Mac chewed a cracker. “I had a makeover.”
Lore narrowed his eyes, considering. Hounds seldom showed emotion to outsiders. The merest flicker was like anyone else having a spazz attack. “Did you mean to do this?”
“No.”
“Then it’s not an illusion.”
“Nope.”
“Huh.” Lore was silent for a moment, and then held out a brown paper bag. His hands were large, the type that would deliver a bruising blow in a fight. Mac could have crushed them in his.
“Holly asked me to give you this,” Lore said.
Mac stuffed another two crackers in his mouth and took the bag, unrolling the top. It held a small cloth pouch pulled shut by a drawstring long enough to hang around his neck. Mac pulled it out of the bag slowly, cautious just in case it didn’t mix well with whatever transforming spell he was packing. When it seemed safe, he slipped the string over his head and tossed the bag on the counter. The pouch looked primitive, filled with who-knew-what witchy herbs and rocks, but it was small enough to stuff under his shirt and out of the way.
Lore watched him silently, dark eyes following Mac’s every movement. “Holly said that charm protects against demon boxes. You’re going after Sylvius.”
Mac looked at Lore sharply. The hellhound’s expression was guarded. It was like looking into the gaze of a street-tough stray. Which, in a way, he was.
“How do you know about Sylvius?” Mac asked.
“He’s a friend.” Lore folded his arms and leaned his shoulder against the refrigerator. “I would have said it was sure death to attempt to rescue any prisoner of the guardsmen, but you can do it. The gods have obviously prepared you.”
For a moment, Mac forgot about refueling. He had no idea what hellhounds believed in, but he didn’t like the idea of being prepared by some entity. That smacked of being the anointed one, or inflated one, or whatever. More crap he’d never signed off on.
“How do you know what I can do?” he asked. “How do you know what goes on in the Castle? You haven’t been there for a year.”
For the briefest instant, Lore looked smug. “Hounds are good with locks.”
“What does that mean?”
“We’re half demons. We have power over doorways and thresholds. Things between one realm and the next. Prophecy. Now that I’m free, the Castle door is no problem for me.”
Mac choked on a cracker crumb. He poured a glass of water and drank it down. Then he started back in on the crackers.
Lore watched him with steady eyes. “We’ve been watching you.”
“That’s creepy.” The hellhounds in general were pretty weird—not harmful, but too silent, too watchful for comfort.
As if reading Mac’s mind, Lore lowered his gaze, studying the kitchen floor. “When you returned to Fairview, some thought it was a miracle. You had fallen into the dark, but came back in defiance of your curse. Our elders thought the gods had called you here for a purpose.”
Mac made a dismissive noise. If the gods were calling, they could leave a voice mail.
Thoughts chased across the hound’s strong-boned features, whole arguments Mac would never hear because he didn’t belong to their closed, silent community. Finally, Lore said, “You don’t believe me. Hounds don’t lie. We can’t.” -
“Whatever.” Mac reached for another cracker, and realized the box was empty. He crumpled it in disgust.
The hound stiffened, pulling away from the fridge to stand straight, his hands half clenched at his sides. “Events are moving quickly. You need to listen.”
Mac threw the box back on the counter, a white haze of frustration flooding his mind. “Screw all that. I need to eat. You wouldn’t like me when I’m hungry.”
The words came out between clenched teeth. The alternative was roaring like a wounded bear. He didn’t want to deal with gods and legends. He had more immediate problems.
Lore edged back, cautious now.
Mac steadied his breath. “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it. I’m done with being special. I don’t do destiny.”
“That’s your decision.”
“Damned straight.”
Lore held on to the ensuing silence until Mac met his eyes. Then he carried on as if Mac had been listening intently all along. “Nothing happens without reason. If you’ve been brought back and changed, there’s something you need to do. Something even bigger than rescuing my friend.”
Mac felt irritation bunching his shoulders. “Like what?”
“If the task is yours, you already know.”
“That’s crazy.”
“That’s the way it works.”
“I don’t want to play.”
The hound’s expression went from neutral to icy. “Destiny doesn’t make you special. It’s simply more responsibility.”
“I just want my life back.”
The words, however true, suddenly sounded childish in Mac’s ears. That just made him more annoyed. “Get out of here.”
Disappointment flickered in Lore’s eyes, then vanished as he shuttered his expression. “When you need help, call us.”
He left without another word. From the kitchen, Mac heard the door click shut.
Crap. That was stupid.
Mac had never asked Lore why he had brought up the prophecy in the first place. Or why he had offered the hounds’ help.
Hellhounds never involved themselves in other people’s business. What was their interest in whatever it was the Sparkly One was supposed to do? Was there trouble in the hellhound kennel?
He’d been so wrapped up in his own shit, he’d missed all that. Motivation was something a cop should never overlook. He’d be damned if that would happen twice.
There was something going on there. He could smell it.
God, I’m hungry.
Chapter 14
October 5, 2:00 p.m. 101.5 FM
“That’s what I mean, Oscar. What can the supernatural community do about humans who believe they have the right to kill us on sight? We all know there’re even tribes of so-called Hunters that have existed for centuries in Eastern Europe. Some say they’ve even evolved into a species of their own. Their whole culture is based on exterminating vampires. What have I, George de Winter, ever done to them? And yet they would still kill me at a moment’s notice and the law protects them from retaliation. How do we shield ourselves from something like that?”
“But really, isn’t there a greater threat from random violence against supernaturals, the vampire slayers who appoint themselves vigilantes?”
“Most of them are rank amateurs, but you’re right. Every so often they do get in a lucky stake.”
Alessandro slept. For vampires, dreams were usually lost in the deep, deep sleep of the Undead, slipping away during the long climb back to consciousness.
The odd quality of this one stuck with him, though.
There was a magpie the size of city hall trying to carry off the T-Bird, and he was trying to stop it with a garden hose.
Why the hell am I spraying it with water? The hose is long enough to wrap around its neck. This is a stupid dream.
The image blanked as absolutely as if someone had pulled the power cord.
Merda!
His hand shot out from beneath the covers, grabbing the stake inches from his chest. It was pure vampire survival reflex. His eyes squinted open a moment later, tears forming in reaction to the daylight peeking from beneath the blinds.
Through the haze, he saw Ashe’s rage-mottled face. His other hand shot up, snatching her throat. Delicate rings of cartilage tempted him to squeeze and crush.