Ravenous (8 page)

Unobtrusive, Kibs followed her upstairs and curled up on the chair by the old claw-foot bathtub, there if she needed company. She added bubble bath to the running water until the foam reached the lip of the tub. Watching the steam condense and trickle down the high, narrow windows beneath the canted ceiling, she soaked.

It would have been pure and absolute bliss if her mind slowed down, but it didn't. One bad thought led to another.

First came the business. What had been a thriving family enterprise had dwindled to just Holly, the last Carver in the biz. Difficult jobs like necromancy made more money, but she was hobbled by pain. As a result, she had to work twice as hard at small, bread-and-butter contracts to make the agency pay. Insurance investigations. Lost pets. Imp exterminations. Over time it was exhausting.

It would have been different if she weren't alone, but her family was scattered. After Holly's parents died in a car accident, Grandma had raised her. Holly's sister had moved away when Holly was a child. Holly's half brother, born from her father's first marriage, had never been part of her life. That left her to carry on the family legacy by herself.

And now Ben had bailed, condemning the very heritage that defined her. Ben was wrong. Damaged or not, her power had come through and beaten the Flanders monstrosity. She had saved lives.
Go, me
.

She wished she felt as brave as that sounded.

The cat sat up, stretching, ears alert. He looked up at the ceiling, his great yellow eyes echoing the fading light. "Mrow," he commented in anxious tones.

She sat up with a slosh, probing the quiet house with her mind. What had alerted Kibs? She couldn't sense anything, but sitting in water mucked up her reception. Feeling paranoid, Holly got out of the tub and dried off. A flannel nightgown hung on the back of the door, left over from her last chick-flick mood. She pulled it over her head.

With her hair wrapped in a towel, they tiptoed down the hall, Kibs for once moving with the silence of a cat. Holly's damp feet left footprints on the hardwood. At the bottom of the stairs to the third floor, Holly hesitated, one hand on the newel post.
What's up there
?

She shouldn't have felt so worried. This was her self-cleaning house, a magical abode, the impervious Carver homestead. Yet her instincts had gone into the red zone.

Why? This is foolish. Nothing should be wrong
. Calming herself, she began to ascend. Kibs stayed close to her heels, his tail a bottle brush of angst.

Holly reached the upstairs landing before she felt it. Something barely tangible—the quality of the dusk, the air pressure—changed as if a door in the ether had opened. Her nerves tingled, the sensation of a zillion ants crawling over her skin and into her nose and mouth. Then the feeling stopped as the door shut again. A breathless moment passed. Kibs inflated to twice his size and hissed like a cappuccino machine.

The third-floor hall ran the length of the house. Mostly empty, the old bedchambers had just a few pieces of antique furniture gestating dust bunnies. The middle room on the left side of the hall was the nursery, and from that doorway spilled a pool of pale light.

There were no lamps in that room.

Crap
. Holly took a step forward, Kibs tracking her movement like a furry ankle bracelet. The sodden towel in her hair, warm and wet, listed with the motion until she pulled it off, releasing a mass of long, dark, dripping tendrils down her back. With the towel clutched to her chest like a security blanket, Holly scuttled forward until she could see into the room.

Kibs was down the stairs with a wild scrabbling of claws, his scampering backside flashing white in the dusk. Holly's breath catching in her throat, she turned her head to the nursery door. Her jaw fell open. What she saw was Kibs's worst nightmare.

Mice were cute when they were little. When they were six feet long, hostile, and glowing, they lost their appeal. But, hey, it wasn't slime.

The dirty white creature spotted her and snarled. Its whiskers, thick and sharp like coat hanger wire, quivered and fanned out as it bared fangs as long as her shin. Its rump went up in the air like Kibs's before he pounced. This was going to be short and painful. She took two gulps of air and tried to stop the short, sharp gasps of her breath.
Think
!

After the fight with the hell house, her magic was all but fried. What she could summon would have to be conserved, used for a single killing blow. She'd try something else first.

Holly beamed happy thoughts with every psychic muscle. "Hi, sweetie," she cooed.

Sweetie hissed, scummy yellow teeth thrust out, mouse spit spewing across the hallway carpet. Something in the slow, snakelike motion of its tail was lascivious, wrong. It snarled again, a ghastly, openmouthed rattle. She was so screwed. In some bizarre homage to Douglas Adams and his
Hitchhiker's Guide
, all she had to work with was a towel.

Holly flung it. "
Terry eleison
!" she cried, making the spell up on the spot.

The towel left her hand, spreading as it flew. Heavy with water from her hair, it landed flat across the mouse's snout with a smack. Holly tried to run. She tripped and fell on the hem of her gown, but hauled herself up, ripping the cotton as she scrambled to her feet. No wonder superheroes wore unitards.

Sweetie was up on its hind legs again, clawing at the magically adhering towel with swipes of its forepaws. Holly backed up and into the hallway. Frustrated and blind, the mouse fell forward, cracking its head loudly on the old oak door frame. It shrieked with rage, a sound like torquing metal.

The tail lashed forward, bullwhip-fast, and caught Holly's ankle. She barely felt its touch until it snapped tight, searing her bare skin in its coils. It burned like acid.

Screaming at the pain, Holly shot whatever energy she could muster. It was enough to smack Sweetie on the nose. The tail released with a slithering noise and Holly scrambled away, smelling her own burned flesh.

The tail came at her again, but she was watching for it. Holly was running out of the hallway. Still blinded, the mouse lunged forward one more time. Holly ran, skidded, and stumbled down the stairs, clinging to the heavy banister.

Sweetie scrambled after.

Halfway down, Holly grabbed the rail and swung her legs over, the same way she had as a kid. A cracking sound snapped the air as her feet left the stair treads, but the old wood held. With a whoop of terror, Holly dropped to the floor on the other side and landed with a gasp, sprawling on her hands and knees.

"
Terry eleison
!" she spat, her voice barely above a whisper in her fright. With the last of her power she delivered another shock to the towel.

Sweetie, startled, blind, finding no purchase with its claws, tumbled down the stairs and landed in a limp heap. Somewhere on the way down, it broke its neck. The mouse thing lay silent for a moment before shivering and dissolving into nothing, small particles powdering away to thin air.

What the hell?

Jumping to her feet, Holly gaped at the empty space a few seconds, sweat beading over her cold, trembling skin. Her ankle burned, but the heat was fading now. The other pain, the aftershock of magic, throbbed like a full-body bruise.

With glacial slowness, she approached the spot where the mouse had fallen, her bare toes shrinking away from where it had touched the floor. No hint of its presence. No trace. No shred.

A door slammed upstairs. Holly started, but felt a new surge of angry bravado. Racing up the stairs, she froze on the top step. The nursery door had shut. There was a whispering sound—not voices, but something feathery. It was a sound she knew of old, one of the house's familiar noises. The place was healing itself.

The thought that there had been something to heal burned in her brain. What was going on? What had just happened? Hiccuping in fright, Holly ran down the stairs and into the bathroom. She tore through the pile of clothes on the floor, scrabbling for her phone.

The first speed dial on the phone was Ben's. She rejected his number with barely a thought, and not just because he was magi-phobic these days. This wasn't the sort of emergency that could be solved with a pie chart and a tax lawyer. With shaking fingers, she punched a button.

"Caravelli," came the familiar voice at the other end of the line.

"It's Holly."

There was a micropause. "What's wrong?"

His voice held an edge of intent, as if she had his complete attention. She blessed him for it. He was there when it counted.

"Pardon me for asking this," he went on, "but do you have the hiccups?"

Her thoughts suddenly went sideways, like a stack of books tumbling into disarray. "You have to come help me," she said. "I killed a mouse, and it was awful!"

It took Holly twenty minutes to pull herself together and put on some clothes. She was too rattled to bother with makeup or drying her hair.
So what? In a choice between the fashionistas and Mousezilla, I try to be practical. Low heels every time
.

By then Alessandro was at the door, waiting for his invitation to enter.

Straight from the pages of
Gentleman Goth
magazine, he sported lean black jeans, a black turtleneck, and boots of heavy, silver-studded black leather. A bandolier was slung across his chest, supporting a connoisseur's collection of small weaponry—stakes, knives, and, at his hip, a tightly coiled bullwhip. All he lacked was Fangorella at his feet, fondling his thigh and swooning with terror and desire.

Okay
, thought Holly as he strode across the threshold in a swirl of testosterone and leather coat.
He's feeling his inner Prince of Darkness
.

Holly, on the other hand, wore fuzzy pink mule slippers, her wet hair soaking through her sweater. She felt about as sexy as a dust mop.

"Hot date?" she asked, eyeing the whip. "Or do you really hate mice?"
Macmillan is right: I have no idea what he does with his spare time
.

"More like a bad reunion," he said, looking around. It was the first time he had been in her house.

He produced a paper bag from the pocket of his coat. "I was on my way out when you called, but I stopped by the hardware store for you." He extracted a bargain-priced mousetrap from the bag. His expression held nuances of manly exasperation, as if he expected her to shriek and leap onto a table at the first sign of a rodent.

She could have slugged him. Holly closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing for a full ten seconds. "That's very kind, but I think if this mouse's brother turns up, I'll need something a bit larger."

His sensitive-guy face—a stretch for a vampire to begin with—grew a tad condescending. "Was it a rat? How big was it?"

She held a hand over her head. Comprehension dawned, and the smug look faded from Alessandro's eyes. "I see," he said, putting the mousetrap away. "That's different. I apologize."

She decided to let him live. "I felt the doorway this thing used open and close. It came through in the nursery."

Alessandro shook his head, confused. "Say that again?"

"Apparently there's some portal activity going on in town."

"There was a portal
here
?" Panic cracked the last word.

"Yeah," said Holly. "Where else would I get a six-foot mouse?"

He gripped her hand. "And you say it came through? It was not just a portal trying to open—something actually entered?"

"It was solid until I killed it. Real enough to give me this." She pulled up the leg of her jeans to show the burn from the creature's tail.

Alessandro knelt and touched the skin. "Is it fading?"

His cool fingers felt good, bringing back all the sensations from their kiss the night before. Shivers rippled up her skin as he explored the burn, tracing the bones of her ankle with a feather-light touch. As he worked his way around, the shivers became burgeoning warmth. Holly's breath grew uneven.

Now was not the time to remember how good he tasted. In reality, that time would never exist. A regretful sigh caught halfway into Holly's chest, aching. "Yeah, the burn looked a lot worse before."

He sat back on his heels, running a hand through his long blond curls. "You're lucky it didn't get a good grip. That should be healed by morning." He looked around. "Show me the room where it attacked."

Holly led the way upstairs, filling in the details of her encounter with Sweetie. When they got to the third floor her feet froze on the top stair. Suddenly cold and nauseated, she wavered, anxiety rising up like a bad meal. There was no presence there, just memories—but they were bad enough.
That thing came into my home. This isn't like any other job. It's personal
.

One step behind, Alessandro prodded her to move so he could push past to the hallway. Holly felt the brush of his heavy, soft coat and yearned to clutch it like a child with a security blanket.

"That room is the nursery?" Alessandro asked, almost straining like a hound on point. "It's a traditionalist, then. Demons like the symbolism of devouring the innocent almost as much as the feast itself."

"Great. Lovely." Holly mounted the last step. "Are you sure it was a demon?"

"Good odds it was." He laid his hand on her back, comforting, but still intense. He was in hunting mode. "Let's see what your visitor left behind."

All confidence, he pushed the nursery door open with one hand. Holly sidled up behind him. The room was empty, infuriatingly normal. She had a flash of that honest-the-car-sounded-terrible-before-I-brought-it-in feeling.
Really, there was a giant mouse here, sir, tha-a-a-at tall
.

With long, smooth strides, Alessandro drifted in a slow circle around the perimeter of the room, stopping before the old fireplace. "It came in here," he announced, tapping the wall above the mantel. "The smell is strongest where I'm standing."

"It came down the chimney?" Holly asked, incredulous. She giggled.
Okay, I'm getting punchy
.

"As it was a portal, it would be more
through
than
down
, but yes, it came via the chimney."

"That's just… absurd!"

Alessandro looked at her, his eyebrows making a perplexed furrow. "I assure you it did."

Holly tried to envision the mouse stuffing itself down the flue. Bad image. Her overstressed imagination added eight tiny reindeer. "Well, yuck. I guess I can't expect Santa to come through there again."

Alessandro gave her a confused look. "What? Santa Claus doesn't exist."

"Does too. He brought me a plush unicorn when I was six."

Alessandro raised a brow. "Do you think if I ask for an Aston Martin Vanquish, he'll bring me one?"

"I doubt you've been quite that good."

He huffed and turned back to the wall, but the absurd exchange had defused some tension. Now Holly came forward to see the site of the offense. With her witch's senses open just a crack, she touched the spot of wall he had identified. It was like plunging her hand into a nest of ants.

"I can feel it. It's all creepy-crawly." She shuddered and pulled back. "The barrier is still weak there. But the seal is healing. In an hour or two it will be sound."

"Amazing." Alessandro looked around the room. "This is a marvelous house, so alive. So full of your family's magic."

"Ben would sell it if he could."

"What?"

"Never mind," she replied in a tone that did not invite discussion. Holly didn't want to talk about Ben at the moment. It was too raw to even think about right then. Or ever. Tears blurred her lashes, and she turned her face away to hide them.

"The Carvers were necromancers, weren't they?" Alessandro asked, something tentative in the question.

"Some were. In her day, my grandma was really good. But you lived here then. You'd know that."

He avoided her look. "Have you ever done a necromancy spell?"

"Know the theory, seen it done, but I've never tried it myself. I just go to the mall if I want to see the brain-dead lurching around. Is there a reason you ask?"

Alessandro didn't reply. Instead he folded his arms and stared into the empty fire grate. It was dim in the room, and his face was only half-lit, but she could make out his features. With his thoughts turned inward, he looked more human.

Holly waited him out, wondering what he wanted.

Finally, when he spoke, the topic was new. "The manifestation here is from the same origin as the disturbance at the Flanders house. That explains why the Flanders place was so strong. It wasn't just a bad house. It had demonic assistance."

Holly's mouth went dry. "How do you know this?"

"It smells the same. The stink clings to the back of the tongue."

"That's the basis of your theory?"

"And logic. The demon—or whoever summoned it—was trying to harness the magic in the Flanders house to open a portal. Vanquishing the house closed it again. Now it tried here. The demon must be getting stronger, or the summoner more proficient, because it worked."

"It was just a big mouse," she said, giving a nervous laugh. "I don't think they got what they ordered."

Alessandro didn't look convinced. "What happened to the mouse, exactly?"

Holly swallowed. "I helped it fall down the stairs. I think it broke its neck."

Alessandro looked bleak. "What did the mouse look like when it died?"

"Kinda still."

His eyebrows contracted in annoyance. "After that?"

"It disintegrated into powder as it disappeared."

Alessandro lifted his chin a fraction, his brows lowering. "Certain kinds of demons will crumble and vanish without necessarily being dead. It's their way of escape. You might have chased it off, but I don't think you killed it. Our demon finally made it through the portal."

"Whoa!" cried Holly, holding up one hand. "Hold it right there! That mouse was an actual demon? Wasn't this just, like, a calling card, a trailer for the main show, but not the demon itself? Wasn't it sort of, um, demon mouse-mail?"

"I don't think so, Holly. Demons often take the form of rodents or serpents because those shapes inspire fear and disgust. It's also easier than assuming their human form. Easier after using all their strength to break through."

Holly turned away, walking to the window. Outside, the streetlights backlit the branches of the oak tree. "Not possible. This house can't be breached."

"Of course it can," he replied quietly, "because it was."

"Why come here? Why attack me?"

"Because you're powerful. Think about it. You beat it last night. To a demon, your soul would look, oh, so good to eat—full of magic it could take for its own."

"Oh, crap." Holly covered her face, dread coming in hot and cold waves, drenching her skin with a prickling sweat. "Sweet Hecate, I need a moment to take this in."

"Let's go downstairs." He touched her shoulder gently and left the nursery.

Holly trailed after him, listening to the echo of her footfalls drift through the empty spaces of the old house. A
demon? Here
?

In the bright kitchen Kibs sat by his food dish, watching the vampire with a judicial air, tail twitching. Holly shuffled up to the kitchen table and sat, hugging herself. The clock in the sitting room chimed. Time flies when you're battling the forces of darkness..

"I know some demon lore, but books don't cover everything. So explain again why I look so good to a demon?"

Alessandro took a seat opposite her and folded his arms, a classic posture of unease. "The authors of your books would never have access to a full range of information. We have had more direct contact because often we battle for territory. We are enemies for the most primitive of reasons: We hunt the same victims. They feed on human life, the soul, the essence, in much the same way a vampire feeds on blood."

Holly mirrored his arm-folded slouch. "Okay."

"Most major demons," he went on, "live in a society that would make any marketing agency proud. Their power structure is a pyramid. The top demon has minions, or servants. Once a demon servant has enough power, it might start to collect minions of its own, and one day those servants will have servants, and on and on."