A LIGHT TOUCH ON MY SHOULDER WOKE ME. "LEY point," Curran said. I sat up and saw the break in the ley line up ahead, where the view of the normal world grew distorted. Several tall figures waited for us.
"Friend or foe?"
"Friend," Curran said.
The platform buckled, trying to contract on itself. The old boards creaked, taut under the strain, and grew slick as the damp wood expelled the moisture. The line quaked with a spasmodic jolt and spit us into the deformed arms of a dozen shapechangers. Clawed hands reached to help me off the platform. I got up to my feet on my own.
"How many are left?" Curran asked the head female.
She snarled, mismatched jaws snapping, and a shapechanger in a human form stepped forward. "Two groups, m'lord," he said. "A small family from Waynesville and nine people from Asheville. There was a freak mudslide and they have to dig through the sludge to get to the point."
Curran nodded and strode up the dirt road, flanked by dense brush. Far ahead I could hear the horrible growl of a reconditioned vehicle.
"A horse would be quieter," I said.
"I don't like horses," he said.
All around us the brush was alive with lithe shapes. Glowing eyes watched us, drinking in every movement. The Pack was mobilizing, pulling into Keep. No shapechanger would remain outside its walls, and until the last of them crossed the threshold of their fortress, the roads leading to it would remain heavily fortified.
"Nobody can remain on full alert forever," Curran said, as if answering my thoughts. "After we killed Olathe, I'd let them go."
Except that it wasn't over.
The roar of the water-powered car grew too loud to talk. We rounded the bend in the road and I saw the reconditioned Jeep guarded by three wolves. We climbed in and Curran drove to Keep.
CORWIN'S LABORED BREATHING ECHOED ACROSS Pack's infirmary like the toll of a mourning bell.
His misshapen face looked haggard, gray skin sagging from the bone. His feverish eyes fastened on me.
"The Wood is calling," he whispered. I touched his hand, and wicked claws shot out, tearing my skin. "A good hunt," the lynxwere said.
"He doesn't know who you are," Doolittle said over my shoulder.
Gently I freed my hand and patted the furry throat.
"It won't be long now," Doolittle said.
"I hurt," Corwin rasped.
I looked to Doolittle, but he shook his head. "There is nothing I can give him to stop that kind of pain."
"He was impaled on a broken lamppost when we found him," Curran said softly.
Corwin jerked upward. Massive hands gripped my shoulders and green eyes blazed, suddenly lucid. "I'm dying," he rasped.
"Yes," I said, while Doolittle said "No" at the same time.
The cat clung to me. "You never came to the Wood," he said.
"No." I held him gently. His chest shuddered, raked by pain. "I never did."
"Too bad…" the cat whispered.
He sagged in my arms and I lowered him to the pillow. He trembled. A bloody waterfall drenched the sheets, leaving a lynx among the tangle of bandages. His fur was matted and bloody.
"Shit!" Doolittle spat, shoving me aside.
I backed away from the bed, as he feverishly grabbed for a syringe. Curran took me by the shoulders and turned me toward the bed at the opposite wall.
"There is someone I need you to ID for me," he said.
I looked at the bed and saw a man lying on his back covered to his chin with a blanket. There was something unnatural about his rigid pose. Curran pulled the blanket aside and I saw that the man was strapped to the bed. I took in the filthy brown hair and the hard face. There was something familiar about him. I'd seen him before. The man's eyelids snapped open and I took a step back, instantly recognizing the promise in the pale eyes. The bum from Ted's office. The pieces clicked. How stupid of me.
"We found him next to Corwin, knocked out cold," Curran said. "Apparently he jumped into the fight for Derek, but he won't tell me why."
"Untie him," I said.
Curran looked at me. "He has trouble controlling himself."
"Untie him," I repeated. "You shouldn't keep a Crusader of the Order tied up in your infirmary, Curran."
A tortured noise came from Corwin's bed, the hoarse painful yowling of an animal in agony. For a moment Curran looked like he would pound his fist into the wall, but the slip lasted a mere breath and the calm expression reasserted itself on his face.
"Get him to behave," Curran said," and I'll untie him."
I sat down on the edge of the bed. The Crusader's gaze had a touch of insanity to it. All Crusaders were crazy. It was in their job description. If at this moment, he broke free of his restraints, he would try to kill everyone in the room.
"I know who the upir is," I told the Crusader. "I know what he wants." The Crusader's eyes fixed on me. Once he looked at you, really looked you in the eyes, you started to sweat, your muscles tensed, and you knew you had only two options: fight or flight. He wasn't giving me his hard stare now. He was listening. "The upir can't stay away," I said. "Soon he'll come here and then I'll fight him." I pointed to Curran. "So will he. While Curran and I are fighting and bleeding, a man will be lying here, tied to the bed because he was too stubborn to compromise."
The Crusader spoke. "They took my weapons."
Curran nodded. "He can have them back if he promises not to assault my people. And to stay in Keep. I can't have him running around, fucking shit up right now. He cooperates or he stays tied to the bed."
I looked to the Crusader. The madness flared in his eyes and died. "Agreed," he said.
I took a knife from my belt and sawed through the restraints securing his arms. The Crusader sat up, rubbing his wrists. I offered him the knife and he cut the bonds on his ankles.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Nick," he said. He wore the Pack's trademark sweats and smelled clean.
I looked to Curran. "Did you force him to bathe?"
"We dipped him," Curran said. "He had lice."
"My weapons," Nick said.
Curran motioned us to follow and we did. He led us out of the room to the hallway, down the corridor, and to a small room. "I have to go," he told me, his hand on the door handle. He turned to Nick and the two men locked stares, sizing each other up. "Stay put," Curran said.
"He will," I told him. The Crusaders were insane, but they were still Knights of the Order. Their word was binding.
Curran opened the door for us and walked away, while we entered the room.
A lone bed flanked the wall next to a small dresser and a desk cluttered with metal. The place didn't look lived in—no personal items on the furniture, no loose clothes. A heavy punching bag hung from the ceiling and I wondered if that was standard equipment for Keep's rooms. Nick went to the desk, while I sat on the bed.
He had been loaded for bear when the shapechangers took him. A dozen shark-teeth gleamed on the table, next to a 9mm Sig Sauer, a .22, a shotgun, several clips, and boxes of assorted ammo. A long chain lay coiled by the shotgun. Silver, judging by the color of its metal. A short gladius-shaped sword lay on the side, flanked by several sharp dirks and a crescent-shape serrated blade designed to slice the throat. A tangle of cord and wooden parts occupied the corner of the desk—a garrote. There was a utility belt, two leather bracers, designed to hold the shark teeth, a back sheath, an r-kit, and bandages.
Nick stripped to the waist, displaying a hard scarred torso. His left shoulder was bandaged. He pulled the bandages off, exposing a raw, jagged wound, and slapped the r-kit onto it. Taking a fresh roll of gauze from the table, he began to dress the shoulder. I got up, stood behind him, and passed the bandage over his back.
We worked in silence until the wound was dressed. He put the shirt back on and strapped the utility belt over his waist.
"How long have you been tracking him?" I asked.
He didn't look at me, his attention captured by the metal on the table. "Four years." He slid the shark teeth one by one into their places on the bracers. "First Quebec, then Seattle. Tulsa."
I touched the desk. "Nothing here will kill him."
He thrust the gladius into his belt. It didn't matter that he had nothing. He would still try.
"How did you know the upir would attack the kid?"
"The kid's been bound to you. A natural target."
"I'm a better target."
"No: He wants you alive. To breed." He stepped toward me and touched my arm. Pale luminescence shimmered on his fingertips and vanished. "Power," he said. "Draws him like a moth to a flame."
He didn't need demonstrations of power. He could tell by touch. I tried to remember if he had touched me back in Ted's office. We'd brushed against each other.
"You took responsibility for the kid," he said. "You let him be taken."
He was right. "Coming from a man who let himself be captured by the Pack and strapped to a bed, that doesn't carry much weight. Tell you what, come back to me with the upir's head and then you can judge me."
He stared at me for a moment, his face blank and then said in his grating voice, "Fair enough."
We moved at the same time and I stared into the barrel of his Sig Sauer while Slayer's tip pressed against his jugular. I wasn't sure how I knew he'd move.
The door opened slowly. Someone stepped into the room and halted. Neither of us was willing to look away. A long moment passed, and the newcomer exited. The door clicked, closing. A loud knock broke the quiet.
I grimaced at Nick. "You going to do something, do it, so I can slit your throat and move on."
The gun barrel pointed upward and vanished back into the holster with a safety's click. "Not now," he said. I slid Slayer back into its sheath.
The knocking persisted. "Come in," I said.
The door opened, revealing a female shapechanger. She turned to me. "Curran wants you," she said.
The woman led me to the Council room in the back of the auditorium and held the door, motioning us to enter. I stepped inside and saw a dead girl on the floor. She lay on her side, her legs spread obscenely, her arms stretched forward. Moisture stained her torn T-shirt. A tiny heart on a long gold chain, the kind a teenage girl might buy for herself, spilled through shredded fabric to rest on the ground. Long scratches scarred the wooden floor, where her claws had scraped the boards. She must have changed shape before she died.
Her head stuck out at an unnatural angle, blind blue eyes staring at the ceiling. She looked young, frighteningly young, fourteen at the most. Someone had broken her neck, quickly, cleanly, in a single devastating jerk.
Curran was looking at her corpse from the gloom. Mahon sat at the wall, rubbing his forehead. There was a white piece of paper in his hand.
"The upir sent a phone number," Curran said.
Mahon put his hand over his face. A scene played itself before my eyes: the girl lunging forward, blue eyes insane with the upir's thoughts, changing into a snarling beast in midleap; Mahon stepping forward, huge arms grabbing her, snapping fragile bones on instinct, before the brain reacted; the girl changing back and falling to the floor… I didn't ask where on her body they found the note.
"Are you going to call him?" I asked.
"Yes," Curran said. "Suggestions?"
"He loses his temper when things slip from his control," I said. "And he thinks with his dick." It wasn't much.
Curran picked up the speakerphone and dialed the number. The long tone sounded through the room once, twice. A click announced that the phone was picked up and Bono's voice said, "I see you've got my message."
"I got it," Curran said.
"Did you kill the little girl, cat? Is she lying on the floor someplace? Are you looking at her now, wondering if she would've been good to fuck? I can help you with that. She was sweet, clumsy and dumb, but sweet. A bit dry too, but she bled a lot, so that evened things out."
Curran's face was relaxed, almost tranquil.
"Is your girlfriend there with you?" Bono asked. He was babbling, excited, as if high on something. "The tall, dark-haired one with sharp eyes? I looked for her, but she was gone, so I took the human blonde you had before her. I'm going to have her for lunch tomorrow. The trick with fresh meat is to soften it someplace warm. But then you eat your meat raw, so educating you on subtleties of cooking is a waste of time. My children are getting your girl ready to fillet. Would you like to hear her scream?"
There was a sound of a door swinging open and a woman's voice cut through. "Please no," she begged in sheer panic. "Please, please, please…" Me. It should've been me. There was nothing I could do but listen.
Curran's face was still calm. He picked up a chair and bent its metal legs into twisted curves.
Suddenly the woman choked, reaching a new intensity of terror, and broke into sobs, loud, heart-wrenching cries. Her desperation filled the room. She had no hope. She knew she was dying and she knew that there would be no escape. She screamed sharply once, twice, and fell silent.
Bono's voice snarled, "Idiot!" and Arag's unforgettable, inhuman whimper emanated from the phone.
"He punctured an artery," Bono's voice returned. "It's so simple—cut the stomach and pull out the intestines, but no, he manages to get his claws into an artery. Now I'll need to wash the innards. I'll have to kill him after all."
The whimpering receded, moving farther from the phone. "So tell me," Bono said, "did she sound like that when you fucked her? She wouldn't scream for me, she only sobbed. A real disappointment, that one. Are you there, half-breed?"
"I'm here. And I too have something for you to hear. Say hello, Kate."
"Hello," I said.
There was silence on the phone. "It's not her," Bono said. "She's still in her house."
"How's the neck?" I asked. "Still spitting up glass?"
"She is here," Curran said. "With me. Tonight, while you're waiting for your corpse to get soft, think of me and her. Think of her begging me for it."
"I'll get her in the end." Bono voice was taut with strain.
Curran made a loud sigh. "What is it about you and my sloppy seconds?"
Bono slammed the phone. I turned and left the room.