Ravenous

He swept the knife up, slicing the changeling in midflight. The creature fell to the asphalt, curling in on itself, limbs tucked protectively around its wound.

That was one wound too many. This time it stayed on the ground.

Alessandro looked down at the misshapen thing. The pink light of a neon sign flickered over its gray skin, picking out the ragged claws where its hands and feet should have been. It gave an eerie, mewling cry of rage. Like all vampires it had once been human, but changelings were different. None of their human personality survived the Turning.

Alessandro was quick, and the knife was sharp. As soon as the spine was severed, the body began to melt into a reeking sludge. He bent to clean his knife on a scraggly patch of grass next to the sidewalk.

Alessandro hadn't seen changelings in at least several centuries. Some claimed they had been hunted to extinction after their last bid to challenge the vampire clans. Apparently not, he thought as he ran back to where he had kicked the other changeling into the car. The Toyota, he noted, had left the scene. Just as well.

The first changeling was a puddle of slime. Its neck must have snapped on impact. Alessandro felt a shiver work its way down his spine. Changelings didn't even go to their final death properly. True vampires turned to dust.

Now he just had to deal with a doorway to the demon realm.

He had reached a point across the street from the alley, but stopped in his tracks as soon as he could see the portal. Creatures were worming through the rip between dimensions, emerging from the wall to drop with a splash to the puddles of the alley. They looked like huge dogs, red-eyed and coal black. Their forms seemed indistinct, like beasts made of nightmares.

Hellhounds.

It was one thing to fight a pair of changelings, another to take on a pack of half demons. He stayed utterly still, melting into the shadows. He dared not even take out his cell phone to call for help. Their hearing was even better than a vampire's.

A change in the light caught Alessandro's attention. The brightness was receding, as if something were reeling it back into the portal. Faster than it had burned open, the portal was closing, the edges shimmering and healing. One last hellhound was squeezing through, shaggy black legs pumping as it squirmed through the narrowing gap. It dropped to the ground and raced after its fellows. A drool of ectoplasm coursed down the wall, sticky and faintly phosphorescent.

Then the doorway shrank to a pinpoint and disappeared with a faint pop. The air pressure changed, growing suddenly heavy. Perhaps it was just returning to normal.

No demon in sight. The spellcaster's summoning had failed.

A reprieve.

The hounds faded into the darkness, silent as dreams. Alessandro released his breath. The werewolves could deal with the hounds better than anyone else. He didn't like asking the wolves for help—it never paid to show weakness—but this was a commonsense exception.

Not all hellspawn were so easy to clean up. How many other portals had there been, and what had come through them?

Alessandro walked backward until he leaned on the brick exterior of Sinsation. Too many thoughts crashed through his brain, each one bellowing for attention. He had believed changelings wiped from the earth, but here they were, their scent all over a murdered college student. That raised so many questions. What would they hope to gain by coming to Fairview? What, if any, connection did changelings have to a summoner or his demon? Moreover, what possible connection did they have to Omara?

A rogue vampire would have been a dangerous but far less complex scenario. All these circumstances together reeked of magic and obscure motivations, two of his least favorite things.

Police sirens yowled in the distance. The detective had raised the alarm. Alessandro needed to take the queen and leave.

Chapter 8

How could anyone compare my home with the Flanders place? Holly stood at the front gate, trying to see her house with unbiased eyes. That was hard. She loved it with all her heart.

It was what architecture buffs called a 'painted lady.' Three stories of gingerbread carving gestured skyward, resplendent in lemon yellow and aubergine. Built in the 1880s, it stood at the crest of a steep rise, looking over a sweep of ocean to the south. Seven generations of Carvers had lived there.

So what if Ben wasn't a Gothic mansion kinda guy? He'd come around. He had to. Their relationship had grown slowly, but their bond was solid. In the last few months things had begun to grow serious. They'd begun leaving spare clothes and other odds and ends at each other's homes. Swapped keys. They'd even begun talking about moving in together.

They really had to have that talk about witchcraft very soon.

And I have to forget that I ever kissed Alessandro. It had been a moment of crisis, but that kiss had still been a mere whisker away from cheating. She couldn't bring herself to regret the moment, but it would never happen again.

Holly pushed open the wrought-iron gate and started up the walk, groping for her keys in her pocket. She wasn't moving too quickly after her adventures the night before. She'd slept until eleven and rose bruised and headachy. Brunch had been soda crackers and tap water. Now it was nearly dinner time and she was just starting to feel like herself.

Holly's cat, the Kibble-ator, sat on the porch like a fuzzy, twenty-pound doorstop. She'd never intentionally acquired Kibs, but he lived in her home and ate her food anyway. He sniffed at her sneakers, finding all the interesting scents collected during her round of afternoon errands.

'Hey, there,' she said, bending down to pet him. He yawned, demonstrating the power of intense fish breath. He pushed his head into her hand and then did a rolling flop, presenting his belly for a scratch. Holly obeyed. With that much cat on her foot, it wasn't easy to move.

Eventually Holly straightened and checked the mailbox. Nothing. Then, turning her key in the heavy brass lock, she caught her breath as the door swung ajar. Someone had left it unlocked. Unperturbed, the cat thumped past on heavy paws, heading straight for his food bowl.

'Hello?' she called out, envisioning burglars loose in her private spaces, rooting through her underwear drawer. There was no response. 'Hello?' she called again, gripping her keys like a weapon. She walked through the front parlor, her whole being straining to catch the slightest sound.

There was a noise in the kitchen, a loud, scrabbling rustle like a giant mouse. Creeping up to the doorway, she stopped and stood with her back to the wall. The rustling stopped. She tried to be silent, undetectable, but the rush of her panting breath roared in her ears. Swallowing nervously, she took one step into the kitchen, her footfall loud on the old gray linoleum. The air was damp, smelling of onions and dish soap. The electric clock that hung over the sink hummed softly. She heard another noise, the metallic clunk of shifting pots and pans. She crept forward, ready to pounce.

A nicely sculpted masculine rump projected from the cupboard beneath the sink. She sighed with relief and exasperation. After last night's experience, he was the last person she expected to find alone in her house.

'Ben,' she said, loud enough that he could hear.

Predictably he jerked up, whacking his head on the pipes. Swearing, he scrambled backward and turned, his glasses slightly askew.

'Oh, hi,' he replied. 'I was looking for drain cleaner.'

'I don't have any.' The release of tension made her grin wide. Ben was over his fright. Everything was all right. He was not only in her house, but interacting with it as well. A very good sign. It would be so nice if he would just move in.

'The house fixes its own plumbing problems,' she added.

'I know.' He got to his feet, smoothing back his short, thick hair with one hand. 'Maybe its self-maintenance