Frostbound

Chapter 3

Tuesday, December 28, 9:15 p.m.

101.5 FM

“And why is it, dear listeners, that we compare love to a flame? Because it warms us or destroys us? A poet would say both, and write another sonnet. That’s a human response. A beast knows to be afraid of the flame. There’s a reason the rabble carry pitchforks and torches, because when we love one of theirs, the building is sure to burn around us.”

Tuesday, December 28, 9:30 p.m.

Downtown Fairview

There’s a bad moon rising.

No—that was just one of those strange, human turns of phrase. The moon was as it should be, past full and mostly hidden by thick, moisture-laden clouds. But there was a psychic foulness in the air, as if a poisonous veil drifted down from the mottled sky and coated the city in a slick of curses.

It’s back.

Lore was on patrol, walking the streets of the downtown. He could sense the vibe, smell it, almost hear it in the hiss of tires on wet pavement. Since arriving in Fairview, he’d adapted to the urban landscape and come to know its moods. Now he could feel darkness creeping into its energy.

It was what he had attempted to describe to his friend earlier that night. Perry would try to find it in a book, bring his vast knowledge of the arcane to bear. But the evil was here, and Lore had to act now. That was his nature, both man and beast.

Must find it. The urge to track was building like a pressure in his chest.

Must kill it.

Long ago, that’s what hellhounds like him had been bred for: to search out and destroy a threat before it struck. Half demons themselves, they’d taken out the supernatural trash long before Armani suits and smart phones ruled the courts of law. There had been no appeals, just the munching of bones.

And for now he was sheriff. That gave the blessing of law to the urges nature had already provided.

Find. Stop.

Despite the fact that his belly was full from dinner with Perry, the urge to hunt crawled over Lore’s skin like an electric current. As hellhound Alpha, he was both psychically gifted and a superior tracker. The other hounds hadn’t sensed the evil. Not yet. He would call the pack once he knew what they faced. A good leader always took the first risk himself.

Kept the taste of first blood for himself.

Even as that thought formed, the dark miasma that screamed along his nerves was getting thicker, gathering to the north.

He began to run, still in human form, but beast-quick. Long legs carried him through the empty streets, where old false-front buildings huddled between newer stores, diamonds of ice on their wrought-iron railings. It was bitterly cold. Few people were out. The sidewalks were slick under his boots, glittering with frost.

Lore dodged around a lamppost and raced past the Victorian facade of the Empire Hotel. Christmas lights still rimmed the paned windows. Down a block, music grumbled from a dance club where neon signs winked in the night, the cold turning their colors sharp.

The chill air bit as he sucked it down, but he barely noticed. A sense of danger beat in his ears like a rushing pulse. Go faster!

In some ways it was a blessing the danger was here, in the supernatural ghetto called Spookytown. Its people knew how to fight. Some of the foes Lore had faced could pick off humans as if they were cheese puffs on an hors d’oeuvres tray.

Not that he knew a thing about fancy food, but the image fit.

Close, very close. He could nearly reach up and touch the edge of evil.

But between one pulse and the next, the night changed. The presence had been a veil, a mist. Now dread filled the air like a liquid, filling his lungs and mouth, pressing against his skin as if to force fear into his very pores. Lore skidded to a stop, his feet sliding on the slick ground. His puffing breath smoked the air, his heart hammering in an instant of mindless terror.

The street went dead quiet.

A hellhound’s deep bell sounded in the distance, howling a warning that something awful had brushed past. The dread was so palpable now, the rest of the pack had felt it. The cry was picked up by another baying awooooo, and another. Somewhere, a wolf joined. Then the common dogs, barking in backyards and alleys.

In every house and apartment window, lights flicked on.

Danger! Danger! Lore snapped back to himself, shoving the fear aside. Then a distant alarm began to whoop, coming from somewhere deep in Spookytown. Fire? Burglar? Had whatever it was gathered its strength and struck?

He couldn’t wait any longer. Their town was in danger. Tonight, he was the sheriff, in charge of keeping it safe. It was time to gather the pack.

Come! With his mind and will, Lore sent the call to his people.

The response was instant. The hounds poured from alleys and empty lots, running in twos and threes. They flickered just on the edge of sight, rarely seen but for the instant of the kill—but Lore knew them all. They were his creatures of nightmare, with eyes like the inside of a red-hot coal. Bulky and deep-chested, they stood nearly as tall as man, the long snout and upright ears like the Egyptian carvings of Anubis. Each fang was as long as Lore’s hand, each claw a killing scythe.

The few other pedestrians out on the streets vanished as if by sorcery.

Still in man-form, Lore ran at the head of the pack, his half-demon nature giving him speed. Following the sound of the alarm, they raced almost to the harbor, the cold, damp wind telling tales of kelp and the merciless deep. The rain needling through the glow of the streetlights was turning to sleet. Before long, it would be snow.

Ahead and to the left was the quay. Here and there, sailboats decked with Christmas lights shimmered above the black sea, reflections glittering like scattered jewels. Lore didn’t stop, but turned right into one of the alleys that cut deep into Spookytown.

Abruptly, the alarm shut off. Now there were sirens: fire, police, and ambulance sending up an eerie wail. Lore cursed under his breath, noticing an odd glow overhead. When Lore left the alley and stepped onto lower Fort Street, his eyes confirmed what his nose had been telling him for blocks.

Fire. Scrolls of smoke—a black paler than the night—billowed against the sky in roiling curls. Scraps of brilliant orange and yellow waved in the cold black night, snapping like flags in a stiff breeze.

Lore swore again, the houndish language giving the words extra edge. The building on fire was the South Fairview Medical Clinic, the one place in town the supernaturals could find a doctor willing to help them.

As loss hammered into him, the sense of evil retreated a step. It was as if whatever vile intelligence was behind it had relaxed to admire its work. In that instant, it became an individual. It wasn’t just a something but a someone.

Who are you? Lore demanded of the dark presence, but there was only silence. Did he detect smugness, or was he just imagining it? Anger ached in his jaw. Why did you do this? What do you want?

Lore scanned the scene. By sheer luck, the parking lot that wrapped around the clinic was empty. No cars, no garbage, nothing to burn between it and the buildings on either side. The fire hadn’t spread yet.

It was a miracle. The building seemed to sag into itself, the walls folding inward amidst veils of white and orange. Lore could feel the blaze from where he stood. He’d seen fires before, but this was hotter than he remembered. Even the roar of it seemed wrong, not a crackle but the whisper of a thousand tongues.

He shuddered, fighting the urge to strike out in rage. He had to think, let human reason do the work. He needed a proper target before he let the killer inside slip his leash.

Down, boy. Lore took a long, shuddering breath. Police and fire crews were already there, ladder trucks clogging the street. The firefighters were hanging back, pointing and arguing. They sensed something was different about the fire, too.

Evacuees of the nearby apartments milled at the perimeter tape, joined by the patrons of several neighborhood bars. Fort Street was a noisy, crowded scene, but beneath the chaos the taint of evil simmered like a bad memory.

The pack had gathered behind Lore. He glanced over his shoulder, feeling their presence like a weight on his back. Their shaggy, black outlines seemed to merge, creating one massive beast with two dozen pairs of glowing yellow eyes. They were waiting for their Alpha to give orders.

Nothing worked in a vacuum, especially not magic. Sorcery left stink and mess. Lore turned to the pack and raised his voice. “Mix with the neighbors. Ask what they saw, smelled, heard, anything. Find out everything you can.”

Although it was too dark to pick out details, Lore had the impression of pricking ears, the wag of tails. Then the many-eyed shadow dissolved into a mist. Moments later, the dogs were replaced by a group of young men and women, dark-haired and big-boned like Lore. Unlike werebeasts, half demons didn’t have to get naked to change form. They rematerialized dressed like humans, but in ripped jeans and motorcycle boots, leather bracelets and knives that glinted like teeth.

The shaggy, wild aura around the hounds didn’t vanish with their fur. It lurked in the strength of their hands and the fluid glide of their walk. Silently, they melted into the crowd.

He turned and began pacing the perimeter of the fire scene, silently wishing his pack good hunting. Residue from the evil presence hung in the air, drifting around them with the ash. To someone with his gifts, it had a smell and taste. Bitter as poison.

And then a shadow flickered in the darkness to the left of the burning building.