Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
W ell, that leaves us with a whole new and squirmy bag of questions. Whether we’re talking humans, non-humans, or the undecided, is it wrong to slip the leash of sobriety from time to time? And if we choose to nope out of reality for a while, what if we can’t come back?
This has long been a human-only issue—until recent developments, the supernatural set hasn’t had access to drugs or intoxicants that stayed in the system long enough to matter. Bacchante has changed all that, and even in the short time since its existence has come to light, speculation has run wild about its origins. Some claim it emerged from deep in the Castle, one more mystery from the prison dimension we can’t readily explain. Is this unfounded rumor, or a chance to finally understand the possible dangers of a drug whose use is bound to spread? Or are the mysterious deaths that stretch beyond East Bay’s border evidence that widespread distribution of bacchante has already occurred?
That’s the focus of our next installment of this special podcast series. Good night for now, darklings.
Izetta stabbed the screen of her freshly-purchased phone, silencing Errata’s husky voice. The hotel room fell quiet except for the rush of traffic on the street below. Seated on the edge of the bed—the room was too small to hold much furniture—Izetta scrolled through the list of episodes on her phone only to find she’d listened to the last in the series. Another one was scheduled to drop in a week.
There was a comment button on the podcast’s web page, and for an instant, she was tempted to leave a response. C’mon folks, if this really came from the Castle, the true mystery is why we’d put something from a demon dimension in our mouths. Isn’t that kind of stupidity how we ended up dead and fangy in the first place?
She closed the comment box instead. Snarking wouldn’t help the situation, and the forty-eight previous respondents already had that covered, including a spirited diatribe about werelemmings.
Izetta hit the page’s home button shaped like a tiny cat. The werecougar’s website showed a decade’s worth of solid reporting for online news sources as well as a longer career as a radio personality at CSUP in Fairview. In other words, Errata Jones seemed legit. Enough for Izetta to believe the werecougar was, in fact, researching a news story.
Izetta flopped back onto the shabby hotel bedspread, staring up at the cracked ceiling and the psychedelic wallpaper half a century out of date. She thumbed the phone again, checking the SolAlert app that told her it was another half hour until full dark. She was old enough to function during the day, but no member of the supernatural set entertained visitors before sundown.
She tossed the phone aside. She’d bought it—along with fresh clothes—at an all-night store catering to nocturnal clients. Her last cell was still in the fae hellhole along with Rafe. And her favorite knives. Her list of grievances against the fae was getting longer by the minute.
Izetta scowled at the damp spot on the ceiling above. Speaking of hellholes, Errata’s mention of the Castle gave her pause. She’d heard about the place twice in twenty-four hours. Malatest had mentioned it, too. She’d never been there herself, but she’d heard stories. The Castle prison dimension was home to old and scary supernaturals with far too much time on their hands. Millenia, in fact. Was it possible they’d concocted the drug there from who-knew-what ingredients? Did anyone actually care, as long as distribution was stopped in a graphic and memorable manner?
She fumbled for the phone again. The kitsune clerk in the store had somehow managed to deactivate her lost phone and download the contents to her new one—including the surveillance video of the Magician. That had been the first thing she’d checked. The second had been her contacts list.
She found Errata’s number and hit the text icon.
Pick me up. I’m at the Ambassador.
A beat passed, then three dots danced on the screen before a text bubble appeared with the reply.
On my way. Meet me out front in ten.
Efficient and to the point. Izetta liked that. She rolled off the bed and ran a comb through the mop of messy black curls that fell to the small of her back, then gave up when the comb got stuck. Unlike fae hair, hers had attitude. Bad attitude. She tossed the comb back on the dresser, shrugged into her black leather jacket, and left the dingy room.
The elevator was deader than she was, so she took the stairs and emerged into the cool darkness just as Errata pulled up to the curb in an older model Jaguar coupe. The car purred in a way that said it had been lovingly maintained.
Izetta pulled open the passenger door. “Classic ride.”
“We’ve been together a while.” Errata patted the dashboard.
Izetta slid inside, appreciating the soft leather seats. “Nice.”
“Have you had breakfast?” The question was casual, but the reporter’s tone was firm.
Izetta flashed fang. “You don’t want to hang out with a hangry bloodsucker? ”
Errata’s smile was cool. “No, and not when we’re about to stroll into a den of wolves. You’ll push each other’s buttons enough as it is.”
Izetta slumped in her seat. This clearly wasn’t Errata’s first rodeo—not with so many interviews and stories on her CV. She knew her subjects well.
“I stopped for takeout,” Izetta replied, looking out the window to hide her expression. “A youthful vintage, but full-bodied enough to satisfy.”
It had been hard to let him go. She’d found the man in the back of the all-night store—or he’d found her. Young, but not too young. Healthy, but probably not for long. Those addicted to vampire venom always knew where to find the Undead. Maybe it was a universal impulse to put the unspeakable in one’s mouth—or have the unspeakable put their mouth where it didn’t belong.
She’d been starving by then, almost clumsy in her need, but he’d survive once the haze of euphoria wore off. She’d left him sleeping in the housewares section, nestled among the scatter rugs. He’d provided excellent customer service all around.
“Good to be fed and ready, because I think we’ll need all our persuasive talents.” Errata pulled away from the curb, immediately accelerating to a heart-pounding speed. “The Devries Alpha is known for being a difficult customer.”
From what Rafe had said about his dad, that was putting things mildly.
“Did the Alpha say he would help us?”
“He only agreed to meet,” Errata replied. “Although once he knows the truth, surely he’ll help his own son. I’m good at getting Alphas to see reason. It’s all about making them think it’s their idea to do the right thing.”
“We’ll see.” Izetta’s breath caught as the car swung around a corner at top speed. “Whoa!”
“Sorry.” Errata grinned. “Sometimes I get the zoomies.”
“Uh-huh.” Izetta felt her still heart make one startled beat as they roared across the bridge spanning East Bay’s inlet. The lights from the bridge streaked the black water below, shimmering as wind ruffled the surface.
“What do you get out of this?” Izetta asked.
“A story,” the werecougar replied. “And, frankly, there are enough terrifying things out there without a drug trade aimed at our people. If I can do something to stop it, I’m in.”
“We’re dealing with fae,” Izetta said. “Their magic makes this next-level dangerous. You know that, right?”
Errata tapped the pendant she wore. “I got this amulet from a witch friend of mine. The core is ancient iron. It cuts through fae spells.”
“Keep it close,” Izetta replied. “But don’t count on anything they can take away.”
Conversation faded as traffic thickened and the car was forced to slow. This side of town was different, with fewer businesses and more homes. They passed schools and shopping centers, and eventually the houses grew sparser with parkland between. That made sense. Wolves needed room to run.
The road narrowed until there was little to see but gate posts with house numbers stenciled in reflective paint. After about three miles of twists and turns, Errata turned up a drive shrouded in cedars. The view soon opened to a starlit clearing. In the midst was a sprawling rancher with a wrap-around porch. Automatic lights came on as Errata pulled onto the parking pad to the right of the main entrance, beside a brown station wagon and an RV. If this was a den of wolves, it was a domestic one.
Errata had barely killed the engine when two wolves in animal form and another in blue jeans approached the car. Izetta got out and was immediately blocked by the gray wolf closest to her. Its back was as high as her hip.
“We’re here to speak to your Alpha,” Izetta said, looking the beast in its amber eyes. She’d never met Rafe’s father, Roy Devries, but this wouldn’t be him. The pack leader wouldn’t be on parking patrol. “It’s about his son.”
“I called ahead,” Errata added, pocketing the Jaguar’s key fob. “He’s expecting us.”
“A kitty cat and a vampire?” scoffed the one in human form. “This should be fun.”
He turned and sauntered toward the house, entering through a side door into a daylight basement.
Izetta followed, Errata and the wolves bringing up the rear. Once they were in the room, Izetta heard the door close and lock behind them. At the sound, their guide stopped abruptly, standing to one side.
The space had the messy comfort she expected in a wolf den. A pool table stood at one end. At the other were couches and a bar piled with bags of junk food. It smelled of wet dog and young male. Around a dozen werewolves crowded the space, some bearing a slight resemblance to Rafe. Very few struck her as mature warriors, and she remembered Rafe’s story about his disappearing kinsmen. Maybe the experienced hunters had already gone missing.
The wolves formed a ring around them, trapping them in the middle of the room. Only two of those present were female. From what Izetta knew, that didn’t bode well for a pack’s smooth operation and usually indicated a group in decline. Females went where their young would be looked after.
Without seeming obvious, Izetta shifted her stance, ready to fight. Beside her, Errata’s heartbeat sped up, the light thud-thud audible despite the jostling males. Izetta kept her expression calm, though her hand drifted toward her jacket pocket where she’d hidden a blade. It was a sign of supreme confidence—or sloppiness—that they hadn’t searched her at the door.
A figure rose from the couch, pushing through the circle of wolves. In his late fifties, he had the same square jaw, the same sure way of carrying himself as Rafe. Unfortunately, he had none of his son’s manners. He fixed his two guests with an unreadable look.
“Roy Devries?” Errata asked.
“The same.” He smoothed the front of his shirt. “Are you the reporter who asked to speak with me?”
His tone said he liked the idea, as if a newshound’s interest made him important.
“I am,” Errata replied. “Thank you for seeing us.”
He glanced at Izetta. “And you’re the vampire who knows my son?”
“I know Rafe,” she answered, keeping her tone friendly. “I went with him on his mission to find the fae they call the Magician.”
The Alpha’s expression grew stony. “And where is my fool of a son? On a plane, running away again? It’s like him to do as he’s asked just long enough to satisfy his conscience.”
No wonder Rafe rarely came home.
Izetta sucked in air to cool her temper. “The fae captured him. He’s their prisoner.”
“Prisoner?” This time there was worry in his tone.
Errata saw the opening and jumped on it. “Help us get him back. They took him because he found the Magician.”
Izetta froze, barely concealing her reaction. It was a lie—they’d found a pile of nasty business, but no one they could point to with certainty. Not that she was going to point that out.
“He tracked them right to their door,” Izetta added. “He—and I—made it inside their way station. It’s right in the valley, hidden by a glamour.”
The Alpha folded his arms. “Of course he did. He’s the best tracker going. That doesn’t tell me what you were doing there.”
“I went on behalf of the local vampires. Their leader also wanted information about the Magician.”
“Is Malatest making a move against the fae?”
“Malatest is considering his options,” Errata said quickly, meeting Izetta’s gaze. “He wants to know if the wolves have enough courage to join him.”
A murmur went around the room, those in wolf form sending up soft yips of agreement.
The Alpha held up his hand to silence them. “We have more than enough courage. That has never been in question.”
The room fell silent. Errata opened her mouth to speak, but his look silenced her.
“I’ve heard your message, now hear mine,” he continued. “We hunted the Magician to save our young. I sent one scout, then another to investigate the valley where we suspected the fae hid from sight. Neither of my kin returned. Then I sent more warriors who never came home. When I forbid others to go, they went anyhow, my brother included.”
Here he stopped, swallowing hard. “It became clear that my pack, with or without permission, would not let the fae’s crimes go unanswered. I had to stop the endless drain of our best people.”
“So you sent for Rafe,” Izetta said. “He came.”
“For all his failings, my son has training and expertise that the rest of the pack does not. He was always our best tracker. This was his chance to erase the anger between us. But now he’s lost as well.”
“He’s not lost yet,” Izetta said. “That’s why we’re here.”
The Alpha’s grief curdled to fury. “Is the Magician dead?”
Izetta bristled. “No.”
“Then my son failed,” he spat. “Yes, we have the courage to fight, but can I risk the wolves I have left while Malatest considers his options?”
His rage pulsed through the room, raising the hair on Izetta’s arms. The other wolves felt it, too. They rose as one, their circle closing around them. Errata was wide-eyed, looking around as if readying to bolt .
Izetta itched to grab her knife. “Malatest doesn’t have a son to rescue.”
“No,” Devries agreed. “He sent you, and somehow you came back, but my boy didn’t.”
At some invisible signal, the circle of wolves drew closer, and closer still. The ones in animal form pushed in, lips curled in silent snarls.
Devries leaned in, eyes gone wolfish yellow. “Care to explain why you’re here and he isn’t?”