Hellhound (A Deadtown Novel) (25 page)

DARKNESS. PAIN. MY FACE LAY ON SOMETHING HARD, rough. It scraped my cheek when I moved.

Could I sit up? Yes. My muscles screamed, but I managed. My fingers clutched something. A sword hilt. Good. I had protection.

I squinted into the darkness through watery eyes, trying to figure out where I was. My brain thudded like a cotton-stuffed drum:
throb throb throb
. A thought pushed its way through the thickness: Bonita’s cell. I stretched my arms widely, feeling with my fingers, testing with my sword. No walls within reach. In the distance, a car horn honked. I sniffed, inhaling scents of diesel fumes and salt air. Not a cell, then. I was outside. But where? I could think of no place in Boston where the darkness could be so complete.

How did I get here? And what the hell happened in the abandoned factory? I probed my memory, but the cottony, sludgy feeling wouldn’t clear. I remembered making my way down the hall, my demon mark aflame, excitement building as I neared the fight. I remembered my lust for violence, my blood-chilling battle cry in a voice that wasn’t mine. But then everything collapsed into a flashing kaleidoscope of tumbling images. Blade hitting blade. Blade sinking into flesh. Screams. Thuds. And blood—so much blood. Fountains of it. Rivers. Oceans.

I couldn’t tease the images apart. I saw the blossoming of a sudden wound and didn’t know whether it was mine or another’s. I felt myself step over a body but couldn’t tell whose it was, not even friend or foe. And through it all, a voice whispered in my mind. Not my own thoughts—I was sure of that. A voice outside of me, seeking a way in, wanting something from me. But I couldn’t find the shape or meaning of the words. It was like trying to listen to someone speaking underwater. The words bubbled toward me, but I couldn’t make them out. When I tried now to recall, to listen, my fragmented memory went blank.

Nothing.

My eyes had adjusted to the darkness, which wasn’t as absolute as I’d first thought. I needed to figure out where I was. Everything would fall into place then, and I could move forward. I hoped.

The phone Daniel had given me had a GPS. I’d find out where I was, and then I’d call my apartment. Mab would pick up. She must be frantic with worry by now.

I tried again to dredge up a memory from the raid. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t remember. Mab wasn’t the only one who was worried.

Daniel’s phone wasn’t in my pocket. Damn it, it
had
to be. I stood, feeling every blow and cut I couldn’t remember, and checked all my pockets. My clothes were torn and stiff with blood. My hands were sticky with it. But the phone was gone.

So were most of the weapons I’d carried. All I had was the sword in my hand. It, too, was tacky with blood, both hilt and blade.

Okay. No phone, but the plan hadn’t changed. I’d determine my location, and then I’d find a phone to call Mab.

I seemed to be in the middle of an alley between two tall buildings. No streetlights shone here, but the darkness seemed thinner ahead, so I went that way. It amazed me that there could be a pocket of such deep darkness in a city the size of Boston, especially so near the full moon. Overhead, the sky was uniformly black. No moon, no stars. Despite the sunny afternoon, heavy clouds must have blown in. But now, in this alley, there wasn’t a whisper of wind.

I moved slowly, left hand in front of me, my right gripping my sword as I shuffled through the inky night toward the lesser darkness. Each step sent pains of every description surging through me. Twice I stumbled over unseen objects in my path. But I kept going. When I exited this alley, I’d be on a street. There would be lights, traffic, people, signs. It would be like stepping back into the world.

Except it wasn’t. I reached the alley’s mouth and leaned against the corner of the building. There was a street here, yes, but everything was still so dark. I couldn’t see the far curb, let alone a street sign. Distant sounds of traffic were audible, but muffled. I shook my head, trying to clear it. What was wrong with my senses? And where was the source of the light I’d seen while in the alleyway?

There.
A glimmer in the darkness. I squinted, and it took shape, grew steadier. A flame burned. I went toward it.

As I got closer, I could make out the source: a fire burning inside a barrel. A figure stood by it, warming his hands. One of Boston’s homeless? Maybe he could tell me where we were, why everything was so dark.

The man stared into the fire, the flames giving his wrinkled, bearded face a maniacal air. He wore a torn raincoat, belted at the waist. His old, gnarled hands writhed around each other in the heat. His shoes were mismatched—one was an old work boot, the other a running shoe held together with duct tape. He didn’t look up as I approached.

“Excuse me,” I said, standing back a little in the darkness so my bloody appearance wouldn’t alarm him. “I’m lost. Could you tell me where we are?”

The old man cackled, still staring at the flames as though hypnotized. His grin revealed a mouth missing more teeth than it held. I wasn’t sure he’d understood my question, so I asked again. No answer. His laughter was the only sign he’d heard me.

This man couldn’t help. I turned away, wondering which way I should go in all that darkness, when the cackling stopped.

“Yes, I can tell you where we are.” The deep baritone voice didn’t match the old man’s high-pitched laugh.

When I turned around, the man stood in the same place by the fire. But the face that now stared at me wasn’t the face of the old homeless man.

“Pryce.” My aching fingers tightened their grip on my sword.

“You’ve been here before. The world between the worlds. Limbo, humans call it.”

Yes, I’d been in Limbo before. A place of lost things, of wandering souls. It was a borderland between the human and demon planes, a place touching both but belonging to neither. Pryce had once sent a demon to pull me into Limbo and attack me there.

Not again. I brought my sword forward and stepped out of the darkness.
Aim for the bastard’s heart.

As soon as the firelight touched me, my hand released my sword. It fell to the ground and my arm dropped to my side, shaking.

Pryce kicked the sword away.

“Not here, cousin. Not now. I thought Limbo would be a good place for a truce. Allow us both some breathing room.”

“I didn’t agree to a truce.”

“Not in so many words. But notice how you were unable to strike me. That’s new, isn’t it? My bond with Difethwr is good for that much, anyway. The Hellion has grown strong enough in me that you cannot raise your marked arm against me, just as you cannot raise it against the demon that marked it.”

Was he telling the truth? I tried to flex my fingers. Limp, they wouldn’t obey. But we were in Limbo, and the rules were different here. Pryce’s claim might be a trick to make me believe I could no longer fight him.

Whether or not that was true in the real world, I couldn’t fight him here.

“Where’s Tina?” I demanded.

“I haven’t given her to the Morfran yet, if that’s what you’re asking. But she’s unimportant.”

“Not to me, she isn’t. Let her go.”

Pryce kept talking as though I hadn’t spoken. “What’s important is what happened this afternoon. Tell me, cousin, what
did
happen?”

His question stabbed into my mind but didn’t illuminate a damn thing. I stared into the flames, trying to make them into images, shape them into memories.

“You don’t remember, do you? Well, you were in an exquisite killing frenzy. It must have felt like a trance. Difethwr was quite proud.”

The tingling in my demon mark felt like a confirmation. I said nothing.

“It’s been a long time coming,” Pryce continued, “but at last it’s happened.”

I wasn’t going to take his bait. I would not ask him what had happened. I didn’t want to hear it—not from Pryce. I kept feeling around inside my mind, looking for the truth. But it was like that truth was locked away in a place I couldn’t reach.

Pryce sighed. “So that’s how you’re going to be, is it? Very well. I could describe today’s events to you, but you’d think I was lying. However, you cannot deny the truth of your feelings. You’ve noticed, haven’t you? How the Destroyer’s grip on you has strengthened. How small annoyances set off an anger that mushrooms into rage. And that rage—it’s been harder to control, hasn’t it? There have even been times when, perhaps just for a moment or two, you haven’t
wanted
to control it.” I stared at the flames, unable to reply. Pryce’s voice, low and insinuating, buzzed in my ear. “When you thought how good it would feel to give in and
destroy
. The cause didn’t matter. Everything was in the release. The crushing, the utter destruction. You’ve wanted that, cousin—and know it.”

The flames parted like a curtain, and I was back in that hallway. The bodies on the floor. The screams and clashing of swords. The excitement heating my veins. Then each flame became an image, those flashes of memory I couldn’t fit together. A spurt of blood. A wound gaping. Light flashing off a blade. A mouth contorted in pain. A bloody hand, its fingers going slack around a hilt. I closed my eyes, willing away both the images and the excitement they called up in me.

Pryce’s voice whispered, close. “This afternoon, you got what you wanted. You finally gave in.”

A grunt of pain. Blood spilling on a concrete floor.

“You stormed into that room like the spirit of Death itself. You didn’t care who or what you killed. You wanted only to destroy. And you did.”

That sweet moment of triumph when flesh gave way to steel.

“The entire SWAT team is dead. Much of that is your doing. We lost some on our side, too—again, largely thanks to you. You
were
the Destroyer, finally and completely possessed.”

I recalled the voice I’d heard, probing at my consciousness. Could it have been Difethwr? The Destroyer taking control, directing me, egging me on. I could hear those burbling echoes, but the words still eluded me. No. I wouldn’t believe it. The Destroyer had touched me, but my will was my own. Always.

I shook off the images that crowded me and stared squarely into the black holes of Pryce’s eyes. “You’re lying.”

“Didn’t I tell you? I knew you’d say that. Well, I won’t waste my breath attempting to convince you. The truth is in your bones now, cousin. It’s in your blood. It’s in your
soul
. When you accept that you belong to the Destroyer—and, through the Hellion, to me—your memories will return.” He passed his hand over the flames, and again I stood in a doorway, my sword raised, watching a struggling mass. All I wanted was to throw myself in. My heart surged, and then the image winked out.

In its place was Pryce’s smile. “I can help you,” he said. Insidious words from a demi-demon. “Come with me now. Not to the Ordinary, where nothing but trouble awaits you. We’ll go to my realm. Difethwr waits for you there. In Uffern, you can train to work
with
your Hellion master, stop fighting against what you’ve become. And after you’ve learned to serve that . . . thing, you’ll be fit to serve me.” He gripped my arm. “It’s your destiny.”

I yanked my arm away. “I’ve told you before, Pryce. I will never join your side.”

He looked at me for a long time, then shook his head. “This stubbornness of yours is so tiresome.” He waved a dismissive hand. “At least I won’t have to endure it much longer. You
will
join me, and you’ll be glad to do so. But I don’t have to talk myself silly attempting to convince you. You’ll convince yourself, from the inside. Your feelings already know.”

Out in the real world, a siren wailed. Another joined it. The sound was muffled, but louder than any outside noises that had so far made their way into Limbo.

“Those sirens are coming for you,” Pryce said in his bored voice. “In the Ordinary, you’ll be arrested for murder. If you had agreed to return with me to Uffern, you’d be beyond their reach. But I’ve withdrawn my offer for the moment.” His eyes, already impossibly black, somehow darkened. “You must understand where your true loyalties lie. Call me when you tire of languishing in a human prison.”

The fire flared up, and the homeless man laughed and stared at the flames. Again the fire flared. I stood in the middle of a semidark room, gripping my sword. Bodies lay everywhere. Blood covered the floor.

I was the only living creature there.

TIRES SCREECHED. A BULLHORN ANNOUNCED THE ARRIVAL of the police.
Shit.
They’d be on top of me in moments. I stood in a room filled with dead bodies, with a bloody sword in my hand and no memory of what happened. They’d arrest me for sure. If they didn’t shoot me on sight.

I had to be out of here before cops stormed the place, and there was only one way to do that. I threw aside my sword and prepared to shift.

To what? What creature could get me out of here?

Feral cats.
Mrs. Sal’s complaint about the pests that had taken over the neighborhood waved like a banner in my mind. A wild cat could slink past the cops. And it would pass unnoticed through the streets.

“This is the police. The building is surrounded.”

I thought of gray fur and whiskers. Sharp teeth. A long tail.

“Throw down any weapons and come to the door with your hands on your head.”

Claws. Glowing eyes with slitted pupils. Muscles tensed to pounce.

Footfalls pounded, inside. Coming down the hall.

The energy built. Sounds sharpened as my ears changed shape, slid to the top of my head. My skull contracted, my field of vision widened. Smells, so many smells.

The bullhorn droned, but its words blurred together into mere sound.

My arms lengthened, nails sharpening into claws. The energy built some more. Whiskers sprouted, sensing the movements of air currents. Energy, more and more, getting stronger. Fur covered me. Then the energy blasted out, and I changed.

BLOOD. HUNGRY. WANT TO TASTE IT. WAIT—LISTEN. LOUD noises, angry noises. Coming fast. Trouble—angry sounds mean trouble.

I spring. Legs running as paws hit ground. I run, fast, away from angry sounds.

Dark place ahead, good for hiding. I run into darkness. Slow, stop. Creep away from noisy humans. Be quiet. Stay close to wall. Stay quiet. Hunger rumbles in my belly. My tongue wants the taste of blood.

What was that sound?

Too much noise. Too dangerous.

A doorway. Silent, I creep through. Dust here. Old smells, stale. No food.

Blood smell pulls me back. Hungry. I turn, watch. Stay low. Creep. Cautious.

Noisy humans stomp through the blood room. Too many. Too loud. Can’t get near the blood.

Need to go. Run away. Find food.

My side touching the wall, I creep. Stay in shadows. A window lets in light. Open. I wait, watch. Crouching, ready.

Now.

I run to the light. Jump. Up, over, out. I run, ground hard under paws. Air fresher, clearer. I run from noisy humans.

Quieter now. Slowing down. Hungry. Food. Want food.

I stop, lift my nose. Sniff.

Over there, a movement. Pigeon pecks in the dirt.

Pigeon unaware. I crouch. I’ll catch it, eat it.

I crouch, tense. Legs tight, ready to spring. I watch. Creep forward. Watch. Creep. Crouch lower. Tense, trembling. Watch . . . watch . . .
spring
!

Claws grab nothing. Pigeon above, in tree.

Hungry.

I sniff again. Where is food?

For a long time I hunt. On grass. In wide streets. On narrow streets. Other cats hiss, “Get away!” Sometimes I fight. Sometimes I run. Always, hunger rumbles.

Light dims. Hunger pinches me. Trotting, sniffing for food smells. I turn into narrow street, behind human dwellings. Sometimes food is here. Noises come from buildings. Food smells come from open window. I stop, sniff. Want food.

A door opens. Yellow light spills out. I freeze. A human watches me.

Run? But food smells hold me.

“Here, kitty.” Hand stretches out, stops. Waits. “Do you want some milk?

I step toward human. Wait. Step, step, step. Stop. Safe? Danger? More steps. Stop again. I lift my nose, stretch forward. Legs tense, ready to run. I sniff. Human scent. Soap. And more. Warm, milky smell. Good. Want to taste.

Hand moves. I jump back, hiss. Tense, ready to run.

“
Shh.
It’s all right.” Human sounds are quiet, soft. Not fighting sounds. Hand turns, opens. I sniff more. Good smells. Milky.

“I don’t want to scare you off, so I’ll move real slow.” Hand goes away. I stretch forward, feet planted, sniffing. Too close. I back up. Tense, watching.

“My, you are a skittish one. But I can tell you’re hungry. Here, how about this?”

Something is on the ground. Milk smell is strong. In my belly, hunger roars. Food, close by. Crouch. Step forward. Milk smell fills my nose. Another step.

Stop. Where is human? Will she fight me for this milk?

No. She’s backed away, sits on steps. Watches. I watch back. Want to taste the milk. She stays still, doesn’t move.

“Go ahead, kitty.” Soft sounds, quiet sounds.

One paw forward. Stop. Look up. She sits and watches. I step, then again. I taste the milk. Good. Hunger wants more, wants it all. I drink, milk good and wet on my tongue. Stop. Look. Human sits. My milk. Mine. I drink it all, lick up each drop.

“Gone already? Poor thing. You must be starving. I’ll get you some more.”

Hand reaches. My food! Mine! I want to scratch, bite. Protect my food. Mine. But soft sounds continue, soothing. Food in my belly feels good. No scratching. No biting. Milk dish gone. I lick my muzzle. I sit and groom.

“Here you go.” Good smell. Milk again. Mine. I lap fast, drinking goodness.

A touch on my head.

No! I jump back. Spit. Hiss. No touching!

“All right, all right. I guess you don’t like to be petted. I’ll just watch you drink your milk.”

Human backs off, sits. Milk smells good. I come forward, drink. No more touches. Just noises. Quiet, nice. “I wish I could keep you. But I don’t think you’d like living in an apartment. I’ll leave some milk out for you, though. Here, on the back porch. And an old pillow you can use for a bed. Maybe I’ll see you in the morning.”

Milk dish empty. Goes away. Comes back full. Human goes inside, light goes off. Darkness. Milk. Full belly. Warm.

I clean my fur, licking all over. Warm. Full. Clean.

I find a soft place and curl up to sleep.

THAT NIGHT, I DREAMED OF RUNNING HARD ON FOUR PAWS down dark alleyways. I dreamed of fighting, of eating, of watching small creatures—birds, mice—and then pouncing. Eventually, the dream changed. A big gray tomcat, stinking of piss and musk, challenged me. We fought; he tore my leg. As the pain grew, another cat attacked. Then another, and still another. They bit me all over, tearing my flesh, ripping out my sleek fur in bloody clumps. Pain raked my body and twisted my limbs. My body swelled and stretched.

Energy blasted out.

I was awake. It was dark—no, dim. I could see my hands clasping each other inches from my face. Was it twilight? Dawn, maybe. I remembered darkness, but was that experience or dream? My body tried to curl itself on a pillow, but mostly I lay on rough wood planks. I sat up and tried to figure out where I was.

“How . . . how did you do that?”

The voice—a woman’s—made me jump. I picked up the pillow I’d been sleeping on and held it in front of my bare torso while I looked around to see who’d spoken.

I was on the back porch of a triple-decker. A woman stood at the door, watching me with wide eyes. She had short hair, like mine, and she wore a blue bathrobe over striped pajamas. One of her hands clutched the doorframe; the other gripped a saucer. Behind her was a brightly lit, warm-looking kitchen.

“You, um, must be cold,” she said. She set the saucer on a counter behind her and unbelted her robe. “Here.” She handed it to me.

“Thanks.” I took the robe and managed to get it around me while still clutching the pillow to my front. Clothes never survive a shift. You’d think that after all these years I’d be used to returning to my human form without a stitch of clothing, but there was something inherently awkward about making naked conversation with a stranger. Especially a stranger who’d just witnessed an ordinary-looking cat transform into a person.

I set the pillow on the porch floor and stood, pulling the belt tight around my waist. “Thanks,” I repeated, trying to work some cat hair off my tongue without being obvious about it. I let her question of “how?” hang unanswered between us. There wasn’t any easy way to explain. Instead, I offered a weak smile as my mind tried to sort out all the images and impressions that crowded it. The SWAT raid. Dead bodies. Pryce. Limbo. More dead bodies. Shifting. Running. Hunger. Fighting. Milk and warmth.

It was the dead bodies that haunted me.

I had to call Kane, find out what was happening. But Daniel’s cell phone was long gone. I hadn’t had it in Limbo, and it sure as hell wouldn’t have survived the energy blasts of my shifts.

“Can I use your phone?” I asked. If that went well, maybe I’d push my luck and borrow some clothes.

“I thought you were a cat.” She twisted around to see the saucer of milk on the counter.

“I was. I’m a shapeshifter.” Something about this woman was familiar. I raised my head and sniffed the air between us. Her scent made me feel warm and safe. “You fed me.”

“We get a lot of strays around here. Usually they run away from me.” She made no move from where she stood. “I’m Kaysi.”

“Hi, Kaysi.” I hesitated. Should I tell her my name? Pryce had said the police believed I’d attacked the SWAT team. If he was telling the truth—a big
if
—my name and picture would be all over the news.

Kaysi made my decision for me. “You’re Vicky, aren’t you? I read about you in the paper. It said Vicky somebody, a shapeshifter.”

Uh-oh.
“Listen, Kaysi, I don’t want to bother you. If I could just use your phone to make one quick call, maybe borrow some clothes, I’ll be out of here in five minutes. It’ll be like you never saw me.”

“Never saw you? How could I forget seeing . . . that?” Lost for words, she gestured at the spot on her back porch where a blast of energy had transformed a sleeping cat into a naked, disoriented woman.

Somewhere down the street, a car engine started. Kaysi leaned out and looked around. Then she beckoned to me. “You’d better come inside.”

THE LINOLEUM FLOOR OF KAYSI’S KITCHEN FELT TOASTY under my bare feet. Cream-colored walls glowed warmly in the overhead light. A clock told me it was a little before seven. Beside the clock hung a calendar that showed three kittens snuggling in a basket. As I looked around, I could see that Kaysi was a big-time cat lover. The mug she held, the dishtowel beside the sink, the pot holders over the stove, the placemats on the kitchen table—all were adorned with pictures of cats. Cats sleeping, cats frolicking, cats sitting and staring through half-closed eyes. No wonder she’d been kind enough to feed a twitchy stray.

A newspaper lay on the table, open to a two-page spread whose headline shouted “Massacre in East Boston.” It showed a picture of the factory, surrounded by police cars. And there was a photo of me—the one from my paranormal ID card. It looked like a mug shot.

“You were there.” Kaysi gestured toward the paper.

I nodded. What could I say?

“The story says the police are looking for you. It says you’re armed and dangerous.”

“Well, at least you know I’m not armed.” I smiled my goofiest grin, hoping it made me look harmless, and turned the bathrobe pockets inside out. “Kaysi, I won’t lie to you. I was there supporting the SWAT team. Something went wrong. I blacked out, and I don’t know what happened after that.”

“I don’t think you’re dangerous. You know why?” She stretched out her hands, showing backs crisscrossed with thin white scars. “We have lots of wild cats in this neighborhood. I like to help them. They eat the food I leave out, but whenever I try to get near them, they do this. They scratch and bite.” She turned her hands back and forth, examining them, then picked up her mug. “The cat I fed last night didn’t do that. She spit and backed away, but she didn’t scratch or bite me, not even a nip. She was wary, but she wasn’t mean.” Kaysi sipped, her expression thoughtful. “Animals are purer than people. They don’t lie or try to hide who they are. And that cat was you. I don’t believe you’d hurt anyone.”

I didn’t know how to reply. Her clear blue eyes were trusting, sure.

“Anyway,” Kaysi said, setting her empty mug in the sink, “you can stay here as long as you like. I won’t tell anyone. You must be hungry.” She glanced at the saucer that still sat on the counter. “Would you like a, um, a glass of milk?”

“I’d love some coffee if you can spare it. Black, please.”

A tiger kitten chased an unraveling ball of string around the mug Kaysi handed me. The coffee inside was strong and hot. She pointed out the phone and said she’d go look for some clothes that might fit me. What she meant was that she was giving me privacy to make my call.

“I won’t be more than a couple of minutes,” I said.

“Take your time.” She disappeared down a hallway. A door closed.

Kane has a special prepaid phone, registered under a false name, for emergencies—like now. I pressed *67 to mask Kaysi’s number and called the emergency phone. As I dialed, I thought about what Kaysi had said. Her simple love of animals had convinced her I wasn’t a killer. I only wished I could be as certain.

KANE PICKED UP ON THE FIRST RING. “ARE YOU SAFE?”

“For now.”

“Good. Don’t tell me where you are.” He didn’t have to explain why. If he didn’t know where I was, he wouldn’t have to lie about it to the cops. “Vicky, that botched raid is all over the news. What happened?”

“I don’t know. I was in the van, listening over the two-way radio. Something went wrong . . . there was a scream. So I went in. But when I reached the fighting . . . I blacked out. When I came to, it looked like a slaughterhouse. Kane, the whole team was dead.”

“And you don’t remember anything at all about the fight?”

I told him the parts I did remember—the bodies in the hallway, the surge of power in my demon mark, the fragments of combat.

The silence lengthened. “I wish you’d kept me in the loop,” he said finally.

“I intended to. I went to your office, but you’d gone home to sleep, and I remembered how tired you said you were. I didn’t want to interrupt your rest before . . . you know, tonight.”