Holly drew back her head, looking into his eyes. “This sofa sucks. Let’s go to bed.”
This time his smile was genuine. “That’s more like it.”
Whatever it was that was causing her stress, he’d do his humble best to make her forget all about it. True warriors knew how to fight with more weapons than a sword.
October 3, 7:15 p.m.
101.5 FM
“. . . and to those animal control officers who put my main man in the pound, a big hello from the Fairview University and Community College, good old F-U-C-C U.
“It’s seven-thirty and this is Errata, your nighttime guide until the witching hour. Speaking of rules and regulations, I have an e-mail from a listener responding to our interview with Lore, the local leader of the hellhound pack. [email protected] writes: ‘Dear Errata, I love your show but I hate the way you’re always dropping hints about a place called the Castle. What is it and why won’t you talk openly about it?’
“Well, my furred and fanged ones, if I was to start talking about a world of trouble behind a mysterious door in a local alley, I would get my pretty paws fired right off this station. That’s why I really wish someone would come on down, grab this mic, and spill the beans. I may be a naughty kitty, but I might be just too weak to stop you from blowing the lid off the worst-kept secret in town. The truth is out there, my friends.
“Why the muzzle? Hey, if you think freedom of the press and independent investigative reporting is alive and well in any community, much less the supernatural community, go look up the phrase ‘advertising sponsors.’ And that’s your final answer.
“Okay, movin’ on with a number from our favorite zydeco zombie dudes with ‘Babe, You’ve Got My Arms (so give ’em back)’ . . .”
Ashe Carver twisted in her seat and pondered the coffee shop—Brownie’s Bistro—over her shoulder. Although she’d picked a seat at the counter to chat up the waitstaff, she hated sitting with her back to the room. Vigilance was the first thing a slayer learned. The second was to know the quarry.
Ashe was in Spookytown, where humans—even hereditary witches—were clearly in the minority. She’d come into the café hoping to round out the information she’d already gathered on Alessandro Caravelli, including his routine, history, and associates. As it turned out, she was the sole customer in the joint.
It was a nice, quiet place for a conversation. The only sounds were the radio and the whoosh of traffic outside. The building was old and comfortable, clearly from the turn of the last century. The walls were covered with abstract oil paintings. A dark wooden counter with barstools stood opposite the door to Johnson Street, leaving the remaining space to a scatter of café tables.
A clatter caught her attention. She swiveled around on her stool. The guy who’d served her—probably the owner, from his in-charge bustle—shouldered through the kitchen door. He was carrying a rubber bin of silverware, which he stowed under the counter with a clash.
“It’s getting busy out there,” Ashe commented with a nod toward the window. Night was falling. The streets were filling up.
The guy looked up. About forty, he was wearing jeans and a Harley Davidson T-shirt that strained across his chest like a barrel. He had shaggy, dark hair and small, shrewd eyes. Almost visibly, he switched from busboy to host, putting on a smile and wiping his hands on an already-rumpled apron.
Werebear, she thought. Low threat, as long as she was polite.
“We get the after-movie crowd, mostly,” he rumbled. “You new in town?”
“Just came back. Grew up here.” Ashe leaned her chin in her hand. “This area used to be derelict. It’s really improved.”
“Coming along. Hard work pays off.”
“Looks pretty peaceful around here.”
“We feed those that want feeding and discourage the rest.” The bear gave her a narrow look. “We don’t want trouble.”
Which is great, except vamps are vamps and werewolves will happily chew your leg off if the pretzel bowl’s empty. “Good for you. I was on the prairies when they had that big problem with the pro-human vigilantes . . .”
The bear waved her words away with one huge hand. “Don’t even go there. We all get along fine. Anyone hassles anyone else in this neighborhood, and the sheriff gives them a talking to.”
She’d heard the same thing twice already that day. “Sheriff? That this guy Caravelli I keep hearing about?”
The bear leaned on the counter. “Yeah. What’s your interest?”
“I need to talk to him. Where does he hang out?” She wanted to confront him alone, away from Holly.
“Why?”
Ashe took her inspiration from the radio program she’d heard on the café’s sound system. “I’m writing a story. I’m an independent investigative journalist.”
The bear gave a slight smile. “I’d think again if I were you.”
Ashe returned his look, carefully neutral. “What do you mean?”
“You’re no reporter. You move like a fighter.” He pushed away from the counter, folding his arms. “I know your type. You want to be a bad-ass. If you’re looking to prove something, try another city.”
“This is my city.” She kept her voice flat and gray as a steel blade.
“No.” The bear leaned across the counter, moving quickly enough to make Ashe spring off her stool. “It’s our city. You have to share it now. And I’m damned if I’m going to end up as a scatter rug because you don’t think I’m good enough to hold a business license.”
“I’m not interested in you.”
He heaved a noisy breath. “Fine. But mess with Caravelli or his woman, you’ll answer to half this town.”
“We’ll see about that,” Ashe said quietly, but the bear had turned away, pointedly giving her his back. Brave bear.
Ashe threw a five on the counter, not bothering to ask for change. No point in wasting her time with Pooh here, however much she would have liked to pick a fight. She allowed herself an angry glare at the point between the bear’s slablike shoulders.
The Caravelli fan club she’d uncovered in Fairview was definitely getting on her nerves.
So was the fact that fang-boy and Holly seemed to be glued at the hip. Move over Brangelina, here comes Hollesandro. The one thing she hadn’t heard was that Holly was his venom-addicted thrall. According to gossip, she seemed to wrap the deadly warrior around her pinkie. Could it be that Alessandro really was a vamp with a heart of gold? Chosen by his lover to live off the power of their passion?
Yeah, right. And I’m the tooth fairy. She turned to leave.
The bell over the door chimed. A young, attractive couple came in, smelling of the early evening rain. They had a fluid way of moving, almost like they walked on springs—something wild beneath the velvet and denim. The man laughed, the full-throated joy of someone just falling into lust. Werewolves.
They were beautiful. Ashe walked past them, invisible because they only had eyes for one another. She’d been in love like that. With her husband, that passion had never dimmed. Has he really been gone four whole years?
Rain greased the pavement, leaving it slick and shining. Neon signs reflected back from the wetness, smears of random color. Ashe could smell the ocean mixed with exhaust. She stopped, zipping up her jacket, wondering what to do next. It was too early to go back to the motel where she was staying.
What if Holly’s really and truly as happy as I was?
That thought led to a treacherous, slippery slope. Sure, a slayer’s job showed her the worst side of the monsters. That didn’t mean the only good monster was a dead one, but Ashe couldn’t second-guess herself in the middle of a job. That could put her six feet under. Or get her turned into the walking dead. Thinking in black and white was safer.
Moreover, she wasn’t willing to bet her sister’s life on the slim chance that Caravelli was the one vegetarian vampire in history. Ashe had already killed her parents, lost her husband, and had to send her daughter to boarding school to ke
ep her safe from the vengeful relations of past targets. She couldn’t afford to screw up.
Ashe started walking, taking the long way back to the place where she’d left her Ducati.
If she had to get busy with a stake to keep her sister fang-free, she’d do it. Still, there was due diligence. She’d at least talk to the bloodsucker before sending him straight to hell—for Holly’s sake.
I’m not a hard-assed bitch 24/7. More like 23.75/7.
As if in answer to her thoughts, she saw Caravelli’s T-Bird parked in a puddle of streetlight.
Bingo.
Chapter 12
Mad humping disease. That’s what he had.
Mac hadn’t felt the drive to own a female this way since he was a teenager. As an adult, other things came into play. Career choices. Mutual goals. Educational compatibility. Family dynamics. Certainly being the same species fit in there somewhere.
The driving, dirty, have-her-at-all-costs impulse might not exactly fade with maturity, but it got diluted. It got weighed in the balance. Cooler heads prevailed.
Then he’d met Constance and somehow all that rationality had turned to ash, just like a staked vampire. Great. Whoever said they wanted their teenage years back was lying or brain-damaged. For one thing, all that cooler-heads stuff was for safety’s sake. In a world populated with divorce lawyers and other monsters, impulse control was key.
Which only part of him cared about. The rest just wanted. It wanted Constance. Naked. It was as acute as the soul hunger, a killing thirst he simply had to slake.
Was this the demon talking? The room she’d taken him to? More of her pheromones at work? He didn’t care, and that’s what scared him.
He’d forced himself to be cautious. He’d spent the day doing research, trying to figure out how best to outwit the Castle guards. He’d kept an appointment to update his will, just in case. Mostly, he was counting on Holly to come up with anti-demon mojo—and waiting.
The Empire Hotel had been beautiful once, respectable for longer, and derelict for the past forty years. It was in the heart of Spookytown, right around the corner from the Castle door. Recently, it had reopened to serve the supernatural community. Human customers were giving it a wide berth. If the werebeast clientele didn’t finish off the patrons, the food certainly would.
Mac gave up on the hunter stew—possibly made from organic hunters, safety vests and all—and turned his attention to the beer. It came from a bottle, so it was presumably safe.
The pub area reminded Mac of an old Western saloon, with wooden floors, a double swinging door, and an enormous bar decked out with marble and brass rails. He wasn’t sure who had bought the old place, but there was plenty of work to be done before the hotel would be fully restored. The rooms upstairs were still under repair.
Despite the construction dust and the dangerous cuisine, the place was hopping. About forty patrons were scattered around the tables or leaning on the bar. Someone was playing an old piano in the back corner, pounding out upbeat jazz standards. The atmosphere was feel-good rather than a serious drinker’s bar.
Mac picked up his spoon and poked at the stew again, wishing it was nontoxic. He was hungry, but he still had internal organs to think of. Plus, he hadn’t felt well since coming back from the Castle. Achy, headachy, and running a bear of a fever. In any other circumstances—like being human—he’d say he was coming down with old-fashioned flu. As it was, he could only ignore the symptoms and hope for the best.
Work was the best antidote, and this business with the Castle was as absorbing as any case. Heck, there was even a complimentary kidnapping. When Holly had called to give a report, he’d had the old thrill-of-the-chase shivers down the back of his neck. Taking it as a sign from the universe, he’d asked to meet.
On cue, the doors swung inward and Holly walked in, Caravelli at her side. Mac felt an instant dump of adrenaline hit his veins. Great. She brought the guard dog. Mac pushed his chair back, jumping to his feet. He’d run or poof to dust before he started firing silver ammo—or any other ammo—in a crowded room.
The quick move was a mistake. Caravelli leaped forward, sailing over one table and darting between the rest. Mac spun backward, putting the table between him and the vampire. He would have run farther, but the wall was in the way.
Every head in the place turned to stare, the piano music trailing off as if the tune had ripped in two. A couple of the werewolf patrons lumbered off the barstools, hitching up their pants and adjusting their baseball caps. The floor show was about to begin.
“Alessandro, what the hell are you doing?” Holly asked in the voice of a woman pushed to the edges of her patience.
Caravelli was half-across the table, poised to close the distance between him and Mac. The vampire gripped a long silver knife, the casual dress version of the broadsword. Just as deadly for stabbing, much messier and slower for beheading.
Mac held up his hands, showing they were empty of weapons. “I come in peace.”
He said it loudly enough the whole room could hear, and with an edge of sarcasm. His heart was pounding like he’d just run the four-minute mile. And to think he’d been looking forward to a quiet social drink where the only weapons were the little plastic swords that went through the olives. Like I’d ever do anything to Holly.
But he had. Mac had done her serious harm when the demon had been in control. Beneath his disappointment, he couldn’t blame Caravelli for protecting her as best he knew how.
He stole a quick glance away from the vampire, who was still poised like a macabre centerpiece. Holly was furious, her hands on her hips, glaring at the two of them. She was wearing a belted tunic and leggings that reminded Mac of Robin Hood or Peter Pan. The thought of Caravelli as Tinker Bell nearly made him laugh out loud.
Holly pointed to the chairs, her expression no-nonsense. “Sit. Both of you.”
Caravelli slowly backed off the table, sliding the knife into a sheath hidden by his jacket. Once the weapon vanished, the patrons started returning to their seats. The piano man struck up “Skylark.”
Holly threw herself into a chair, her lips compressed. “I said, sit.”
Mac complied, inching his chair back a little. Caravelli was too close for comfort, but he tried for a carefree tone. “Word of warning: stick to the drinks. The menu needs work.”
Obviously reluctant, Caravelli folded himself onto a chair, every inch the graceful predator. His gaze traveled from Holly to Mac, the vampire’s amber eyes glinting in the low lights. He leaned forward, raking his yellow stare over Mac. “I don’t agree with this meeting. You have no right to walk these streets. If you give me any excuse, I’ll finish what I started on Wednesday.”
By way of reply, Mac took a slug of his Bigfoot and stifled a belch.
“Since we’re all such good friends, I think we can skip the small talk,” said Holly, squashing the testosterone fest with a glare.
Caravelli put his hand on Holly’s. “Good. Say your piece and then we’ll leave.”
“Relax.” She looked up into his face. “Have a drink or something. You drive me crazy when you’re like this.”
Caravelli’s expression closed, as if someone had pulled the shutters tight.
Interesting. He’s going all protective, and she’s just annoyed . Vampire men were prone to territorial behavior, but what about the women? He wondered about Constance.
Holly turned back to Mac. “You look kind of ragged. Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m okay,” he said, which wasn’t entirely true. “I think I’m just fighting a cold.”
“Demons don’t get colds,” Caravelli said flatly.
“Then I’m only getting half a cold. I’m so relieved.”
Holly gave them both a disgusted glare. “I looked for anything to do with the Castle creating or changing the inhabitants. There’s so little written, it didn’t take that long. The only references I found just covered the usual stuff—no need to feed, no need to drink, and so on. So I tried some oth
er books on demonology.”
Mac sat back, crossing his arms, trying to listen to her and ignore Caravelli’s death-ray stare.
She went on. “There was one unusual reference to the Castle. It said something about an avatar being stolen, but the manuscript was in Bulgarian and so I tried running the text through translation software, but that never works all that well. I’m trying to get a line on someone at the university who can put it into proper English.”
“Avatar?” Mac asked. “As in the incarnation of a god? A concept?” He didn’t think an ancient manuscript would be referring to chat-room icons.
“I don’t know. As I said, the translation was garbled. All I got for certain was that the Castle is decaying somehow.”
“Yeah, well, I heard the place had gardens once,” Mac replied. “I don’t know what could grow there. There’s no sunlight.”
Caravelli narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t stopped watching Mac’s every breath. “Queen Omara reported rumors that the magic of the Castle is fading.”
Mac trusted very little that came out of the vampire queen’s mouth, but this once she could be telling the truth. Dying magic usually meant magic going wonky. Could it be that the remnants of his demon infection were reacting to that?
Holly shook her head. “Unfortunately, theories and rumors are all we’ve got. I’m sorry, Mac, but nothing I found was all that helpful.”
Shit. It was all he could do to control his face and hide his disappointment. It wasn’t her fault.
A waiter stopped, a young weresomething with a name tag that said JOE. Both Mac and Caravelli shifted in their seats, dialing down the glare fest for the benefit of the staff.
Joe was oblivious. “What can I get you?” He cleared away the remains of the stew, then picked up Mac’s empty beer bottle and added it to his tray. “Another drink?”
Mac nodded. Caravelli ordered red wine. Holly asked for mineral water. Joe left with the order. For a split second, everyone seemed comfortable. It was a good act. Too bad Mac had to put a wrinkle in it by asking for more favors. If Holly didn’t have the answer to one problem, he had to move on to the next.
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