Hellhound

“There’s no time, child. I’ll tell you when I get there.”

Get where?

“I’ll have Jenkins ring with the arrangements.”

“What arrangements? Mab, what are you talking about?” Snores and snorts shuddered the air and ground. The lake sloshed into whitecaps. A fissure opened beside me. Mab fractured into a mosaic portrait of herself; the blue-and-silver pieces faded around the edges, going all wispy and cottony and floating apart.

“The arrangements for me to travel to Boston.” Somehow, her words, quiet as a distant murmur, found me through the thunderous booming that broke apart my dreamscape. “So I can lend my support. It’s time for you to accept your role.”

“What role?” The fragments of my aunt drifted away like dandelion seeds. “Mab, don’t go yet. I need to know what you’re talking about. What role?”

“Why, child, haven’t you realized? You’re the Lady of the Cerddorion.”

11

MY EYES FLEW OPEN. I BOLTED UPRIGHT IN BED, CLUTCHING sweaty handfuls of sheet. My heart pounded in my ears like wild horses galloping through my brain. “Mab!” I wanted her to come back and explain what was going on. But even as I shouted her name, I knew she couldn’t hear me. She’d left my dreamscape, and so had I. Two thousand miles away in Wales, she was starting her day—greeting Rose, who’d already been in the kitchen for an hour, telling Jenkins they had urgent arrangements to make. Did she really say she was coming to Boston? Or had my drugged-out dreamscape thrown her last words at me, like it had made me a mermaid and turned my toes into wriggling piggies?

I rubbed my eyes and checked my bedside clock. Two forty-eight A.M. Groaning, I flopped onto my pillow and pulled the covers over my head. Sleep! I ordered myself. Sleep now!

Yeah, right. Like that was going to work.

The command got lost in the storm of questions that swirled through my mind. Why was Mab coming to Boston—assuming I’d heard her right? Who was the Lady of the Cerddorion, and what did she have to do with me? It had to be a hallucination. Yet Mab had pulled most of the magic out of me, and I’d felt lucid enough after that.

I wished I could say the same thing now.

Maybe Mab’s exit from my dreamscape had released the magic she’d siphoned off, and that’s what made me hear crazy things as she left. The thought slowed my speeding heartbeat a little. That was probably it. It was too early to call the Welsh pub that would send a message to Mab’s remote estate, but I’d do that later. Just to make sure she hadn’t really said she was coming to Boston.

Because if she hadn’t said that, she also hadn’t said that other thing, about the Lady of Cerddorion, whatever that was.

Feeling reassured, I sat up again. The room tilted a little, and I closed my eyes before it started spinning, too. Didn’t help. My bed felt like the Tilt-a-Whirl ride that had left me with a dizzy head and a queasy stomach at a seaside fair when I was eight. Damn sleeping pill. I opened my eyes and pressed down on the bed with both hands, as though that would hold it still.

No way I’d be going back to sleep now. For me, three o’clock in the morning was like midafternoon for the norms. I’d had a nap, and my body didn’t want more sleep. The residual effect of the sleeping pill and its magic said otherwise. It left me with a foggy head, heavy limbs, and a mind that refused to sleep. Not a great combination.

I heaved myself out of bed and staggered across the hall to the bathroom. A steamy shower provided some relief. But as I toweled off, my head still felt like someone had stuffed it with soggy cotton balls. Maybe a walk in the cool night air would clear it.

I dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, then threw on a light jacket. In front of my weapons cabinet, I paused, looking over my collection of knives and swords. Pam McFarren was right—there was so much anger in the streets, and I couldn’t afford to look like a target. Twice now, somebody had looked at me and seen a punching bag.

So how best to shut down a fight before it started? To a zombie, a knife is about as scary as a toothpick. A semiautomatic pistol would be the best thing to hold back an aggressive zombie in a bad mood. I carried bronze bullets, not the exploding “zombie droppers” that could kill a zombie if you fired a whole lot of them fast enough. Even so, most zombies would think twice about getting aerated with a dozen new holes.

I shrugged off my jacket. I chose the biggest, meanest-looking pistol I owned, a Magnum Desert Eagle .44, and buckled on its shoulder holster. If I left the jacket unzipped, it was almost as good as carrying a neon sign that read DON’T MESS WITH ME. Given the mood out there, would that be a deterrent or a challenge? Whatever. All I knew was I’d rather face a zombie mob than climb the walls of my apartment.

AS SOON AS I STEPPED ONTO THE SIDEWALK, I HEARD MY name. I looked along the nearly empty street—the crowds seemed to gather near the checkpoints—and then I saw him. Kane picked up his pace as he walked toward me. He wore an open trench coat over his expensive suit. His silver hair gleamed in the moonlight.

Moonlight. The waxing moon was a reminder of how little time was left before Kane’s bargain with the Night Hag forced him to become one of her hounds.

I tried to smile as he caught up to me, but I knew my face reflected the despair, fear, and guilt I saw in his. Still, his touch was warm as he folded me into his arms. I pressed my face into his chest. His scent was all Kane—fresh air and pine woods—not the charred brimstone of a hellhound.

Kane stepped back. Reluctantly, I let go.

“I’m glad I ran into you,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get in touch.”

Tell me you want to sweep me off my feet, I wished. Pick me up and carry me through the streets back to your place. We’ll close the bedroom door and not come out for a week. We’ll push away the Night Hag and Pryce and the Morfran and everything else that’s driven this wedge between us. We’ll be so close nothing will ever get between us again.

I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I asked what was up. We started walking in the direction of his town house. His hand brushed mine but didn’t grasp it.

“Two things. First, I got this for you.” He held up something that looked like a pendant. From the end of a leather loop dangled a charm. It was made of metallic threads woven into a complicated pattern, with various crystals knotted in. “It’s a protection charm,” he said, lifting the loop over my head. “To keep you safe from malevolent spirits. I commissioned it from Roxana Jade.” He arranged the pendant so it rested over my heart. “Promise me you’ll wear it.”

“All right.” If it brought him a little peace of mind, I would. Although privately I had my doubts. I knew Roxana. She was one of Boston’s most skilled witches. But I knew where I would place my bet in a contest between any human and a spirit as ancient and spiteful as the Night Hag.

“Second, I wanted you to know that I’ve hired some witches to cast a protection spell over your apartment for each night of the full moon. Four witches, one for each element. Each is the top-ranked witch for her element nationally. I’ve got a list of their names.” He dug around in the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “Here it is.” He held it out to me.

“Kane, how much did that cost?” A fortune, no doubt. Maybe two.

“The cost doesn’t matter. I need to make sure you’re safe. I need to do it now, because . . .”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but I knew what he was thinking: Because once he transformed into just another hellhound in the Night Hag’s pack, he’d be forced to obey her orders. Including the order to kill me.

I looked at the list. Roxana Jade was on it, but she was the only local. For the others, Kane must be paying travel expenses, hotel, food—all that on top of whatever ridiculous fee they were charging. I stopped and shook the list at him. “This isn’t necessary, Kane. It’s a waste of money.”

“Vicky—”

“I can’t even promise I’ll stay home on those nights. I might have to work.”

“You can’t possibly have scheduled any jobs for the full moon—for this full moon. If you did, reschedule. I’m sure your clients would understand.”

“Not demon extermination. I’m working as a consultant for the police. The zombie murders—” Kane scowled. He was all about the proper terminology and hated it when I said zombie. I tried again. “The PDH who killed those humans was possessed by the Morfran. Those damn crows drove him to kill before they fed on him. So the cops asked me to help them figure out what’s going on.”

“Which one?”

“What?”

“Which cop asked you to help?”

“Daniel Costello.”

Kane’s scowl deepened, and something flared in his gray eyes. Jealousy? But that was ridiculous. Kane knew Daniel and I had gone on a few dates. But he also knew that was ancient history. I’d made my choice. I’d chosen Kane.

I tried to dredge up a little pleasure at the thought that Kane was jealous, like maybe it was a sign that we still had hope of a normal relationship. But it didn’t work. Any jealousy was one more vapor in the noxious cloud that held us apart.

“You don’t have anything to worry about,” I said.

Kane laughed bitterly. “I’ve got so many things to worry about I couldn’t even count them all between now and next Tuesday.”

“Well, me running off with Daniel isn’t one of them.”

His look softened. He pulled me to him as we continued down the street. “I’m sorry. I know that. I don’t doubt your feelings for me. I mean, I don’t doubt them tonight.” His fingers tightened on my arm. “It’s me. After I become that . . . that thing, after the Mistress of Hounds forces me to attack you—How could your feelings not change?”

“That hellhound isn’t you.”

“It is, though. Or . . .” He chewed his lip, searching for the right words. “It’s like I’m trapped inside it. I feel what it feels, see what it sees. Most of the experience is pain—” His voice broke, and he shuddered. He swallowed hard, his body tense. “Pain and instinct. But it’s like some part of me, the part I think of as me—my mind, my emotions—gets shrunken down and locked inside. I’m there, but I can’t control what the hellhound does.”