Hellhound (A Deadtown Novel)

PRAISE FOR

DARKLANDS

“With each book in the Deadtown series, I only get sucked further in . . . An incredibly entertaining installment that cannot be missed!”

—
A Book Obsession

“With solid pacing, fabulous character growth, and an intriguing plotline,
Darklands
continues the tradition it started as a fantastic urban fantasy series.”

—
The Book Swarm

“A wild ride.”

—
Bitten by Books

BLOODSTONE

“Vivid and butt-kicking . . . Make sure you reserve a place for Holzner’s novels on your bookshelf.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“This reviewer highly recommends the fantastic Deadtown series and its intriguing denizens to all urban fantasy readers.”

—
Bitten by Books

“Once again Nancy Holzner has delivered another nail-biting novel.”

—
All Things Books

“The world the author has created is unique and deeply interesting.”

—
Romancing the Book

“Vicky’s life and trials have been fascinating to date, but in this newest book, author Nancy Holzner takes it to a new level.”

—
Romance Reviews Today

“A terrific, taut, thought-provoking thriller.”

—
Genre Go Round Reviews

HELLFORGED

“
Hellforged
is the total package.”

—
Fantasy Literature

“This series is becoming highly addictive!”

—
RT Book Reviews

“A highly satisfying whole: action, adventure, suspense, Welsh mythology, humor, and pitch-perfect characters that live and breathe on the page.”

—
Bitten by Books

“I cannot wait to see what is in store for my new favorite demon hunter!”

—
Intense Whisper . . .

“Jam-packed with action.”

—
Night Owl Reviews

“Vicky is the kind of kick-butt heroine fantasy lovers can get behind . . . A novel lovers of fantasy, urban fantasy, and paranormal fiction in general won’t want to miss.”

—
Romance Reviews Today

DEADTOWN

“Fresh and funny, with a great new take on zombies.”

—Karen Chance,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Tempt the Stars

“A must-read . . . This heroine totally kicks butt!”

—Phaedra Weldon, author of
Revenant

“Fast, fun, and feisty.”

—Devon Monk, author of
Hell Bent

“An incredibly realized world and a cast of vivid characters. I can’t wait for the next book!”

—Chris Marie Green, author of
Deep in the Woods

“Nancy Holzner is a master of characterization and I’ll be buying her next book the moment it hits the shelf.”

—Ilona Andrews,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Magic Rises

Ace Books by Nancy Holzner

DEADTOWN

HELLFORGED

BLOODSTONE

DARKLANDS

HELLHOUND

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

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A Penguin Random House Company

HELLHOUND

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2013 by Nancy Holzner.

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eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-59516-9

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Ace mass-market edition / November 2013

Cover art by Don Sipley.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To Steve, with hope for better times ahead

Much of this book was written during a time of crisis, due to my husband’s multiple health issues and hospitalizations. I’d like to thank the hospital staff who helped us through some really tough times. At Cayuga Medical Center: all of the ICU staff, as well as Chris, Coby, Katirae, Theresa, Arlene, Nathan, David, Tim, Mike Ronald, and Josh Hamilton. At UPMC Shadyside Hospital in Pittsburgh: Pam, Lorreece, Chelsea, Troy, Keith, Ebony, Laurie, Debbie, Sheila, Alexa, Angela, Bridget, Patricia, Dara, Maureen, Marlene, Karen, Sally, Nicole, Audrey, Linda, Amanda, Lisa, Ryan, Laura, the amazing staff of the cardiothoracic ICU, and all of the physicians who worked so hard to restore his health. I know I’ve forgotten some names—and I’m sorry about that—but I’m grateful to each and every person who took care of my husband during a difficult time.

Thanks also to the wonderful people of the Well Spouse Association for understanding, hugs, prayers, and much-needed support. Anyone caring for an ill spouse will find a warm welcome at www.wellspouse.org.

I appreciate the patience, understanding, and assistance of everyone at Ace.

Friends who’ve stuck by me have my deepest love and thanks: Michelle Brandwein, Kathy Giacoletto, Margaret Strother, Jeanne Mackin, Nicola Morris, Sydney Chase, Keith Pyeatt, Carlos Thomas, Kaysi Peister, Deborah Blake, Jessica Woodhouse, Janis Kelly, Mark Butterworth, Peter Munroe, Jane Rogers, and Sharon Choe.

Love and thanks also to my family, including my wonderful in-laws.

A PHONE THAT RINGS JUST BEFORE DAWN NEVER BRINGS good news. That’s true even if you live where I do—Deadtown, Boston’s paranormal-only district. Deadtown wakes up when the sun goes down, and by five in the morning most of the zombies, vampires, and other paranormals who live here are home behind their blackout shades, pulling on their jammies and ready to turn in for the day. Not dialing up their friends just to say, “Boo.”

I stared at the ringing phone like I was expecting the thing to morph into a tarantula if I reached for it. The caller ID read
BLOCKED CALL
. No help there. Maybe it was a potential client wanting me to exterminate a demon—I could use the work. But norms don’t make phone calls at this time of day. They wait until what they consider business hours. And by then I’m usually fast asleep.

One more ring, and the call would go to voice mail. I let it. I was in the process of pulling on my own jammies, and I didn’t see any reason to let some ridiculously late (or early, if the caller was a norm) phone call rob me of my sleep. Of course, wondering who was calling and what they wanted would probably do that, anyway.

I watched the phone to see if the message light would start flashing. It didn’t. Instead, the phone began ringing again. And the caller ID still didn’t have a clue.

Whoever was calling was going to keep trying until I either answered or unplugged the phone. I grabbed the handset (no tarantula) and pressed Talk.

“Hello?”

“Vicky, is that you? This is Daniel.” A pause, like he wasn’t sure I remembered him. “Daniel Costello.”

“Daniel?” Of course I remembered him. Still, I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice. Daniel Costello was a human I’d dated a few months back. Great guy, but things hadn’t worked out. Last I heard, he’d moved in with Lynne Hong, a TV news reporter. And of course I was with Kane, my werewolf boyfriend.

That is, if our relationship managed to survive the next full moon.

But I couldn’t think about that now. I refocused my attention on the voice on the phone.

“This hasn’t hit the news yet,” Daniel was saying, “but it will soon. There’s been a zombie attack. Three people are dead.”

“And by ‘people’ you mean . . . ?” A zombie attack
anywhere
was bad news. But, unfair as it may be, the fallout would be less if the attack happened in Deadtown. Paranormals killing their own didn’t attract much interest from Boston’s powers-that-be.

“Sorry. Humans. A zombie killed three humans.”

Shit.
That meant hell to pay for all of us. Ever since a magically enhanced virus had been set loose on downtown Boston three years ago, the plague victims—called “zombies” because they’d lain dead and decaying for three days before reanimating—had lived with humans in a truce that was uneasy at best. Looked like that truce had been breached.

“Was it bloodlust?” I asked.

Zombies, despite their superhuman strength and their tendency to bounce right back from injuries that would kill a norm, aren’t much of a threat to humans.
Unless
they catch a whiff of fresh blood. The scent stirs up an insatiable hunger that makes human flesh suddenly seem mighty tasty. Talk about your awkward social situations.

“We’re checking out that possibility, but I don’t think it was bloodlust. I’d like you to come out and look at the scene.”

“Me? Why?” Daniel was more than a guy I used to date. He was also a city homicide detective. Not long ago, as a serial killer terrorized the South End, Daniel had told me in no uncertain terms to stay away from his investigation. The way he’d called me an amateur then still stung. Especially when I was the one who’d stopped the killer.

So why the sudden about-face?

“You’ll understand when you get here,” he said. “I don’t want to say anything else before you’ve had a chance to view the scene. But if you end up thinking along the same lines I am, I want to hire you as a consultant.”

“You suspect demon activity?” Of course he did.
That
explained the about-face. There was no other reason he’d call me in as a consultant.

But Daniel didn’t answer my question. He gave me the address, on Lincoln Street in the Leather District, and urged me to hurry.

“I’m on my way,” I said, pulling on a jacket.

GETTING OUT OF DEADTOWN WAS GOING TO BE A PROBLEM.

Even if Daniel was right that the story hadn’t made the news yet, everyone knew
something
had happened. Sunrise was fast approaching, yet the New Combat Zone, the gritty strip between the checkpoints into Deadtown and human-controlled Boston, was packed with zombies. At this time of day, the monster bars were all closed and the street was usually deserted. Now, throngs of zombies milled around, making the Zone look like Street Party of the Living Dead.

Except the mood was anything but festive.

I tapped a zombie on the arm. He was tall and could see over the heads in the crowd. The face that turned to me—spongy, gray-green skin with deeply sunken cheeks, bloodred eyeballs protruding from their sockets, thin lips pulled back from yellow teeth—looked like a vision out of a norm’s worst nightmare. But I’m not a norm, and here he was just your average man, or monster, on the street.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Protest.” Recently, several zombie groups had organized marches against the restrictions placed on Deadtown residents. The first demonstration or two had been covered by the press, but then media attention had wandered elsewhere. Zombies marching through Deadtown? Big deal. As long as they stayed on their own side of the border, no one cared.

This gathering wasn’t like the marches, though. For one thing, there were no signs. No speeches shouted through bullhorns. And the feeling in the air was one I could only describe as menace. Real anger was simmering here. Things could get ugly, fast.

I moved into the crowd. The zombie’s hand clamped my shoulder.

“Don’t bother,” he said. “They’ve sealed the border.”

Of course. If a zombie had attacked some humans, that’s the first thing that Boston’s paranormal-hating police commissioner, Fred Hampson, would do, even before he made any kind of official statement. But word spreads fast in Deadtown. Zombies heard about the restriction, but not why it had been put in place. And even if they knew a zombie had killed three humans, many would still be here protesting, anyway. After all, if one norm murdered another over on Marlborough Street, Hampson wouldn’t seal off the entire Back Bay.

An amplified voice cut through the crowd’s rumblings, but it wasn’t to make a speech or lead a chant. “This is an unlawful gathering. Disperse at once and return to your homes.”

The Goon Squad had arrived.

Deadtown’s police force comprised joint zombie-human teams armed with exploding bullets—one of the few things that could kill a zombie, or at least make undeath not worth living. Now, Goons moved into the Zone, dressed in riot gear and carrying big-ass automatic weapons. With their faces shielded by visored helmets, you couldn’t tell which cops were zombies and which were human. They all looked like storm troopers from an invading alien force.

The bullhorn repeated its commands. The crowd stirred, restless, poised uncertainly between retreat and riot. The silence felt heavy with threat, like a gathering thunderhead.

“Let us through!” a man’s voice shouted.

Somewhere, glass shattered.

A roar erupted from the crowd. Bodies surged toward the Boston checkpoint. The yelling resolved itself into a chant: “Let us through! Let us through!”

I struggled to keep my feet under me as shouting zombies shoved from all sides. I tried to move toward the curb, but it was useless pushing against a wall of tightly packed zombie bodies.

An acrid smell—was that smoke?—reached my nostrils. There was another crash of glass, and a group of zombies broke away, charging toward the buildings that lined the street. I ran after them. Ahead, a jagged, gaping hole marred the plate-glass window of The Wild Side, a monster bar. The breakaway zombies were storming it. They punched out the remaining glass and climbed inside. A minute later, they were back at the window. One clutched a cash register. Others passed beer kegs out to their friends.

The Wild Side wasn’t enough for the looters. Zombies yanked at the locked door of Creature Comforts, the next bar over. Shit, that was
my
hangout. “Stop!” I screamed, my voice swallowed up in the din. Not that a group of rioting zombies would pay the slightest bit of attention to a lone, five foot six shapeshifter, even if they could hear me.

“Ram it!” someone shouted. Through The Wild Side’s smashed window came—hell, was that the
bar
? Four zombies grabbed it and backed up, ready to use it as a battering ram.

“One!”

I rushed forward. If I could get between the zombies and the door . . . Who was I kidding? I’d end up squashed like a swatted fly against the door of my favorite bar. I watched helplessly.

“Two!” The zombies around me backed up, cheering, to give the looters more room. I stumbled back with them. I hoped Axel, the bar’s owner, had insurance.

“Thr—!”

The looters never finished their countdown. The door slammed open, banging hard against the wall. Axel’s seven foot tall silhouette filled the wide-open doorway. Even from where I stood, the looters’ gasp was audible as they froze. Axel stepped outside, shut the door behind him, and folded his arms. No gun, no riot gear, just a badass troll protecting his turf.

The looters fell back. Some disappeared into The Wild Side. Others rejoined the crowd. Axel stood there like the Colossus of goddamn Rhodes, his beady eyes promising trouble to anyone—zombie, vampire, human, whatever—who took one step too close.

Around me, the crowd headed for the checkpoint again. Someone shoved me from behind, and I almost fell. I lost sight of Axel as I concentrated on not being trampled to death in a zombie stampede. The bullhorn, still shouting commands, was barely audible.

Then, a burst of gunfire sounded.

Everything stopped. Voices cut off in mid-chant. Raised fists halted in mid-shake. For several seconds, silence reigned.

The bullhorn voice took advantage of the moment. “Go home. Proceed in an orderly fashion.” A pause. “Sunrise will occur in less than eight minutes.”

Around me, several zombie heads snapped up toward the pale gray sky. Here, the buildings were tall enough that it was still as dark as midnight on the ground, and most of the rioters weren’t dressed for daytime. Zombies don’t burst into flame or anything in sunlight. Instead, they’re afflicted with zombie sunburn: orange skin, pocked with deep pits. Zombies aren’t exactly pretty to begin with, but zombie sunburn hurts. And zombies don’t heal.

The crowd had surged toward Boston as a single force, but now it dribbled away as the zombies returned to Deadtown. It seemed to shrink around the edges and thin at the center. A few zombies stood their ground, but no one continued the push toward human-controlled Boston.

“Excuse me,” muttered a zombie. I recognized him as one of the looters, but now his hands were empty as he shoved them into his pockets. He stepped around me and, head down, hurried toward Deadtown.

I turned, watching him weave through the crowd, but I soon lost sight as others joined him. The gates of the checkpoint into Deadtown stood wide open; the guards were letting everyone through without running their IDs. Within minutes, I was the only person standing in the street.

Smoke blew past. I checked to make sure Creature Comforts had survived unscathed. Axel saw me and raised one giant hand in silent greeting. Then he went inside and closed the door. As far as I could tell, there was no damage. But few of the other buildings in the Zone had fared as well. The door of a convenience store hung askew, boxes and broken bottles spilling out into the street. Conner’s Tavern had a couple of broken windows, and smoke billowed from one of them. I hoped the sirens screaming our way came from fire trucks.

What were those zombies thinking? They weren’t sticking it to the norms; they were demolishing paranormal-owned businesses. But rioters aren’t practicing their logic skills. They’re out for the thrill of destruction: the crack and give of splintering wood, the shriek of a hinge letting go, the blast and roar of hungry flames.

The demon mark on my right forearm buzzed. I knew—too much—about the high of letting go, of giving into rage and smashing whatever stood in your path. Even now, the demon mark urged me to pick up a rock, find an intact piece of glass, and hurl it through. Just for fun. Just to hear that sweet, sweet music of the crash and clatter.

Do it,
a voice whispered inside my mind. The mark’s buzzing ran up my arm like an electrical current.
No one’s watching.
Of its own accord, my arm started to reach for a brick that lay near my feet.

“Stop it,” I said out loud. I pulled my arm close to my chest and held it there, flexing my fingers, pushing out the feeling. That voice might be inside my head, but it wasn’t mine. It was the voice of the Destroyer, the Hellion that had marked me, and I wasn’t going to listen to its insinuations and commands.

I would not let the Destroyer rule me.

I looked around. The Zone was a mess, and I made myself see it for what it was. Not beautiful chaos, but needless waste. Waste that hurt those trying to scrape out a living here. I wasn’t going to add to their misery.

Anyway, I had a job to do. As my demon mark subsided, I walked away from Deadtown, toward the checkpoint into human-controlled Boston.

I hadn’t gone more than a dozen steps before four Goons in riot gear blocked my path.

“The border is closed.” The Goon’s riot helmet muffled his voice. “Go home.”

Nobody pointed a gun at me—thank heaven for small mercies—but two Goons rested their hands on their batons. The fingers of the one who’d spoken to me twitched.

So did my demon mark. I took a couple of deep breaths to stay calm. Starting a fight with four armed Goons would not resolve the situation, unless the resolution I wanted was getting the crap kicked out of me.

“I’m a consultant for Boston PD,” I said, wishing I had a badge or something to prove it. “I’ve been called to a crime scene. Contact Detective Daniel Costello. Homicide. He’ll tell you.”