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.
Wait. I’ve been here before!
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.
Chapter 29
If 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.
He turned to see one of Omara’s guards dead on the ground, a hole where his heart should have been. Not even a vampire could heal that.
