Sharon Ashwood - Frostbound

Baines flipped open his notebook and turned to a fresh page. “There were two women living here. Do you know either of them?”

“I know one was named Michelle.” So far he was telling the truth. That didn’t mean he had to say everything.

“Michelle Faulkner was murdered tonight. There was someone else living here, a Talia Rostova. A near lookalike to Faulkner, to go by the driver’s license. Who is she, besides a vampire?”

Talia Rostova. So that was her name. It swirled in his mind like an exotic cocktail. “A cousin, I think. I don’t know for sure.”

“They have any visitors?”

“None that I saw, but I live on six.”

“Any idea where this Talia is now?”

Lore hesitated, trying to think his way around the direct question. Baines gave him a suspicious look.

“Hey, Baines,” one of the other officers called. “There’s a drawing on the wall. Looks like gang shit.”

“Take pictures,” said Baines to the other cop. “See what the boys back at the office can make of it. Not that they know squat about supernatural crimes.” He turned to Lore. “Anything going on with the Spookytown gangs?”

“The Dark Hand tried to infiltrate Fairview. They didn’t succeed.” Under Caravelli’s direction, the hounds had made short work of those vampires.

Baines grunted. “I remember that.”

Lore saw his chance to get into the condo again before every trace of scent was trampled away. He hadn’t had much of a chance to check it out before Talia had burst from the kitchen. “I may recognize your drawing. I know the neighborhood and its people.”

“This is a crime scene. You’re not a cop.”

Lore could feel the man’s suspicion like a physical touch. He shrugged, keeping his face neutral. “You’re in charge here, but I might see something you won’t.”

And I’ve got the suspect you really want chained to my bed.

Interestingly enough, though, Baines was considering a range of suspects and not just the vampire roommate. It improved Lore’s opinion of the man.

The detective studied him for a moment. Beneath the wariness, Lore sensed a lot of curiosity. “Like what?”

“If you’re dealing with graffiti, I can help. Vampires are big on signs and symbols. Do you know which vampires belong to which clan, and which monarchs claim ownership of them?”

Baines shrugged. “I know Queen Omara demands the loyalty of any vampire living here.”

“There are things she doesn’t know.”

“And you do?”

Again, an image of Talia flashed through his mind. “I have my nose to the ground.”

“You a snitch?”

“I keep order.”

“I thought that was Alessandro Caravelli’s job. He’s the peacekeeper in Spookytown.”

“He hires my pack from time to time. Right now, I’m his vacation relief.” Lore gave a slight smile at the phrase. It was just so wonderfully, mundanely human.

After a long moment, Baines gave a small nod. “Okay. Maybe you should take a look at what we’ve got in there.” He glanced toward the open door to the condo. “Put some of those booties over your shoes.”

Lore obeyed, barely fitting the protective covers over his long feet. Playing along with the humans’ rules irked him, but at this point he’d take answers wherever he could get them. He’d hoped for more information from the hounds who questioned the crowd at the fire, but they’d come up empty. Helver had given the most detailed account.

After leaving the scene of the fire, Lore had found the pup and made him explain himself again. And again. Lore was taking his time to invent an appropriate punishment for stealing the campaign money. He was still too angry to think straight, and it wouldn’t hurt Helver to stew a little.

Unfortunately, the young idiot hadn’t had anything useful to add to the story. No sight, sound, or scent of an intruder. Lore guessed the fire had been ignited from a distance. Definitely sorcery, probably necromancy. Maybe a warlock, demon or vampire. Big, thick spell books required the patience of an immortal.

He walked behind Baines, taking in the scene. It was crowded with officers and hot with all the lights in the place turned on. The brightness showed everything in lurid colors. Lore had watched enough crime dramas to know they could tell a lot from the way blood splattered during a murder.

The walls and ceiling had a lot to say.

Hellhounds knew death intimately. They were predators, and they’d been preyed upon in the prison where Lore had grown up. He’d seen enslavement, torture, and cruelty for the sake of pleasure, and yet the sight of Michelle’s body made his chest burn with sadness. She’d been a slight woman, her shattered body reminding him of a fallen bird. Slashes seamed her skin where she’d tried to fend off her attacker. The neck was a gory mess, clumsily hacked apart. Lore prayed she’d been unconscious by the time that happened.

The vampires executed their own with swords. Those wounds were, by comparison, precise. Lore guessed the killer had used something that required a lot of cuts—a dagger or a knife.

The camera kept flashing, the bursts of light setting Lore’s nerves on edge.

The police had left the head where they had found it, apart from the body. The eyes were half-open, the lips slack. Lore turned away from the waxy face. It was far too much like Talia’s.

An officer stood in the living room, making a sketch of the placement of the toppled furniture, the body, and the severed head. With no camera or sketch pad, Lore had to remember what was there: a floor lamp toppled, a small bookcase capsized, paperbacks everywhere, pictures askew. Michelle Faulkner had fought back.

Lore tensed as someone bumped into him. There were too many people, and no one was dusting for fingerprints yet, tweezing up bits of thread or vacuuming the carpet for evidence. He supposed even more personnel would arrive to tramp through the place.

To a hellhound, it was a stupid way to investigate. The first and most obvious tool was a good nose, and now there were too many scents crowding out any trace of the killer. The only thing Lore could tell for sure was that hellhounds and vampires were the only nonhumans who had been there in recent history.

His other sense—the one that gave him premonitions—was jangling with a sense of wrongness. The place stank of violence and terror.

“Where’s the drawing?” Baines asked a young officer standing by the window.

“There.” The man pointed to the living room wall.

With a ping of annoyance, Lore wondered how the hell he’d missed it earlier. Then again, it didn’t exactly stand out—just more blood on a bloody wall.

“Well?” asked Baines.

Lore stepped closer. The symbol was crudely done, and at an awkward height. The blood was turning a rusty brown, soaking into the bland off-white paint. He estimated the distance to the floor. “It looked like whoever drew it knelt, scooping up the blood from the carpet with his fingers.”

Baines nodded. “So, what does it mean?”

Lore’s first impression was of a meaningless splodge. If he squinted, it reminded him of a pup’s drawing of the summer sun. Or a squashed spider. Or a head with crudely drawn hair. What had the cop been thinking? Gang symbols had more style. “Honestly, I can’t tell.”

Baines shrugged. “It was worth a try.”

Lore straightened, fixing the childlike scrawl into his memory. As he took one last look, he noticed there was a tiny squiggle disturbing the bottom smears. “There’s something written beneath the blood. It’s almost covered up.”

Baines quickly bent down, bringing his nose nearly to the wall. “It’s in pencil.”

He pulled a penlight from his pocket and shone it directly on the small printed letters. The writing was ragged, the letters uneven. It reminded Lore of his own awkward penmanship.