There was a click as the overhead lightbulb was turned off. Kocourek came down the stairs like a panther, the red light of the lantern allowing me to see them well enough to judge where they were but not the expressions on their faces.

Without speaking, they all took up positions designed to allow them to keep intruders away from under the stairs, without shouting to the world, Hey, I’m protecting the people under the stairs.

I got it. What I didn’t get was why. Who were they protecting them from? Mary? But that didn’t really make sense because no one had protected that poor girl who died.

The double hit on the magic that surrounded this place happened again, and this time I wasn’t the only one in the basement who felt it.

They staggered under the weight of whatever was bludgeoning the place. During the second attack, Lars, who was neither tall nor blond, though with a name like that he should have been, went down to one knee. Mustached man groaned, and Dagmar swore. I thought she swore, anyway. There was an emphasis to the words that just translated to swearing in any language.

When the second one let up, I shifted to human, startling the ghost—which was a switch. She disappeared for the moment, though I could feel her lingering nearby.

“Kocourek,” I said quietly, because they’d been trying to be quiet. “How long have you belonged to Mary?”

The four vampires did that really chilling thing where they move at the same time, exactly at the same time, better than any award-winning dance team.

Lars said something. It sounded harsh and staccato, but it was still quiet.

“Mercy Thompson Hauptman, daughter of the Marrok, wife of the Alpha of the Tri-Cities, Washington, pack,” said Kocourek. “May I make known to you the few of my seethe who are left me—Dagmar, Vanje, and Lars.”

“Close,” I told him. “I was raised in Bran Cornick’s pack, but he’s not my father. And our pack is the Columbia Basin Pack. Werewolf packs are seldom named after a town. How long have you been Mary’s minion?”

“Guccio’s,” corrected Kocourek mildly. “Never Mary’s.”

“She’s not even her own person yet,” said Dagmar. “She still needs to feed from us to stay sane. Sort of sane—as sane as that witch gets. She’s a fledgling yet—and Guccio caters to her for her magic. He set her up here, with her own seethe made up of his children.”

“Pretty Vampire’s?” I said slowly. “The one who looks like he could make a living as a stripper? He’s your Master?”

“Maker,” said Kocourek shortly.

At the same time, Dagmar snickered. “‘Pretty Vampire’? He’d love that. He’d have loved that.”

“I thought that Master Vampires didn’t have to obey their makers anymore,” I said.

“Why are you answering her questions?” asked Lars.

“Because I think she’s the cause of whatever is blasting away at Mary’s spellcrafting,” Kocourek said shortly. To me he said, “Mostly after we quit feeding from our makers, their influence over us wanes over years. I made a mistake. I welcomed Guccio into my home as a guest, and he caught me and rebonded me—fed from me and made me feed from him. And so he took me and my children, then he told me to listen to Mary as if she were he.” The rage in his voice, for all that it was quiet, could have ignited diesel fuel. Not much ignites diesel, but it burns pretty well.