Frostbound (34 page)

“Still plenty of fight left in you. Good. Next time, I’ll bring some toys. I’m dying to try out some of Omara’s techniques.”

Belenos slid the quartz into his pocket.

“What. Do. You. Want?” she hissed.

He picked up the gag, wrenching it back into her mouth. “Entertainment, my duck. It’s that simple.
Le roi s’amuse
. You owe it to me after stealing my money and running away. But that’s the last time—I’ve learned how to keep track of my things.”

He patted the pocket where he’d put the scrying ball. “Don’t forget that I’m watching you. There’s no escape from me. Ever.”

He ran a hand down the curve of her cheek, and then planted a kiss on her forehead.

 

Belenos’s men had one important strategic advantage, Lore decided. They knew the map of the underground warren, where the turnings were, where the dead ends could trap their enemy. What had begun as a rescue mission and sweep of the underground was turning into an all-out battle. Belenos wasn’t the only magic user on deck. His minions had training, too.

Where Lore had four bands of fighters, the sorcerer had dozens of small groups armed with fireballs roaming the tunnels. Lore had expected resistance, but nothing so deadly.

He’d gone to hound form, along with the others in his fighting unit. They were better trackers and faster runners on four feet. Plus, they were harder to kill—and the fireballs were coming thick and fast. Some of the creatures in the Castle had used similar ammunition, and Lore knew from experience how deadly it could be. There was a score down his back where one had skimmed over him. If he’d been on two legs, he’d be toasted. As it was, every step pulled and twinged.

It made him twice as determined to secure the area so he could search for the captives. He’d sent out volunteers to begin looking for Baines and Talia, but the danger was extreme.
If only I could go myself.
But he was the general of the hounds, and he had to lead.

Lore crouched on his belly and crawled along the base of the tunnel wall. He could smell a mix of human and vampire. He wished he’d brought a troll or two. Or a dragon.

Lore stopped his advance. His hounds had been chasing a larger group of fighters, and they’d entrenched themselves in this passage. Lore was close enough to see what his team was up against now. There was a pile of rubble across the tunnel forming a barricade. The bad guys were behind it, using the rocky debris for cover.

Okay, not imaginative but effective, up to a point
.

The king’s lieutenants should have watched more Westerns. Lore backed up, reversing the crouched shuffle until it was safe to turn and trot back to his men. They were waiting in the darkness of a tunnel mouth, nine pairs of glowing red eyes. Lore gave his instructions. Four of the hounds trotted back the way Lore had come, prepared to draw fire. Lore led the rest down an adjoining hall.

Anyone with brains—or a passing knowledge of old action movies—knew enough to sneak up behind the barricade or fort or wagon and get the enemy that way. He just hoped there was a tunnel that looped back to the right spot to launch his attack. Surprise and timing were his best weapons.

The hounds flowed through the tunnels at a fast trot, turning left and then left again. It felt like they had been down there for hours, but he’d lost track of time. Like a pendulum, his mind returned to Talia. Was she hurt? The thought spun through him like a whirling blade. He wanted to break away and go find her, to flee instead of risking both their lives in an insane battle under the streets.

The fight with Mavritte in Joe’s hotel had clarified much in his mind. Vampire or not, Talia was his mate. He knew it by her scent, by her touch, and by the way his heart clung to hers. He’d known it that moment in the parking lot, when she’d taken his hand. His brain hadn’t put it together then, but his soul had known.

It explained why he felt he had always known her, and yet they had only just met. It explained why he would stop at nothing to have her. He wasn’t going to compromise. If he was the type to give up, the hounds would still be rotting in the Castle. Compromise wasn’t who he was.

He was the one who faced a fully loaded sorcerer, because it was his job to stand guard.

Some days it sucked to be Alpha.

Lore stopped, listening to the noise ahead. The other hounds gathered close around him, flanks touching.
Voices. The hum of magic.

This fight was about to get interesting. The route he’d chosen had been the right one, leading to an undefended junction about fifty yards behind the barricade. He’d found the launch point for their attack.

But Lore hesitated. Why had they left this point undefended? He used all his senses, but there was nothing to detect. Nothing but the bombardment of fireballs and the frantic yips of the brave hounds he’d left at the other end of the tunnel. They were doing a good job, making enough noise for ten hounds under attack instead of four.

It was a nightmare moment, his instincts telling him to wait while his brain demanded that he move forward. Lore bargained with himself, weighing the risks. Was he underestimating the enemy? Was he giving them too much credit? What hadn’t he anticipated?

Well, he couldn’t stand there all day, while his followers shifted from paw to paw with muffled impatience. In the end, he had to take the chance.

Silently, they glided into the main tunnel, taking position. The hounds spread out, fanning across the width of the passage. From there they would silently pad close to their fireball-throwing assailants, and then show them what hellhounds could do.

It wasn’t until Lore was in formation, in the center of the pack, that he saw the problem.

These new tunnels were wide and high, and just as the walls began to curve into the arch overhead, there was a jog in the brickwork that formed a narrow shelf on both sides. There were snipers sitting up there, wearing drab green vests marked with the crossed-blade symbol of the Hunters.
Hunters!

The muzzles of their rifles were pointed straight at the hounds. There wasn’t much that could injure hounds, but ammunition laced with quicksilver would—the metal of Mercury, who ruled the hounds as they guided the souls of the dead to the beyond. Obscure stuff, but the Hunters would know that. They taught that kind of thing to their kids in nursery rhymes.

Lore gave a single, sharp bark to signal retreat.

They turned tail and ran, leaving the snipers to splatter the tunnel with bullets. As the bullets hit the brickwork, explosions of silver liquid blotched the walls.

The hounds raced, outrunning the rifle fire, but there were also fireballs, sailing low over their heads, singeing the fur from their backs. The heat cut like a razor. Lore flattened his ears against his head, making himself as long and low as he could. He heard a yelp of pain. One of the other hounds wasn’t as quick or as lucky.

The tunnel narrowed, the side tunnels coming less and less frequently. They ran so fast, the brickwork blurred into a red-brown wash. They were being stampeded. At the end of the tunnel would be a dead end, where they all would die.

He’d had this prophecy. He knew how it ended.

Slaughter
.

This is how his father had died: the pack racing for their lives, herded into a killing zone by demons. When Lore’s father had turned to defend his people, it had been too late.

Not this time.
Lore wasn’t playing their game. He wheeled on his hind paws and began racing back the other way.

Right into danger. With what breath he could spare, he began baying a distress call.

The others took it up.

He had forty-five seconds before he was in range of the Hunters’ rifles.

I
f one didn’t like spiders, the underground tunnels were a lousy place to be. Darak’s cooler body temperature made him unappealing to most biting insects, but they still creeped him out. Give him a Bengal tiger in a snit; spare him the crawly things. Not that he’d ever admit that.

Webs and broken egg sacks lined the stone walls. Something down here was good eating, if the spiders liked the place that much.

“Is this the only way we can go?” demanded the queen.

It was the first complaint she’d made, so he was okay with the question. “It’s the least expected one. This passage should be unguarded. We’ll have you at the Hilliard Fairview in fifteen minutes.”

Rather than risking a long, exposed drive on the highway, Omara had taken a connecting flight from the airport to the inner harbor via float plane. Nia—who had avoided playing hostage because of the queen’s early arrival—was in charge of guarding the motorcade that was supposed to be carrying the queen. The plan was to trick Belenos into thinking Omara was in her limo aboveground, even while she was hoofing it through the sewers. The ruse would hopefully buy enough time for Lore to put Belenos out of business.

Darak stole a glance down at Omara. She ruled a vast territory in the Pacific Northwest, but she was tiny, dressed in a long coat of fine white wool trimmed with a fluffy white fur collar. One long black braid hung over her shoulder, a sharp contrast to all that white. Her eyes were the shade of dark honey, her skin of pale cinnamon. Though she barely looked twenty, she was far older than Darak.

A relay of phone calls through Lore and some guy named Caravelli had prepared her. Otherwise, a hihow’s-your-flight from half a dozen rogue mercenaries would not have gone well.

She sighed with relief when they reached a main junction. Darak and Iskander held up their flashlights. They were in the front, the queen and two of her personal guards were next, another two of Darak’s men bringing up the rear.

They swept the flashlight beams around, identifying a fork in the tunnels. One had a stream of water down the middle. The unmistakable stink of rotting kelp hung in the air.

“What is that?” Omara asked, putting a hand to her nose.

“We’re close to the harbor, Your Majesty” said Iskander, who was far more polite than Darak. “Some of these places fill up when the tide comes in. The tunnels were used to haul goods from the ships.”

“Smuggling, you mean,” she said, sounding a bit amused. Like all women, she seemed to think Iskander was adorable. That had been his talent as a body slave.

When they came to the next fork, they went right. Now the tunnels looked dirty and dark, but blessedly dry. In the beam of the flashlight, Darak could see where the layers of sand and dirt formed smooth carpets, and where it looked like feet had churned it up.

“These tunnels are definitely in use,” the queen murmured. “Are you sure this route is secure?”

Darak traced the path with the light. “Whoever was down here went this same way.”

They went into what looked like a narrow service passage lined with bricks. He guessed it was part of an old coal delivery chute, rebuilt to serve another purpose. Farther along, there was still black dust clinging to the bricks.

Iskander consulted the map he’d printed off the Empire Hotel’s computer. “I think we’re under Fort Street. That utility door to the left must lead to the basement of another hotel.”

“Is that good?” Darak asked irritably.

“This passage connects two tunnels. Shortcut. We’re where we’re supposed to be.”

“That’s all I care about.”

Omara gave a quick shake of her head. “Something is watching us.”

Darak looked around. They’d loaded up on charms and protections, but none of them packed the wallop of Perry Baker’s magic. “Then the plan’s gone wrong aboveground. Belenos knows we’ve double-crossed him.”

Omara’s eyes flashed. “Then get me up there so that I can deal with this face-to-face. Now.”

He liked a woman who was willing to fight, even if she was a queen. Damning protocol, he grabbed her hand, pulling her down the narrow brick passageway to the tunnels. Iskander ran ahead, graceful as a deer, a long knife drawn in one hand. They’d just gained the main passageway when Iskander stopped dead in his tracks. Omara rammed into Darak. They stumbled together, his arms around her to keep her from falling. She felt pleasantly female, if a little too small for his taste.

“What the hell?” he demanded, and then caught sight of what had stopped his friend.

Something—no doubt Belenos and his magic ball—had been watching them. And found them.

Their flashlight beams vanished into a wall of blackness. It was black as ink, or jet, or the edge of the world. A shred of the darkness tore itself off and began inching toward them like an ambitious slug.

Darak’s stomach rebelled, trying to crawl up his throat. Pushing past Iskander, he stomped the shadow-slug with his big boot, grinding it into the dust. When he lifted up his foot, it had vanished. “Illusion.”

Omara clenched her jaw. “I don’t like this kind of pretend. If he wants to play magic games, I say bring it on. I’ll show that worm a few tricks.”

A bright speck arrowed out of the darkness, whirring like a dragonfly. They ducked in unison, Darak feeling a sting as it zipped past his cheek. It splatted against the wooden door behind them, and it exploded. Darak pulled the queen to the ground, hoping none of the flying splinters were stake-sized. He rolled once, coming up on his elbows, and fired into the wall of darkness. The other guards followed suit. Muzzle flashes lit up the tunnel, blinding him for an instant.

Once the echoes of the gunshots faded, there was a moment of expectant silence.

Another bright, whirring blob came sailing straight at the queen. She tracked it for a microsecond, then shot it out of the air with a ball of energy she conjured out of thin air. The collision flared into a chrysanthemum of sparks, banging like a giant firecracker. Pain stabbed Darak’s ears.

Two more fireballs came toward them, close enough that Darak had to fling himself out of the way. One caught his left arm, searing through coat and shirt to shred the flesh beneath. He swore, blood streaming from the wound.