Frostbound

Chapter 18

Thursday, December 30, 4:30 p.m.

101.5 FM

“This is Errata Jones taking the early shift on CSUP for Oscar Ottwell, who will be returning to us next Monday. Happy holidays, Oscar. I hope Santa Claws filled your stocking to the brim.

“To resume our coverage of current affairs in Fairview: Rumors are everywhere about who’s in town for the election. We’ve heard about everyone from the Headless Horseman to Elvis checking in to our Spookytown hotels, but what’s fact and what’s fiction? Well, I’ll give you one clue, my nighttime faithful. Not everyone is friendly.

“We’ve not been able to confirm this report, but word has it Hunters are in town. Lock your doors, my furry friends. The bogeymen are out and about and just to freshen up your sense of dismay, I’ve put my pretty paws on a few of their how-to manuals. If I ever decide to skin myself, now I know the drill. Stay tuned for choice excerpts—and I warn you these may not be suitable for all listeners.”

Thursday, December 30, 5:00 p.m.

Lore’s condo

When Talia woke up, she was free.

She was still using Lore’s wide bed, but this time she was between the sheets, curled up in the bliss of soft pillows and a thick comforter.

Lore had taken her out of the cold and back to the meeting. The gesture had felt oddly symbolic, especially after that first wave of fright she’d felt when meeting the others. Yes, she’d been isolated too long. Rejoining the group in the living room had been an emotional victory.

She’d take her triumphs where she could. Talia rolled over, feeling a slowness in her limbs that said she hadn’t eaten enough yesterday. It was the same lassitude she’d felt after a bout of the flu. Not really sick anymore, but not really well, either. How long am I going to remember details like that? In ten years, was she going to remember the taste of apples? The glitter of sun on a swimming pool?

She stared at the window, tucking the comforter under her chin. There was still ice on the glass, and the snow was blowing in veils across the sky. Hard to tell if it was still falling, or just swirling around.

It had been a night like this when she’d tried to go home again. Christmastime, but her family didn’t celebrate much of anything. She’d slipped out of her sire’s house and walked for miles through the snow wearing nothing but bedroom slippers. Thinking clearly wasn’t easy during that first year as a fledgling.

She’d come toward her father’s house from the back, where there was a rising slope dotted with pine trees. Making her way down the dark, cold incline toward the familiar back gate, she’d slid from tree to tree, her hands scraping over the rough bark, her head reeling with the tingling scent of pine. The kitchen window had glowed softly, giving a certain grace to the tiny, hard-used house.

Through the window she could see the Arborite table with the silver legs, the padded chairs with tape over the rips in the vinyl. She’d eaten all her meals and done all her homework at that table. It was the one place her family came together twice a day, morning and night.

Until her mother went away, running back to her own people. Afterward, her father had taken away Mom’s chair and put it in the garage. With that one gesture, he’d obliterated her place, erased her from the family home. Her father wasn’t a learned man, but he understood symbolism.

The memory had penetrated Talia’s addled brain enough to be cautious as she’d approached the house. With the instinct of a wounded dog, she’d come home to beg for help. If anyone knew how to reverse a vampire’s curse, it would be her father and his cronies—but she remembered the chair. Her father worked in a world of absolutes.

When she’d gathered her courage and crept close enough to see in the kitchen window, her father and her uncle were eating dinner. Steam rose off the bowls of stew, reminding her that her feet were blocks of ice, and hunger—though not for stew—cramped her belly.

But now her seat was gone from the circle of chairs around the table. Gone the way of Mom’s, vanishing from the family circle. She was no more to them now than a monster with a familiar face.

Talia had turned away, creeping back to the sire who had sucked the life from her body. Just as well. If she’d gone into the kitchen, someone would have died. They had always eaten with guns on the table, ready in case of attack. It was the Hunter way.

She’d been captured and Turned by the vampires out of vengeance. What a knee-slapper, to change the Hunter girl into the thing her family hated. Perhaps they thought her father would feel a pang, slicing off his daughter’s head.

Now, there was a joke. He’d do his duty without a flicker of doubt. That was how they’d all been trained. Talia. Her brother. Ready to die or kill. The man who had been her fiancé, Tom, had died when she had, but oh so differently.

She couldn’t think about Tom. They’d never really loved each other. Her father’s choice for son-in-law, Tom had wanted the traditional Hunter home, and children to raise in the tribe. Talia wanted to please her dad, but not that much. She’d split up with Tom, but that didn’t make what had happened any less horrific. And then there had been Max . . .

Talia rolled out of the bed, memories making her restless. If those nice monsters in the living room last night knew what she’d done over the years, the nonhuman lives she’d taken, they would have turned on her. Might still. She had to accept that truth.

But I can’t run away. Michelle was murdered. I have to settle that score, no matter where that leads.

And she’d made progress. Now she knew it was Belenos she was hunting, and now she had her freedom. As long as things suck less today than yesterday, I’m on a roll.

She realized Lore had rehung the bedroom door while she’d been sunk in the deep sleep of the Undead—but he’d left it ajar. The dresser was piled with some of her personal belongings: clothes, toiletries, and her courier bag. Surprise stopped her in her tracks. Wouldn’t a crime scene be locked up for a while? Had Lore used his talent with locks to get inside?

She grabbed the courier bag and laid it on the bed. When she unzipped it, the contents looked undisturbed: papers she was supposed to mark, library books, and the usual litter of pens and sticky notes. Beneath the papers, her netbook nestled in a side pocket. She grabbed it, caressing the smooth black surface. Police usually seized computers, didn’t they? They would have taken her laptop for sure. Someone had made a mistake by leaving the netbook behind.

Flipping it open, she booted it up and went immediately to her e-mail account. There were three new messages in among the spam; all were from students. Just to be on the safe side, she left all of them unopened. She’d just been curious to see if anyone had noticed she was missing. Apparently not. If she’d still been part of the Hunter community, they’d have been over at her place the next day to see if she was sick. Even if the community was toxic, it had been a home.

She closed that browser window and opened another, tapping in the URL for a private site she’d discovered a few months ago. She keyed in a password—it had taken her some effort to figure it out, but not all that long, considering—and waited while the site let her in.

It was Hunter central, pulling in info from the European tribes as well as her own. The main component was message boards, a lot of them in languages other than English. She clicked open the one marked “North America” and scanned the new entries.

There he was. Max, her brother. She looked at the name with longing, wishing there was some way in hell she could let him know she was still here, still anxious to hear that he was all right. It was an itch as strong as any drug addiction, and just as hard to shake.

She read the message he had posted: “Following Big Red. Back later.”

Big red was Hunter slang for vampires. Red for blood. Max was on a hunt. Or had been. The message was almost two weeks old. Worry clamped around her heart, squeezing painfully. Why hasn’t he posted since?

A feeling of angst cramped her gut. Some of Belenos’s clan had tried to be nice to her, even if she’d been nothing short of hostile. Slowly, reluctantly, she’d begun to see them as people. Who were you going after, Max? Did they really deserve it?

It wasn’t the first time she’d had the thought, but it was the clearest. It made her stomach cramp with anxiety. Don’t kill anyone I know, okay?

She logged out and closed the netbook, letting her hands linger on the cover. Afraid of detection, she never lingered on the site long. It was the only link she had to home, and she wasn’t going to risk losing it—no matter how queasy news from her old life made her feel.

Sliding the netbook back into her bag, she went back to the pile of her belongings on the dresser. No ID, no guns, no money. The police had probably taken the first two, and Lore didn’t know about the cash hidden under her bedroom floorboards. She might have to wait a while before she could safely retrieve it, but there was no question that she’d do it. She’d need money to make a fresh start someplace else.

Talia searched through the clothes, trying to find a complete outfit. It was a man’s selection. Half were practical things—sturdy socks and plain T-shirts, her coat and sturdy boots—and the rest were filmy excerpts from the realm of male fantasy. How embarrassing. He’d obviously found her lingerie drawer. In the end, she settled on jeans and a sweater, and headed for the shower.

When she walked out of the bathroom, she heard a rustle and the low murmur of the television. She padded barefoot into the living room. A newspaper scattered the floor. Something that looked like a disemboweled toaster littered the coffee table, half-repaired.

Lore was leaning back on the couch, eyes closed. He looked utterly exhausted. His breath was coming on a slight snore.

Talia’s approach hadn’t wakened him. That wasn’t a surprise. All vampires moved with near silence.

And she was lost in his good looks. He wasn’t pretty, like Joe, but his features were cut cleanly, the bones broad and strong. It was the kind of face that would only improve with age. She wondered who he looked like, his mother or father. Which one had given him the slight cleft in the chin? Which one had passed on that sweep of dark eyelashes?

Where had he gotten that sense of fair play that made him protect a wanted vampire, just in case she was innocent? Yes, he’d held her prisoner, but he hadn’t hurt her, and he’d let her go. Talia was well aware that it could have gone so very differently.

She took a silent step closer to the couch. Whatever sixth sense that made hellhounds good guardians kicked in. Lore started awake, bolting to his feet before he was fully conscious.

Talia held up her hands, palms out. “Easy. It’s just me.”

He relaxed, letting out a huge breath. “Sorry. I dozed off. I’ve been with the pack during the day and up most of the night.”

“Pulling double shifts?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed his eyes, sinking back onto the couch. “I dropped by to check on things here.”

Check on me. Talia felt unaccountably warmed by the idea.

Lore scrubbed his face, as if to wake himself up. “I’ve got my best hounds looking for Belenos, but so far no joy. Last time he came, he hid right under our noses in the Castle. I don’t think he’ll try that one again, but he’ll come up with something equally clever.”

“We’re only guessing that it’s him.”

“That’s why I haven’t raised a general alarm. I want proof before I start a panic.” He looked up. “I got fresh blood. Will that hold you for an hour or two?”

“Uh, great. Thanks. I’ll get some in a minute. And thank you for getting my stuff. You ran a risk to do that—I mean, it’s bad enough you’re hiding me, but you broke into a crime scene to get my toothbrush.”

He looked up, clearly a little pleased with himself. “The biggest risk was going through your closet. I could have been killed by an avalanche of shoes.”

“Yeah, well, a girl needs her footwear.” She sank onto the other end of the couch and looked at the TV. Scooby-Doo cartoons. “That your hero?”

“I thought it might inspire my detective skills.”

She couldn’t help a laugh. That earned her a grin. He had the best smile, all white teeth and mischief. Then she noticed how big he was, filling his end of the couch with long, muscled limbs.

Her mouth went dry, her palms prickling with unfocused nerves. She curled up, tucking her feet under her. As always, she was a little cold.

She could feel his body heat even with an arm’s span between them. “What sort of things does an Alpha do for his pack?”

He made a dismissive gesture. “A lot of different things. I deal with the human world on the pack’s behalf. I represent the hounds on the council of nonhumans, so I’m the liaison with other species. We have a business that recycles things, like furniture and mechanical parts, and I run that. I settle disputes and oversee building projects—we’re renovating a lot of the houses we bought to bring them up to code. The pack does a lot of security work in Fairview, and I’m the deputy sheriff, except right now I’m the sheriff in charge.”

No wonder he’s tired. But she could see he was proud, too. The hounds had come from nothing. Their success owed a lot to his drive. “What’s it like, being in a pack? Do your parents live here?”

Leaning forward, he picked up a piece of the toaster and fiddled with it. “My parents died in the Castle.”

“I’m sorry.”

He gave a slight shrug, universal guy-speak for something he couldn’t or didn’t want to talk about. “Being part of a pack is never being alone, even when you need to be. That’s why I have this place. I get a bit of peace and quiet.”

“You have a lot of responsibilities.” Understatement of the decade.

“An Alpha is father to his people.” He gave the words an ironic twist. “Seriously, they’re my family. Why wouldn’t I do what I could to help them?”

Talia envied him with a swift, sharp pain. Even with everything his position demanded, it had to be worth it. He wasn’t alone. She looked down, staring at the tweedy pattern of the couch cover.

He passed her a section of the paper. “Fashion column?”

She took it automatically, not sure why he’d offered it. Then she realized it gave her something to hide behind, a safety screen. For a guy—for a demon-dog—Lore was surprisingly perceptive. Enough to make a girl self-conscious.

She folded the section back to see the editorial. It was her first go-to spot in the paper, though she wasn’t sure how he’d known. Oh, wait. He’d seen her closet. She read the caption under a photo of a woman in a boxy dress. “Wow. The return of shoulder pads. Now, that’s real horror.”

From the corner of her eye, she caught him watching her, his dark eyes intent. She understood that look. He liked what he saw. Oh, God.

She lowered the paper, her face turning to him with infinite slowness. He was drawing her like a magnet. Like a flower following the sun she’d never see again.

This is insane. Yet she was doing exactly what her body demanded down to her last cell. Her mind, on the other hand, was numb with shock. Their lips met with a bump, and she realized she’d leaned into the kiss with more hunger than she’d thought.

I kissed him! Where the hell did that come from?

But she knew. The moment had been building for the past couple of days. Curiosity. Attraction. A lingering wisp of anger. Oh, God, he tastes good. Savory. Spicy.

What began as exploration deepened in seconds. She shifted her weight to her knees so she could get closer to that delicious heat, feel the hard wall of his chest against her body. She braced her arms on his shoulders, leaning in, teasing, tugging at his mouth. She took her time, as if the kiss held a lingering echo of some delectable treat.

His tongue flicked across the bottom of her canine teeth, a quick tease. Her jaws tingled with the urge to bite, egged on by the feel of his broad hand sliding down her ribs, his thumb brushing the edge of her breast. She inhaled sharply, feeling his hand slide beneath her sweater, caressing her back.

Two could play at that. She ran her lips down the angle of his jaw, her tongue flicking the pulse that beat there, hot and salty. At the same time, she worked her fingers underneath the bottom of his T-shirt and began to explore upward, letting her fingers find the hard ridges of muscle that flexed beneath her touch. All that hard work he did paid off. No gym membership required here.

His fingers were playing with the edge of her bra, tracing the lace along the cups, giving feather-light strokes to her nipples. A burning low in her belly made her want to squirm in delicious ways, to explore the hardness beneath the zipper of his jeans. The urge to bite was growing into an ache. Her mouth was watering, already feeling the slide of flesh against her teeth.

Talia pulled away before instinct took over. She whimpered in frustration, her lips still seeking his even as she moved to slide off his lap. Sex and biting were inextricably linked for vampires. Sex also meant undressing, and that meant uncovering her tattoo.

Danger.

Lore’s eyes met hers, the knowledge of her arousal in his dark gaze. It was a very male look: sure of himself and filled with anticipation. He had only to tighten his grip, and she was his. She felt his muscles flex, the calluses on his wide palms rasping against the soft flesh of her waist. His strength closed around her, pointedly keeping her in place. She could read it in the set of his lips: She would surrender and like it—whenever and as often as he chose.

Talia’s mouth went dry, even as other parts of her grew wet in response to his challenge. Fear and desire were a potent brew, and with him she might enjoy the taste.

Yet he released her, his fingers reluctant to let her go even as she drew away and straightened her sweater.

“I can’t,” she said, her teeth near chattering with the repressed tension in those two words.

The look in his eyes said she would and she could.

“Not yet?” he replied after a long moment. “I’ll take a rain check.” His smile promised everything she’d just shied from—everything dark and dangerous and private.

Rain check? Oh, God, let this drought end. But how could it? How could it ever?

“I’m not the right kind of girl. You don’t know what you’re getting into,” Talia said, wishing that didn’t sound so clichéd. But it was true. My daddy will skin you alive. Right after he stakes me, that is.

“I could have a nice hellhound girl if I wanted one.” Lore’s head tilted, and he gave her a mischievous look. “Maybe you’re my walk on the wild side.”

Talia dropped her jaw. Her love life could have been summed up on the side of a cereal box. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I am. A little.”

The phone rang. Lore picked it up. “Hello?”

Talia grabbed a couch cushion, thinking she might smother him with it, but then she heard Perry’s voice, sounding excited. Lore’s expression grew intent.

“What?” he asked. “No, don’t worry. I’ll come to you.”

He hung up the phone and stood up in one gesture.

“What’s going on?” Talia demanded.

When Lore looked down at her, she nearly ducked. Anger and triumph flared in his eyes.

“Perry says he’s got proof that Belenos is here. More surveillance video.”

“That was fast!”

Lore gave a tight smile. “Perry was sure to point out that he knows all the best shortcuts. I’m going to go see what he’s got. Maybe there will be enough of a clue to catch the king.”

Thursday, December 30, 6:00 p.m.

University of Fairview

Lore had to go to Perry because the werewolf was stuck at the university. In the midmorning, a power outage had made the pipes freeze and burst, flooding the downstairs computer lab. Plumbers had made it in, but Perry was called to assess the damage and do what he could to rescue his digital babies.

Lore had been able to drive his truck as far as the university’s main parking lot, but going was slow even with chains. Driving in real winter conditions, he’d quickly learned, was a question of concentration and planning. That didn’t mean more than ten percent of Fairview’s residents concentrated or planned. With so many cars spinning out of control, telephone poles and mailboxes were becoming endangered species.

He was almost pathetically grateful when he was able to park and make the rest of the way on four feet. Now he was making good time along the path to the Cambridge Building, taking the deep drifts in long bounds. Lore rounded the corner of the building, catching a blast of damp, bitter wind in the face.

He hoped Perry’s evidence was good. Frankly, Lore was worried that the airports would be cleared and Omara would show up. The queen was overwhelming at the best of times, and Lore’s plate was more than full as it was. With Belenos, rogues, murder, the election and the Prophets knew what else running amok on his watch, a lesser hound would have been babbling by now. Lore was keeping it together, but he was starting to feel punch-drunk.

The strain was clearly affecting his judgment, if he was spending couch time with Talia. What was he doing? He was supposed to be choosing a mate from the pack, not flirting with vampires. Especially vampires—if Errata’s sources were right—with possible slayer connections. He wasn’t going to jump to conclusions, but that would explain why she could fight like a professional and why she was so closed-mouth about her past. But whatever she’d been, things had changed. What the hell had happened to her?

It would be easy, even smart, to distance himself from a woman who was not only the wrong species but most likely had been raised in the archenemy’s camp. But she was in trouble, and he couldn’t help himself. Her kiss was like nothing else. Once he’d tasted her, there was no going back.

Was his attraction the appeal of forbidden fruit? Was it rebellion because he didn’t want Mavritte or one of the other she-hounds?

No.

Talia was beautiful and smart, and she was brave. He didn’t know all her story, but she was clearly a survivor. No one mourned as deeply as she did without knowing how to love. No one sat down to swap information with a roomful of shape-shifters unless she was prepared to meet them halfway. And to run away from Belenos and steal from him? That showed the kind of spirit Lore wanted guarding his back.

The Alpha couple was a partnership. He’d led his people out of hell, and then gone back for the stragglers. He needed a mate who could do the same in a pinch. He needed someone who wasn’t afraid to kick down the bedroom door and come out swinging a baseball bat. To put it in terms his beast understood, she had to smell right.

Talia was all that and more.

He was spending that couch time for a very good reason. He intended to have her. Hellhound tradition be damned; he wasn’t going to pass up a woman like that before he even got to know her. It’s the twenty-first century, and we’re not in hell anymore. Get with the program.

Lore ducked his head and forged on, finding his way by the occasional emergency lights over the building entrances. He’d just about zoned out, hypnotized by the rhythmic sound of his paws in the snow, when a doorway opened and Perry stuck his head out. “I’ve got hot coffee! Fido’s balls, you look like an Arctic troll!”

Hot coffee! Hallelujah! Lore was about a hundred feet away. He shifted his gait to a higher gear.

He almost felt the shot flick through the air before he heard the crack. It smacked into the doorframe inches from Perry’s head. He ducked back inside as Lore made a bound for the corner of the building.

Sniper rifle, Lore thought, morphing back into human form. He dug for his sidearm through layers of coat and sweater. A gunshot was a big jump from beheading with a sword, but then Perry wasn’t a vampire. Lore would have bet his hind paw the rifle used silver bullets.

Lore sighted down his firearm and searched the roofline of the building opposite the doorway. It was the most likely spot for a marksman to hide, but with no moon, all was inky shadows. Hellhound sight was good in the dark, but not good enough.

He listened instead, trying to catch the sound of a boot scraping tile, a window sliding closed. He was far away, but sound carried oddly in the cold, dark silence. All he heard was the hiss of blowing snow and the rustle of his own clothes as he breathed.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the door swing open again. No, stay inside!

Perry threw something just as the rifle cracked once more. The object flew upward in an arc worthy of a professional pitcher, heading straight for where the gunman hid. It started small, no bigger than a baseball, but it grew as it spun through the air, blooming into a ball of light that drowned the campus in an eerie blue-green light. Lore shielded his eyes with his arm, squinting through the glare. He saw a man on the roof leap to his feet, falling back into the shadows. Lore squeezed off a shot, but the angle was bad. He got a glimpse of dark clothes, but nothing more.

The ball exploded, fountaining sparks like a Roman candle. The campus fluttered with plumes of blue-green light, the falling stars hissing as they hit the snow. Sorcery or chemistry? Lore wasn’t sure—Perry was adept at both—but it had bought him a glimpse of the suspect.

He blinked away the last afterimages from the exploding ball. Scanning the building again, he saw nothing—no shooter, no sign of movement. Crouching low, Lore crossed the distance to the other building. A bullet whined past his ear. He ducked and rolled, floundering a little in the heavy snow, but came up close to the building wall.

That shot had come from a different angle. The shooter was on the move. He got to the end of the building and, gun at the ready, rounded the corner. There was a door, open just a little because the heavy, wet snow had jammed it.

Lore slipped inside. With the power out, it was dark. The door led straight to a large spiral staircase that wound around a huge, hanging metal sculpture. A mental calculation said the last shot had probably come from the third floor. Lore started up the stairs, hoping the shooter wasn’t simultaneously descending somewhere else in the building. It was the best he could do. There were too many exits to cover, so a fighting chance was all he had.

Just enough light came in the stairwell windows to find his way. Stopping at the second floor, he strained to catch any sound of movement. A cold breeze stirred the metal shards of the sculpture, making them turn on their long, thin chains. Nerves chattered at the edge of Lore’s mind, but he tuned them out.

Instead, he started up the stairs again. He’d gone three steps when he heard a single scuff. He froze. Overhead, two of the metal shapes bumped together in the air currents with a sepulchral clang.

Lore backed down the stairs, gun aimed at the second-floor landing. An electricity-deprived soft drink machine dripped softly, ice giving up the ghost. Lore peered down the hallway leading from the stairwell to the classrooms. A shadow flickered across the far window so fast it seemed a trick of the eye. A ping of grim satisfaction ran through him.

Quarry spotted. Now the real work began.

He slipped out of the stairwell, picking up speed. When he reached the window where he’d seen the figure, a wet footprint glistened on the tile floor, just visible in the light from the window. Lore crouched, squinting at the mark. He could tell it was the right size for an adult human male, but not much else. He followed the direction of the print, heading for the south side of the building.

There were fewer windows there. There seemed to be no emergency lights in that part the building, or else something had malfunctioned. All Lore could see was the outline of an intersecting hallway ahead. He moved cautiously, aware he could easily run into an open door or bit of wall. He’d survive that, but perhaps not the noise he’d make.

But then he noticed light creeping along the floor. It was coming from the left, up ahead, where he guessed the shooter had gone. As he drew nearer, Lore raised his weapon, focused on the south corridor as it slowly came into view.

He stopped midstride. The shooter was walking casually down the hall, his rifle—a box-type semiautomatic—slung over one shoulder. He had a flashlight in the other hand. Lore got an impression of someone fit and tall with collar-length hair—but not Belenos. Lore remembered the vampire king as a bigger man. Who was this guy? Lore took aim.

“On your knees! Now!” he roared.

The light vanished. The figure didn’t turn or even flinch, but bolted like a flushed rabbit. Lore fired, hoping to scare the guy into stopping, but no such luck. Lore ran after him, afraid to stop and change to his hound form. The seconds it would take would be enough to lose his prey.

He’d gone about fifty steps when he lost sight of his quarry. He stopped, listening, but there was nothing to hear. Instinct made him fall to the ground a second before another bullet zinged through the air. Lore saw the muzzle flash. The guy was using a classroom door for cover. Lore returned fire, the bullet striking sparks off the door handle.

The guy dove for the emergency exit a few feet away. They had traveled a nearly complete loop back to the main stairwell. Lore cut down a side hall and aimed for that instead, hoping to head the shooter off when they reached the main-floor landing. Firefights in a stairwell weren’t pretty, and he’d as soon have the element of surprise on his side.

He galloped down the stairs and jumped the last steps, dashing to the fire exit door across the building foyer and ripping it open. He was late. The shooter was already two flights below, heading for the basement. Thankfully, the emergency lights were working here. Lore charged after him, stripping off his suffocating coat along the way.

Closing the gap between them, Lore followed the shooter into the subterranean warren of language labs, lockers, and bare concrete. Lore got a few more details—the guy was wearing a watch cap and black clothes. Caucasian. Human? Graffiti snaked along the walls as they streaked past. The runner turned, crashing through the fire doors that passed into a tunnel that ran between this building and the computer lab.

This is what Lore had been hoping for: an easy shot in an area where there was nowhere to hide. The runner had gone straight into a perfect kill zone.

“Freeze!” he bellowed, the walls ringing with the word.

Without stopping, the shooter turned to his right and opened a door in the side of the tunnel.

What the fuck? Lore charged toward him. He’d been in this underground passageway before. There was no door.

But the shooter passed through it.

Lore slowed, fighting momentum, ready to grab this unexpected doorknob.

But there wasn’t one. No knob. No door. No seam where the door might have been. There was only grubby concrete wall, and a tingling sensation when he touched his hand to the concrete blocks. Magic. Magic not even a hellhound’s power over doorways could break.

Fury shocked him, leaving his skin tingling and raw. It took him beyond swearing. He simply backed away, turned, and walked quickly to the end of the tunnel to the Cambridge underground entrance. His jaw clenched, and eerie, cold anger gripped him like an invisible beast.

Sorcery. Hate. Prey. Escape. Tear. Bite.

As he stalked into the basement computer lab, he could smell damp concrete. A mop and bucket in one corner reminded him there’d been a burst pipe. He walked up the wheelchair ramp to the main floor, wondering where Perry was. Lore pulled out his cell and pushed the speed dial to Perry’s number, but it went to voice mail.

The ramp ended near the door. Lore looked around, noticing a red smear on the wall. Blood? Automatically, he looked down. There was more spatter on the floor.

No! Perry had been hit. A trail led away from the door, the teardrop shape of the drips pointing down the hall.

Lore ran in that direction, pulling out his cell phone again. He hit redial, listening for Perry’s phone. He heard the tinny strains of “Blue Moon” coming from a cluster of couches up ahead. Lore sprinted toward the sound, a sick feeling in his gut.

Perry was lying on one of the couches, shivering and drenched in blood.