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.