Frostbound

Chapter 28

Friday, December 31, 10:00 p.m.

Spookytown

They were going into the tunnels.

They’d gathered in the alley outside the Castle door. It was cold and it was snowing again, a steady drift of fat, white flakes that made the crowd around the open manhole cover look like a scene from a demented Christmas card.

For the last ten minutes, Lore had been giving everyone their instructions, the logical part of his brain still working even if the rest was MIA. At the moment, Lore didn’t care about evil bubbling up through the storm drains—he wanted Talia in his bed, and the rest of the world could line dance its way to hell. But she was missing and probably underground with Belenos, so down the manhole Lore and his makeshift army would go.

There were wolves and hounds, both in beast and man form. Joe had spread the word to some of the local vampires, too. They stood at the back, lounging against the brick wall and smoking, flashing fang as they laughed at their own jokes.

Darak had left to meet the other members of Clan Thanatos. Besides the two that Lore had met, a handful of others had just arrived from down the coast by private boat. They would carry out their part of the plan separately. Clan Thanatos would cover the operations aboveground, Lore and his friends below. As they’d expected, Belenos had given his assassins the word to set Omara’s doom in motion. Lore hoped Darak was as good as he claimed, because at a rough estimate Belenos’s welcome party for the queen, not counting the Hunters, outnumbered Clan Thanatos ten to one.

Mavritte stood across from Lore, on the other side of the sewer entrance. She’d planted her feet as if she were braced for another attack, her hands fisted on her hips. The strappy leather outfit she wore showed the deep scars in her skin, reminding him of the sacrifices she had made fighting for her people. It was good to have her on his side. It meant something that, despite their differences, she’d brought the Redbones when he asked.

Time was their enemy. Hurrying through his instructions, Lore forced himself to look calm and in charge. “Any questions?” he concluded, scanning the crowd.

“Go over the bit again about how we’re not going to be made into throw rugs by the Hunters,” said Joe, who had left his bar to support Lore in the fight. “Just for me.”

Joe was carrying a weapon called a bardiche, which looked like a thin, curved ax on a long pole. The blade was almost as long as his arm, but Joe handled it with the ease of long familiarity. No villain in his right mind was coming near that thing.

A camera flashed. Errata was there, documenting everything. Lore wanted to snap at her. Sure this was news and she was a journalist, but the constant retinal assault was getting old.

Perry wasn’t there, and that left a hole. Since coming to Fairview, they’d been friends, always together in a fight—against the demon Geneva; against their foes in the Castle; and in a dozen bars in Fairview and surrounds. Perry’s absence was the marker of just how serious this was. He was the first casualty. There could be more.

Talia might be tied up and at the mercy of her sire. A sick lurch jolted Lore’s stomach.

And where the hell was Detective Baines?

With his heart in his throat, he gave the order to move. He’d prepared his people as best he could but, ultimately, they didn’t know what they’d find down below. The nonnegotiable was that Lore never, ever left his people behind. One way or another, he would get everyone home.

Once they were into the tunnels, the company split up. Errata had insisted on being embedded with the troops, whatever that meant. The company split into four groups, each taking a quadrant of the tunnels. Lore had deliberately kept the units small. There wasn’t much room to maneuver underground, and he didn’t want his people getting in each other’s way. An efficient strike force, experienced with close quarters, was the best choice he could make with the information at hand.

Lore took his group of hounds to the southwest quadrant, close to the Castle entrance. A few of these tunnels were newer, lined with cement and lit with a string of lightbulbs along the ceiling. His plan was to sweep through this area first, because it included the basement of the old hotel where Darak had met Belenos. With luck, the king would still be there. Lore prayed that Talia and Baines would be, too.

Talia sat on a straight-backed chair in the middle of the old, dusty room, bound with silver chains and gagged with a strip torn from her own blouse. Her skin felt grimy with dust, every tickle of her hair a reminder of the rats she was sure lurked just outside of visual range.

She was somewhere in the tunnels. Wine barrels were stacked against the walls, coated with decades of dust so thick it looked like cotton batting.

Now would be a good time for Lore to burst in and save her—heck, she’d welcome Mavritte—but she knew it was a selfish thought. It was better if she could escape on her own, because this was Belenos. The last thing Talia wanted to do was to bring his special brand of crazy down on the man she loved.

So far Belenos hadn’t done anything more dramatic than tying her to a chair, but she wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled an iron maiden out of a utility closet. Belenos was good at pain. Some said it was his only real hobby anymore. Talia knew better. His hobby was fear.

Which was why she kept her face as blank as possible when he unlocked the squeaky old door and stepped inside.

“Hello, my duck,” he said, his voice silky. “How are you?” He shoved his hands into his pockets, drifting into the room.

She tracked him like a downed bird watching a slinking cat. A bird with attitude, though. She made a growling noise around the gag.

“Sorry. Didn’t quite catch that.” He bent and untied the strip of cloth.

He peeled it away from her face. Automatically, Talia hauled in a deep breath, winding up to scream. Instead, she started coughing, a reaction to the stale, dusty air.

“Poor Talia,” said Belenos, walking in a circle around her chair. She could feel his presence like a cold, slippery finger along the back of her neck. “So sorry this isn’t much of a room, but privacy is hard to get when you’re on the move. Or, in your case, on the run.”

He put his mouth close to her ear, his fox-red hair swishing against her cheek. “But you know all about that, don’t you? You can run, but you can’t hide. You know your daddy’s here, don’t you?”

Talia couldn’t help a twitch, but said nothing.

“Oh, yes, he’s my new best friend. We’re working together. Isn’t that nice?”

What? Shock made her jerk, which seemed to amuse him. Then she understood. Big Red was a nickname for vampires, but a lot of people used it specifically for the red-haired king. Max had posted to the bulletin board that he was following Big Red. Following, not hunting. I can’t—I won’t—believe this!

“It’s quite true,” he said as if reading her thoughts.

She couldn’t protest, the hot rage of betrayal too thick in her throat. How could her father agree to this?

“I asked for Max as our special go-between.”

Oh, God, Max! She turned to meet the king’s one topaz eye. Belenos licked his ruined lips. “I remember how good he tasted, don’t you? Dessert.”

Talia squeezed her eyes shut. “Stop it.”

“Are you hungry yet? Give it a day or two and I’ll bring Max in. I daresay it’s been a while since you’ve had anything but a dog to eat.”

Oh, no. She locked her knees, fighting the shudder that quaked through her. She couldn’t feed on her brother. It was bad enough that she’d betrayed him to Baines in the car as they drove to the university. But that’s exactly why her sire would starve her and then send Max in. It was her worst nightmare.

Belenos bent, and pressed his twisted mouth to hers. She could feel the scar tissue of his skin against hers, cold and hard and vampire dead. As she fought the impulse to gag, he thrust his good hand up the hem of her sweater, working his fingers under the lace of her bra. Clenching her body, Talia stayed perfectly still, knowing that if she recoiled there would only be more to come.

“You’re so frigid, I’d almost say someone had killed you.” He gave a soundless laugh that filled the room like a dirty secret.

“Let me go.” She didn’t open her eyes, but whispered the words like a prayer.

“It’s not time yet.”

His last reply made her flinch. What had she heard in his voice? Anticipation. “I’ve waited for this for months. Oh, I’ve known where you were, Talia. This is the computer age, after all, but I let you think you were safe. What’s the fun of having the humans send you back to me when I was just waiting for the right opportunity to come after Omara? The bonus of paying you a visit made this trip well worth the air miles. You’re my killone, get-one-free special.”

He leaned closer. “There’s something I want you to see.”

Talia kept her eyes closed. She was shutting him out. Denying what he had to offer.

“Look at me,” Belenos said, suddenly furious.

She squeezed her eyelids tighter, like a toddler having a tantrum.

He grabbed her chin, pulling her forward as far as the bonds allowed. “Look at me!” he roared. As he squeezed, she felt the slide of flesh against her jawbone.

Her eyes snapped open, glistening with the pain.

“That’s better.” With his free hand, he pulled a quartz sphere out of his pocket. “I’m in charge. Don’t forget that.”

He released her chin, letting her slump back against the chair. Her jaw throbbed, a pain for every place his fingers had crushed her.

He lifted the quartz. It sparked to life, a firefly of light glowing at its center and then blooming to fill the sphere. Talia watched with deep suspicion as the bright ball glowed in his hand, rimming the edges of his fingers with transparent red.

He shielded the quartz with one hand, hiding it from her view. “Let’s see who is down here. Where is Detective Baines? He was last seen bumbling into the wrong part of the underground.”

The image of Baines was blurry at first, but came slowly into focus. The detective was sitting on the ground, loading what looked like the last clip of ammunition into his sidearm. Baines looked dirty and in a desperate hurry, but there was no blood or broken bones that Talia could see.

Oh, wait. Baines was getting to his feet now, but struggling, using the wall for support. Something was wrong with his right leg. He couldn’t seem to put weight on it.

Belenos zoomed the image out a little, getting more of the surrounding area. “There are plenty of places where the tide has chewed caves into the soft rocks beneath the harbor, and many more where the tunnel floors are just wooden planking over the pits beneath. After a hundred years, some of that wood has rotted away. I’m afraid our brave detective has fallen through.”

Talia’s chest seized with tension. When the tide came in—around midday—all those underground caves would fill up, but that was a future problem. Right now, Baines had other issues. He wasn’t alone in the cave. Something had fallen in with him.

The cat looked like a creature made by magic, or it might have escaped from the Castle. It looked like a standard tabby alley cat—scraggly, thin, and mean—except it was bigger than nature intended. It must have weighed a couple hundred pounds.

It was looking at Baines as if he were a baby bird. Easy, tasty pickings. Baines was hurt, trapped, and running out of ammunition.

“Oh, this is too good, don’t you think?” Belenos cooed. He rose from his chair and crouched down beside her, showing her a better view of what he’d conjured in the stone. “What you see is what’s happening right now. How do you like my kitty? I made him specially to keep the detective from getting bored.”

“No!” she cried, forgetting herself and trying to rise from the chair.

It rocked forward, forcing Belenos to grab the back to steady it. The lapse of concentration made him lose the image.

“Bring it back! I have to see what happens!”

The desperation, the begging in her voice was a mistake. His mouth curled into a smile. “I bet you think your dog is going to ride to your rescue like a true-blue hero.”

He waited for the doubt, the wounded look as she took in his words, but her gaze remained steady. Lore doesn’t leave his people behind.

He gave a low huff of amusement and waved his hand again, and then she saw Lore, a fireball flying through the air over his head.

“Tsk, bad aim.”

“What is that fire?” Talia asked.

“Why, that’s how sorcerers fight, my duck. Basic wizardry. I’ve been teaching my troop leaders to use more than just guns. It’s hard for the enemy to shoot back when they’re burning to cinders. And werebeasts hate it. Teeth and claws are of no use, so all your hounds and wolves are just fish in a barrel, if you’ll forgive the zoological contradiction. The tunnels will positively stink with burning dog hair.”

Talia could see the hilt of a knife in his belt, but her hands and feet were bound. She wanted so desperately to grab it and slide the blade into his heart, she could feel the texture of the hilt against her fingers.

Belenos stood, checked his watch. “Tick-tock. Time to run. Next time I come back, maybe we’ll check on your friends. Maybe not.”

“For God’s sake, what do you want from me?” Talia let her fury show.

“Still plenty of fight left in you. Good. Next time, I’ll bring some toys. I’m dying to try out some of Omara’s techniques.”

Belenos slid the quartz into his pocket.

“What. Do. You. Want?” she hissed.

He picked up the gag, wrenching it back into her mouth. “Entertainment, my duck. It’s that simple. Le roi s’amuse. You owe it to me after stealing my money and running away. But that’s the last time—I’ve learned how to keep track of my things.”

He patted the pocket where he’d put the scrying ball. “Don’t forget that I’m watching you. There’s no escape from me. Ever.”

He ran a hand down the curve of her cheek, and then planted a kiss on her forehead.

Belenos’s men had one important strategic advantage, Lore decided. They knew the map of the underground warren, where the turnings were, where the dead ends could trap their enemy. What had begun as a rescue mission and sweep of the underground was turning into an all-out battle. Belenos wasn’t the only magic user on deck. His minions had training, too.

Where Lore had four bands of fighters, the sorcerer had dozens of small groups armed with fireballs roaming the tunnels. Lore had expected resistance, but nothing so deadly.

He’d gone to hound form, along with the others in his fighting unit. They were better trackers and faster runners on four feet. Plus, they were harder to kill—and the fireballs were coming thick and fast. Some of the creatures in the Castle had used similar ammunition, and Lore knew from experience how deadly it could be. There was a score down his back where one had skimmed over him. If he’d been on two legs, he’d be toasted. As it was, every step pulled and twinged.

It made him twice as determined to secure the area so he could search for the captives. He’d sent out volunteers to begin looking for Baines and Talia, but the danger was extreme. If only I could go myself. But he was the general of the hounds, and he had to lead.

Lore crouched on his belly and crawled along the base of the tunnel wall. He could smell a mix of human and vampire. He wished he’d brought a troll or two. Or a dragon.

Lore stopped his advance. His hounds had been chasing a larger group of fighters, and they’d entrenched themselves in this passage. Lore was close enough to see what his team was up against now. There was a pile of rubble across the tunnel forming a barricade. The bad guys were behind it, using the rocky debris for cover.

Okay, not imaginative but effective, up to a point.

The king’s lieutenants should have watched more Westerns. Lore backed up, reversing the crouched shuffle until it was safe to turn and trot back to his men. They were waiting in the darkness of a tunnel mouth, nine pairs of glowing red eyes. Lore gave his instructions. Four of the hounds trotted back the way Lore had come, prepared to draw fire. Lore led the rest down an adjoining hall.

Anyone with brains—or a passing knowledge of old action movies—knew enough to sneak up behind the barricade or fort or wagon and get the enemy that way. He just hoped there was a tunnel that looped back to the right spot to launch his attack. Surprise and timing were his best weapons.

The hounds flowed through the tunnels at a fast trot, turning left and then left again. It felt like they had been down there for hours, but he’d lost track of time. Like a pendulum, his mind returned to Talia. Was she hurt? The thought spun through him like a whirling blade. He wanted to break away and go find her, to flee instead of risking both their lives in an insane battle under the streets.

The fight with Mavritte in Joe’s hotel had clarified much in his mind. Vampire or not, Talia was his mate. He knew it by her scent, by her touch, and by the way his heart clung to hers. He’d known it that moment in the parking lot, when she’d taken his hand. His brain hadn’t put it together then, but his soul had known.

It explained why he felt he had always known her, and yet they had only just met. It explained why he would stop at nothing to have her. He wasn’t going to compromise. If he was the type to give up, the hounds would still be rotting in the Castle. Compromise wasn’t who he was.

He was the one who faced a fully loaded sorcerer, because it was his job to stand guard.

Some days it sucked to be Alpha.

Lore stopped, listening to the noise ahead. The other hounds gathered close around him, flanks touching. Voices. The hum of magic.

This fight was about to get interesting. The route he’d chosen had been the right one, leading to an undefended junction about fifty yards behind the barricade. He’d found the launch point for their attack.

But Lore hesitated. Why had they left this point undefended? He used all his senses, but there was nothing to detect. Nothing but the bombardment of fireballs and the frantic yips of the brave hounds he’d left at the other end of the tunnel. They were doing a good job, making enough noise for ten hounds under attack instead of four.

It was a nightmare moment, his instincts telling him to wait while his brain demanded that he move forward. Lore bargained with himself, weighing the risks. Was he underestimating the enemy? Was he giving them too much credit? What hadn’t he anticipated?

Well, he couldn’t stand there all day, while his followers shifted from paw to paw with muffled impatience. In the end, he had to take the chance.

Silently, they glided into the main tunnel, taking position. The hounds spread out, fanning across the width of the passage. From there they would silently pad close to their fireball-throwing assailants, and then show them what hellhounds could do.

It wasn’t until Lore was in formation, in the center of the pack, that he saw the problem.

These new tunnels were wide and high, and just as the walls began to curve into the arch overhead, there was a jog in the brickwork that formed a narrow shelf on both sides. There were snipers sitting up there, wearing drab green vests marked with the crossed-blade symbol of the Hunters. Hunters!

The muzzles of their rifles were pointed straight at the hounds. There wasn’t much that could injure hounds, but ammunition laced with quicksilver would—the metal of Mercury, who ruled the hounds as they guided the souls of the dead to the beyond. Obscure stuff, but the Hunters would know that. They taught that kind of thing to their kids in nursery rhymes.

Lore gave a single, sharp bark to signal retreat.

They turned tail and ran, leaving the snipers to splatter the tunnel with bullets. As the bullets hit the brickwork, explosions of silver liquid blotched the walls.

The hounds raced, outrunning the rifle fire, but there were also fireballs, sailing low over their heads, singeing the fur from their backs. The heat cut like a razor. Lore flattened his ears against his head, making himself as long and low as he could. He heard a yelp of pain. One of the other hounds wasn’t as quick or as lucky.

Wait. I’ve been here before!

The tunnel narrowed, the side tunnels coming less and less frequently. They ran so fast, the brickwork blurred into a red-brown wash. They were being stampeded. At the end of the tunnel would be a dead end, where they all would die.

He’d had this prophecy. He knew how it ended.

Slaughter.

This is how his father had died: the pack racing for their lives, herded into a killing zone by demons. When Lore’s father had turned to defend his people, it had been too late.

Not this time. Lore wasn’t playing their game. He wheeled on his hind paws and began racing back the other way.

Right into danger. With what breath he could spare, he began baying a distress call.

The others took it up.

He had forty-five seconds before he was in range of the Hunters’ rifles.