Frostbound

Chapter 4

Prey!

Lore launched himself after it, his body responding before his mind had time to consider. The shadow was a figure, darting toward the mouth of a lane on the far side of the parking lot. Beyond was a jumble of byways and Dumpsters with myriad hiding places. Once in there, a fugitive would be difficult to find.

The figure was supernaturally fast, and only guilt made someone bolt like that. Lore poured on the speed, not daring to take the time to change to hound form. Other pack members were breaking from the crowd to help, but they were far behind.

His quarry was only a stone’s throw ahead now, dark clothing a blur against the night. Lore lengthened his stride as far as he could, lungs straining against the chill air. The pavement was slick with frost, the sound of pounding feet magnified by the cold. He lunged forward, snagging the rough wool of the runner’s sleeve.

The figure jerked away, springing forward with a desperate burst of energy. Lore bounded, using both hands this time to grab the coat. The runner crumpled to the ground with a frightened cry, Lore pinning him with his weight.

They both grunted as they hit the ground. Lore rolled the figure over, smelling the sharp tang of smoke on his clothes.

“Madhyor!” cried his captive. Master.

With a wrench, Lore saw the runner was one of his own people.

“Helver!” he snarled, putting an extra sting in the young hound’s name. He dropped into the hounds’ own language. “What are you doing?”

Lore fought the urge to howl with frustration. He was supposed to be chasing his invisible enemy! Instead, he’d caught a whelp pulling some kind of prank.

“Forgive me! ” Helver blocked his face with his hands, as if expecting a blow. “The building was closed and empty. I went to see what I could take.”

It was an easy enough thing to do. Locks were no problem for a half-demon hellhound—but that only made respecting property all the more important. It was a pup’s first lesson.

“You stole from the clinic?” Furious, Lore ran his hands over Helver’s coat, finding the pockets. There are police everywhere. Humans were quick to judge their supernatural neighbors, and harsh with their retribution. The whole pack would suffer for Helver’s stupidity. Lore couldn’t let that happen.

He expected pill bottles, but he found money instead. He froze, staring at the double fistful of fifties and hundreds. “Where did you get this?”

“The campaign office. They keep the donations in the safe.”

For a heartbeat, Lore was stunned. Of course. The municipal election. The vampire candidate’s headquarters occupied two rooms on the building’s east side. Lore had been so focused on the loss of the medical facility, he’d momentarily forgotten.

He shouldn’t have. The election added a whole new layer to everything that had happened that night—political angst galore—but he would have to think about that once he’d dealt with Helver.

The other hounds were catching up. He held up a hand, keeping them back. They gathered, standing at a distance with arms crossed and hips cocked.

Lore put on his Angry Alpha face. It wasn’t hard. “How dare you touch what does not belong to you? Do you want to ruin the rest of your life? Bring dishonor on your elders?”

Helver lifted his face from his hands, eyes stricken with shame and fright. His cheeks were still rounded, not the hard angles and planes of the adult hellhound male. Lore’s gut twisted with anger and fear for the youth. He wasn’t a bad whelp, but not the smartest, and this new world they lived in was crammed with temptation. The hell they’d left had been brutal, but much, much simpler.

Lore was damned if he’d watch one of his pack lose his way.

He hauled the youth to his feet and gave him a savage shake, showing his strength. Helver took it meekly, not even lifting his head. Lore was his king. To fight back meant a fight to the death, and they both knew Lore would win.

The shaking didn’t hurt. The real discipline would come later. So would a lot of questions, like who had put him up to the theft, but Lore had to focus on the crisis in front of him.

“Who set the fire?” he demanded.

Helver hung his head, breathing hard. If he had been in dog form, his tail would have been tucked in as far as it would go. “I didn’t see anyone. I just felt—it was bad. And then it was hot. It was really weird—there was nothing, just heat, and then there were flames everywhere. I grabbed a fire extinguisher, but then things started to explode in the clinic—oxygen and I don’t know what else—and it stank. I couldn’t breathe past the chemicals, and it was just too hot. I had to go.”

The hounds muttered among themselves, the sound both angry and concerned.

“There was no other person inside?”

“No, no one I could hear or smell. I hid behind the building until . . .” He trailed off.

“Until what?”

“I thought I could get away. With all the trucks and stuff around.”

“Count yourself lucky that it was me who caught you.” Lore could hear the sound of pounding feet. The humans were catching up to them. Lore pushed Helver away. The youth staggered several steps before finding his balance. “Go home. Stay there. Burn those clothes. They stink. I’ll deal with you later.”

Helver bowed, his hands over his face again in a gesture of submission.

“Run! ” Lore growled. He waved at the hounds standing there. “Take him home.”

They obeyed, crowding Helver into their midst before they ran in long, fluid strides. Lore stuffed the campaign money in his pocket, wondering how the hell he was going to return it to the vampires without starting World War III. They weren’t the types to laugh off a youthful prank.

He turned to face the humans running toward them.

The one in front was one of those cops that looked like a cop: tall, chiseled, dark-haired, somewhere between thirty and fifty. Lore knew him. He was one of the few human detectives assigned to cover the supernatural beat.

“Detective Baines!” Lore stepped in his path. At the same time, he pulled his jacket closed and zipped it to hide the weapons strapped to his body. All hellhound warriors went armed to the teeth. Human police often took that the wrong way.

“Who was that boy?” Baines demanded, slowing to a stop. His men stayed a distance away, as if they were afraid Lore would bite.

“Why did you let him go?” Baines’s voice vibrated with anger.

Lore’s blood felt acidic with disappointment in Helver, but pack was pack. “He’s not your arsonist.”

Baines gave him a hard look, as if taking a mental snapshot. “I want a name.”

“No.” Lore kept his expression blank.

“What’s your name?”

“Lore.”

“Lore what?”

“Just Lore. I don’t need two names.”

“Well, Lore-with-one-name, your boy might be a material witness.”

“He saw nothing.”

The evil was gone now. Just the memory of it hovered in the air, mixing with occasional spits of sleet. The jacko’-lantern orange of the fire mocked them, turning the sky to a sickly bronze. Nothing in nature had made that blaze.

“How do you know what he did or didn’t see?” asked Baines between clenched teeth.

“I asked him, and hounds cannot lie.”

Baines narrowed his eyes. “Won’t, you mean.”

“Can’t. It’s impossible for us.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “No shit?”

“No shit,” said Lore. “We’re your dream witnesses.”

Baines held his gaze another moment, then grudgingly backed off. He lifted his chin, the gesture subtly aggressive, as if he were still burning to face off with more than words. It would have been a bad idea. Baines wasn’t small, but Lore could snap his neck in an instant.

The detective flexed his fists. “Thanks to you, I don’t have any witnesses. Yet.”

“Sure you do,” said Lore.

“Who?”

He nodded toward the fire. “The building itself. A few years ago, that clinic used to be a machine shop. It’s all concrete and steel.”

The detective’s expression tightened, understanding dawning in his eyes. “Concrete doesn’t burn.”

“Concrete walls can be subjected to gas flames at one thousand degrees centigrade for four hours without structural damage. That’s why they make fire walls out of concrete.”

Baines stared.

“I was renovating a warehouse,” Lore added. “I had to look it up.”

“No kid set that fire,” Baines conceded in a low voice.

“The walls are melting.”

Baines gave him a look. “What the hell does that?”

“A spell.”

Baines’s frown deepened.

Lore stared at the fire, feeling the echo of sorcery deep in the heart of the flames. The hellhounds had not faced this enemy before, but it was old and powerful. Now that he wasn’t chasing his foe, he could test the flavor of the leftover magic, rolling it over and over in his mind.

Necromancy.