A figure appeared in the doorway, a scowling guy in a striped Rastafarian-dreads-filled hat, his mouth open, but whatever scathing retort or dire threat he was about to make died in his throat as his gaze skipped around the room, bouncing off Hal, the wolf, the elk-man, Lawrence. His mouth remained open. His eyes squeezed shut. Opened. His gaze skipped around the room again, counting one-two-three-four. The guy nodded. Snapped his mouth shut.
Hal shook his head. “Now’s not a good time.”
“Go,” Hunter Lawrence said.
The Rasta dude said, “I’ll . . . um . . . come back when you’re . . . uh . . . not so busy . . .”
“Go. While you still can.”
The guy vanished.
The elk-man bellowed. Strained to move, muscles bulging, knotting. The wet-fur stink intensified. Lawrence resumed murmuring, eyes shining, face tight. His hands twisted, fingers flashing. “Now, Brianna,” he said.
The wolf leapt, lips wrinkled back on its muzzle, fangs gleaming in the dim light as it slashed open the beast’s throat. Dark blood spurted across the room, splashed the lycan’s face.
The elk-man gurgled and stomped its hoofed feet in a frenzied death dance. Collapsed to its knees, elongated and clawed fingers clutching its wounded throat, trying to stop death by hand.
It emitted one last liquid bellow, then toppled to the floor, causing it to shake. Blood pooled around the antlered head. The hellfire light in the elk-man’s eyes ebbed, then winked out.
Hal crouched beside it, poked it with a pole half. The huge body shuddered once. The smell of fresh shit joined the stink roster. Hal glanced up at Lawrence. “Wicca, huh?”
Lawrence nodded. Touched fingertips to the pendant hanging from around his throat. The silver light faded. He staggered, catching himself with a hand to the doorframe. The blood-soaked wolf padded over to him and licked his hand. A smile flickered across Lawrence’s lips. “I’m fine,” he whispered. “A little tired, that’s all.”
Hal slipped the pole halves through his belt. Bent and picked up his catch pole. He glanced at the lycan. “Thanks,” he said. “Appreciate the assist.”
“Where are my manners?” Lawrence said. “Hal Rupert, meet Brianna Lawrence. My sister.”
The wolf looked at Hal and snort/sneezed. Her eyes—one blue and one brown—intrigued him. She lifted a paw and he shook it. “A pleasure, Brianna.”
It wasn’t unusual for a shifter to be born into a one-shape family. Perhaps it was a recessive gene, a distant lycan in the family tree. No one really knew. Hal imagined it was the same with yōkai litters, most were ordinary animals, but a few carried the same recessive shifter genes—like Galahad and Nick.
What was unusual was the simple acceptance Lawrence displayed toward his sister. Most families went into denial or fell apart if a lycan revealed their true nature to their loved ones. A few parents might claim their lycan child was possessed and summon an exorcist, but at least no one was put down with a silver bullet or burned at the stake like in the bad old days.
Well, mostly, anyway.
Lawrence pushed himself away from the damaged doorway and sank to the floor. He sat cross-legged, his lycan sister beside him. His fingers brushed against her fur. He nodded at the elk-man’s body. “What the hell was that?”
“Not sure, but I’d call it an elk-man,” Hal said. “Or maybe an ex–elk-man.”
“Someone wants you dead.”
“Nothing new there,” Hal said. “Comes with the territory.”
“As . . . dogcatcher? Really?”
“Most people don’t know the half of it. Deadly profession.”
Lawrence opened his mouth, thought a moment, then closed it. Studied Hal.
It’s dawned on him. Bad-ass Rupert is in the house. “You’re bleeding,” Hal said.
“Am I?”
Hal walked to the bathroom and wet down a washcloth. His gaze skipped over the articles of Goth grooming scattered on the counter and felt a sharp pang. Louis. And Desdemona? Would he spill her out of a monster’s belly? Kiss her alive like in The Matrix? Awaken her stilled heart with his love?
Yes. Without a doubt. And to a romantic-heroic score penned by Hans Zimmer.
He hoped Lawrence felt the same way about Bad-Luck Louis.
Switching off the bathroom light, Hal walked back to the living room, and handed the warm washcloth to Lawrence.
“Thanks,” the Wiccan murmured, pressing the wet cloth against his bleeding scalp. He winced. “We need to get moving before something or someone else tries to kill you. You’re being hunted.”
“Hunted?” Hal sat down in front of Lawrence and studied the Wiccan’s face. “So you’re saying that this wasn’t just a normal half-assed attempt on my life but something more deliberate—am I reading you right?”
“You are.”
Hal considered that. “Okay. Why am I being hunted?”
“Because you’re the hero. That’s why Della sent you. As long as you breathe, you can win the day. But if you’re dead, they win—and no one else can stop what will happen.”
“Who are they and what will happen?”
A rueful smile tugged up one corner of Lawrence’s mouth. “They are the bad guys—and no, I don’t know who they are. And as for what will happen”—his smile vanished—“a god will awaken. A hungry god. According to Louis’s reading.”
A god. Hal drew in a deep breath of fetid dead elk-man air. Wished he hadn’t. “What did Louis say, exactly?”
“That the world falls apart,” Lawrence said, his gaze inward. “Moon and sun battle for the sky and a permanent twilight shadows the land.”
The words tingled like electricity along Hal’s spine, goosebumping his arms. His dream. Memory flared, incandescent, white with heat, and he heard himself saying, “The world falls apart. Oceans rise and continents sink. Shifters hide from humans and humans slay shifters. Gods walk the forests. Hungry gods. Heartless gods.”
Dizziness whirled through Hal. He felt a warm hand on his forearm. “The world falls apart,” he whispered. “Again and again and again. In fire. With blood. Sacrifice and betrayal. Over and over and over again. The world falls apart.”
Hal blinked. What had he been saying?
“Cernunnos guide us,” Lawrence breathed. He released his tight grip on Hal’s arm. “You’ve seen it too. The world ending.”
“Ain’t happening. Not on my watch,” Hal said, rising to his feet. “Louis’s gotta be wrong at least once. And I’m telling you that once is now.” He offered his hand to Lawrence. “Let’s kick some Ancient ass.”
“What?”
“Kick ass. Take names. Rescue our sweeties.”
“Do you even know where to look?”
“No,” Hal admitted. “But I’ll start where I lost them. Underground.”
“You mean, where they lost you,” Lawrence said.
Hal narrowed his gaze. “Who lost me? When you said ‘they,’ did you mean the omnipresent They or did you mean the bad guys or—”
“The bad guys,” Lawrence said, dropping the bloodied washcloth on the floor and grasping Hal’s hand. “But since they sent an elk-man—”
“Ex-elk-man.”
“Ex,” Lawrence agreed. “They must know where you are.”
“I’m not exactly hiding.” Hal helped Lawrence to his feet. Felt the man’s strength through his grip, and the shimmering edge of his power tingled along Hal’s skin, sparkled like moonlit silver in his mind. Their hands slipped apart. The tingling sensation faded.
“Still. No need to make it easy for them.” Lawrence glanced at Brianna. The lycan uncurled from the floor, jumped to her feet.
Hal, catch pole in hand, skip-stepped over the field of door debris. He glanced at the elk-man’s body. “I hope you weren’t planning on getting your deposit back. On the other hand, I think the sight of our
dead buddy there will keep your place looter-free.”
With a quick smile, Lawrence scooped his keys up from the kitchen counter. Brianna trotted beside him to the doorway. “We might need your help,” he said. “Will you come with us?”
Tongue lolling, the wolf leapt across the broken threshold and padded down the stairs to the parked Mustang.
“And where are we going exactly?” Hal asked.
“Back to Della’s,” Hunter Lawrence said, stepping out into the night.
“She’s not gonna be thrilled about that,” Hal murmured.
16
NICE EPITAPH
Della answered the door, huge pink rollers in her hair, night cream slathered on her face. She looked from Hal to Lawrence, down to Brianna, then back to Hal. Without a word she pushed open the screen door. Stepped aside, resignation in her dark eyes.
“His idea,” Hal said, jerking his thumb at Lawrence and walking into the living room.
The room smelled of roasted coffee, cinnamon, and fresh roses, and was all sleek-soul with a leather couch and matching arm chairs. A large flat screen TV rimmed in silver hugged one wall. Slender speakers stood off to the sides.
Framed photos decorated the walls and fireplace mantel—a younger Della, her arms around a young man who cradled a light-skinned baby in his arms; another of a group of people laughing, the same young man wearing a Santa hat, his smiling face turned toward a platinum-haired white woman, a woman who looked a lot like Louis Dark.
“What you doing on my doorstep, Hunter Lawrence?” Della said.
“Louis said a hero would come,” Lawrence replied. “And here he is.”
“I sent him to you.”
“And I brought him back,” Lawrence said. “I need you to do a reading.”
“Want to get me killed?” Della muttered, pacing the lavender carpet. “That your plan? Because that’s what’ll happen. Then you’ll be happy.”
“Excuse me,” Hal said, “but—”
“Don’t be like that,” Lawrence said. “You taught Louis how to read the cards in the first place. I need further insight.”
“Excuse me,” Hal repeated.
“And do you remember what Louis foresaw? Hmmm?”
“Louis’s gifted, yes, but he’s young. He could make mistakes, misinterpret.”
“Has he made a mistake so far, Hunter Lawrence, Mr. White Witch?”
“Well . . . no, but—”
Turning, Hal walked out the front door, closing it behind him. He’d let them argue it out. As far as he was concerned, what good were predications if you refused to heed their warning or allow them to guide your actions? He glanced up. The night was warm and full of stars. Somewhere, his friends and Desdemona waited for rescue.
A bus stop sign down the street caught his attention. He glanced at the closed door of Della’s small house. He could catch the bus and head over to the underground tunnels. Take up where he’d left off.
No more talk. No more studying signs and omens. Time for raw action. Past time.
“I’m coming for you, baby,” he said into the night. “For Nick and Galahad too.” Thought a moment, then added, “Louis too, if possible.”
Headlights glowed as a car cruised up the street, pulling in behind Lawrence’s Mustang. The engine idled, exhaust puffing white like dragon’s breath into the air. The headlights switched off. Several dark figures sat inside the car.
The hair lifted on the back of Hal’s neck as he walked past the car toward the bus stop. He slowed his stride as the skin on his arms goosebumped and all of his danger-alert sirens went off.
“Crap,” he breathed, shifting his grip on his catch pole and turning around.
A car door creaked open. A figure slipped out. The passenger door swung open as well. Another figure stepped out onto the sidewalk.
Light spilled onto the lawn as Della’s front door opened. “Hal?” she called.
“Go back inside,” he called, “everything’s fine.” He stepped forward and spun his catch pole in a deadly figure eight.
The nearest figure on the sidewalk stopped, an expression of amused disbelief spreading across his face. “What is that—some kinda ninja staff? Hey, Joe! Get a load of—”
THWAP-THWAP!
Hal spun away. The figure crumpled to the concrete, his comment to Joe unfinished.
“Christ,” the other figure muttered, hefting what looked suspiciously like a missile launcher onto his shoulder and aimed it at the house. Della slammed the door shut. Hal leapt forward, just as the car’s back door opened, slamming into his legs and knocking him off balance. He hit the sidewalk, one knee and one hand down, and pushed himself back up—
—and into a fist the size of a small planet. He heard something crunch. Tasted blood. Felt himself going down. Hard. His catch pole clattered against the sidewalk. Blue light flared through his vision. But he didn’t stay down. Adrenaline spring-coiled his muscles, bouncing him back onto his feet just in time to see fire erupting from the cannon on the guy’s shoulder.
“NO!” Hal screamed.
The house exploded. A superheated rush of air and debris knocked Hal flat, sucked the air from his lungs. Flames streaked the sky, stretching up hot and hungry, alive. Pieces and parts of Della’s house, Della’s life, hailed down around him, pinging and thunking against the sidewalk like ice in a freak storm.
Dazed, ears ringing, Hal rolled onto his hands and knees. Acrid black smoke billowed into the fiery night sky. Coughing, Hal stared at the burning remnants of Della’s house.
Something hard pressed against his temple.
“Say night-night—”
“Don’t talk to him, idiot. Shoot him. Why do you always talk to them?”
Hal heard a sigh of exasperation. “You wanna do this, Mr. Smarty-Pants? You kill people your way, I’ll fucking kill people my way.” Then, under the breath, “Asshole. Now. Say night-night—”
“Why the hell you still talking to him? Does it get you all hot, you freak?”
The gun jerked up from Hal’s temple. He sucked in a breath of smoke-thick air and coughed it back out again. His muscles tensed.
“That’s it! I’ve had all the bullshit from you I’m gonna take!”
“Oooo. Now I’m scared. What’re—”
A shot cracked through the night, followed by a thud to the concrete. “Asshole.”
Hal sprang up from the sidewalk and spun, sweeping his elbow around and into the shooter’s temple. The gun flew from the guy’s fingers and he fell onto one knee.
Hal stepped back and his heel hit against something yielding. Arms wheeling, he caught his balance. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that he’d just tripped over Assassin No. 2, as evidenced by the bullet hole in the body’s forehead.
And Assassin No. 1—the chatterbox—sprang to his feet. Looking more than a little irked, he aimed another gun at Hal. “That’s freaking it!” he snarled. “Now, say night-night, hero!”
Lifting his hands, Hal said, “Last words. Do I get any last words?”
Assassin No. 1, frowned, considering. Slicked a hand through his disordered hair. He tilted the gun. “All right, but make it quick.”
“I’d like my epitaph to read, ‘He died with his fists up and his feet planted.’ ” Hal caught peripheral movement. A shadow crept from the flaming house, low to the ground, and on four legs. “Dunno, though. Do you think planted a bad choice of words?”
“Nice epitaph, actually,” Assassin No. 1 said. “But, yeah, planted isn’t the word I’d use. How about, ‘He died with his fists up and his boots on.’ ” He pointed at Hal’s feet. “Ya got boots on—even if they’re construction boots.”
Snarling, Brianna hit him from the side, knocking him to the ground. A gunshot cracked through the night, the sound mingling with the snap and crackle of the firestorm that had once been De
lla’s home.
Hal scooped up the first gun from the sidewalk and aimed it at the snarling pile of wolf and man—well, lycan snarling, man shrieking. But he couldn’t get a clear view of the assassin. Brianna moved with heart-stopping speed, biting, tearing, rending.
Hal stepped closer, aiming the gun like he’d always seen in cop shows on TV—clasped in both hands, arms extended.
“Let Brianna finish him,” a soft, silver-toned voice said. Lawrence’s hand squeezed Hal’s shoulder. A tight, reassuring touch.
“We could find out who’s behind this,” Hal said, refusing to take his gaze off the rolling, struggling man/wolf pile, and refusing to lower the gun. “Find out where Desdemona and the others are.”
“I doubt he knows,” Lawrence said. “And I think we should leave before the police arrive.”
“Della?” Hal asked, knowing he sounded grim. A hero’s acceptance of bad news. He kept the gun aimed.
“Right here, darlin’,” she replied. “And I think Hunter’s making a helluva lot of sense. But,” she added hastily, “I ain’t guiding you. Not me, nuh-huh. That’d be Hunter. He’s the one doing the guiding.”
The pile rolled to a stop. Assassin No. 1 lay sprawled in Della’s well-trimmed but currently blackened yard, blood glistening on his throat, arms, and chest. Brianna nosed him several times, growling low in her throat. He didn’t move.
“Okay then,” Hal said, tucking the pistol into the back of his jeans.
“Uh . . .” Lawrence untucked the pistol and switched the safety on, then handed the gun back to Hal.
“Thanks.” Hal slipped the gun back into his jeans.
Della handed him his catch pole. He wrapped his fingers around it, his gaze holding hers for a moment. She shook her head. “Not one word, Hal Rupert. I don’t want to hear it. It ain’t your fault.”
“Thanks,” Hal said. “But you might wanna . . .” He circled his hands over his face as though wiping it clean. Arched an eyebrow.
“Maybe I want to wear my night cream,” Della said, lifting her chin. “Y’ever think of that, boy?”