Suddenly, Talia was tired. “Lore, you’ve got news. What is it?”
“Did you notice the decorations?” He pointed to the tree again.
“Are those little bones?”
“This is a hellhound tree. Candy canes are for humans. We wish for other things.” He tapped a gold foil star hung with thread. There were hundreds of them on the tree. “These are for the mates who have gone missing. We wish for them to be reborn and come back to us.”
“Weren’t they destroyed by magic?”
A funny look came over his face. “But maybe they weren’t destroyed.”
“Then why can’t they come back?” she asked, remembering their conversation in the Castle. And afterward, he covered the bed in flowers so I’d wake up knowing he was thinking of me.
“The pack likes you, you know. You put the common good before your own. You fought beside them. You’re a teacher, and you offered to help set up a school. Osan Mina likes the fact that you know how to darn socks.”
Talia didn’t know what to say. Why does any of that matter?
“You may not believe this, but they’ve changed their minds. They wish you were their queen.” He touched the star again, making it spin and sparkle. “I think that wishing is powerful.”
Talia wanted to scream with sadness and frustration. “I’m not a hellhound. I love you. I want you. You can’t doubt that. But I’m not the right species. I can’t make the right biological magic happen.”
His face fell, suddenly serious. “The female hounds went into heat.”
“They can’t do that.” She stopped cold. “Unless you took a mate.”
“You—I mean—you and I did. Then they did.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, suddenly looking very, very young. “I don’t know how. I mean I do, but—”
Talia’s mouth dropped open, and then she burst out laughing. “You want me to draw you a picture?”
He grinned at her, her laugh straightening his spine, opening his expression.
Her heart caught in her throat. “You’re serious?”
“Absolutely. It’s, um, active in the neighborhood right now. There will be a next generation. It just goes to show you the old traditions aren’t everything. Or else there’s a new kind of magic. Whatever the case, you’re my mate.”
Oh, my . . . He’d said if the Prophets wanted him as Alpha, they’d have to solve the Talia-as-mate problem. The double-dog dare had worked.
She flung her arms around his neck, smelling the delicious, musky scent of him. “I don’t understand. Why did this happen?”
He wrapped his arms around Talia, cradling her against his chest. “Perhaps our lost souls went to other species. Perhaps there are too few hellhounds left, so we have changed in order to survive.”
Perhaps a vampire queen who understood ancient hellhound magic had played a role? Or the Castle?
“The Prophets only know, Talia. I’m just a dog.”
“But something’s going on.” Yes, something was going on. She was happy. Deliriously. Emphatically.
“It means we share something deep. It means I’ll always find you, no matter where you go. I’ll walk at your side. I’ll sleep beside you and watch over you. I’ll walk the passages between life and death to come back to you.”
Did you miss the book that launched Sharon Ashwood’s Dark Forgotten series? Read on for a preview of
RAVENOUS Available from Signet Eclipse.
Prologue
Being the evil Undead wasn’t fun anymore. For one thing, it was increasingly hard to get a library card.
Even borrowing a book required identification. The same applied to finding an apartment, renting a movie, or leasing a car. Sure, in the old days there was the whole vampire mind-control thing, but now the world was one big bar code. Just try hypnotizing a computer.
In the end, it was easier to give in than to hide an entire subpopulation from the electronic age. The vampires—along with werewolves, gargoyles, and the ever-unpopular ghouls—emerged into the public eye at the turn of the century. While Y2K alarmists had predicted millennial upheaval, they sure hadn’t seen this one coming.
In fact, they hadn’t seen anything yet. Three Sisters Agency Specializing in removal of Hauntings * Poltergeists * Unwanted Imps
Keep your house happy, healthy, and human-friendly! Best in the Pacific Northwest! Holly Carver, Registered Witch
Chapter 1
“ Why didn’t you say you were calling about the old Flanders place?” Holly’s words were hushed in the street’s empty darkness.
Steve Raglan, her client, pulled off his cap and scratched the back of his head, the gesture sheepish yet defiant. “Would it have made a difference?”
“I’d have changed my quote.”
“Thought so.”
“Uh-huh. I’m not giving a final cost estimate until I see inside.” She let a smidgen of rising anxiety color her voice. “Why exactly did you buy this place?”
He didn’t answer.
From where they stood at the curb, the streetlights showed enough of the property to work up a good case of dread. Three stories of Victorian elegance had crumbled to Gothic cliche. The house should have fit into the commercial bustle at the edge of the Fairview campus, where century-old homes served as offices, cafes, or studios, but it sat vacant. During business hours, the area had a Bohemian charm. This place . . . not so much. Not in broad daylight, and especially not at night.
Gables and dormers sprouted at odd angles from the roof, black against the moon-hazed clouds. Pillars framed the shadowed maw of the entryway, and plywood covered an upstairs window like an eye patch. A real character place, all right.
“So,” said Raglan, sounding a bit nervous himself, “can you kick its haunted butt?”
Holly choked down a wash of irritation. She was a witch, not a SWAT team. “I’ll have to go in and take a look around.” She loved most of her job, but she hated house work, and that didn’t mean dusting. Some old places were smart, and neutralizing them was a dangerous, tricky business. They wanted to make you dinner in all the wrong ways. Lucky for Raglan, she needed tuition money. Badly. Tomorrow was the deadline to pay.
The chill September air was heavy with the tang of the ocean. Wind rustled the chestnut trees that lined the cramped street, sending an early fall of leaves scuttling along the gutters. The sound made Holly twitch, her nerves playing games. If she’d had more time, she would have come back to do the job when it was bright and sunny.
“Just pull its plug. I can’t close the sale with it going all Amityville on the buyers,” Raglan said. Fortyish, he wore a fretful expression, a plaid flannel shirt, and sweatpants with a rip in one thigh. Crossing his arms, he leaned like limp celery against his white SUV.
She had to ask again. “So why on earth did you buy this house?”
Raglan peeled himself off the door of the vehicle, taking a hesitant step toward the property. “It was on the market real cheap. One of those Phi Beta Feta Cheese frats was looking for a place. Thought I could fix it up for next to nothing and flip it to them. They don’t care about looks, as long as there’s plenty of room for a kegger.”
He dug in his pocket and handed her a fold of bills. “Here’s your deposit.”
Prompt payment—heck, advance payment—was unprecedented, un-Raglanish behavior. She usually had to beg. Holly stared at the money, not sure what to say, but she took it. He’s worried. He’s never worried. Then
