Frostbound
The Dark Forgotten 4
by
Sharon Ashwood
Prologue
“Till death do us part.
“Quite the statement, isn’t it? When we utter those words, are we describing love, the bond of hunter and prey, or both? That is the question of the night.
“Good evening, my darkling listeners, this is your night hostess, Errata Jones, on CSUP. I’m coming to you from the glorious U of Fairview campus, on the radio station that puts the ‘super’ in supernatural. Tonight’s program is filled with the usual basket of goodies, but first let’s take a sneak peek at the main event. We’re talking about love—and not the easy kind.
“Ever since the nonhumans came out of the shadows in Y2K, we’ve had to navigate the world with our claws in and our fangs firmly out of sight. Whether you’re a vampire, a hellhound, or a werecougar like me, we’ve been meek and mild, not just with our human neighbors, but with each other. We’ve learned to get along. To sit at the same table. To act like friends and family. It’s all been very civilized.
“But anyone who knows a real family, who knows what it is to truly love, will tell you passion isn’t about getting along. It’s the crash of undiluted personalities. It’s the thrill of the chase. It’s the scent of blood and the heat of skin against your lips as you struggle against an inevitable surrender. It is undoubtedly beautiful, but never pretty.
“So the question is, ghouls and girlies, what about interspecies romance? If we drop the masks and give our sad little monster hearts away, will anyone still respect us in the morning? If we show them our true selves, will anyone be left alive?
“The phone lines are open. Talk to me.”
Chapter 1
Tuesday, December 28, 7:30 p.m.
Downtown Fairview
Some nights it sucks to be Alpha.
Lore winced as his fist crashed into bone.
And other times it just rocks.
He’d made it a bruising face shot, knuckle action splitting skin. The vampire flew backward into the bar, scattering the few remaining patrons—the dedicated drunks—like bowling pins. Lore closed in with supernatural speed, getting in a pair of jabs and a cross before the piece of Undead garbage had a chance to rebound.
The vamp roared with rage, fangs bared. Lore slapped his face, hard, with an open palm. “Manners!” Lore snarled.
The roar quieted to a hiss that unfortunately sprayed blood, spit, and whiskey like a faulty lawn sprinkler. Lore hated drunken vampires. It wasn’t like they’d just had one too many. It took time and effort to pickle Undead blood, and most knew better than to lower their inhibitions that far.
With vampires, out of control was bad news. The guy’d already cut a swath through Fairview’s Old Town and damn near drained two humans before he’d even reached this bar called the Pit Stop—emphasis on the pit. Lore’s job was to settle his tab but good.
He didn’t see the fist coming for his solar plexus. Lore’s breath went out with a whoosh followed by a sickly wheeze. Lore was big, hard-bodied and, hell, halfdemon , but even a drunken bloodsucker packed a wallop. He doubled over, falling back just enough for the vampire to regain his feet.
The vamp tugged at the front of his filthy leather jacket, as if shaking out the creases left by Lore’s attack. He dressed like James Dean, but had a face like the tire treads on a farm tractor—ugly, pocked and furrowed. Lore’s aching ribs said that flat nose might have come from the fight ring.
Mr. Drunk and Ugly sneered, looking around at the last few patrons too stubborn or stupid to chug their drinks and go. One or two had figured out the ancient bartender had fled and were helping themselves to the stock.
The vamp pounded the bar, making glasses rattle. “Who let this mangy hellhound in here? No dogs allowed, or can’t you read?”
Pure, predatory rage flooded Lore, as if the slur had tripped a switch. He launched himself at Mr. Ugly, smashing him back against the bar rail. He heard ribs snap, and the sound thrilled along his nerves. Kill. Bite. Prey. The urge was primal, written in his genes, as was the constant need to be the fastest, strongest, smartest. Survival demanded it.
It made him Alpha.
Mr. Ugly kicked, connected with Lore’s knee. Lore’s leg buckled under him, but he had the vamp in a death grip. They both fell to the floor, sending the nearest table flying. Ugly tried to bite, venomous fangs snapping on air.
Irritated, Lore banged the vamp’s head on the dirty tiles. When the bloodsucker’s eyes rolled up, Lore flipped him over, clamping the vamp’s hands in his own massive grip. Lore reached for a pair of vampire-proof silver cuffs clipped to his belt. The sound of the metal closing around Ugly’s wrists sent a bolt of satisfaction through his gut.
He pulled the vamp to his feet, using the collar of the grungy jacket as a handle. “Where are you from? I thought I knew everyone in this neighborhood, and I haven’t seen you before.”
Ugly was already coming around. “Bite my ass.”
“No, thanks. I’ve already eaten.”
Which was one reason why he patrolled in human form. Hellhounds generally had iron stomachs, but some of the pond scum he was forced to capture—you just didn’t want them in your mouth.
Lore tried again. “Who’s your sire?”
“I staked him back in the fifties.”
“If you say so.” His work here was done. If there was no sire to contact, then the human cops could figure out what to do with Drunk and Ugly. The odds were he’d be beheaded. Human law was pretty cut-and-dried when it came to rogue vampires on a tear.
Lore might have felt sorry for the guy, but there was no element of accident or even slightly poor judgment here. After chowing down on humans in full view of witnesses, this vampire was too stupid to live.
Lore hauled him out of the dark bar and out onto the darker street. His breath steamed in the cold air. The human police were already there with the special van they used for transporting supernatural prisoners. It was lined with a silver and steel compound nicknamed stiver. Nothing, not even fey, could get out of it. Just looking at it gave Lore claustrophobia.
Wordlessly, a patrolman he didn’t know opened the rear doors of the van. Lore tossed his catch into the back, not bothering to make use of the three steps that folded down to street level. The cop slammed the door and looked up at him, his face tight with apprehension.
It wasn’t surprising. Lore was a head taller and had fifty more pounds of muscle on the man, plus he’d just taken out the vamp with his bare hands.
“Where’s Caravelli?” the cop asked. Alessandro Caravelli was the vampire sheriff in Fairview. Normally it was him breaking heads in the name of law and order. The other nonhumans paid his wages, but the Fairview City
