Viking peeked into the deep compartment. Zulu maintained a ready stance and kept watch on Johnny. The Viking stood straight. "We'll take him."

"Keep him out of the suburbs," Johnny said, then slid back into the driver's seat.

The vampires removed Mero from the trunk and shut the lid. Johnny drove away, purposely going in the direction of the den. He stopped at the entrance. After a quiet moment Brian said, "I don't know what you're doing, but I get the feeling you don't want me around."

Johnny nodded.

"I'm down with being your backup."

"Gregor gave you his trust. Any other time, that would be enough for me."

Brian reached for the door handle, but halfway he switched and reached behind him. He offered Johnny his service weapon. "With all you can do, sire, a gun may seem like a rudimentary weapon, but I'd feel better if you took this with you."

Johnny stared at it. His first thought was to wonder if there was a tracer in it.

His second thought was disgust at the idea he'd be living the rest of his life suspicious of everyone. He took the gun.

Brian got out.

Ten minutes later, the Maserati was parked at the RTA Flats East Bank station and Johnny was walking. He had left the gun in the car under the seat. He also had decided to drive well beyond the Renaissance Cleveland Hotel in case there was a tracer in the gun. Hopefully no one would think he'd backtrack.

Zipping up his leather jacket, he turned off West 10th Street onto St. Clair Avenue, passing a few other pedestrians as he walked. At the farmhouse he'd gotten some clothes from his old room that weren't torn or bloody or scorched. He'd chosen black denim jeans, a thick pair of clean socks, and an old pair of Harley-Davidson riding boots. The top shirt in the small dresser he used was one of the shirts they'd had made up for his band, Lycanthropia. This one was faded; he'd proudly worn it as much as he could to advertise the band.

While all of his clothing was comfortable, none of it was particularly warm. The way his heart was pumping, however, he was anything but cold. The coming northeast winter didn't faze him. He had lived in Cleveland a long time. Sure, he'd taken off to Detroit for a stretch. Pittsburgh for a while. But he always returned to Cleveland. He'd often wandered these sidewalks at night. As a waerewolf, in the company of Ig or other pack mates, he had marveled at how prowling the streets as a pack or a pair felt good and right.

Tonight, it didn't feel good or right.

Perhaps it was because he was alone. Ig had always made a lesson of their outings. He never failed to learn something when he walked with the others in the pack.

He tried to figure out the lesson of this walk.

He thought of what Celia had said earlier about Erik. Johnny wanted to resume playing as a band. He wanted to get on stage and rock, to pour out the emotions he was bottling up inside through the song lyrics and power chords, and to sweat out anything that was left underneath the colored lights.

It felt like all that had slipped from his grasp.

He walked a few blocks on St. Clair, then turned on West 6th. He wanted to avoid as much of Public Square as he could; the vampires kept a tight watch on that area. As he neared Superior, a group of four young men were approaching on the sidewalk ahead. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and huddled into the leather as the wind brought their scents to his nostrils. Sweat. Beer. Pot. Cheeseburgers. They were loud, laughing, and moved like they thought they were tough.

The muscles in his arms tensed, loosened. He was ready.

They passed by, talking among themselves as if he weren't even there.

He sighed, relieved.

What was wrong with him?

His collar had come up because he'd expected them to either recognize him or start something. It didn't bruise his ego that they didn't know him, but it did make him feel like an arrogant ass for fretting about it.

He proceeded across Superior, angling left onto West Prospect. Beyond the parking deck for Terminal City he could see the Renaissance Cleveland Hotel. He didn't want to go in the main entrance, though. He kept walking, passing an alley, then the Tower City Center valet parking service.

When he'd walked with Ig, he was just another face in the crowd, another punk on the city streets. Now, his face had been flashed all over the national news. He'd craved fame via the band, but he had not craved this. This was clearly a sporadic kind of recognition, which was okay, but the potential for less fame and more notoriety-if ODOT had their way-made this brand of celebrity even less desirable.

He scolded himself. All this suspiciousness wasn't like him and it was taking a toll. There were plenty of people he could trust.

Trust.

By the time he was approaching the Higbee Building, he'd figured out that that was what was wrong with him. He'd lost his trust for people in general. He'd always had a healthy sense of caution and while he only let a few people get close to him, he'd felt confident that most of the people he had to interact with were open about their motives. Promoters and groupies, guitarists and fellow employees at the music store and the small guitar-making facility-he knew what to expect with all of them. They wanted music from him, in one way or another.

But they had all passed out of his life to be replaced almost entirely with pack.

Aurelia had been right. He'd kept this family at arm's length.

Prospect curved slightly, then he made the turn onto Ontario, his eyes lingering on the blue awnings of the Ragin' Cajun restaurant across the street.

He knew Todd wanted to rule. He knew Cammi-one of the dominant females of the pack-wanted to be on the arm of someone ruling. They had always been that way. While Kirk and Hector had always treated him well, they hadn't gone out of their way to aid him until it was clear what he was. Those in management-supportive positions in the pack were definitely obedient and proficient in his brief experience, but were they always as on the ball for Ig, or were they hoping to make an impression on the Domn Lup? What about the Omori? Gregor had befriended him, but how much of that, truly, could be chalked up to Gregor doing his job?

Everyone he had to deal with lately made demands on him. Not the usual requests like "level these frets" or "change out my DiMarzio pickups for these Bare Knuckle ones" or "which do you like best, Charvel or B.C. Rich?" Those entreaties had clear solutions he was confident he could handle. He missed that certainty.

Out of necessity and the achievement of power, his mind-set was changing and his faith in others-in their honesty, integrity, and sincerity-was dying.

Erik had been his best friend for years. He'd lost that friendship essentially because of his power. From afar, he'd counted on Ig as his father figure. Ig was dead; he'd given the life he was losing anyway to put Johnny into power. Red was new to his life, but he had attacked her because he'd lost control of his beast, then his assistant had tried to murder her because she saw Red as a threat to his power.

Since he'd accepted his fate as Domn Lup, his relationships with the few people he did trust had been shattered.

He was going to have to find a way to fix things with Red and with Erik. He needed to have a few people he could still confide in, who'd give him advice without being affected by the politics of his position. Also, he was going to have to stop the suspicious paranoia, and let his faith return.

He turned off Ontario onto South Roadway and walked past the impressive ionic columns and huge arched windows of Tower City Center. Ahead was the Renaissance Cleveland Hotel.

When he passed through the revolving door and neared the lobby, the opulence stunned him. Vaulted ceilings with huge chandeliers harkened back to a bygone era. He actually stopped and did a full circle to see it all. Then he noticed that the concierge was watching him closely. He wondered if the man was simply doing his job, or if Aurelia had paid him to be her eyes and ears. Johnny made sure to approach the elevators with the key card visible in his hand. It would show that he belonged here. When he stepped into the elevator car he stared at the floor until the doors had almost shut. At the last second he shoved his hand between them, forcing them to reopen.

He expected the concierge to have grabbed the phone and alerted someone to his arrival . . . but the man had simply let his gaze trail over to the television where a rerun of M*A*S*H was playing.

Johnny felt foolish. He couldn't be paranoid like this.

He punched the button for the top floor and had to insert Aurelia's card.

The elevator rose swiftly and deposited him in a small lobby with a placard indicating the direction of the various suites. He followed the arrow to the left and promptly arrived at the proper door. He slid the key into the lock and saw the little handle light flash green as he pulled it out.

He turned the knob and pushed the door open on a darkened room.

Immediately, he knew he wasn't alone.

"Hello, John," Plympton's voice trilled. "I've been expecting you."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.

Hyperventilating was not something I wanted to do, but damn, keeping my breathing even was nearly impossible.

Menessos had not been able to say Creepy's true name to me, but now that I had heard it, his identity was beyond obvious. With all he could do, I should have seen it or guessed who he was.

How did I miss it?

He was carrying me into the darkness, descending deeper and deeper into the tunnel. As the pathway grew more treacherous, the light he'd thrown ahead of us faded into what would have been a tragically unhelpful dimness. Regardless, he proceeded at the same pace, as if he knew his way so well he could have made this journey in the dark.

If he was taking me where I thought he was, he probably could travel it in total darkness.

I didn't want to come with him before, but I really, really didn't want to now.

I weighed my options.

There would be no escaping from him. What I had was the realization of who he was and I could let him know I knew that now, or later. But where we would end up would make it obvious and it might gain me something to not be that dense.

"Would you prefer Aidon, Aidoneus, or Hades?"

His only reaction was a sly smile.

"Well?"

"In truth, I quite like Hades."

Ahead, the light stopped before a wide-arched wooden door. When we arrived before it, he put me on my feet. As he stepped closer to the door I realized it had no knob. He stood there whispering words I didn't understand while a 10-watt light glowed like a nimbus around his head. As he spoke the light shifted from white to violet, and the royal-colored illumination edged him with a mystical quality deserving of a god. Then the beguiling imagery faded and the door opened.

"Come."

I hesitated only a second before leaving the darkened tunnel and stepping into a surprise.

It was a familiar, if massive, hall. Turning to glance around me, my eyes took it all in. He gestured and torches lit throughout the hall, illuminating what I was trying to see.

Towering above was the giant stone stairway, each of the thirteen steps rising five feet high and thirty feet across. Yes, even the knobless door tucked into the bottom step was familiar.

I had been here before . . . I'd been on this side of the door in a meditation and when I had passed through it, I'd arrived at Hecate's crossroads-but that was not where Hades and I had come from.

My gaze lingered on that magical door, wondering where else it might lead. I wondered, if I ran through it, could I escape him and the shiny new bargain we'd made?

Not likely.

"This way," Hades said.

Following him across the hall, rounding the various-sized stalagmites, I couldn't resist looking up for the matching stalactites on the ceiling. The skyscraper-tall pillars held the ceiling aloft. It occurred to me that maybe they held up the world I knew.

We walked for twenty minutes before reaching the middle of the room, and Hades wasn't one for small or slow strides. Here in the center there was a wider pathway running side to side, like one whole row of pillars was absent, but the ceiling above was arched and painted with tragic faces. "Where does this lead?"

"You don't want to know," was all he said.

Since I was panting, nearly running, to keep up with him, and the images on the ceiling were so frightening, I didn't press the issue.

When we finally arrived at the far side, a fissure in the rock awaited us. Chilled air swirled through it, blowing my hair about as we passed through. There was dim light ahead, and the air smelled fresher.

About halfway through, the fissure widened into a proper hallway with an arched opening. It was entirely encouraging.

Outside was a small terrace with a short series of steps leading down to a white stone road splitting a forest. To the left and right the land was cluttered with the knobby trunks of thick old black poplar trees and the majestic branches of white willows as they arched over puddles. The road was built up to make significantly higher ground.

We began to walk. After several silent minutes, we passed the trees and the land rose up around us. The road ended abruptly and a field of flowers stretched before us. The breeze was light and the soft scent wafted, familiar and yet new.

"Come," he said.

"They're so pretty. I hate the thought of tromping on delicate flowers."

"Then you will not." He waved his hand as we approached and they moved-literally. They turned their dainty heads down, their lean stems spiraled to make them shorter and their leaves reached into the ground and gathered up their roots like they were little people harvesting tubers.

"What are they?" I whispered, marveling.

"Asphodel."

Hades clasped my hand and brought me to his side and led on. The flowers did not merely part before us, they scurried out of the way-leaving the softest dirt for me to walk upon-then returned to their places and reset their roots, leaving no trace that we had passed through at all.

They had diaphanous white-gray petals so pale and thin they were like dragonfly wings. I glanced at the sky, longing to see those petals glisten in the rays of the sun . . . but the overcast clouds stretched on forever.

I heard laughter and saw movement to my left, yet the flowers did not stir there.

Curious, and a touch wary, my gaze flitted all around the meadow. I discovered many others moving near us. People who were not solid. "Who are they?"

"Lost children. Those wrongly condemned. Suicides."

"Why are they here?"

"They linger for the flowers. This field is soothing to them. Eventually their mortal aches may wane. If they do, they will find their way beyond the petals."

We walked for more long minutes in a dreamy silence as the breeze picked up little by little and surrounded me with an aroma: sweet like hyacinth and a touch of white lily. The fragrance hovered around me without overpowering my senses. With each breath I felt better and more at ease.

The air blew around us with more intensity and carried a chill that made me aware of how warm his hand was around mine. Even the asphodel shivered as they darted here and there. I scanned ahead and saw a mist engulfing the field.

"Hades?" I asked, my voice breathy and subdued to my own ears. This place was affecting me. That scared me, but I found it difficult to be bothered by that fear. I knew this was wrong, but I couldn't care. "What is that fog?"

"The Vale of Mourning."

"It's cold."

He drew me closer and put his arm around my shoulders. "It is brief; I will keep you warm."

The ground beneath my feet sloped downward. Inside the mist, indistinct figures raced by, or sat near our feet, or lay on the ground screaming and pounding their fists on the earth. Their sorrowful wails were so loud I covered my ears. When the ground eased into a gentle upward incline and the white air thinned, I asked, "Why do they mourn so?"