tender gesture Mac had ever seen. The two, mother and child, were still for a long moment, the candlelight fluttering against the shadows that draped around the pair. A profound silence thickened, making Mac’s breath come loud in his ears.
He was an outsider. This was Connie’s time. Connie’s and her son’s.
Like a dark dream, Mac willed himself away.
“In more news, Fairview’s ad-hoc council of supernatural leaders raised the question of unauthorized immigration, requesting that any undocumented supernatural residents of the area be brought to their attention immediately.”
As Mac re-formed from dust to demon in his condo, the answering machine was flashing. After weeks with barely a phone call, he had a half dozen messages. Mac ignored them for a moment, pausing to look at the city lights outside his balcony door. The moon’s reflection pooled in the waters of the harbor, a golden, shimmering disk. After watching Connie’s reunion with her son, he felt content. Sated. Masterful.
There were problems, but he’d saved the day and gotten the girl. In the wrong order, but heck, eat dessert first.
A plane flew over, adding its blinking lights to the bejeweled skyline.
The answering machine’s insistent light finally triggered his curiosity. But, when he reached down to push the playback button, there was a knock on the door.
Mac opened the door. It was Lore.
“A nice old lady let me in the building,” said the hellhound, barging in. Then he looked closely at Mac. “You’re bigger. Again.”
“And you’re still creepy.”
Lore handed him two huge brown bags. “I hope you like chow mein.”
The smell hit Mac like a hockey stick between the eyes, but in a good way. It drove the question of what Lore was doing there into the boards. “Oh, yeah.”
The Castle had turned off his need for food, and now the hunger came stampeding back. He carried the bags to the kitchen and set them on the table. “I’m going to wash up. There’s plates in the cupboard and silverware in the drawer.”
Lore watched him with dark, cautious eyes. “You’re asking me to eat with you?”
Mac scratched the back of his neck, a dozen smart remarks making a log jam in his head. “Do hellhounds eat Chinese?”
The hound seemed to consider his response far too long. “Yes. The food they prepare, that is.”
Abandoning Lore in the kitchen, Mac took off his weapons and washed his hands and face. When he got back to the table, Lore was arranging a mountain of cardboard containers.
Mac had an urge to laugh. He had a nice dining room. He was a first-class cook with a drawerful of gourmet recipes. Yet, here he was, sharing a greasy takeout meal in his dirty kitchen with a hellhound—and loving the fact that he had a guest.
“I’ve got beer,” he said. “That’s about it.”
Lore looked up from wrestling the top off a Styrofoam container of rice. “That’s okay. I’m happy with water.”
Mac settled himself and picked up a serving spoon.
Mac observed as Lore followed his example. The hound watched every move Mac made, mimicking until he caught on to the routine of dishing and eating and what to do with the soy sauce.
And apparently enjoying it. Lore had a good appetite. Mac noticed his own hunger was calming down as he ate, a normal, healthy need for food being restored. That was a relief.
Remembering his manners, Mac got up and filled glasses with water. “So, this is great but, uh, what brings you here?” He set a glass in front of Lore.
“I thought if your stomach was full, you would listen to what I need to say.”
“Okay.”
“I want to explain to you about the hounds.”
“Okay.” Mac tore off some paper towels to use as napkins, and sat back down.
“Of all the species, we are the only ones to age and die, mate and have families within the Castle walls. The love of our pack gives us the strength to survive, but it also makes us vulnerable. When we escaped a year ago, we had to leave many of our number behind.”
Mac put down his fork, giving Lore his full attention.
The hound looked up, examining Mac all over again from head to toe and gauging his reaction. “As I said before, now that I am free, I can use magic to come and go from the Castle. I smuggle goods to buy back those of my people who have been captured for slaves.”
“Yes.”
Mac just shook his head, the security-minded cop in him scandalized in about six different ways, but he was beginning to see a bigger picture.
Lore went on. “The Vampire Caravelli has also hired wolves for guard duty. Many have helped us, but some have complained to their leaders. They do not agree with releasing more prisoners from the Castle. Soon, the council will meet, and it will punish me. I need your help.”
“My help?” Mac said.
“I need an advocate with the council of supernatural leaders.”
Mac busied himself with more fried rice. He needed a moment to think. “I’m no lawyer. Plus, the council hates me. I was a bad guy, remember?”
Lore leaned forward, his body language saying now that he had come to the point he wanted to make. “The hellhounds rank very low among the supernatural species. We survive however we can by staying humble, keeping to ourselves. We have not made powerful friends.”
That was true.
“So I brought Chinese food. You need to help.”
So Mac’s estimated street price was an extra-large order of fast food. Good to know. “Why me?”
“You are—blessed. The gods have appointed you. But you don’t want to hear that.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then you must find your own reasons.”
“And if the task is mine, I’ll already know what those are,” Mac said, remembering Lore’s line from their earlier conversation.
“Exactly.” The hellhound looked down at his plate. “Convince the council to give me permission to set my people free. And there are others trapped there, too, not just us. In times when all magic was considered evil, anyone with power was shut up in there—even beasts and birds. The Castle holds many who shouldn’t be imprisoned.”
