The Strip (21 page)

And then he located the source of the offending aroma. A long black bull whip lay coiled on the ground beside two leather restraints that had been sliced from their straps in the ceiling. Both the restraints and the whip were painted with Charlie’s blood.

Malcolm Cole had never felt a kind of rage like the one that overtook him then. Never. He’d seen a thousand murders, killed a thousand people, and never – not once – in his near century-long life, had he ever felt the kind of hatred or mind-numbing malice that he felt in that instant.

It was like breathing bile.

All around him, the world turned red.

He looked through that red world and allowed his instinct to take over. He had no choice. It was too strong; the wolf was in charge now.

Across the room was a man that Malcolm recognized. It was the black-haired wizard he’d spoken to in an alley on The Strip. He worked for Phelan.

Cole went for him, transforming back into a man as he moved through the fight with blinding speed.

* * * *

Vincent Cromwell shoved at the Council enforcer in front of him, managing to catch the giant red-haired man off guard long enough that he could focus some of his energy into his palm. When the enforcer came at him again, Vincent rammed his hand into the man’s chest and let loose with his magic. The brief, painful electric shock that charged the larger werewolf took him by surprise and he staggered back, shaking his head as if to clear it.

Vincent took the opportunity to begin casting a spell that would get him out of the dungeon, altogether. But he had only begun to chant when his world was suddenly blurring around him in horrid, quick-silver motion, and an iron band was tightening painfully around his neck.

Malcolm Cole had him by the throat and was rushing him backwards as he simultaneously cut the flow of oxygen from his body. Vincent grimaced, swallowing a cry of pain as his tall form was slammed into the stone wall behind him. Stars swam in his vision and he tried to flash into wolf form, but his body wouldn’t respond. He was too stunned.

“
Where. Is. She.”

Vincent blinked a few times and when his vision came spiraling back into focus, he stared at the man in front of him. In that instant, he knew what it meant to look death in the eye. He was face to face with his own imminent demise. It was snarling at him.

A flurry of thoughts raced through his head. He knew that if he didn’t give Cole what he wanted, the alpha would kill him. He also knew that if he did give Cole what he wanted, then Gabriel Phelan would kill him.

He thought of Claire St.James, the female-born Dormant who had been unwittingly trapped in a game of cat and mouse with a man who thoroughly enjoyed batting around his mice until they no longer moved and he grew bored enough to finally eat them. She didn’t deserve this. She wasn’t a bad person and, frankly, she could be a cold-hearted killer and not deserve what Phelan had done to her over the last fifteen years.

He thought of the wolves in this room – half of them were Council enforcers, which meant that The Council was involved. And that meant that if Cole didn’t kill him and if Phelan didn’t kill him – he would be brought before the Overseer and his life would be as good as forfeit.

In the end, and in the space of a few short heartbeats, Vincent Cromwell came to a decision. If he was going to die anyway, he was going to go out as a good man.

He opened his mouth to answer Cole, but no sound made it past his lips. No air was moving through his body. Cole had him too hard.

With his eyes, he implored the stronger werewolf to let up on him. To let him breathe. But Cole’s entire form was radiating wrath, like a hurricane condensed into the space of six feet, four inches and draped in the façade of a man. It wasn’t going to hold. And there was no reasoning with it.

As Vincent’s vision began to fade, he felt Cole drag him away from the wall and lift him, still by his throat. Vincent’s arms came up, his fingers curling around Cole’s forearm, his claws digging into the other wolf’s muscle and drawing blood.
“Recall… stone,”
Vincent managed to gasp out through clenched teeth. It was all he could say.

Cole’s fury was lashing out around him like whips of flame, searing Vincent’s skin as if he was actually being held to some kind of magical fire. He knew that the alpha had smelled Claire’s blood. There could be no other reason for fury this strong. His anger was understandable, but he wouldn’t find Claire like this. Not in time, anyway. Not before Phelan worked on her enough that she finally broke and gave him the permission he needed to remove Cole’s mark.

Vincent’s head was pounding now, his lungs burning, his heart beating hard and fast and erratic. He was going to lose consciousness. He wondered how long he’d be out.

“Let him go, Cole. He can’t help us if he’s out cold!”

Vincent closed his eyes as a deep voice of reason cut through the sound of blood rushing through his ears. Cole’s grip slackened, and the sudden influx of oxygen and blood made Vincent’s head pound even harder. His lungs expanded greedily and he wanted nothing more than to slump forward and gulp in air, but he knew he didn’t have the luxury. He used what strength he had to speak. “Phelan’s… house…” he croaked. “North of town.”

“We have to get out, Cole.” The voice of reason again.

Malcolm did not answer. Instead, he grabbed Vincent by the shoulder and spun him around, shoving him roughly toward the exit. Vincent took the hint and made his legs move, falling into a brisk run toward the hallway beyond the dungeon. As he moved, his lungs drew in more and more air and his pulse evened out. His strength was returning.

Others were joining them now; a mass werewolf exodus from the dungeon. Someone must have sounded an alarm.

For what?
Vincent wondered. But he had neither the time nor the inclination to stop and ask. Instead, he half-followed and half-lead the congregation of werewolves from the underground cavern, noticing that none of Phelan’s men were among the survivors now pouring from the underground passage and climbing the stairs. The men around him were all either Cole’s wolves or Council enforcers.

Phelan’s pack must have been defeated.

Vincent was the only one left.

Chapter Twelve,
The Blaze

They chalked it up to a gas leak.

All of the proper authorities from all of the right departments were all over it within minutes of the explosion. The Strip’s main access was cut off from both ends and the sound of choppers whirling overhead was accompanied by the songs of sirens from below.

The second-most amazing thing, the news anchor said, was that The August had been built with such sturdy forethought, the explosion only managed to set the first three levels on fire – and did no damage, whatsoever, to the steel foundation and frame of the sky-rise hotel.

The
first
-most amazing thing was that the first three floors of The August had been utterly and completely empty at the time.

The mayor had something to say about that…

“
I personally think that the opening of Magic Mirrors had a lot to do with it and the timing was perfect, but I’m not a fool. This is nothing short of a miracle.”

The lives of the werewolves who had gone into The August that afternoon were probably indebted to James Valentine, who had smelled the gas and had taken control, issuing everyone out of the basement.

But the lives of the humans had been saved by Lily Kane and her ability to divine future events.
That
was the miracle that happened on The Strip.

Malcolm, too, could smell the gas before the explosion rocked the foundation of The August hotel. He had perceived it; a very faint scent that wafted in and out of existence, a thin thread of danger that took a back seat to a wolf’s instinct to protect his mate. He’d noticed it. But, in his anger, he’d ignored it.

The anger that ruled his every functioning fiber in the dungeon was the same anger riding him hard at that very moment, as they sat Vincent Cromwell down in a motel room on the outskirts of town and told him to talk.

“Gabriel Phelan is a Hunter,” Cromwell said right away. “And not only is he a Hunter, but he’s the leader of the Hunters and has been for more than fifty years.”

At this, Malcolm’s gaze shot to James Valentine, who seemed as surprised as he was.

“Does he go by any other name?” Valentine asked, putting two and two together.

“David Reese,” Cromwell replied, nodding. “And because I know you’re about to ask –
yes
– St.James has known him for years. He was her trainer in Pittsburgh. He killed her parents and then… sort of…
stalked
her, for lack of a better word. He’s always planned on making her his mate. He just likes to toy with people and because she was a female born, she was perfect for-” At that, he cut himself off, as if he knew that saying anything further on the subject would cause the already boiling wrath within Cole to finally blow its lid.

The Council had recalled most of its enforcers directly after the explosion, along with the witch, Dannai. However, a few of the burly werewolves remained, and Lucas Caige and Johnny Campbell, aka Scrubs, had joined Malcolm and Valentine at the motel. Lily was there too. People were in danger, and she wouldn’t back down; she insisted on being in on the action.

Vincent Cromwell was now the subject of their collective gazes and he shifted uncomfortably beneath so much heat.

“Where did he take her?” Cole asked then. His fangs were out; he hadn’t been able to reign in his wolf entirely, and his voice was as animalistic as his glowing-eyed appearance.

At that, the room fell silent. They seemed to be contemplating his words when, finally, Cole shifted where he stood beside the wall and came forward. “The address,” he repeated. This time, his tone left no room for argument or delay.

“Seventy-two-oh-one Grand Palms Circle. It’s inside the Silverstone Golf Club.”

Malcolm turned to Scrubs, who had taken up temporary residence on the rickety lamp table beside the window. The biker must have been used to being on the run – or at to least having to keep an eye out for trouble. Every now and then, he pulled the curtains slightly to the side and glanced out warily. Now, however, he stared at Malcolm and cringed. It was like he knew what was coming.

Malcolm took one look at the man, saw the worry etched into his features, and came to a decision. “Let me borrow your bike and I swear that if I wreck it, I’ll buy you three new ones.”

Scrubs handed him the key and Malcolm was out the door.

* * * *

“Follow that motorcycle.” Jessie signaled the helicopter pilot and spoke into his head set. The pilot glanced down, nodded once, and aimed the chopper so that it mirrored the movement of the bike that sped along the ground several hundred feet below.

The sky was filled with metal dragon flies; some belonged to news stations, some to the police. The one that Jessie was in belonged to the Council, or more specifically, to the Overseer. But the side of the Bell 412 read, “Mercy Air,” and anyone glancing up at it would mistake it for an emergency medical services helicopter.

Right now, the Mercy Air chopper was racing North over North Rainbow Boulevard. Down below, Malcolm Cole sped through the traffic, carving around other cars and orange barrels.

Jessie had Phelan’s address. The enforcers that had been in the motel room with Cole and the wizard had phoned it in to him right away. However, now he had a decision to make. Did he let Cole rescue Charlie and defeat Phelan? Or did he intervene and take Charlie to her grandfather at Council headquarters?

Jessie had his orders, but as always, they were flexibly contingent. It was part of what being a Sentinel was all about. Above all, it was his job to make certain that his charge was safe. But second only to that was the need to make sure she was happy. And that meant allowing her to fight her own battles, find her own mate, and learn her own lessons, no matter how painful those lessons may be.

That hadn’t originally been part of the plan, of course. Fifteen years ago, when Charlie’s initial group of Sentinels had been recalled, her grandfather had called Jessie into his office and spoken with him in private. The Overseer knew that his granddaughter was also a Dormant. She was the first of her kind. His son and his daughter-in-law had shared this information with him shortly before they’d died.

When they both died and watchers were sent in to look after Charlie until everything could be squared away, each Sentinel had caught her very special scent. It had been barely discernable; faint and only just beginning to bloom.