Clamping her hands around her head, she shrieked, a piercing wail that reverberated through his bones. He hushed her, cradling her against his body. “Sh. You’re safe.”
Necromancy.
The word burned hot in his gut. He knew this for what it was now. The spell caster had gotten his power from this woman’s murder. Now that the spell was winding down, she got to live through the horror all over again.
She was panting, a sheen of sweat coating her fine features despite the cold. “He came for me. He said it was a warning to Talia that she was next. Watch out for her. Please. Please.”
“I will. I promise.”
Her eyes grew wide, seeing something or someone looming closer. She raised her hands, warding off an invisible blow.
“Michelle—”
Stripes of blood blossomed on her hands.
“No!” He shielded her with both his arms, using his size and bulk to ward off the horror that only she could see.
She screamed again, so loudly that Darak squeezed his eyes shut.
In that split second, she was gone. He crouched in the parking lot, his skull still splitting from the noise.
The cop didn’t come running. He hadn’t heard a thing. It was Darak’s special curse to see and hear the dead. One he loathed violently each and every day.
He picked up his jacket and stuffed his arms through the sleeves, sending the buckles and zippers jangling. Darak turned toward the back door with its single guard. It would be easy enough to hypnotize the human into letting him have a quiet look through the building. Odds were there would be no clues to the necromancer’s identity, but he had to look.
Slowly, he got to his feet, swallowing hard as if he were choking something down. He rested his hand for a moment on the hood of the truck, taking a long breath of the icy air.
Pluto’s balls, he hated these encounters. A hard ache lurked where his heart should have beaten. This jackass with a spell book had ruined Darak’s evening. He had completely messed with Michelle’s.
The jackass had to die.
Wednesday, December 29, 12:05 p.m.
Lore’s condo
Once he was through scoping out the crime scene, Lore left the building, walking into the steadily falling snow. He’d learned a few things, including how the police intended to proceed. They were looking for evidence of who came and went from the building and when. They were looking for witnesses. They wanted to know about Michelle’s and Talia’s lives, whom they associated with, and why anyone would wish them harm. Mostly, they were looking for Talia.
Lore already had a head start on the last item. He needed to catch up on the rest, now that he had a road map to follow. It would have been more efficient to share information with Baines—the man was obviously no fool—but the hellhounds hadn’t survived by trusting anyone else. He wanted solid proof of Talia’s guilt before he left her to the mercy of the human cops.
He crossed the street, fascinated by the dizzying, swirling snow. It left cold kisses on his skin, chill and ephemeral as a ghost. Or a vampire.
Not that their flesh was that cold. It was cool and smooth as silk, enticing as half-forgotten wishes. No, it wasn’t the temperature, but the odd, hushed melancholy of the snow that made him think of the Undead.
Or perhaps it was the silence. Talia was too new to have that eerie calm. Instead, the chill, pure air reminded him of another Undead beauty.
Constance Moore and her son had lived in the Castle, the prison where Lore had grown up. Because Lore was a friend to her boy, almost a big brother, she’d included him in their daily lessons. She had taught Lore to read and write—rare skills for a lowly hellhound. His people had been little better than slaves, but Constance had never been anything but kind. Now her gift of knowledge gave him an edge for survival in the human world.
Perhaps it was the memory of Constance that made him protective of Talia. Foolish. They were entirely different people. More than that, he was a different person now, a grown Alpha with no time for sentimentality. Which was why he was standing in the snow with his cell phone, running interference for a pretty vampire he had no business helping.
Nah, he’d been suckered since the moment she’d tried to kick him in the head. He had a weakness for girls with some spirit. Idiot.
Lore began punching in a number. He’d gone outside because he was too wary to risk being overheard by the cops. Now he began pacing, impatient to get answers.
Fortunately, Perry was still up.
“Miss me?” the werewolf said dryly. “Or do you think I’m such a crack researcher I’ve found your answer to the floaty evil already?”
“Have you?”
“No.”
“Too bad. Something else has happened.”
“I heard about the clinic building burning. The vamps have gone bat-shit crazy about the campaign office.”
Lore ignored the not-so-subtle bat joke. His mind was on a straight road that he hoped led to confirming Talia’s innocence. “There was a murder in my condo building.”
After a stunned silence, Perry made a noise that wasn’t quite a laugh. “What?”
“I’m not making this up.”
The wolf swore. “What the hell is going on tonight?”
Lore looked up and down the street, his eyes searching the front of each neighboring building. The dusting of snow made everything look deceptively charming, like one of the humans’ greeting cards. “My building doesn’t have security cameras covering the entrances. Are there any around here that you can hack into?”
“I dunno. Depends on their setup. Are you trying to get me arrested?”
“You’re too good for that.”
“Says you. What’s nearby?”
Lore named the businesses.
“Hm. The bank and the corner market are good bets. There’s probably a traffic cam around there, too. Are we looking for anyone in particular?”
“The killer.”
“We need more words than that, dog-boy.”
“I don’t have a description,” Lore said, irritated. “Possibly two people—one to control and one to strike. Or else someone strong enough to hack off a head on his or her own.”
There was silence at the other end of the line. “They took the head? That’s an execution. Who died?”
“The woman we saw walk into the building tonight. The one who made you want to bake cookies.”
He heard Perry’s breathing quicken with anger. “I’ll get back to you when I have something.”
“Good luck.” A puff of steamy breath followed the last words like a prayer.
Lore snapped the phone shut and considered his next move. First, he wanted to ask Talia about the Latin word on the wall. Maybe it meant something to her. Would she admit it if it did?
A car rushed by, skidding because the driver didn’t know how to handle the slippery road. Lore stepped back, avoiding the clumps of snow kicked up by the tires.
Once he’d talked to Talia, then he’d visit some of the vamp clubs and bars. This wasn’t the work of a local troublemaker. He was looking for a new face, and someone there would have gossip.
Normally, a newcomer asked permission of the ruling monarch to hunt in their territory. It was a means of keeping track of who was where. Sires owned the members of their clan; deserters were punished. Rogues on the run—like Talia—tried to stay off everybody’s radar.
Come to think of it, the ugly vampire he’d arrested earlier was an unknown, too. Interesting. Was Mr. Ugly just another bloodsucker dropping in to cheer on the first-ever fanged candidate? With election fever in high gear, plenty of Undead had come to see history in the making. It would be easy for a murderer to get lost in the crowd.
Great. Just great.
Lore headed back toward his building and Talia, his protective instincts on alert. He went around to the back door, planning to use the stairs. As soon as he rounded the corner into the parking lot, he stopped dead. An unfamiliar scent hung in the air, plain as a billboard to a hellhound’s sense of smell.