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I carefully opened the bottle. The cork hit the dirt near my feet and bounced a little before settling. The hounds’ eyes gleamed a fiercer red in the darkness, and tension rippled across their sleek black hides. They were getting ready to pounce.
“Hellhounds have one design function, and that’s to kill. Holy water might work as a short-term deterrent, but it’s not strong enough to provide long-term protection.”
“It only has to last long enough for us to ring for help. Your uncle—”
“Will not get here in time. No one can. Hellhounds aren’t stupid, and they’re not going to wait around while we ring for help.”
“Oh.”
“Use the knife if a hound decides to ignore the holy water and attempts to get at you.” God, how did that come out so calmly when my stomach was twisted into knots and my hands were shaking? “And good luck.”
“Yeah, you, too.”
We were both going to need it. I took a deep breath and gripped Amaya tightly. Her desire to kill was so fierce it was almost blanketing, and suddenly not only was she in my head, but I was in hers. In the steel, at one with her.
I didn’t question it. I just threw the second bottle of holy water and followed it up fast. The creatures split, one flowing to the left of the runes and the other to the right. The silver ribbon of deadly water flew harmlessly between them, hit the wall, and dribbled down to the floor stones.
Shit, I thought, and swung Amaya. Her steel was little more than a blur as she cut through the air. The hound snarled in response—an action made grotesque by the fact he had only half a face—and slashed with a viciously barbed paw. Claw and steel crashed together, the sound reverberating across a darkness that was no longer so silent. One of the creature’s claws hit the top of my hand, slicing skin even as Amaya’s flames leapt from steel to flesh and burned with fierce joy.
>I stamped on his foot, hard. He hissed, but otherwise fell silent.
The stranger reappeared. He made a motion with his left hand, and the sickly glow reappeared in the runes. It wasn’t strong enough to light the niche, but it did throw off just enough to make him a little more visible. He was about my height, with thick shoulders, muscular arms, and tree-trunk legs. He reminded me somewhat of a wrestler, but he was extraordinarily light on his feet. He passed close by our niche, but didn’t see or smell us—he was human, not shifter or were, and for that I was suddenly grateful.
But as he passed, I noted the tats on his shoulders—one of a dragon with two swords crossed above it and the other a ring of barbed wire.
I’d seen both a number of times over the last few months. The dragon and swords meant he was a Razan, and while I wasn’t sure what the barbed wire tat represented, I’d seen it on the man who’d arranged the delivery of the Dušan that now resided on my left arm, as well as on one of the men who’d killed Logan’s secretary. How the two were connected I had no idea, because while we suspected that my father was responsible for the Dušan, there was no logical connection between him and the murder of Logan and his secretary. In fact, we were pretty sure the person responsible for those was the man who’d been impersonating Nadler.
Which meant we really needed to question this man.
The stranger strode on, the light in the six runes dying as he approached. As it did, the pillars came to life again.
It was now or never.
I motioned Jak to stay put, then carefully squeezed out of the niche and padded silently forward, flipping Amaya around to hold her by the blade rather than the hilt as I did so. I suspected—given her generally shitty mood—that if I used her blade she might take matters into her own hand and kill our quarry rather than just knock him out.
I raised the sword, but he suddenly dropped and turned, and Amaya whooshed harmlessly over his head. He surged upright, but I spun and kicked him hard in the gut. He flew backward, hit the wall with a loud crack, and slithered to the floor. I flipped Amaya, holding her hilt once more, but the Razan didn’t get up. After another moment or two, I stepped forward and pressed two fingers against his neck. His pulse was steady and strong, so I hadn’t done much more than knock him out.
“Now what do we do with him?” Jak came out of the niche and stopped beside me.
“We find out who he is and who he was talking to.”
I knelt beside the Razan and went through his pockets. I found the phone and tossed that to Jak, then continued the search until I found his wallet.
“According to his license,” I said, “his name is Henry Mack, and he lives in Broadmeadows.”
Jak grunted. “The phone is locked. Any ideas?”
My gaze went to his birth date on his license. It was a long shot, but a lot of people used such things for passwords. “Try one-four-oh-four.”
He did so, then shook his head.
“Reverse it.”
He pressed the appropriate buttons. “Nope.”
I gave him the year; then, when that also proved a bust, glanced at our last hope—the post code—and said, “Three-oh-four-seven, either way.”
“Bingo to the latter.”
