The Strip (15 page)

She wanted to die. To disappear.

If she had possessed any ability to move whatsoever, she would have thrown herself through the floor-to-ceiling windows across the room. Anything to end this intolerable anguish.

“What do you want?” she gasped. It was surprisingly easy for her to find and form words in her suffocating world of hurt. The question just came out.

“I want
you
, Charlie.
All
of you,” he hissed, giving her hair a swift tug to accentuate his words. “Tell me to remove Cole’s mark from your arm.
That’s
what I want.”

Charlie stilled under his grip. A quiet stole over her. In a brief and surprising moment of mental clarity, Charlie realized that if Phelan was asking her for something – it was something that she should not give him.

He was a good fighter. He was a good teacher. But Jessie was right. He was a sadist in every sense, and in the truest form of the word. And it was no secret that he particularly liked dolling out pain to
her
. It brought him pleasure. She could see it in his eyes and in the way he smiled. She could feel it when he touched her and hear it in the low, mesmerizing pitch of his voice.

She didn’t understand how Malcolm Cole, the green-eyed man from her dreams, had managed to put that mark on her arm. She didn’t comprehend what purpose it served – other than, apparently, to cause her immense amounts of pain. But she knew, suddenly and with stark certainty, that if Gabriel Phelan wanted it gone, then she was better off keeping it.

“No,” she hissed, her own gaze narrowing in defiance. She winced as more pain rode through her like a shockwave but she gritted her teeth and continued through it. “I think I’ll keep it.”

She expected his wrath. She expected him to hit her. Maybe punch her. Anything but what he actually did. He gently pulled his hand out of her jeans and his lips spread into a victorious smile. She stared up into his blue eyes as they started to glow, just as they had in her nightmares. And then her gaze flicked to his mouth and she almost moaned in horror as his canines began to elongate until they were razor-sharp fangs, glinting malevolently in the waxing sunlight.

Charlie stopped breathing entirely. She went utterly still beneath him.

“Ah Charlie,” he said, his low voice now laced with a barely perceptible, animalistic growl. “I was so hoping you would say that.”

Chapter Nine,
The Rake

“Boss, you need to calm down.” Jake watched his alpha warily, wondering if his life was going to come to an end that day. If Cole slipped into wolf form, everything would go to hell. His pack would follow suit – loyal to the end. And humans would see them. And then there would be a giant battle between timber wolves and gray wolves and black wolves – right in the middle of the street in Las Vegas.

And then, no matter who won, the Council would get involved and someone would have to pay for the mess. And someone would have to clean it.

It would be bad.

It had only been seconds since James Valentine had given his leader the news about the territory spell on The August. Seconds was all it had taken for Cole’s entire visage to darken – to change. His power had lashed out wildly, infused with fury and Jake had temporarily been robbed of breath. He could feel the humans around them giving them a wider berth, suddenly crossing the street to avoid them.

Cole’s eyes had begun to glow like emerald search lights. Lucas Caige had been quick to take off his own mirrored shades and hand them to his boss. Cole had donned them without hesitation.

But no one was fooled by the temporary cover. Jake knew that there were fangs behind his boss’s lips. And the hands that the alpha had curled into fists at his sides most assuredly bore claws. Jake could smell Cole’s blood. It was pooling in his palms, drawn by his own digging nails.

“The spell will fall by midnight,” Lily piped in, trying to help. “I’ve been reading about these kinds of things. Most spells like this can’t last more than twelve hours, no matter how good the witch or warlock is.”

“Caige,” Malcolm turned to the leather-clad wolf. His voice had become a growl behind his barely hidden teeth.

Jake noticed that Lily Kane backed up when Cole spoke. She sensed the mounting danger, and his low, rumbling growl most likely reminded her of the time that he’d kidnapped her and absconded with her to his cabin in New Mexico two years ago. James Valentine quickly stepped in front of her. It was his job as her guardian, but it was probably also natural.

But Lucas smiled a slight smile and nodded. Caige was like that. Crazy sometimes. More than a little wild. He liked things hard and fast and rough and Jakob felt sorry for whatever mate he claimed, because she wouldn’t have an easy go of it with him.

The man that Cole referred to as “Scrubs” was a member of a particular motorcycle gang that Caige had been a member of since the sixties. Scrub’s real name was Johnny Campbell, but a failed stint in medical school had forever labeled him the gang doctor. It was just a name, and it meant nothing. Especially since the thing Scrubs was actually known best for was the knowledge he’d picked up in the gulf.

He was a demolitions expert and had even done time due to a penchant for arson. He was the only human alive who knew what Lucas Caige really was. He was as loyal to his gang members as werewolves were to their packs.

If Cole wanted Caige to call Scrubs in on this, then it was because he was planning something big. Something dangerous. Involving explosives and lots of people.

It was a terrifying thought and one that every wolf on that sidewalk was thinking. But not one of them gave voice to their concerns. None of them dared. At the moment, Cole was just that scary.

Caige pulled the cell phone from his leather vest pocket and dialed a number, stepping away from them to speak in private. It was a gesture done more out of respect than practicality, since any werewolf within several thousand feet would have been able to hear the conversation clear as day.

Jake ran a hand through his hair. He glanced at the other wolves. James Valentine was gazing down at Lily, who in turn was watching Cole warily. “You should probably head back to the hotel, Kane. Your husband will flip his lid if he finds out that you had anything to do with this.”

Lily turned to look up at Jake. “I’m not leaving,” she said, stubbornly. “If and when you big boys manage to rescue Charlie, she’s going to be confused and terrified. She’s going to need a girlfriend and I intend to be there for her.”

“Go home, Lily,” Malcolm told her flatly. His low growl was no-nonsense and left little room for argument.

Lily swallowed audibly, her gold eyes flashing in both anger and trepidation. But then her jaw set and she shook her head. “This wouldn’t be the first time an abusive spouse asked me to butt out of his business, Cole. And I didn’t listen then either.”

Cole gazed at her from behind those impenetrable shades and Lily began to fidget. And then he cocked his head to one side and spoke very quietly. “Abusive?” he asked, his hushed tone far more frightening than his outright growl had been. “Do you honestly think that I would hurt Charlie?” he asked. It was nearly rhetorical.

But Lily wasn’t going to be dissuaded. Even after James put his hand on her shoulder in an effort to make her back down, she didn’t relent. “Yes I do, Cole. You had no problem marking her against her will. You probably laid it on nice and thick, didn’t you?” she asked.

Jake bit back a groan. He didn’t like where this was going.

“I would imagine that you practically drowned her with your stupid power and then tricked her some how to get that mark on her arm. Did she even stand a chance, Cole? Did you give one tiny thought to how
she
might feel once the deed was done? To the possibility that she might not
want
to be marked by you? That she might want a
choice
?” Lily’s voice had become progressively more high pitched as she’d spoken and when she yelled her final question at Cole, it was clear that there was more than a touch of personal venom attached to her words.

Cole’s reply was to smile at her, flashing the tiniest bit of fang. “Why luv, it sounds as if you speak from experience. Might I suggest a marriage counselor to help you work through that anger?”

“You son of a -”

“Lily.” Valentine’s deep voice was laced with a strong, authoritative note.

Lily stilled, but visibly bristled. Jake couldn’t really blame her. There was a lot of fight in her and it was natural for a werewolf to want to air out those feelings. In fact, Malcolm Cole was the only werewolf that Jake had ever known who could keep his emotions carefully in check, vigilantly hidden for decades at a time.

He glanced at his leader.

Now was not one of those times. Cole’s emotions were getting the better of him. Jake could smell the adrenaline in his boss’s veins. The power whipping out wildly around him was out of control. Chaotic. It made Jake feel nervous and agitated and itchy for a fight.

“In this instance, I agree that you’ll be in too much danger if you come with us,” James told Lily. “If we manage to make it in, there will be wolves and police and humans running madly everywhere. You’re too precious to risk.”

Lily rolled her eyes, but Valentine held up his hand, as if he could sense that she was coming back with a retort. “If Claire is hurt, we’ll bring her immediately to you.” He was trying to placate her. Jake knew that as her guardian, James wouldn’t lie to her, so if he promised that she would be able to help Claire, then he meant it.

It was that promise that finally managed to convince Lily Kane to stay behind. She nodded and shot Cole a warning glance. “You have no idea how special she is, Cole.” She shook her head, her expression serious. “I haven’t told you everything.”

She turned to leave and, as she disappeared down the street, back toward the Bellagio, Cole seemed to gaze after her. Jake couldn’t see his eyes, but he would be willing to bet that they were still glowing heatedly. “It’s Malcolm,” he hissed softly, still staring in the direction she’d gone. “And what the bloody hell didn’t you tell me, Kane?”

* * * *

“Forgive me for asking,” Vincent drawled, his amber-gold eyes flashing in the dim light from the sconces along the wall. “But, how old are you, anyway?”

The young man sprawled on the black leather sofa across from him smiled a clandestine smile, his indigo-colored eyes glinting strangely, almost reflecting the light as a cat’s would. “I’m older than I look,” he replied.

Oh, no doubt
, Vincent thought.

The warlock’s voice was that of an eighteen-year-old’s, nearly adolescent in its crisp sound. But he spoke with the calm of one much older. Vincent eyed him warily. It hadn’t taken him nearly as long as he’d thought it would to locate the warlock. In truth, the warlock had found
him
. He’d walked into the casino as if he’d known exactly what it was that Vincent was looking for. Like a devil appearing in a flash of smoke and fire before a dying man - contract in one hand, pen in the other.

The warlock’s thick hair was cut just above his shoulders and was the color of midnight, a deep-space black that reflected the same indigo light that flashed in the depths of his piercing eyes. He was tall, but not as tall as a werewolf. Vincent would have placed him at around six feet, with a build that was impressive for a human, but a little too wiry for a wolf. His complexion was fair enough that he bore the look of a vampire. And he dressed like one, as well. Black jeans, white long-sleeved shirt, black leather vest, black boots.

The contrast of his youthful appearance with the knowledge reflected in his eyes and the composed confidence with which he held himself was disconcerting. There was a bubble of nearly palpable menace surrounding the man. Vincent imagined that anyone finding themselves in his presence would become distinctly uncomfortable before long.

He looked untrustworthy and utterly, unapologetically mean.

Vincent Cromwell had been a magic user – a wizard – for a long time. As such, he easily and readily recognized the kind of magic radiating off of the other man. It was stifling. It had a dangerous smell to it. There was the faintest hint of fire to it; the way it smelled when someone up-wind lit a match. At the same time, it smelled like snow. Like winter. Long and cold and unforgiving.

The only name he would give Vincent was “Seth.” And Vincent knew enough to recognize that it wasn’t his real name. Most likely, no one knew his real name, and hadn’t for a long time.

At the moment, the two of them were waiting on the black leather furniture that “decorated” the basement of The August. The entire underground facility had been made into a dungeon upon the hotel’s completion. The walls were lined with a grisly assortment of implements and the massive metal door bore several locks.

Vincent chanced another glance at the large stone room’s fixtures and equipment. And then he stifled the need to swallow audibly past the lump that had formed in his throat. He felt sick inside. But Vincent had the very strong feeling that to show such weakness in front of the man sitting across from him would be patently hazardous.

So, he drew his gaze away from the leather restraints, the giant wooden crosses, and the various punishment tools hanging on the walls and settled it once more on Seth: The warlock who was going to remove Cole’s mark from the arm of Claire St.James.

Seth was watching him carefully, an unreadable expression on his young, handsome face. His near-black eyes sparkled malevolently with untold secrets. Around his neck, he wore a black leather cord with a single lapis lazuli stone.

Vincent took a slow, deep breath and then sat back in the plush leather, draping his arms over the back of the couch. “A recall stone?” he asked, wondering if his hunch was correct.