Ravenous
Prologue
Being the evil Undead wasn’t fun any more. For one thing, it was increasingly
hard to get a library card.
Even borrowing a book required identification.
The same applied to finding an apartment, renting a movie, or leasing a car.
Sure, in the old days there was the whole vampire mind-control thing, but now
the world was one big bar code. Just try hypnotizing a computer.
In the end,
it was easier to give in than to hide an entire subpopulation from the
electronic age. The vampires—along with werewolves, gargoyles, and the
ever-unpopular ghouls—emerged into the public eye at the turn of the century.
While Y2K alarmists had predicted millennial upheaval, they sure hadn’t seen
this one coming.
In fact, they hadn’t seen anything yet.
Chapter 1
“Why didn’t you say you were calling about the old Flanders place?” Holly’s
words were hushed in the street’s empty darkness.
Steve Raglan, her client,
pulled off his cap and scratched the back of his head, the gesture sheepish yet
defiant. “Would it have made a difference?”
“I’d have changed my
quote.”
“Thought so.”
“Un hunh. I’m not giving a final cost estimate until
I see inside.” She let a smidgen of rising anxiety color her voice. “Why exactly
did you buy this place?”
He didn’t answer.
From where they stood at the
curb, the streetlights showed enough of the property to work up a good case of
dread. Three stories of Victorian elegance had crumbled to gothic cliché. The
house should have fit into the commercial bustle at the edge of the Fairview
campus, where century-old homes served as offices, cafes or studios, but it sat
vacant. During business hours, the area had a Bohemian charm. This place . . . not so
much. Not in broad daylight, and especially not at night.
Gables and dormers
sprouted at odd angles from the roof, black against the moon-hazed clouds.
Pillars framed the shadowed maw of the entryway, and plywood covered an upstairs
window like an eye patch. A real character place, all right.
“So,” said
Raglan, sounding a bit nervous himself, “can you kick its haunted
butt?”
Holly choked down a wash of irritation. She was a witch, not a SWAT
team. “I’ll have to go in and take a look around.” She loved most of her job,
but she hated house work, and that didn’t mean dusting. Some old places were
smart, and neutralizing them was a dangerous, tricky business. They wanted to
make you dinner in all the wrong ways. Lucky for Raglan she needed tuition
money. Badly. Tomorrow was the deadline to pay.
The chill September air was
heavy with the tang of the ocean. Wind rustled the chestnuts that lined the
cramped street, sending an early fall of leaves scuttling along the gutters. The
sound made Holly twitch, her nerves playing games. If she'd had more time, she'd have come back to do the job
when it was bright and sunny.
“Just pull its plug. I
can’t close the sale with it going all Amityville on the buyers,” Raglan said.
Fortyish, he wore a fretful expression, plaid flannel shirt and sweat pants with
a rip in one thigh. Crossing his arms, he leaned like limp celery against his
white SUV.
She had to ask again. “So why on earth
did you buy this
house?”
Raglan peeled himself off the door of the vehicle, taking a hesitant
step toward the property. “It was on the market, real cheap. One of those Phi
Beta Feta Cheese frats was looking for a place. Thought I could fix it up for
next to nothing and flip it to them. They don’t care about looks, as long as
there’s plenty of room for a kegger.”
He dug in his pocket and handed her a
fold of bills. “Here’s your deposit.”
Prompt payment—heck, advance
payment—was unprecedented, un-Raglanish behavior. She usually had to beg. Holly stared at the money, not
sure what to say, but she took it. He’s worried. He’s never worried. Then again,
this was his first rogue house. Before this, he’d only ever called to bust plain old
ghosts.
He looked her up and down. “So, don’t you have any, like, gear?
Equipment?”
“Don’t need much for this kind of job.” She saw herself through
his eyes—a short woman, mid-twenties, in jeans and sneakers who drove a rusty
old Hyundai. No magic wand, no ray guns, no Men in Black couture. Well, house
busting—house taming—whatever—wasn’t like in the movies. Tech toys weren’t going
to help.
She did have one prop. Holly pulled an elastic from the pocket of
her windbreaker and scraped her long brown hair into a ponytail. The elastic was
her uniform. When the hair was back, she was working.
“Surely you knew the
Flanders house has a history of incidents,” she said. “The real estate companies
have to disclose when a property has—um—issues.” Holly eyeballed the place,
eerily certain it was eyeballing her back. As far as she knew, Raglan was the
first to hire someone to de-spook this house. No one else had stuck around long
enough to pony up the cash.
Not a good sign.
Maybe next summer I should
try dishwashing for tuition money.
Raglan blew out his cheeks in a sigh,
fiddling with a thread on his cuff. “I thought the whole haunted thing wouldn’t
matter. The kids from the fraternity thought it was cool. Silly bastards. The
sale was all but a done deal up until yesterday.”
Holly walked up to the
fence and put one hand on the carved gatepost. The flaking paint felt rough on
her fingers, the wood beneath crumbly with age. The house had a bad attitude,
but still the neglect made her sad. The old place was built from magic by a clan
of witches, just like Holly’s ancestors had built her home.
Houses like
these were part of the family, halfway to sentience. They lived on the
free-floating vitality that surrounded any busy witch household—the life, the
activity, and especially the magic. It was that energy that kept them conscious.
Take it away, and the result was a slow decline until they were nothing more
than wood and brick.
Reports of abandoned, half-sentient houses came up every
few years. Centuries of persecution, combined with a low birth rate, had taken
their toll on the witches. There were only a dozen clans left in all of North
America, most with a scant handful of survivors. As their population dwindled,
their houses perished, too. Most of these old, dying places were just restless,
but a few turned bad, fighting to survive.
Like this one. Only its
designation as a heritage landmark had saved it from demolition.
Holly’s pity mixed with a lick of
fear. A gentle tugging was trying to urge her through the gate. Gusts of
chittering whispers draped over her body like an invisible shawl. A caress, of
sorts. The mad old place was inviting her in, embracing her.
Come in, little
girl. So lively, so sweet.
A starved house would drain power from any living
person, leaving them tired and achy. A magic user, especially a witch, was much
more vulnerable. They had so much more to take.
A flush prickled Holly’s
skin as her heart sped up, filling her mouth with the coppery taste of fright.
The strain of keeping still, resisting the whispers, made her teeth hurt.
Come in, little girl. The path to the front door was just flagstones buried
in moss and weeds, but to Holly’s sight, it glowed. It was the one path, the
only important route she would ever take. Follow it and everything will be
better. You’ll be coming home at last. Holly, my dear, come to me.
Holly
pulled her hand off the post, putting a few paces between her feet and the
property line. Sweat plastered her shirt to her back.
She felt the touch of a
hand on her sleeve, but she didn’t jump. That particular pressure, the curve of
those fingers was familiar, expected. Instead, her heart skittered with a
roller-coaster swoop of bad-for-you pleasure.
“I didn’t hear you arrive,”
she said, turning and looking up.
Alessandro Caravelli was about six foot
two, most of that long, lean legs. Curling, wheat-blond hair fell past his
shoulders, framing a long, strong-boned face that made Holly dream of fallen
angels. The leather coat he wore had the scuffed, squashable look of an old
favorite.
“I think the house had you.” His voice still held faint traces of
his native Italian, a slight warmth in the vowels. “I called your name, but you
didn’t hear me. I was crushed.”
“Your ego’s hardier than that.”
“You make
me sound conceited.”
“You’re a vampire. You’re in a league of your
own.”
“True, and so is my ego.” Alessandro gave a close-lipped smile that
both invested meaning and denied it.
Holly pressed his hand where it rested
on her sleeve, keeping the gesture light. Her pulse skipped at the coolness of
his skin. Touching him was like petting a tiger or a wolf, fascinating but
fearsome. Full of deadly secrets.
Some thrills were bad news. Working with a
vampire was chancy enough; anything more would be insane. Besides, she already
had a boyfriend—one that didn’t bite. Still, that didn’t stop the occasional
soft-focus fantasy involving satin sheets and whipped cream.
“So, this is the
big, bad house on the menu,” she said. There goes the food imagery again.
Dark as it was, Alessandro still wore shades. Now he slid them off, folding
them with a flick of his wrist. The gesture was smooth as the swipe of a cat’s
paw, revealing eyes the same gold-shot brown as Baltic amber. He studied the
Flanders property for a long moment, his face somber. Even after a year’s
acquaintance, he wasn’t easy to read.
“Is this going to be difficult?” he
said at last.
“No cake walk. Raglan actually paid me the deposit already.
He’s afraid.”
The sound of a car door opening made them both turn around.
Raglan was standing by Alessandro’s vehicle, peering in through the driver’s
side. The car was a sixties American dream machine, a red, two-door T-bird with
custom chrome and smoked windows. Holly felt Alessandro coil like a startled
cat. Where the car was concerned, he didn’t share well.
The round headlights
blinked on and off in an impertinent wink as Raglan fiddled with the dash.
Alessandro always left the thing unlocked and half the time never removed the
keys. To the vampire way of thinking, the car was his. No one would dare touch
it. Until now, he had been correct.
Raglan backed out of the car and slammed
the door. “Sweet ride.” Tension rolled off him as he skipped away from the car
and gave a sheepish grin. He was acting out like a nervous little kid.
Alessandro made a sound just this side of a snarl.
Holly gripped his
arm. “Not now. I need this job.”
“Only for you,” he said in a voice that
whispered of cold, dead places. “But if he touches her again, he’s
dead.”
Raglan cleared his throat. “Is this your partner? Pleased to meet
you.” He drew near but warily kept Holly between him and the vampire.
Alessandro gave an evil smile, but Holly poked him before he could
speak.
Oblivious, Raglan cast a glance at the house, and his expression went
from strained to about-to-implode. “So, what now? Can you get started?”
“I’d
like to check one thing first. You mentioned something happened yesterday,
something that made you call me,” she said. “Can you tell us what, exactly? We
need the specifics.”
“Yeah, well, like I was saying, yesterday things went
wrong.” Raglan’s voice shook.
Foreboding fondled the nape of Holly’s
neck.
Raglan hesitated a beat before going on, shutting his eyes. “From what
I hear, four frat boys went in late yesterday afternoon for an end-of-vacation
party. Not supposed to because the final papers aren’t signed yet, but they
forced a window. Wanted to start christening the place, I guess. They never came
out.”
“Maybe they’re still in there, sleeping it off?” Holly said hopefully.
She knew denial was pointless, but it was traditional. Someone had to do
it.
Raglan shook his head. “There’s more to it than that. The police have
already been around asking questions.”
“The police?” Holly said,
startled.
“They went through the house this afternoon, but didn’t find a
thing. The cops were spooked as hell, but there was no sign of the boys. That’s
when I called you.”
“I can’t help you if this is an open police
investigation! Not without their permission.”
“Please, Ms. Carver.” Raglan
wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, like he was fighting nausea. “I’ll
never sell this place. I don’t even dare go in it!”
A spike of anger took her
breath away. Her voice turned to granite. “You didn’t tell me any of this on the
phone.”
Raglan went on. “Two more went in this morning, some of the
professors who were supposed to be, uh, academic sponsors for the fraternity.
They never came out, either. The department heads called the dean to
complain.”
“Six people have disappeared inside that house? Since yesterday?
You couldn’t have mentioned this on the phone?” She felt Alessandro’s hand on
her back, steadying her.
Raglan sucked in air, like he’d forgotten to breathe
for a while. “Ms. Carver, you’ve got to get those people out of
there.”
“You’re right,” said Holly, her voice thick.
The house is hungry.
“Two questions, Raglan,” asked Alessandro, his voice quiet and chill. “How
did the department heads know what happened? Who called the
police?”
“Witnesses,” Raglan replied in a dead voice. “Neighbors saw the kids
climbing in through the window. And then there was the screaming.”