association would be all over anybody who kept a couple of pit bulls in their yard.
She peered through the darkness and mist billowing around the river, toward the shadows under a clump of cypress a half block down. Had something moved there? She squinted, straining to see in the gloom. Something had moved, a vague shape heading in her direction.
The barking was louder now. Rose glanced back at the couples on the path, but they strolled on, oblivious.
The barking stopped suddenly, the silence almost more threatening than the noise had been. She stood very still, feeling her heart thump. Somewhere close-by she heard a growl, low and vibrating. She squinted at the shadows across the river. Surely it was her imagination. She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes.
At the edge of the darkness under the trees, something smoldered. Two somethings. A moment passed before she realized what she was seeing.
Two large eyes. Large, orange, glowing eyes, in fact.
“Oh, holy crap,” Rose gasped, backing away from the railing. “That can’t be good!”
***
Evan sat staring at his cell phone, wondering why he was having this inner conversation when he’d already decided not to call Rose Ramos until morning.
On one hand, he hadn’t found anything that couldn’t wait for a few hours. The news that Alana DuBois was a crook whose real name was Sylvia Morris wouldn’t be a surprise.
On the other hand, Rose’s opinion of his research skills seemed somewhat low. Of course, there was no reason he should care whether she was impressed with him or not. But he did. Finding Alana would at least show he wasn’t a total incompetent.
On the other hand . . . Evan sighed. He was already out of hands and he still hadn’t figured out what to do about Rose Ramos. Or why he felt this sudden, urgent need to see her.
He flipped through the stack of papers on his desk and found her résumé. The address was in the King William District, not exactly on the way back to the apartment he was renting in Alamo Heights. Still, maybe he’d just swing by her house. If he saw a light, maybe he’d knock on her door.
Or maybe not. It all depended on how he felt when he got there.
Evan grimaced again. Right now, he was too antsy to sit around the office. Rose Ramos was becoming a pain in the ass again, and this time it wasn’t even her fault. He threw some of the papers he’d been studying into his briefcase and headed ou
t the door.
***
As soon as she hit the bike path, Rose realized that a short skirt and high-heeled sandals were not the ideal clothes for running from things with glowing eyes. Her soles slid on gravel, almost throwing her off her feet. After a few more stumbling steps, she reached down and jerked off her shoes, tossing them behind her as she headed for the grass. The barking grew louder. The animals must have reached the Johnson Street Bridge where she’d been standing only moments before.
Glass, sharp pebbles, her practical side admonished, you need shoes.
Freakin’ monsters! yelled her Riordan ancestors. Run!
She raced past one of the couples, dimly aware of their stares. “Everything okay?” the man called.
Okay? Were they deaf? Crazy? “Dogs,” she panted, wheeling around to look at him. “Pack of dogs coming.” The barking was much louder now, closer.
Dogs. Chasing through the night. Her heart thumped louder.
The man looked at her blankly. “Dogs? Where?”
She wanted to yell at him, but she didn’t have time. Instead, she began to run again, heading up the grassy slope toward her backyard. Grandma Caroline’s pendant thunked heavily against her breasts.
“Miss?” the man called from behind her. “It’s okay. There’s nothing chasing you.”
“Right,” she panted. The barking, accompanied by growling, snarling, and the snapping of massive jaws, seemed almost at her heels. If no one else saw them, then they were definitely supernatural and definitely not good. Even her limited experience with phantoms told her that much.
The barking now turned to baying, as the hounds picked up the scent. If they caught up to her they’d probably tear out something vital, something she needed a lot.
Breath burning in her chest, she scrambled to the top of the embankment, hearing the sound of claws scrabbling over the paving stones at the bottom of the yard. She thought she felt hot breath against the back of her legs, but she didn’t dare look around to see. She slammed the back gate closed and threw the latch across, hoping it would hold them but knowing it wouldn’t.
The back door loomed above her at the end of a short flight of stairs. She scrambled up as fast as she could move. From behind, she could hear the dogs baying again as something large and heavy struck the gate with an ominous thump. She turned the knob and remembered, too late, the recalcitrant lock that always took too long to open.
“Damn, damn, damn,” she gasped.
She leaped down from the steps on the side away from the baying, heading for the gravel drive that led to the front.
“Just a little longer,” she muttered as she racketed up the driveway. “Just stay there a little longer.” The sharp gravel ground against her feet, but she ignored the pain.
Behind her, she heard the sound of splintering wood and a clang as the latch on the back gate sprung loose. The pack of hounds growled low, muttering, confused and angry. But they’d pick up her scent again any moment now.
She clambered up the stairs at the side of the front porch, staggering toward the door. “Oh, please. Please, Skag. Please be home now.”
Suddenly, she heard the sound of paws galloping along the driveway, monstrous claws clicking on the asphalt. She fumbled for the key she kept in the old mailbox at the door, jamming it into the lock and twisting for all she was worth.
Close behind her, something yipped as she shoved the front door open, half falling through, trying to shove it closed with her shoulder. A large heavy projectile struck her chest with the force of a missile, blowing the door wide and throwing her down full-length just inside. She looked up into an immense mouth full of yellowing fangs. Threads of drool hung a few inches from her face.
She tried to twist away, pulling as far back as she could beneath the dog’s weight. Dread clenched her stomach as she closed her eyes. “Ohgodohgodohgod.”
“Rose!” Skag’s voice echoed through the hall. “That’s a hellhound. Stay absolutely still! Do not move!”
She couldn’t have moved if her life depended on it, which, of course, it probably did. The dog’s huge paws still held her shoulders flat against the floor. Its breath blew hot against her cheeks, smelling of old meat and open graves. She struggled to breathe under its weight, tensing for the moment it would clamp its teeth on her throat. She heard the faint creak of its jaws as they opened wider.
And then something large, damp, and utterly disgusting swiped across her cheeks.
She peeked through her lashes up into the dog’s face. Glowing orange eyes stared back as the animal prepared to lick her again.
Hastily, Rose pushed herself upright, reaching out reflexively to keep the dog from falling. It slumped backward slightly, landing in a large, heavy heap in her lap and gazing up at her in surprise.
They sat staring at one another for a few moments. Then she reached tentatively to touch its scarred and lumpy head. The dog’s mouth inched up into a fang-ridden smile. “Nice doggy?” she mumbled.
The hellhound licked the back of her hand.
Skag floated in the living room doorway, staring down. “I’ve never seen one behave like that before.”
“He followed me home,” she gasped, feeling a desperate urge to giggle. “Can I keep him?”
“Her.” Skag turned and floated back into the living room. “And I doubt you have a choice. It appears we’ve just acquired a houseguest.”
Chapter 8
Evan circled King William Park and headed toward the San Antonio River. Finding his way around the narrow streets was hard enough in the daytime. At night, particularly with this strange, unseasonal fog, it was a bitch.
He was beginning to think this decision to share his information with Rose tonight was a really lousy idea. Part of him wanted to turn around and head back to Alamo Heights, but there was still that weird pulse that kept pushing him down the street. Find her, talk to her, now!
He finally turned on Washington, the street beside the river. A few people walked along the riverside path in the fog, maybe taking in the atmosphere. As far as Evan was concerned, the atmosphere felt like wet wool—damp and clammy.
Somewhere nearby he heard dogs barking. A lot of dogs. Not exactly what he expected from King William. Maybe somebody had a posse of rambunctious poodles.
He peered at the addresses, looking for the one that belonged to Rose Ramos. He’d almost come to the end of the block when he finally found it—a three-story Victorian with a square, sloping roof and a front window jutting up from the slope. A wide porch ran all the way around the first floor, dripping with gingerbread trim. All in all, typical King William–style and probably worth a mint. He wondered how a retired librarian could afford it. Maybe her family had money. Although she sure didn’t dress like it.
He parked his car on the street in front of the house, then climbed up the steps to the porch and pushed the doorbell. Somewhere deep inside he heard a faint buzzing. He raised his hand to knock, but the door swung open.
Rose Ramos didn’t exactly look like Rose Ramos. Or anyway, she didn’t look like the Rose Ramos who’d been in his office that morning. Her black leather skirt stopped about three inches above her knees, showing an impressive length of curving calf and thigh. Her blue satin blouse hung untucked and slightly askew, revealing the curves of generous breasts, accentuated by the jeweled pendant that hung in her cleavage. Rich honey-colored curls billowed wildly around her shoulders. Emerald eyes stared back at him, outlined in luxurious dark lashes.
Rose Ramos was a fox. A dish. A knockout. Why the hell had she hidden all of that lusciousness under those awful clothes when she’d been in his office? Did she think he wasn’t worth dressing up for? He felt a purely masculine jolt of resentment. Just give me a chance, babe!
“Evan,” she croaked. “Why are you here? What do you want?”
He cleared his suddenly dry throat, trying to remember just wh
y he’d come in the first place. “Just thought I’d tell you what I found out when I talked to the cops this afternoon. About Alana DuBois.” That sounded even lamer than he’d anticipated.
Rose blinked at him, jerking one hand behind her as if she was pushing something back. “It couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
“Well, sure. But I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d . . .” He glanced down into glowing orange eyes and moved back a step.
It was the largest dog he’d ever seen. Coal black, with sharp pointed ears, its bulging shoulders were even with Rose’s waist. Its lips were drawn back in a low, rumbling snarl, showing large, jagged fangs, perfect for ripping something—more likely someone—apart.
“Nice dog,” Evan muttered, half to her and half to the hound that seemed on the verge of removing his favorite body part.
Her already-wide green eyes opened wider. “You can see it?”
“Hard not to.”
The dog moved a couple of inches closer, filling up half the doorway. It sniffed at Evan’s shoes.
Rose reached down and grabbed the scruff of its neck. “Get back, hellhound.”
Evan raised an eyebrow. “Hellhound?”
“Helen,” she corrected quickly. “Helly for short.”
The hound gazed up at her, then broke into a doggy grin, running a tongue the size of a bath mat across the back of her hand.
Rose grimaced, wiping her hand against her thigh. “So what did you find out?”
“Alana DuBois was an alias. Her real name was Sylvia Morris and she did time for fraud in Dallas,” Evan rattled off. Coming here had obviously been a major mistake.
Rose stared back blankly. “Oh, that’s . . . okay.”
“Okay?” Evan grimaced. So much for impressing her with his researching skills. “Yeah, I thought it was okay.”
She sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m not really processing things right now. I’m not at my best—I’ve had a very rough evening. Give me some time to think about all of this, along with the stuff I found about Bradford. I’ll bring it in when I come to work tomorrow.”
