“The Elders seek prophecy on your mate, too. So far, all is darkness. The Eldest threw the bones of divination, but they turned up blank.”
Thank all the gods. At least that bought him some time. Lore bowed over her hands. “I honor your concern.”
“Don’t honor, act. Choose someone before the Elders choose for you.”
Like hell they will!
Lore changed the subject. “Tell Helver that Grash will be his trainer.”
Grandmother Mina gave him a surprised look. “Grash?”
He crossed the tiny kitchen toward the door. “It will make Mavritte happy.”
“Are you certain this is wise?”
Lore put his hand on the doorknob, then dropped it. He turned to face her, needing to make his point. “Either we trust the Redbones enough to mate with them, or we don’t. Merging the packs has to go beyond a mere pair bond. We need other bridges between us.”
She pressed her lips into a dubious scowl. “I don’t like Grash.”
“I don’t like any of them, but I sleep better knowing I am their Alpha. If they step out of line, I have the authority to take action.”
“Spoken like an Alpha.”
“Maybe, but our packs are small. We are still better off together. I will keep trying to make peace.”
“You are your father’s son.”
“Be well, Osan.”
“Be well.”
Lore left the house, feeling oddly alone when the door closed behind him. Would the Elders really force a mate on me? Choose a different Alpha? What would he do? Take a female he didn’t want or walk away from the pack, losing everything he’d ever known?
The once-familiar street looked strange, smothered, and frozen.
Trapped.
Welcome to my future.
Chapter 15
Later, Lore stood at the foot of his bed, arms folded, watching Talia sleep. He could feel the sun setting, his demon sense tracking the moment twilight passed into night. Hellhounds belonged to that place between one state and other: doorways, dawn, the soft state between sleep and waking. Some believed that, once upon a time, the hounds had padded beside the souls of the deceased, guarding them on their journey to the Land of the Dead.
That was why they could not lie—there was no room in that critical passage for anything but truth. And perhaps that’s why vampires fascinated him. Like him, they were caught on the road between life and death, never quite finding rest.
He watched Talia and waited for the sinking sun to work its magic. It was like admiring a painting, her still form lovely but curiously vacant. Vampires didn’t die during the daylight hours, but their sleep was so deep it resembled a coma. The old ones could wake in the day, but not fledglings like Talia.
Even Lore could tell she was newly Turned. Awake, she was in perpetual motion, energy sparking every moment. She didn’t have the stillness of the long-dead. Now she was an empty container.
What is her story? How did she end up like this?
Lore felt the horizon snuff out the last of the sun’s glow. Talia’s eyes flickered open. They reflected the dim light of the room like a cat, a sudden flash of yellow.
Lore knew enough to wait before approaching the bed. There was a moment when a vampire woke when the body was active, but the mind still asleep. For those first few seconds, the newly made were unpredictable.
Sure enough, she launched herself across the bed toward him. A trapped animal. Nothing but rage, fear, and hunger.
Lore grabbed her shoulders. “Talia!”
She froze, and the silence was potent. He could almost hear her mind booting up like a balky computer. Then he saw personality flooding back, filling up her face.
“You.” The word was filled with meaning—disgust, relief, regret, and a touch of desire. Then he saw pain. “Last night . . . it all really happened.”
“Yes.”
“Of course it did.” She sank back on the bed, jamming her hands through her hair. “Oh, God.”
Lore picked up a glass from the dresser top. “I brought you blood.”
“Get serious.” Hunger and revulsion collided in her face. “Whose is that?”
“I keep refreshments in the fridge. Beer, cola . . . and this. For friends. The hospital supplies it, if you know the right people.”
“Bagged blood is—it doesn’t work. We can’t live on it. And it’s disgusting.”
She was right. Vampires needed the life essence of their victims as much as the protein from their blood, but the O Neg alone could keep them going for a few days. “I’m told it’s best cut liberally with vodka. I can make it into a cocktail, if you prefer.”
“I’d be hosed by six o’clock.”
“You’d stop complaining.”
“I’ll stay sober, thanks.” She eyed the glass, hunger obviously getting the upper hand. “Any chance of going out for a bite?”
“You’re safer here, where I can protect you.”
“Who elected you my bodyguard?”
“I’m a hellhound.” He handed her the glass, careful not to let their skin touch. He would not visit that slippery slope again. “Guarding is what we do.”
“Don’t I get a say in the matter?” She glanced up at him. “Don’t watch me.”
New vampires were squeamish about drinking blood, but he couldn’t afford to make a mistake. “I’m not turning my back on you. You’d figure out a way to hit me over the head.”
“Mangy beast.” She took a sip of the blood and made a face. “Omigod is that awful!”
“It’s a bit old.”
“Ugh!”
He moved to take it away, but she waved him off. Closing her eyes, she chugged the blood, draining it to the last drop. Then she held out the glass, eyes still screwed shut. When he took it, she clamped her hand over her mouth, her throat working. For a moment, Lore wondered if she was going to throw up. A thread of guilt wormed through him. “I’ll try and find a volunteer next time.”
She drew a long, shuddering breath. “Next time I’ll just bite you.”
The rest must have done her good, if she was up to slinging insults. “I’ve been told demon blood is low in nutrients.”
The look she gave him would have made a lesser hound grovel. Lore grinned. “You have to keep up your strength.”
“You’re a monster!”
“So are you.”
She hiccupped. He wondered again if she was going to be sick but, to his complete astonishment, she started to weep, little mewing sobs.
This was too much. He abandoned the dirty glass on the nightstand and sat down on the bed next to her. He laid a hand on her head, feeling the smooth silk of her dark hair. Stiffening, she folded her free arm across her stomach, clutching herself.
“I didn’t ask for this!” she muttered under her breath.
“I’m sorry.” Lore stroked her hair, rattled by her silent, angry sobbing. These were tears of rage as much as sorrow, her teeth clenched against her grief. “I’m working as fast as I can to find out who killed your cousin.”
When she didn’t pull away, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Talia was small by hellhound standards, but that made her fit neatly into the circle of his arm. She was so slender, he could feel her bones move as she wept. The utter, aching sadness of it stirred memories of his own. Species didn’t matter when it came to the kinship of sorrow.
Slowly, very slowly, Talia quieted. “You’re warm,” she murmured.
He pulled her closer. Vampires were always cold, and he had heat to spare. The perfumes she had been wearing had faded, and now he could smell her clearly, her unique musk imprinting on his memory. It smelled familiar, like a sweet tune he’d forgotten only to hear it in the most unexpected setting. He closed his eyes, memorizing the feel of her body against his. It felt so right.