Thinning the Herd (11 page)

“You mean, where
they
lost
you
,” Lawrence said.

Hal narrowed his gaze. “Who lost me? When you said ‘they,' did you mean the omnipresent
They
or did you mean the bad guys or—”

“The bad guys,” Lawrence said, dropping the bloodied washcloth on the floor and grasping Hal's hand. “But since they sent an elk-man—”

“
Ex
-elk-man.”

“Ex,” Lawrence agreed. “They must know where you are.”

“I'm not exactly hiding.” Hal helped Lawrence to his feet. Felt the man's strength through his grip, and the shimmering edge of his power tingled along Hal's skin, sparkled like moonlit silver in his mind. Their hands slipped apart. The tingling sensation faded.

“Still. No need to make it easy for them.” Lawrence glanced at Brianna. The lycan uncurled from the floor, jumped to her feet.

Hal, catch pole in hand, skip-stepped over the field of door debris. He glanced at the elk-man's body. “I hope you weren't planning on getting your deposit back. On the other hand, I think the sight of our dead buddy there will keep your place looter-free.”

With a quick smile, Lawrence scooped his keys up from the kitchen counter. Brianna trotted beside him to the doorway. “We might need your help,” he said. “Will you come with us?”

Tongue lolling, the wolf leapt across the broken threshold and padded down the stairs to the parked Mustang.

“And where are we going exactly?” Hal asked.

“Back to Della's,” Hunter Lawrence said, stepping out into the night.

“She's not gonna be thrilled about that,” Hal murmured.

16

NICE EPITAPH

Della answered the door, huge pink rollers in her hair, night cream slathered on her face. She looked from Hal to Lawrence, down to Brianna, then back to Hal. Without a word she pushed open the screen door. Stepped aside, resignation in her dark eyes.

“His idea,” Hal said, jerking his thumb at Lawrence and walking into the living room.

The room smelled of roasted coffee, cinnamon, and fresh roses, and was all sleek-soul with a leather couch and matching arm chairs. A large flat screen TV rimmed in silver hugged one wall. Slender speakers stood off to the sides.

Framed photos decorated the walls and fireplace mantel—a younger Della, her arms around a young man who cradled a light-skinned baby in his arms; another of a group of people laughing, the same young man wearing a Santa hat, his smiling face turned toward a platinum-haired white woman, a woman who looked a lot like Louis Dark.

“What you doing on my doorstep, Hunter Lawrence?” Della said.

“Louis said a hero would come,” Lawrence replied. “And here he is.”

“
I
sent him to
you
.”

“And I brought him back,” Lawrence said. “I need you to do a reading.”

“Want to get me killed?” Della muttered, pacing the lavender carpet. “That your plan? Because that's what'll happen.
Then
you'll be happy.”

“Excuse me,” Hal said, “but—”

“Don't be like that,” Lawrence said. “You taught Louis how to read the cards in the first place. I need further insight.”

“Excuse me,” Hal repeated.

“And do you remember what Louis foresaw? Hmmm?”

“Louis's gifted, yes, but he's young. He could make mistakes, misinterpret.”

“Has he made a mistake so far, Hunter Lawrence, Mr. White Witch?”

“Well . . . no, but—”

Turning, Hal walked out the front door, closing it behind him. He'd let them argue it out. As far as he was concerned, what good were predications if you refused to heed their warning or allow them to guide your actions? He glanced up. The night was warm and full of stars. Somewhere, his friends and Desdemona waited for rescue.

A bus stop sign down the street caught his attention. He glanced at the closed door of Della's small house. He could catch the bus and head over to the underground tunnels. Take up where he'd left off.

No more talk. No more studying signs and omens. Time for raw action.
Past time.

“I'm coming for you, baby,” he said into the night. “For Nick and Galahad too.” Thought a moment, then added, “Louis too, if possible.”

Headlights glowed as a car cruised up the street, pulling in behind Lawrence's Mustang. The engine idled, exhaust puffing white like dragon's breath into the air. The headlights switched off. Several dark figures sat inside the car.

The hair lifted on the back of Hal's neck as he walked past the car toward the bus stop. He slowed his stride as the skin on his arms goosebumped and all of his danger-alert sirens went off.

“Crap,” he breathed, shifting his grip on his catch pole and turning around.

A car door creaked open. A figure slipped out. The passenger door swung open as well. Another figure stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Light spilled onto the lawn as Della's front door opened. “Hal?” she called.

“Go back inside,” he called, “everything's fine.” He stepped forward and spun his catch pole in a deadly figure eight.

The nearest figure on the sidewalk stopped, an expression of amused disbelief spreading across his face. “What is that—some kinda ninja staff? Hey, Joe! Get a load of—”

THWAP
-
THWAP!

Hal spun away. The figure crumpled to the concrete, his comment to Joe unfinished.

“Christ,” the other figure muttered, hefting what looked suspiciously like a missile launcher onto his shoulder and aimed it at the house. Della slammed the door shut. Hal leapt forward, just as the car's back door opened, slamming into his legs and knocking him off balance. He hit the sidewalk, one knee and one hand down, and pushed himself back up—

—and into a fist the size of a small planet. He heard something crunch. Tasted blood. Felt himself going down. Hard. His catch pole clattered against the sidewalk. Blue light flared through his vision. But he didn't stay down. Adrenaline spring-coiled his muscles, bouncing him back onto his feet just in time to see fire erupting from the cannon on the guy's shoulder.

“
NO!
” Hal screamed.

The house exploded. A superheated rush of air and debris knocked Hal flat, sucked the air from his lungs. Flames streaked the sky, stretching up hot and hungry, alive. Pieces and parts of Della's house, Della's life, hailed down around him, pinging and thunking against the sidewalk like ice in a freak storm.

Dazed, ears ringing, Hal rolled onto his hands and knees. Acrid black smoke billowed into the fiery night sky. Coughing, Hal stared at the burning remnants of Della's house.

Something hard pressed against his temple.

“Say night-night—”

“Don't talk to him, idiot. Shoot him. Why do you
always
talk to them?”

Hal heard a sigh of exasperation. “You wanna do this, Mr. Smarty-Pants? You kill people
your
way, I'll fucking kill people
my
way.” Then, under the breath, “Asshole. Now. Say night-night—”

“Why the hell you
still
talking to him? Does it get you all hot, you freak?”

The gun jerked up from Hal's temple. He sucked in a breath of smoke-thick air and coughed it back out again. His muscles tensed.

“That's
it
! I've had all the bullshit from you I'm gonna take!”

“Oooo. Now I'm scared. What're—”

A shot cracked through the night, followed by a thud to the concrete. “Asshole.”

Hal sprang up from the sidewalk and spun, sweeping his elbow around and into the shooter's temple. The gun flew from the guy's fingers and he fell onto one knee.

Hal stepped back and his heel hit against something yielding. Arms wheeling, he caught his balance. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that he'd just tripped over Assassin No. 2, as evidenced by the bullet hole in the body's forehead.

And Assassin No. 1—the chatterbox—sprang to his feet. Looking more than a little irked, he aimed another gun at Hal. “That's freaking it!” he snarled. “Now, say night-night, hero!”

Lifting his hands, Hal said, “Last words. Do I get any last words?”

Assassin No. 1, frowned, considering. Slicked a hand through his disordered hair. He tilted the gun. “All right, but make it quick.”

“I'd like my epitaph to read, ‘He died with his fists up and his feet planted.' ” Hal caught peripheral movement. A shadow crept from the flaming house, low to the ground, and on four legs. “Dunno, though. Do you think
planted
a bad choice of words?”

“Nice epitaph, actually,” Assassin No. 1 said. “But, yeah, planted isn't the word I'd use. How about, ‘He died with his fists up and his boots on.' ” He pointed at Hal's feet. “Ya got boots on—even if they're construction boots.”

Snarling, Brianna hit him from the side, knocking him to the ground. A gunshot cracked through the night, the sound mingling with the snap and crackle of the firestorm that had once been Della's home.

Hal scooped up the first gun from the sidewalk and aimed it at the snarling pile of wolf and man—well, lycan snarling, man shrieking. But he couldn't get a clear view of the assassin. Brianna moved with heart-stopping speed, biting, tearing, rending.

Hal stepped closer, aiming the gun like he'd always seen in cop shows on TV—clasped in both hands, arms extended.

“Let Brianna finish him,” a soft, silver-toned voice said. Lawrence's hand squeezed Hal's shoulder. A tight, reassuring touch.

“We could find out who's behind this,” Hal said, refusing to take his gaze off the rolling, struggling man/wolf pile, and refusing to lower the gun. “Find out where Desdemona and the others are.”

“I doubt he knows,” Lawrence said. “And I think we should leave before the police arrive.”

“Della?” Hal asked, knowing he sounded grim. A hero's acceptance of bad news. He kept the gun aimed.

“Right here, darlin',” she replied. “And I think Hunter's making a helluva lot of sense. But,” she added hastily, “I ain't guiding you. Not me, nuh-huh. That'd be Hunter.
He's
the one doing the guiding.”

The pile rolled to a stop. Assassin No. 1 lay sprawled in Della's well-trimmed but currently blackened yard, blood glistening on his throat, arms, and chest. Brianna nosed him several times, growling low in her throat. He didn't move.

“Okay then,” Hal said, tucking the pistol into the back of his jeans.

“Uh . . .” Lawrence untucked the pistol and switched the safety on, then handed the gun back to Hal.

“Thanks.” Hal slipped the gun back into his jeans.

Della handed him his catch pole. He wrapped his fingers around it, his gaze holding hers for a moment. She shook her head. “Not one word, Hal Rupert. I don't want to hear it. It ain't your fault.”

“Thanks,” Hal said. “But you might wanna . . .” He circled his hands over his face as though wiping it clean. Arched an eyebrow.

“Maybe I
want
to wear my night cream,” Della said, lifting her chin. “Y'ever think of that, boy?”

Before Hal was forced to admit no, no he hadn't, sirens split the night, drawing Della's attention away from him. He exhaled in relief.

“Fire trucks,” Della said. “Police too, no doubt.”

Neighbors, awakened by the explosion, peeked out of windows or stood in clusters on the sidewalk and in driveways.

“Della?” a red-haired woman across the street called, pulling her bathrobe closed with one hand. “You okay?”

“Oh, hey, Rose,” Della said with a wide smile. “I'm fine.”

The sirens were getting louder. “Time to go,” Hal murmured.

Lawrence sprinted to the Mustang, jerked the door open, and slid behind the wheel. The engine revved to life.

“I'll talk to you later,” Della said, waving to her neighbor. She hurried to the Mustang and climbed into the backseat. Brianna leapt in beside her. Hal rode shotgun, his catch pole angled across the seat. Lawrence burned rubber out into the street even before Hal had snapped his seat belt shut.

The car reeked of smoke and Oil of Olay. Hal rolled his window down. Fresh air poured in, clearing the smell of smoke from his lungs. Tongue lolling, Brianna stuck her head out in the warm night air.

“Where we going?” Hal asked. Though he was pretty sure he knew.

“To those tunnels you found,” Lawrence said. “I haven't had time to put things together. Haven't even had time to be much help to you.” He flashed a quick look at Hal. “So I'll go over what I know, what Louis read, what I think might be happening.”

“Okay,” Hal said.

“Anything you want to add, Della?”

“Hell no,” she said. “Not me. I told you, I ain't gonna be the wise woman who dies after giving up most of her secrets to the hero. You been to the movies lately?”

“I don't want your help anyway, Della,” Hal said, shifting in the seat to look at her. “In no way, shape, or form.” He rolled his eyes skyward, whispered, “Think that about covers it?”

She smiled. Her pink rollers bobbed as she nodded her head. “Good enough.”

Hal grinned. Okay, then. “How come you lied about knowing Louis?” he asked. “He's your nephew. Which I still don't get. Isn't Louis
y
ō
kai
?”

Della shot an accusing look at the back of Lawrence's head. “He's my nephew, true enough. My brother hooked up with a back-swamp Cajun gal. Got a feeling shifters run in that gal's family. Louis, now, he's a good boy. He can't help it if he's bad luck. Not his fault. Like I said, shifters run in his mama's family. Going
way
back. And somewhere in there, one of Suzette's relatives tangled up with a
y
ō
kai
. Mixed it up good. In a friendly way, if you know what I mean.”

Hal nodded. “Yeah, they fell in love.”

Della looked at him for a long moment, then a smile flitted across her lips, hummingbird-fast. “Well, that's one way of putting it.” She nodded. “They fell in love.” She glanced out the window at the passing night. “Long story short, Louis carries traits from both of his ancestors. Boy's either a throwback or a step forward.”

“Meaning?” Hal asked.

“Louis can change shape at will, day or night—human to cat, cat to human—and he's got cat traits in human shape and vice versa. Ain't ruled by the sun or the moon.”

“He was born human?” Hal asked. “I thought he was a cat. I was
sure
he was a cat—Galahad and Nick thought so too.”

Della nodded, her night cream-lathered face ghostly in the darkness. “Born human, true. But it don't matter. Louis's a shifter through and through, brimming with mojo.”

“Boy's bad luck, though,” Della said. “His daddy died because of it. So did his mama. Louis came to me from Lafayette; then Katrina hit, flooded New Orleans. I lost him during the flooding . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Louis is
not
bad luck,” Lawrence said, his gaze flicking up to the rearview.

“You haven't been with him long enough to know, Hunter Lawrence,” Della snapped. “He's a black cat always crossing your path. Just wait.”

“This is fascinating, and I'd
love
to discuss Louis a little more,” Hal said, “but I need other info to help me on this quest. Time's short, right?” He looked at Lawrence.