Frostbound

Chapter 16

Wednesday, December 29, 8:00 p.m.

101.5 FM

“Good evening, this is the CSUP news on 101.5 FM in Fairview. At the top of our headlines tonight is the fire that destroyed the South Fairview Medical Clinic and the campaign office of Michael de Winter, the first nonhuman to stand for election to city council. Although preliminary investigations do not reveal traces of an accelerant, according to Fairview Police Detective Derek Baines arson is indeed suspected. The news has rocked all of Fairview. Already, accusations of a hate crime are finding their way into the national media. Queen Omara, sponsor of de Winter’s candidacy, is rearranging her plans and will arrive in Fairview as soon as the weather permits.”

Wednesday, December 29, 8:00 p.m.

Lore’s condo

Talia heard the front door click shut. She was alone, lying on her side, her face to the wall. She’d cried herself into exhaustion and Lore had finally left, believing her asleep.

The anger and tears had been for Michelle, but also for herself. She’d pushed her own wounds aside for years, but they’d reopened, needing to be cried out, too.

Lore had simply held her. He hadn’t tried to tell her everything would be fine, and that made her enormously grateful. She didn’t need his lies—but then he’d said hellhounds couldn’t lie. That allowed a slim margin of trust to grow between them.

But what was she supposed to make of him? Mandog. Dog-man. Demon guy. She’d never met anyone like him. Hunters hunted monsters, they didn’t get to know them.

So what if she was one of the monsters now? It was something she’d been careful not to examine too closely. Existence was a day-by-day bargain between self-disgust and her instinct to survive. She’d never looked at her fellow Undead as anything but walking corpses. Maybe that had been shortsighted, but a person’s world view didn’t change just because they’d been bitten. Waking up dead wasn’t a great advertisement for interspecies relations.

But Lore was something else. As jailers went, he could have been much worse. There was no mistaking the power that clung to him like a second skin, but he hadn’t hurt her. That counted for a lot.

He did seem bent on finding the truth. That gave them something in common.

On top of that, he was easy on the eyes. She was a sucker for the hard, strong kind of guy who worked with his hands. The kind you knew could fix the sink or the car or the horrible day you’d had with his oh-so-capable touch. She bet Lore was just that type. A haircut and some wardrobe advice, and he’d be a definite hottie. Oh yeah, and he could use some advice on the whole handcuffing thing. Definite turnoff if it wasn’t handled just right.

But what did you expect from a monster? A wry smile twisted her lips. What does the word “monster” mean, anyway? Did it really describe a guy who walked into the hell he’d escaped and bargained for the lives of his people? That was the stuff of legends.

No one was left behind. The words had power over her, because she had been abandoned when it counted most. Over and over again.

What had Lore asked? How did she end up in this mess?

The kickoff really had been the incident with Max and the succubus painting. Talia was just old enough to see the incident as a wake-up call. Killing monsters was the hub of Hunter culture, but so was despising anything that made a man weak. That included women. Lust happened, but it was something to be sniggered at or hidden in dark corners. Her father was already shaping the way Max saw his future loves.

Most of the Hunter women accepted that they were second-class warriors and not much else, but Talia’s mom had been from outside the tribe. The male grip on Max was hard to break, but she’d given her daughter ideas. It was her mom that had given Talia the courage to strike out on her own.

Against her father’s wishes, Talia left for university. She’d done brilliantly, found a job she loved, built the start of a sane life—but such a lonely one. There’d been no one to fill the place of the tribe and all the close-knit family bonds she’d had from the cradle. She still loved and hated them at the same time, and with such passion. Too bad there was no Toxic Homes Anonymous.

Hi, my name is Talia and I can’t stay away from my homicidally screwed-up roots.

Her mistake had been letting family bonds drag her home again. Going back had cost her life. I tried to be a good daughter. I should have tried harder to become a good wife.

No, that last one would have been a disaster.

She sat up, pushing her hair out of her eyes. She’d survived her family, sort of. Even death hadn’t stopped her. She’d soldiered through that like she had everything else—but each battle took a little more out of her. Michelle’s loss had hit her hard. Grief had made it easy for Lore to capture her.

I can’t afford that. If I’m going to make it past this, I have to keep it together.

Talia closed her eyes, realizing the whole murdersuspect thing meant abandoning her teaching position. She felt a sudden, nostalgic wave for the hush of the university library, the scent of fresh paper, and that eager nervousness of September beginnings. I don’t want to lose that, too. Her students were her only real contact with the human world. The world of books was the one place where being a vampire didn’t matter.

The price for survival just kept getting higher. The only way to stop paying was to clear her name and go somewhere her past couldn’t reach her.

If she was going to find the killer, she had to be at the top of her game.

The bedsheets felt cool under her fingertips. She sat for a moment, watching the snow fall outside the window. Lore had left the drapes open, giving her a view of the winter scene. The drifting flakes invoked a sense of inevitability that was almost like peace.

Talia was definitely feeling—not exactly better, but calmer.

Okay, then, think.

She had defined goals: to find and punish Michelle’s killer, and to escape someplace where the rogue registry couldn’t find her. To accomplish either one, she needed her money, ID, clothes, and weapons.

She’d run out of Lore’s condo once already—straight into the cops. She was going to plan properly this time. I am calm and rational. I am in control. I spit in the eye of fate.

First, she wanted out of the bedroom. The memory of being chained to the bed was making her claustrophobic. Talia rose, walked to the door, and tried the handle.

It was locked. She rattled the handle a second time, just to be sure. A tingling spread over her hands, creeping up to her elbows like a glove of electricity. A spell.

Damn him! Lore had been so sympathetic, so kind, she thought he’d given her a refuge, not made her a prisoner again! Stupid, stupid, stupid! She’d granted him a glimmer of trust, and this is what happened. Fool!

A sense of betrayal flared through her. She clenched her teeth so hard the back of her skull ached. She’d been had. Now what am I going to do?

She could pick a lock. There wasn’t a thing she could do about magic.

Damn! She slammed the heel of her hand against the door in frustration.

Talia slid down the door until her rump hit the carpet. She was so going to tear the dog a new one once she got free. No one chained her up, locked her up, and fed her stale blood and got away with it! Fleas were too good for him.

Calm and rational, remember? She ground the heels of her hands into her eyes.

You haven’t tried the window yet. With a surge of hope, she got to her feet, crossed the room, and tried to push it open. A zap of electricity numbed her arm. She yanked it away.

Her whole body felt the low burn of frustration. Just let me go, you mangy bastard!

The sound of the door to the main hallway opening sent her skittering back from the window. Stupidly, she felt like a teenager caught ransacking the liquor cabinet.

There were voices. Several, and ones that she didn’t know. That threw a new wrench in the works. Who are they? Police? Or the killer? The mysterious vampire?

She glared at the door. I’m caged here. A sitting duck. And Lore was out, nowhere around to protect her—and he’d locked her in so that she couldn’t protect herself. Idiot.

She needed a weapon, and she needed her freedom. A quick look around the room revealed only standard bedroom stuff. She opened the closet. A weapon could be anything, if it could stab or club.

Like a baseball bat. There it was, hiding in the corner behind a pile of junk. Talia picked it up almost lovingly. It was an old wooden one that bore the marks of many, many games. Perfect for smacking anything short of a full-blooded demon. If it broke, heck, it would make a great stake. Talia steps up to bat, and the crowd goes wild.

Finding a weapon had taken only seconds. Check.

Now for the door. Would Lore’s magic work on it if it wasn’t attached to the wall?

The construction in the building was better than most condos, but interior doors were for privacy, not security. They crumpled like paper if you knew what to do. Hunter 101.

The thought brought a spark of satisfaction.

Talia stripped off her dainty, high-heeled boots. The bedroom was crowded, but there was enough room for a good kick. A couple of steps and a twist, and she would lead with her heel and the full force of her anger. She tested the carpet—just enough nap to give great traction.

It was a perfect strike from the right hip. The door crashed open, pounding against the wall in an explosion of splinters and drywall. Talia landed on the balls of her feet, her fists raised to cover her face. In the next second, she swooped to pick up the bat, ready to swing.

A faint whiff of ozone filled the air.

On the other side of where the door had just been, Lore was turning around, eyes wide with surprise. Astonishment turned into a frown as he planted his feet and crossed his arms, looking like an irate Egyptian statue. “Getting impatient, I see.”

Astonished, she fell back a step. The doorway crackled, thin blue veins of electricity making jagged spider webs across the empty space. The spell guarding the door was still going strong. Crap!

“What’s going on?” a male voice shouted.

“Nothing,” Lore said in a flat tone.

Nothing? Her anger wasn’t nothing. She shifted her grip on the bat, wanting to smack the superior look off his face. “I’m so done with the bondage games. C’mon, by now you must know I’m not the killer.”

He made a disgusted noise. “The wards were for your protection, in case someone came looking for you.” Eyes narrowed, he poked at the spot where the door handle had punched into the drywall. “I guess that wasn’t necessary.”

“Damned straight,” she shot back, lingering anger making her surly. I trusted you. I cried on you, and you locked me up again.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” the voice yelled again, but this time there was amusement in the tone.

“Yes!” Lore snapped.

“Oookaaayy, I’ll take your word for it.” The voice dissolved into a chuckle. “Next time try a dating service. It’s safer.”

Talia’s cheeks burned with outrage. What the hell?

With a grumpy expression, Lore made a gesture and said something under his breath. The crackle of electricity stopped. The spell or ward or whatever it was fell away.

Lore stood aside. “You can put the bat down. You’re free to go, if that’s what you want.”

“Seriously?”

His dark eyes flicked away, as if he was embarrassed. “You’re innocent.”

Talia dropped the bat and hurriedly pulled her boots back on while he stood watching like a grim sentinel. Relief warred with awkwardness. She’d been psyched up for a good ass-kicking, and now nothing. She was mentally stumbling, all revved up with nowhere to go.

How does he know I’m innocent? Did it matter? She pushed past his solid bulk, suddenly feeling like the bedroom walls were closing in. He could change his mind. This whole thing might be a trick.

An urge to run warred with curiosity. What had Lore found out?

Talia nearly collided with a woman taking off a gorgeous black-and-white tweed coat. The woman looked up, and that made Talia slow for a microsecond. Werecougar , she thought instantly, looking at the bone structure of her face. The creatures were rarely seen south of the Yukon, but they were unforgettable. Her skin was the dusky tone of café au lait, her posture that of a runway model.

“Nice coat,” Talia said, not sure what to do next. Instinct said to dive for the door, but she was curious. Who was this? Why was she here?

“It’s a Burberry,” the cougar returned, and Talia recognized the smooth voice.

“You’re Errata Jones!” Talia looked from Errata to Lore.

“And you’re Talia Rostova.” Errata hooked the Burberry on a coat tree that was crammed with wet outerwear. Lore had several guests. Of course he did—whoever had been teasing him before was male.

These strangers know who I am! Talia realized with shock. So much for keeping me safe!

“Don’t look so worried.” Errata fixed Talia with intense hazel eyes. “Lore knows what he’s doing.”

I’ll bet! Talia rounded on him, but something stopped her before she could vent her feelings. He looked exhausted and unhappy and more than a little apologetic. The urge to scream at him withered as it reached her throat.

Oh, God, it’s the puppy-dog eyes. Or Stockholm syndrome.

Errata leaned close, murmuring into Talia’s ear, “He likes you, you know. I can tell.”

Talia stared at her, both curious and aghast. Lore was narrowing his eyes at them both.

A sly smile played on Errata’s mouth. “Loyalty. Agility. You could do worse than a guy who can catch a Frisbee in his teeth. Just think what else he can do without using his hands.” The werecougar shrugged, keeping her voice so quiet only Talia could hear her. “Not that he doesn’t need work but, hey, he comes when he’s called.”

Talia stepped back, stunned by an irrational urge to defend Lore. She drew a breath to protest, but then the most gorgeous guy she’d ever seen emerged from the kitchen holding a plastic bag of blood.

The man held up the bag, pointing to the tiny writing stamped on the bag. He looked from Lore to Errata. “Did you look at the expiry date on this? You could kill somebody with this stuff.”

Errata gave a delicate snort. “Oh, come on, Joe. You’re three parts vampire and one part hellbeast. It’s going to take more than funky blood to do you in.”

Talia stiffened, her Hunter sense on alert. This guy was a volkodlak, Turned by a curse that made him immortal and very hard to kill.

“This is Joe,” Lore said, sounding irritable. “Ignore him.”

In response, Joe gave her a smile that did funny things to her stomach. He was too pretty for words—a dimpled chin, blade-straight nose, cheekbones sharp enough to cut diamonds. There were no fangs to spoil the sensual curve of his lips—she knew those only came out for feeding.

Talia gave herself a mental shake, woozy from too much hot guy. She had to say something to break through his charm, so she focused on the blood. “I wouldn’t drink that, if I were you. It tastes like a garburator bled to death.”

With a sigh, Joe vanished back into the kitchen. She heard a thwack as he dumped the bag in the sink. “Then let’s get this show on the road. I have to take over the bar at nine thirty.”

“You’re a bartender?” she asked in surprise.

“Bar owner.” He gave her another smile that should have carried a warning from the surgeon general. “I own the Empire Hotel.”

Oh, God. This guy was in the hospitality industry? His species were ravening killers—weren’t they?

Lore gave Joe a grumpy look. “Time to sit down.”

Joe winked at Talia and headed for the living room, following Errata. Lore put a hand on the small of Talia’s back, guiding her. Still annoyed at being locked up, she pulled away.

He dropped his hand, but leaned over to whisper, “I get it. You can look after yourself.”

Talia was about to deliver a scathing retort—she’d think of one any second now—when she realized there was another person in the living room. He was watching the news on the TV without the sound, and clicked it off as they walked in. He was handsome in a boyish way, brown-haired and green-eyed.

Talia experienced a shock of recognition. “I know you. You work at the university.”

He offered a hand. “Perry Baker. Comp Sci.”

She took it. He had a nice handshake, firm but not a bone-crusher. Warm, but with a different energy than Lore’s touch. Werewolf.

“Talia Rostova. English Lit. Distance Ed, mostly.”

“Perhaps we met at a faculty party?”

“No. It was the day they had all the nonhuman faculty in for orientation.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, right. The don’t-eat-thestudents speech.”

Perry laughed, but it had a nervous edge. She was glad he was there. Werewolf or not, another professor represented something from the university, the one place she had a right to belong.

Talia took a quick scan of the room. The view was nearly the same as from her living room, though several floors down. The main difference was the big, comfortable furniture that marked it as a man’s domain. No bobblehead poodle dogs here. Just a hellhound, a werewolf, and a vampire/werebeast cross. Oh, and a werecougar. What is this? Wild Kingdom?

By now everyone else was sitting: Joe and Errata on the couch, Lore in an armchair, and Perry on the rug in front of the fire. It was a subtle demonstration of the social position of the three males. Lore had a chair to himself, Perry had none—but he didn’t seem worried about it. They’d tactfully left an armchair for her.

An instant of fright passed through her. She wasn’t used to dealing with so many new people anymore. On the run, she’d learned to isolate herself. Instinct made an outcast cautious—the straggler from the herd was vulnerable—and here she was faced with a roomful of lions and wolves.

Taking a breath, she sat and got straight to the point. “So what’s up? How come you think I’m innocent all of a sudden?”

Perry spoke up. “First, you didn’t actually have time to kill your cousin, hide the murder weapon, and change into clothes that weren’t covered in blood.”

Talia gave him a startled look. “How do you know that?”

“I hacked into the traffic cameras. You drove home minutes before Lore found you.” The werewolf gave a self-satisfied smile. “Yes, I’m that good.”

Sudden relief flooded her. Someone believes me. It wasn’t the answer to all her problems, but it mattered. It meant that she wasn’t absolutely alone as she had been a moment ago.

Perry’s eyes turned serious. “I also don’t think you’re a necromancer.”

All heads were turned to the werewolf, intent in a manner that was decidedly not human.

“A what?” Talia knew that a necromancer was a sorcerer that summoned the dead. It just wasn’t what she’d expected to hear.

“Lore told me about the crime scene. There was a Latin word and a symbol drawn in blood. It suggested a spell.”

A vague dizziness came over Talia, and she leaned back in the overstuffed armchair, grateful for its big-boned, manly man support. “A spell? You mean someone killed Michelle to work magic? That makes no sense.”

Perry nodded. “It actually does. Once I knew what I was looking for, references to such spells weren’t hard to find. They bind the power of death to the spell they want to work. It’s considered by those in the craft to be a forbidden practice, but since when have rules stopped anybody from doing evil?”

“But why?” Talia shook her head. “If the murder was for something like that, why Michelle of all people? She wasn’t involved in the supernatural.” Except for me. I was her one link.

Lore took a deep breath. “I met someone last night who had a theory that her death was connected to the arson at the clinic.”

Talia listened to his deep voice, her mind scrambling to make sense as he described first the fire, and then his encounter with three rogue vampires in the Empire bar.

“I remember them,” Joe said. “A pitcher of draft brown ale, three glasses. Paid cash. They didn’t cause any trouble, but they sure looked like it.”

“This Darak guy talked to Michelle’s spirit?” Talia said incredulously.

“A few vampires have such power,” Joe replied. “It’s rare, but sometimes the old ones can see the dead.”

The thought horrified her. “Then Michelle’s spirit . . .”

“The spirits don’t stay earthbound once the spell has consumed the energy released in their death,” Perry said in a comforting voice. “She’s gone. You don’t have to worry about her.”

Talia nodded gratefully, forcing down another wave of grief. She couldn’t fold now. Not in public. Not when she was getting solid information. Justice comes first, grief later.

“Is it possible that you have a personal connection with the attacker?” Lore asked, looking at her closely.

Talia answered honestly. “I know of a few vampires who did some sorcery, including my sire, but I don’t know of anyone who does necromancy.”

“Few would admit to it,” said Perry. “Forbidden spells, remember?”

Talia bit her thumbnail. “Do necromancers ever kill vampires? I keep thinking it was me who was meant to die. But wouldn’t most people be able to tell the difference between a human and a vampire? Michelle looked like me, but a sorcerer should know she was alive, right?”

Perry looked at her curiously. “I doubt you were the target. By all accounts, humans work best for a death spell. What I want to know is why someone burned the clinic and constituency office—and why use such a labor-intensive method? What’s the point? It’s not going to stop the election.”

“But think of the effect it has,” said Joe. “It’s showy and scary. It’s going to bring the queen running to find out who the hell is on her turf.”

“I asked Caravelli to tell Queen Omara to delay her trip.” Lore shifted irritably in his chair. “It didn’t work. He called tonight. She’s coming as soon as she can. The only saving grace is the snow. The airport is closed.”

“But that means Caravelli can’t come home, either,” Joe added.

Lore rubbed his eyes, as if tired. “We’re on our own, and we have until the weather breaks to solve this.”

Errata had sat silently through most of the exchange, but now she stirred. “If what we’ve guessed is true, the necromancer is one of Queen Omara’s enemies. Unfortunately, that’s a rather long list.”

Joe turned to Lore. “I’m coming in late to this party. Is that why you asked us here? To play were-detective?”

“Yes,” Lore said simply. “I asked you because you’ve been around the longest. You’ve seen more than any of the rest of us.”

Joe shrugged. “Glad to know I’m good for something besides mixing appletinis, but aren’t there human police working the murder case?”

“And what good are they going to be against a necromancer?” Lore replied.

“Good point.” Joe fell silent, musing for a moment. “I was a soldier. Cutting off a head isn’t easy. Whoever did it had to be strong.”

Perry got to his feet, pacing over to the window. Talia could see him in front of his classroom, pointer in hand. “With this kind of a spell, the necromancer him- or herself has to do the killing. Because of the enormous amount of time it takes to build the right skills for this kind of magic, I don’t think we’re looking for a human.” He turned to face them. “Sorcerers are usually immortals, or at least long-lived.”

“You’re not immortal,” Errata returned.

“Yeah, but I’m a genius. Not a fair comparison.”

Lore shook his head. “A vampire would traditionally use a sword for a beheading. It didn’t look like a sword wound. That’s the one detail that doesn’t make sense.”

Talia clamped her hand over her mouth, desperately trying to keep the image of Michelle’s corpse out of her mind. At the same time, the logical part of her brain scrambled to put the facts together. “What about an immortal who for some reason couldn’t use a sword properly?”

Lore gave her a sharp glance. “What are you thinking?”

She got to her feet, her stomach roiling with tension. She’d figured it out, but she needed a few minutes to decide what telling the truth would mean. “I think I need some air.”

“It’s freezing cold outside,” said Errata. “Take my coat.”

Talia headed for the door.

Lore jumped up. “What if someone sees you? We know you’re innocent. The police don’t.”

“I’ll take the back stairs and stay out of sight.”

She heard Errata’s voice, low and urgent. “Let her go.”

Talia hesitated before grabbing the Burberry. If she took it, she’d be obligated to bring it back, and every instinct screamed to run. She grabbed an old, ratty jacket instead. It hung to her knees and looked like Lore had worn it while rebuilding a diesel engine.

She banged out the door and into the airless twilight of the sixth-floor hallway.

I am in so much trouble.