her. She’d escaped from his clutches and also swiped a small fortune on her way out the door. But would he really risk Queen Omara’s wrath by coming to Fairview and beheading the locals? She had counted on the fact that he would not.
And then there was Talia’s family. Dad.
In his eyes, she was no better than a rabid dog. The Talia he’d raised from a baby had died the moment the vampires took her for their own. If he caught her now, he’d butcher her without mercy.
Strike the monsters before they kill or corrupt an innocent human. That was what her whole neighborhood— the tribe—had believed. When you saw the crossed-blade symbol of the Hunters, you knew you were dealing with monster-killing machines, bred for the job and trained from birth.
Talia pulled up the right sleeve of her sweater. Twin Hunter sabers, crossed at the hilt, were inked on the inside of her forearm. Against pale vampire skin, the fine detailing would never fade or blur. Nor could she ever get the damned thing off. Everything she wore, however fashionable, would be long-sleeved. Forever.
She made a fist, the design shifting along her skin. She’d never been big, but she’d always been good with firearms. She’d also been a risk-taker to the point of stupidity. She’d wanted her father’s approval and at sixteen, she’d made her first kill. A ghoul. He’d given Talia the tattoo as a reward.
It was hardly a reward now. Everyone knew the Hunters’ symbol. If the nonhumans ever saw the tattoo, she would be torn to shreds. Of course, now that she was one of the monsters, the Hunters only saw her as something fit to kill. Undeath was filled with interesting ironies.
Talia pulled the sleeve down again. What was she? Hunter? Monster? Teacher?
Prisoner.
Talia blinked, tears of frustration and sadness misting the lights into a blurry wash. The pillow felt cool against her cheek. She’d been in that room, on that bed, almost long enough that it was starting to smell more like her than the hellhound.
It smelled like grief.
Then grow a spine, will ya? She took a long, shaky breath, fumbling for enough anger to push her into action. Half her instincts screamed to hop the first night bus heading out of town. The other half was crying out for vengeance.
Either way, she had to get out of Lore’s bedroom. What would happen if he found out I was a Hunter? Ground vampire patties with extra ketchup, probably.
No one was going to save her but herself. Heroes on white horses were a myth. I am not a victim. She rolled onto her back, scanning the room for escape possibilities.
First, she needed a tool to get out of the cuffs. She wiggled toward the bedside table, stretching as far as the handcuffs would allow. There was just enough play to let her slide the drawer open and feel inside. Not much there—just a library book on how to fix kitchen appliances and a pack of spearmint gum. She pushed the drawer shut.
On top of the nightstand were a bedside light, an alarm clock, and some tattered paperback books. She turned the spines of the books toward her. Lore’s reading tastes leaned toward Westerns of the lone- gunmansaves-the-town variety. It suited him.
Despite her fear, she’d noticed a few choice details about her captor. The broad spread of his chest, the slim hips, the skin shades darker than her own, as if he’d labored outdoors in the hot sun. A working man.
But not just a muscled body. Those dark eyes held an entire universe of sorrow. Lore was the sort of puzzle a woman could get lost in solving. She knew the type of guy. Just one more piece, and the picture—or his soul— would reveal itself.
Yeah, right. The guy had chained her up. She was so out of there. She would not waste time dissecting his psyche.
Instead, she was going to dismantle his alarm clock. Talia’s hand closed over it, feeling the vibration of its ticks. It was one of the old wind-up ones, the kind with a round face and twin bells on top. There should be something inside she could use to pick the lock of the handcuffs. She’d learned the whole Houdini skill set as a kid, along with every kind of combat drill going. Who needed summer camp when you had Dad and Uncle Yuri?
She dragged the clock onto the bed and turned it over. It seemed a shame to break it, but oh well. She popped the brass case off its back and watched the gears tick for a moment. There was a pin at the top that connected the hammer that rang the alarm to a spring. It looked almost like a hairpin. It would do, as long as the metal was neither too soft nor too brittle.
Holding the clock down as best she could with her cuffed hand, she dismantled the gears with the other. Once she had the pin out, she spent some time bending it so that it had a slight curve at the end, almost a hook. Holding it parallel to the cuff, she slid it just inside the lock, where there was a tiny notch in the keyhole. Applying even pressure to the pin, she levered it away from her. The lock gave a satisfying snick. She twisted her cuffed wrist at the same time, grinning with satisfaction as the mechanism gave way. She rubbed her wrists, glad to finally be free of the silver. The cuffs had scraped her skin raw.
Talia rolled off the bed, crossing to the window and looking out. Cold air seeped through the glass, a rim of ice forming at the bottom of the pane. With no breath to fog the window, Talia was able to lean in, her vision unobstructed.
Snow was falling at a brisk pace. That was going to add an interesting wrinkle to her escape. Before long, the roads would be clogged. She had to get moving.
She didn’t want to ever see the place where she’d found her cousin’s body again, but there was no way around it. She would just have to figure out how to get past the cops. She wasn’t going anywhere without her weapons, cash, and decent boots. The dainty ankle boots she had on would be useless in this much snow.
And if the dog got in her way, she’d send him to obedience school. No one caught Talia Rostova twice.
Chapter 9
Tuesday, December 28, 11:55 p.m.
Downtown Fairview
Darak had followed the evil to the fire, but there wasn’t a lot to see once he got there. Bystanders, police, a city pound’s worth of hellhounds were all doing what needed to be done—but none of that interested him.
The fire itself was okay, but he’d seen better sorcery. This one was a little heavy on the whole melting-walls thing. Showy and dramatic, but a lot of energy wasted to get a simple job done.
What got his attention was what the spell slinger had targeted. Campaign office—well, why not hit the most controversial location in town? But a medical clinic—that made Darak mad. It was always the ordinary folk who got it in the neck when the powerful began throwing their weight around.
He paced the sidewalk beyond the perimeter set by the fire brigade. Smuts fell from the sky with the snow, looking as if the flakes themselves were burning. One fell on his cuff and he flicked it away, feeling a hot kiss of embers.
There was no trace of the spell caster here. The sense of evil was dying from the scene along with the flames, burning down into a gray ash of wilted magic. By morning, it would be no more than a shiver up the spine.
That didn’t do him a bit of good. Frustrated, Darak turned and stalked back along the sidewalk again. There should have been more. He wasn’t a magic user, but he knew something about it. A sorcerer didn’t just pull this kind of energy out of his ass. It had to come from somewhere: a sacred object, a ley line, or maybe a sacrifice.
There was nothing here. Whoever had cast the spell had raised the energy someplace else and redirected it. Darak glared back at the fire and its halo of snow and ash.
It was then he saw the woman. She was standing a few feet away, wearing nothing but a blouse and navy blue skirt. Her brown hair was neatly cut at shoulder length. She was shivering, clutching her arms because she had no coat.
