The Slaughtered Lamb Bookstore and Bar (Sam Quinn Book 1)

by Seana Kelly

Clive nodded. “Probable. The Quinn line of wolves goes back to the beginning. They came to the New World in the 1700s, when local farmers had had enough and began to hunt and kill everyone in the line. As far back as we’ve searched, they have all been born male wolves. We believe you’re the first female, which may be due to having a wicche for a mother.”

  “Is that confirmed? She was definitely a wicche?” I hadn’t had a chance to visit Ule again to research wicches.

  “Yes,” Russell said. “I’ve spoken with a number of sources and they all confirm that your mother was a Corey wicche.”

  “But why do you think I’m a born wolf? They’re extraordinarily rare, and I’d never shown any symptoms until after the attack.” None of this made sense.

  “There are precious few female wolves, period. If we’re talking born female wolves, you may be unique.” Clive pulled the nearest fist from my hoodie and held it, his fingers gently tracing my hand until I unclenched. “From what we’ve read, most females don’t survive the turning. There’s much conjecture as to why, but even experts don’t agree. The fact is, even though your turning was a sadist’s fantasy, you survived. And aged.”

  Yes. I’d read that werewolves didn’t age after their turning and yet I clearly had. I hadn’t known what to make of it, and the books I’d found on the topic hadn’t helped. I could have called my uncle to ask, but I’d barely known him. I’d been attacked while under his protection and then sent away to survive or not on my own. Sending him money every month was the extent of our relationship. Unfortunately, that meant I knew far too little about what I was.

  “If you’d been turned at seventeen,” Clive continued. “You should still appear that age. You’ve continued to mature. My understanding is that born wolves age until they hit their prime, and then physically remain there until death.”

  Russell pulled up to my stairs and turned off the engine.

  “You’ve worn your mother’s protective amulet since you were a child. The purpose may have been more than to keep you hidden. It may also have been to mute your inherited traits. That attack seven years ago seemed to have brought the werewolf strain to the fore. Now that the necklace is gone, it will be interesting to see if you manifest magic from your mother, as well.”

  I got very little sleep. I kept dreaming about dark passages and vicious werewolves who lurked around every corner. It was one of those horrible dreams where I did nothing but run from one menace after another. I awoke sweaty, the sheets twisted around my legs.

  After showering and opening the wards, I left a message for Ule to see when I could get back in his archive. In the meantime, I pulled books on wicchecraft from my bookstore shelves, looking for any references to the Corey wicches.

  When the sun went down, the phone rang. “Slaughtered Lamb, this is Sam.”

  “Ms. Quinn, this is Russell. Clive asked me to call you. Members of the Bodega Bay pack have asked for permission to visit the city. The Alpha should be with them. Clive thought you might like to speak with them.”

  “They’re coming tonight?”

  “Yes. Admittedly, the timing seems suspect, but it is not an unusual request. I checked our records. They were last in the city six weeks ago. We’ve directed them toward a vampire-run night club south of Market. You will be protected.”

  “He’s right. I do want to talk with them. We don’t know who the second woman we retrieved from the ocean is. She might be a member of their pack.” I wanted her body returned to people who knew her.

  “The Alpha has been in charge for a long time,” Russell said. “He may have information for you, things we couldn’t find in legal documents, about your father.”

  “Good point.” I looked out the window at the pink afterglow of the setting sun reflecting off the water. “Hey, aren’t you guys supposed to still be napping right now?”

  “Clive will be by at ten this evening to pick you up.”

  “Gotcha. Still wondering about you being awake, though.”

  “There is much you don’t know about us, Ms. Quinn.” Click.

  Aside from a drunken pixie who regularly broke out in song—preferring show tunes from the 1950s—the evening was thankfully uneventful. I was working up the nerve but waited until Owen was almost off before I pulled him into the kitchen where Dave was making shrimp pad thai.

  “Out!” Dave bellowed.

  “We’ll be quiet and stay out of your way,” I whispered, as I pulled Owen toward the door to my apartment. “I need your help.”

  He waited.

  “Clive,” I pointed vaguely toward the bar, not sure why. “We’re supposed to go to some South-of-Market nightclub tonight to interview wolves from the Bodega Bay Pack.”

  He nodded, “Okay, and…”

  I spread my hands out, indicating my clothes. “I don’t exactly own nightclub wear.”

  Dave snorted.

  Owen moved, blocking Dave from my view. “I see. Use Owen for his unparalleled fashion sense but refuse to give him any sexy vamp details. Is that the kind of one-sided friendship we have, Sam?”

  “What sexy vamp details? I have none of those.”

  “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Clive lately. The grapevine is all aflutter.” He grabbed a cookie from the cooling rack and bit in. “All I’m saying is that if and when there are sexy vamp details to share, I expect to be informed.”

  He was right. I’d kept myself separate and alone for so long, the change so gradual, that I’d missed it. Owen was my friend. Actually, the more I thought of it, Dave was, too. Look at me! Two friends.

  I smiled, “When he kissed me my brain turned off. Quite literally, I was kissed stupid.”

  “I knew it! I’ve heard rumors about their prowess between the sheets.” He waved a hand. “C’est la vie, I have George, who is smoking hot, by the way. Don’t let that mild-mannered, farm boy vibe fool you. Okay, let’s find you some clothes.”

  “Wait. Let me check.” I jogged across the kitchen floor and ducked out the door to the bar. “Anybody need anything?” At the murmurs of no, I led Owen into my apartment.

  He wandered through the living room, checking things out. “Nice.”

  I’d never invited him in before. I hadn’t invited anyone, actually. Except for Clive, that is. It was weird but nice, sharing a little of myself with him.

  He flung open the door of my closet, turned to me, then back to the closet. “Is this a joke?”

  “What?”

  “Why do you have stacks of boxes labeled books in your closet? Where are your clothes?”

  I pointed to a chest of drawers against the opposite wall.

  “All of your clothes are kept in four drawers?”

  I counted off on my fingers. “Socks and underwear, jeans and t-shirts—they take two drawers—sweaters and sweats. Done.”

  He looked me up and down. “I thought these were just the crap clothes you wore for work. I didn’t realize these were all you had.”

  I shrugged, embarrassed.

  He gave me a quick hug. “Sorry. Shock and too-little sleep have messed with my filters. This is totally fixable.” He stared into space for a minute. “I have an idea.” He took off for the apartment door again. “Make sure I can get back in!” He shouted as he left.

  “Let Owen enter.” I opened a drawer and stared at all my silly t-shirts. I was in trouble.

  When I heard a strange noise, I wandered back to the living room. Owen’s hand tentatively poked through the open doorway and waved around, before he stepped through.

  “Thanks. I was afraid to just walk through in case the ward threw me across the kitchen.” He had a scarf in his hand and a little flowered bag.

  “I don’t think that bag is going to fit me.”

  “Haha, ye of little faith.” He clapped his hands. “Let’s do this. First, go get cleaned up.” He shoved me towards the bathroom while he went straight for my clothes drawers. He called over his shoulder, pulling out pairs of jeans, “Use that body wash I got you for you
r birthday. You’ll smell so good no one will notice what you’re wearing.”

  When I got out of the shower, he had clothes laid out for me on the bed and some makeup on the dresser. “Where the heck did you find makeup?”

  Owen grinned. “You may not wear makeup, but many women do. I just borrowed a few items from your patrons. They were happy to pitch in.”

  My shoulders slumped. Great, now they all knew I was a pathetic fixer-upper.

  Owen gave me a sympathetic smile. “It’s nothing like whatever you’re thinking. I discretely asked a few women for some assistance. They were excited to help and promised not to say a word.” I was still looking pouty, so Owen patted the top of my head. “They love you, Sam, and they want to help in any way you’ll let them. Smile. Say thank you. Let them feel good. Okay?”

  I was being a baby. “All right, so what am I wearing?”

  “Well, let’s face it. Your wardrobe is atrocious, even for a ten-year-old boy. I found a fabulously grungy pair of jeans. They aren’t party wear, but it’s not like I had much to work with.”

  I looked at the jeans. “No, those are too small and have holes in the knees. I just keep them to clean in.”

  “You seem to be confused on the topic of fit. The jeans you normally wear are at least two sizes too big. These,” he held up my old battered pair, “will fit you perfectly and I’ve added a few more strategically placed holes.” He turned them around and showed me that he’d broken through the threadbare seat, so I now had two ventilation holes right below my butt.

  “That’s obscene!”

  “No, that’s sexy.” He gave me an exasperated look. “Trust me, Sam. You’ll look hot, and they’ll be lining up to dance with you.”

  I looked at the top on the bed. “Where did that come from? Did you borrow someone’s shirt?” What the hell? Was he stripping my customers?

  “No, silly. I bought you this top last year. Remember?”

  I grimaced.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ve never worn it. I found it at the bottom of your dresser. It will be perfect for tonight.” He shoved the jeans and top, along with a thong into my arms and herded me back into the bathroom to dress.

  “Where did the thong come from? And I need a bra.” I was not wearing someone else’s undies. I drew the line at borrowing unmentionables.

  “Damn, you didn’t even look through the box I gave you. The thong was under the top.”

  “I still need a bra.”

  “You don’t need one with that top.”

  I wasn’t exactly built, but I also wasn’t one of those women who was sleek enough to go braless and not be uncomfortable.

  “The top has built-in support. Trust me.” He shoved me in the bathroom and closed the door. “Just put the clothes on, Sam.”

  I took off my robe and started dressing. The thong was creepy. I felt naked, but with a wedgie, which was wrong on so many levels. The jeans were now especially drafty with holes in the seat and no back to my panties. The top was black, long-sleeved, and skintight. Owen was right. There was a built-in support panel and wolves have perpetually perky boobs, but I thought it was obvious that I was braless. I looked at myself in the mirror, uncomfortable wearing such form-fitting clothing.

  Owen knocked. “Come on, let’s see.” When I opened the door, Owen just stared. “Holy shit, you look hot.” He grabbed the thin, colorful scarf off the bed and tied it around my waist, sarong style. He fiddled with the top, pulling it up, so there were a couple of inches of skin showing, meaning a few inches of scarring were on display.

  I pulled the shirt back down and tucked it in. “No, no, no.”

  “If I had a stomach like yours, I’d go shirtless every day.”

  I gave him a look.

  “Fine, be that way. Turn around so I can do your hair and makeup.”

  “How do you know how to do all this?”

  “Sisters. Three of them. It was either learn or never get in the bathroom.” He made my green eyes smoky, and my lips dark red. He blew my hair out straight and left it long. It had been many years since I’d done anything other than wash and ponytail it. It was now down to the small of my back. Luckily, I’d inherited my father’s thick, wavy golden-brown hair, rather than my Mom’s thin, black hair. Hey! I remembered something about my Mom. She used to complain about having thin hair when she brushed mine.

  Five minutes later, Owen declared himself a genius and me ready to go. I pulled on my leather jacket and started for the door.

  “Wait.” Owen dropped a necklace over my head. It was a pendant of a howling wolf. Helena, the wicche who had taken me in when I first arrived in San Francisco, had given it to me years ago. It looked like silver but was white gold. “It’s cheeky. You should wear it.”

  When I walked through the kitchen, Dave froze and then let out a long breath. “Fuck. Has Clive seen you?”

  I looked down at myself, nervous. “Is it bad?”

  He grinned and shook his head, “Ah, no.” He went back to cooking. “Make sure those wolves keep their hands to themselves or they may lose them.”

  “Is what I’m wearing inappropriate?”

  “For a south-of-Market club? Hell, no. I’m saying Clive’s not above pulling off arms if someone gets grabby with you.” He turned back to stirring the contents of his sauté pan. “Try not to start any species wars.”

  Eighteen

  At the Bottom of a Ravine, You Say?

  Clive stood at the end of the bar, waiting. He showed no reaction to the new look, save for the raising of one eyebrow. He didn’t appear displeased, so I hoped I passed for a normal human being who knew how to dress properly. Actually, that probably gave me more credit than I deserved.

  We made it out of the bar with little fuss. Everyone was pretending not to stare at us. I felt self-conscious about the holes in the back of my jeans, so I tried to get Clive to go first. Stupid, ingrained politeness meant he insisted I go ahead. I’m sure he got an eyeful of my ass as we climbed the stairs. Thankfully, his good manners extended to staying silent about my overly drafty jeans. I hoped it was too dark to see anything.

  A sleek, dark roadster was parked at the top of the stairs. I guess no driver tonight. The car chirped as we approached. Before I could touch the handle, Clive pulled the door open. I slid into a low, soft leather seat. It was the sports car he’d driven the night we’d visited the demon strip club. Clive got in, and the throaty engine growled to life.

  “Have you learned anything from Ethan?”

  Clive’s hands fisted on the wheel. “Yes. I’ve learned there’s something amiss in my nocturne.” He sounded so angry I wasn’t sure if I should ask, but I did anyway.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I either have a traitor in my nocturne or a spell was able to make it past my protections.” He glanced at me as he stopped at a light. “Ethan is dead. William stood guard outside the door. When I went back to deal with him after dropping you off, I found his body on the floor.”

  “A locked-door murder mystery. It doesn’t sound too tricky, though. Have you considered William is your murderer?”

  Clive shook his head as he turned the corner. “William. That never occurred to me.”

  I threw up my hands. “Fine. Who do you think it is?”

  “If I knew, I’d be dealing with them right now.” He made a sound of annoyance. “I questioned William. He is not able to lie to me. No one went in or out, but still the wolf is dead.”

  “Sounds like whoever was controlling him pulled the plug.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  I was sick of contemplating death. “Where to?”

  “The Crypt. The wolves have just checked in.”

  Clive parked a block from a nightclub that had a line around the corner.

  “Are you cold?” Clive held my door as I climbed out.

  I shook my head.

  “Good. Are you wearing the bracelet Coco gave you?”

  Pulling up the sleeve of my jacket, I showed off
the hammered copper cuff. “Never leave home without it.”

  Nodding, he led the way to the door of the nightclub. The bouncer moved the people waiting in line, so Clive and I could breeze past. Once in, Clive took an immediate right down a short hall ending in a door with a ‘no admittance’ sign. He knocked once. The door was opened immediately by a woman in black leather pants and a white silk collared shirt. It was the nightclub equivalent of the vampire uniform.

  “Master.” She gave Clive a quick bow, before moving out of our way.

  “Eve. Are our guests still with us?” Clive moved to the wall of screens, each running the feed from a different in-house camera.

  Eve pointed to the screen on the far right. “They’re in the back booth, Sire. Just as you requested.”

  “Thank you. I know Hollis and his second Andre. Do we know anything about the others in his party?”

  “We’re investigating now, Sire.”

  Clive nodded. “Tell me when you know.” He turned his attention to me. “You can leave your jacket in here, if you’d like.”

  “Sure.” I unzipped and shrugged out of the leather bomber, handing it to Clive.

  He hung it on a coat rack in the corner, and then led me out of the office and into the nightclub proper.

  True to the club’s name, the interior looked like a crypt. The walls appeared to be aged stone. There were booths along the outside of the room. Each booth was in its own crypt. The walls between the booths displayed row after row of bones and skulls, floor to ceiling, like the Capuchin Crypt in Italy. There were screens around the periphery with colorful images writhing in time with the music, like stained glass windows come to life. The center of the room was a teeming dance floor. The bar, to the right of the entrance, was crowded with black-clad patrons.

  Dark, sensual music pounded through the sound system. Clive led the way through the crowd, before Russell stepped in front of us.

  “Liege, Ms. Quinn, the Bodega Bay wolves are seated in the booth at the end of the room. If you will allow me, I’ll make the introductions.” He inclined his head in a show of respect to Clive and then led the way to the far corner of the nightclub.