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his pack lose his way.
    He hauled the youth to his feet and gave him a savage shake, showing his strength. Helver took it meekly, not even lifting his head. Lore was his king. To fight back meant a fight to the death, and they both knew Lore would win.
    The shaking didn’t hurt. The real discipline would come later. So would a lot of questions, like who had put him up to the theft, but Lore had to focus on the crisis in front of him.
    “Who set the fire?” he demanded.
    Helver hung his head, breathing hard. If he had been in dog form, his tail would have been tucked in as far as it would go. “I didn’t see anyone. I just felt—it was bad . And then it was hot. It was really weird—there was nothing, just heat, and then there were flames everywhere. I grabbed a fire extinguisher, but then things started to explode in the clinic—oxygen and I don’t know what else—and it stank. I couldn’t breathe past the chemicals, and it was just too hot. I had to go.”
    The hounds muttered among themselves, the sound both angry and concerned.
    “There was no other person inside?”
    “No, no one I could hear or smell. I hid behind the building until . . .” He trailed off.
    “Until what?”
    “I thought I could get away. With all the trucks and stuff around.”
    “Count yourself lucky that it was me who caught you.” Lore could hear the sound of pounding feet. The humans were catching up to them. Lore pushed Helver away. The youth staggered several steps before finding his balance. “Go home. Stay there. Burn those clothes. They stink. I’ll deal with you later.”
    Helver bowed, his hands over his face again in a gesture of submission.
    “Run! ” Lore growled. He waved at the hounds standing there. “Take him home.”
    They obeyed, crowding Helver into their midst before they ran in long, fluid strides. Lore stuffed the campaign money in his pocket, wondering how the hell he was going to return it to the vampires without starting World War III. They weren’t the types to laugh off a youthful prank.
    He turned to face the humans running toward them.
    The one in front was one of those cops that looked like a cop: tall, chiseled, dark-haired, somewhere between thirty and fifty. Lore knew him. He was one of the few human detectives assigned to cover the supernatural beat.
    “Detective Baines!” Lore stepped in his path. At the same time, he pulled his jacket closed and zipped it to hide the weapons strapped to his body. All hellhound warriors went armed to the teeth. Human police often took that the wrong way.
    “Who was that boy?” Baines demanded, slowing to a stop. His men stayed a distance away, as if they were afraid Lore would bite.
    “Why did you let him go?” Baines’s voice vibrated with anger.
    Lore’s blood felt acidic with disappointment in Helver, but pack was pack. “He’s not your arsonist.”
    Baines gave him a hard look, as if taking a mental snapshot. “I want a name.”
    “No.” Lore kept his expression blank.
    “What’s your name?”
    “Lore.”
    “Lore what?”
    “Just Lore. I don’t need two names.”
    “Well, Lore-with-one-name, your boy might be a material witness.”
    “He saw nothing.”
    The evil was gone now. Just the memory of it hovered in the air, mixing with occasional spits of sleet. The jacko’-lantern orange of the fire mocked them, turning the sky to a sickly bronze. Nothing in nature had made that blaze.
    “How do you know what he did or didn’t see?” asked Baines between clenched teeth.
    “I asked him, and hounds cannot lie.”
    Baines narrowed his eyes. “Won’t, you mean.”
    “Can’t. It’s impossible for us.”
    He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “No shit?”
    “No shit,” said Lore. “We’re your dream witnesses.”
    Baines held his gaze another moment, then grudgingly backed off. He lifted his chin, the gesture subtly aggressive, as if he were still burning to face off with more than words. It would have been a bad idea. Baines wasn’t