Hellhound

Page 16

I stopped. He waited beside me, his arm still around my shoulders as he stared into the distance. “I understand,” I said. When he wouldn’t look at me, I reached up and gently turned his face toward mine. “I do.” Apprehension dimmed his eyes, but he nodded. He knew I’d felt the same pain when the Night Hag had transformed me into a hellhound to drive me into the Darklands. It had been agonizing, maddening. But the Night Hag didn’t want merely to hurt Kane. She wanted to break him.
“If she forces me, Vicky”—he didn’t say to do what, but we both knew what he meant—“I’ll experience every second of it. I’ll remember it the next day. Forever. I . . . I couldn’t live with that.”
You don’t have to. I could release him from the Night Hag’s power by giving her the white falcon. Yet how could I turn over my father’s spirit, so recently liberated from the realm of the dead, to the same kind of torment? And what if giving up the falcon meant my horrible visions of war and death would come to pass? I wanted to tell Kane about the Night Hag’s offer, but that would be dangling false hope. I didn’t fully know what was at stake. Unable to see a solution, I was paralyzed.
So I didn’t say anything. I put my arms around him and held him until he stopped shaking.
“Thank you,” I whispered, “for trying to protect me. I love you.”
He groaned and pulled me closer. “I love you, too,” his lips murmured against my hair.
If only that were enough. If only we could stay like this, so solid, so close, until everything that threatened us melted away and simply ceased to be.
But that wasn’t going to happen. Kane sighed, and that quiet sound expressed worlds of frustration and anxiety. We stepped apart, but he held my hand as we continued walking.
“Where were you headed?” he asked. “I’ll walk you there. There are too many people out looking for trouble tonight.”
At one time, I’d have bristled at the idea I needed an escort. But right now, I understood the depth of his need to keep me safe.
“Just out for a walk. I know, I know.” I put my fingers to his lips to stifle his objection. “I had a bad session with the book and needed to clear my head. I’ve got protection.” I pulled open my jacket to show my gun.
“I noticed. I’d prefer you didn’t put yourself in a situation where you need to use it.”
“Me, too. But this is my neighborhood, and I’m not going to hide indoors like a scared little kid. I’ll be fine.” Before he could argue with me, I changed the subject. “Did you hear they’re lowering the code level to yellow in the morning?”
He nodded. “I need to put in a full day at the office tomorrow. I’m behind on work. I’ve been planning this rally.”
“Tina told me. If anyone can bring unity to Deadtown, it’s you.”
“I don’t know about that. But I have to try. If we can channel all the energy from the current unrest into something constructive—” He stumbled, and I realized how tired he must be.
“You’ve been up all night, and you’re planning to be at work in, what, four hours?”
He checked his watch. “Three. I need to get an early start.”
“Then I’ll walk you home. You can’t save the world if you’re falling asleep on your feet, you know.”
He didn’t argue. We walked the couple of blocks to his town house in silence, his hand warm in mine. With each step, the cloud I hated so much rose up between us again.
At the door, he kissed my cheek. It felt stiff, formal, like a man kissing an elderly aunt he didn’t really like. I put my hands on his face and turned his head, sliding my lips across his skin until our mouths touched. He made a soft sound, half sigh, half moan, and pulled me to him as he parted his lips. We kissed with a deep hunger—hunger to regain the closeness we’d somehow lost, to blow away the cloud and really touch each other again.
And yet, when he drew back and looked at me, hopelessness dulled his eyes. Or maybe it was just exhaustion. Either way, he gave me a squeeze and stepped away, letting me go. He didn’t gather me into his arms and carry me upstairs. Although I knew that couldn’t happen, not now, my body ached with disappointment. Kane smiled sadly and said, “You say I want to save the world, and maybe I do. But I swear, Vicky, I’d send the whole world to hell if it would keep you safe.”
Then he went inside. As he was closing the door he paused, gazing out at me, but I could barely see his face through the cloud of our mutual despair.
12
MY WALK WITH KANE HAD DONE NOTHING TO CLEAR MY head. I kept wandering through the streets of Deadtown, aimlessly I thought, until I realized my feet were taking me toward Creature Comforts.
The streets grew more crowded the closer I got to the checkpoint, but I kept my head down and this time nobody bothered me. Maybe it was my Magnum. Or maybe it was the Goons on every corner. Whatever, I was glad to avoid trouble. Pam McFarren would be proud.
I whizzed through the checkpoint, feeling a little guilty it was so easy when all those zombies behind me couldn’t even pass into the Zone, not since yesterday’s riot. On the other hand, I thought, kicking away shards of a broken bottle, the mood was still ugly, and the Zone hadn’t yet recovered from yesterday’s damage. Axel had held his own, but he was only one troll. Next time, he might not be so lucky. I hated to agree with Commissioner Hampson, but maybe it was a good idea to keep zombies on their own side of the barrier until things simmered down.
As I’d noticed earlier, Creature Comforts was the only bar in the Zone that was open for business. Things would be hopping inside. The crowd might be rowdy. Knowing that Axel frowned on bringing weapons into the bar, I zipped my jacket all the way up to my chin. If I needed the gun, it would be there. But I didn’t expect to need it. Axel doesn’t allow any nonsense.
As I stepped inside, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of old beer, stale smoke, and a slight whiff of human blood, I stopped in surprise. Aside from a couple of vampires holding court to three adoring junkies in the back booth, I was the only customer. Axel lounged on a stool at the end of the bar, his large hands around a glass of beer, watching the overhead TV. He acknowledged my entrance with a short nod, and then stood, picked up his beer, and walked behind the bar.
“Where is everybody?” I asked, taking a stool.
“Not here.” He rummaged around in a refrigerator, then held up a bottle, his eyebrows raised.
The beer he offered was my usual—a lite beer that tasted just a shade beerier than carbonated water. I’m not all that big on drinking. Tonight, the way that sleeping pill had messed with my head, I didn’t want to compound the problem with even a miniscule amount of alcohol. “No thanks,” I said. “How about a club soda with lime? Make that a couple of limes.” Wow, Vicky, you really know how to live it up.
Axel gave me a look that suggested he was worried I’d go all crazy on him—not—and rattled some ice cubes into a glass. He gave me my drink, three lime wedges adorning the rim.
“You all right?” I asked. “After last night, I mean.”
“Fine.”
I looked around. The bar seemed fine, too. Same dim lights, sticky floor, crooked chairs, and vinyl-seated booths I knew and loved. Here, you could almost believe that all was right with the world.
Axel reached to lower the volume on the TV.
“Don’t bother,” I said. “If you’re watching it, I mean.”
I was in the mood to sit and stare into my drink, and Axel isn’t what you’d call a big talker, anyway. Well, not unless Mab is here to chat with him in whatever language Scandinavian trolls speak. Then you can’t shut the guy up. I wondered again if I’d heard Mab right, if she really was coming to Boston. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure I’d imagined it. That and her Lady of the Cerddorion comment. None of it made any sense.
Axel leaned against the counter behind the bar and returned his attention to the TV. He was watching one of those competitive cooking shows, where teams of chefs race to outdo each other to perform culinary miracles. Axel watched intently, not even blinking.
“Thinking of opening a restaurant?” I asked.
His eyes didn’t leave the screen as he shook his head. “Reminding myself why I’d be crazy to try.”
I could see what he meant. On the screen, flames shot upward from a pan as two chefs screamed at each other. One of them grabbed a plate of pasta and hurled it across the kitchen. The scene made Axel’s job of tossing out anemic vampire junkies and breaking up werewolf fights look positively placid.
I turned back to my drink, drawing a line with my finger through the condensation on the glass. The show was easy to tune out—I wasn’t really interested in people throwing fits about overcooked linguini. Instead, I squeezed a lime wedge and stirred the cloudy juice into my club soda. What was going on with the Morfran? How was it managing to possess a zombie like Tom Malone or Andy Skibinsky and control its host’s actions before consuming him?
Pryce was behind this—he had to be. He was the one who’d sent a huge quantity of the Morfran to Boston last winter. When the spirit had attacked the zombies at the Paranormal Appreciation Day concert, I’d acted as quickly as I could, using Hellforged to trap it in the old slate gravestones of the Granary Burying Ground. I’d mopped up most of it, but some had gotten away. Maybe that little bit of escaped Morfran had found those zombies and driven them to kill. But why would the Morfran change its behavior?
An uneasy feeling clenched my stomach.
I’d told Daniel that sorcery was a possible cause. Pryce’s father, Myrddin Wyllt, had been a wizard, well versed in the sorcerer’s black arts. When Myrddin died, Pryce absorbed his father’s life force and knowledge. In the Darklands, I’d seen Myrddin’s spirit emerge from Pryce’s body to cast a spell. Could Pryce be using Myrddin’s sorcery to bind the Morfran to zombies?
There was one way to find out. I had a spy in the demon plane.