sawdust from his carpentry shop, as if they’d started the fight there and run into the street. “He drops my tools. He blunts them. He is careless and lazy!”
Grash bent, grabbing Helver by the scruff of his collar and hauling him upright. It was then that Lore saw why Helver was begging for help. The youth’s face was pulp, one eye swollen, nose streaming with blood.
Lore’s vision hazed white with anger, rage leaching color from the world. “What is this? I gave him to you to raise up in the pack. You are his trainer!”
“He cannot be trained!” Grash growled. “And now he fawns on his Alpha like a pup begging for his mother’s teat. He will never earn the name of warrior.”
Lore ripped Helver out of Grash’s hand, pushing the youth to one side. “If you cannot manage him, you have only to send him back to me.”
Grash spit in the snow. “Good luck to you. He has never been of use. He never will be.”
Studying the big hound, Lore considered Grash’s speed, his weight, how fast he thought. This wasn’t the best time for it, but an opportunity had dropped into Lore’s hands to bring him under control. “What do you mean by never? How would you know? You’ve been training Helver only a few days.”
Grash’s expression suddenly closed, a window slamming shut. Mavritte had asked Lore to give Helver to Grash, but had Grash already forced the young hound to obey in other ways?
“What did you have Helver do for you before you were his trainer?” Lore growled.
Grash was silent. Lore turned furious eyes on Helver. “What was it?”
The youth was breathing through his mouth, blood still bubbling from his nose when he tried to speak. “The campaign office. Grash sent me there.”
Damn his hide.
Crack! Lore’s fist connected with Grash’s face, and then he was on top of him, blinded with frustration over the Redbones, with Helver, and simply with being Alpha. His fist smacked into Grash three more times, re-creating the damage he’d seen on Helver.
Lore caught his breath long enough to snarl. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing running our young into danger?”
Grash bared his teeth. “There are drugs in the clinic we can sell. There was money there for the taking. I say why not? The hounds work to death while the bloodsuckers wear jewels.”
“Because I say not!” Lore roared. “It’s not what hellhounds do!”
He dragged Grash to his feet, and then sent him crashing back to the pavement with another blow. Lore’s hands hurt, his lungs sore from sucking in the ice-cold air, but the sheer physical brutality of the moment was necessary. Grash would respect it.
He wasn’t the only one. Lore caught sight of Helver. The youth’s eyes were bugging out of his head, mesmerized by the show of dominance. Common sense had failed to turn him around. Maybe this would.
On one level it disgusted Lore, but it was also part of being a hound. It would take decades in the human world to change the fundamental dynamics of the pack. Biology was involved. Just like when the Alpha has to choose a mate.
Talia. He wouldn’t even consider not having her. She was part of him. Something had happened between them last night, as urgent and primal as this fight. She is my mate.
Lore stepped back, watching Grash redden the snow with his blood. His fingers twitched, as if considering another pounding.
Grash rolled onto his back, his eyes blazing with anger. “Damn you.”
The words were muffled, barely token defiance. Lore felt a brief tingle of satisfaction. Time to drive the point home.
He put his boot on Grash’s cheek, crushing the hound’s face into the snow.
“Respect our young. Got it? Maybe you should repeat after me.”
Saturday, January 1, 4:00 p.m.
101.5 FM
“Hello and a Happy New Year from your hostess Errata Jones, covering the afternoon and all night tonight on this special holiday show from CSUP.
“It was a busy night last night in Spookytown, and we’ll have special coverage of all those events. But first, a special get-well wish to my dear friend Perry. If you’re listening, dude, why aren’t you in bed and asleep?
“Second, a farewell to Darak and all your crazy clan, who are on a plane and going places. Thanks for dropping by and lending a hand. You guys know how to work hard, but you are scary when it comes to after-game playtime.”
Saturday, January 1, 4:00 p.m.
The Castle
Talia woke to find the bed covered with flowers. They were the delicate six-petaled blooms she’d seen by the starlit pond, white and pink and scented like warm honey. They were a symbol of the rejuvenating Castle, a gift of life where there had been only darkness before.
Though Lore was gone, he’d left this token of his affection behind. She lay beneath the floral carpet for a long minute, picking one of the blossoms off the comforter and twirling it in her fingers. If these can grow in constant night, in a place where nothing is supposed to live, maybe there’s hope for me yet.
She felt so close to Lore, as if every beat of his heart somehow pushed blood to hers. It was pure romantic fancy, but she floated on it, enjoying the feeling of adoring and being adored. All her misgivings about the pack and their future were for that moment suspended.
Lore had left word with Mac that Talia should find him at Osan Mina’s. After borrowing fresh clothes from Connie, Talia made her thanks and left. She slipped quickly through the streets, conscious that last time she’d walked into the hellhounds’ domain, Lore had been at her side. She took extra care, watching who was around her as she passed through Spookytown.
When she reached Osan Mina’s door, the old woman responded before Talia had time to rap twice.
Mina was bundled into a heavy dark coat. “You’re here. Good. We go now.”
“Where?” Talia asked, stepping back so Mina could close the door of her town house behind her.
“Mavritte has challenged Lore for rule of the pack.”
Talia’s jaw dropped. “What? Now? They were in a huge battle last night.”
Mina shrugged her coat closer around her bony shoulders. “It is past time he settled things with her. Pack business had been pushed aside too long.”
“But—”
“Lore punished Grash. Grash is Redbone. Mavritte will not accept him beating one of her people.” Osan Mina gave Talia a shrewd look. “Grash needed beating for Helver’s sake.”
The names flew by Talia in a meaningless rush. “Can’t Lore refuse?”
“Pack law says Alpha must fight if she demands. She demands.”
That Talia could believe. She remembered Mavritte threatening to challenge Lore when they were at the Empire Hotel. Lore had seemed confident that he could refuse, but maybe whatever happened with this Grash guy had changed that.
Mina led her down the street to a small playground.Talia trailed after, having a flashback to her high school days when the tough kids would scrap behind the school—a spectator event for every teen from a mile around. Here, hounds crowded around the site, but were oddly quiet. No one seemed happy about what was going on.
The fight seemed so bizarre after the huge battle to protect Fairview and Omara from Belenos. In numbers it was insignificant, and yet in many ways it was more crucial to her happiness. A vampire monarch had fallen last night—she’d killed him—but the fate of this tiny hellhound pack mattered more, because she loved Lore.
The playground was lit by streetlights that threw the onlookers’ shadows across the frozen grass. The area had been cleared of snow, the picnic tables pulled to one side. They’d prepared for the fight, an added sign that it
