“Charlie, baby, clam down!”
Jessie was above her and was struggling to keep her pinned to the bed, her wrists in his hands. “Shh… baby girl, it’s okay. I’ve got you”
She could feel that she’d been fighting. Her muscles felt strained from the exertion. Her heart was still a rapid-fire drum beat behind her ribcage. She stared up at Jessie, knowing her own eyes were wide with a fear she couldn’t yet shake.
Jessie let go of her wrists and pulled her against him, wrapping his strong arms around her as she tucked her head into his chest. She was shaking. She could feel her body trembling against his.
She said nothing, but held onto him as he gently rocked her back and forth, running his hands through her hair. His low voice whispered that she would be all right. That she was safe. She breathed in his scent, felt the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips, and grounded herself with him until the cloying vestiges of her dream finally began to slip away.
After several long minutes had passed, Jessie pulled back just enough to look down at her. Charlie knew what was coming. He would want an explanation.
“You wanna tell me about it?” he asked softly.
She shook her head and dove for his chest again. She pressed herself hard against him; she could hear his heartbeat. It brought her comfort. But she knew he wouldn’t let it drop. She knew that he could tell something had been bothering her lately, and this dream was a catalyst. There was only so long she could avoid the inevitable.
Eventually, as she knew he would, he pulled her away from him again and gazed down at her. “You need to let me in, Charlie. What’s going on up here?” He gently touched his fingertips to her temple.
She took a deep breath and let it out with a whoosh. “I’ve been having these dreams… every night. They don’t let me sleep. Not very much, anyway.” She chewed on her lip, a nervous habit. “I’m getting tired, I can tell. Sometimes I miss beats and I never used to do that before.” She took a shaky breath and let it out again. “And Reese keeps getting the upper hand. It’s like he knows I’m tired and he….” She trailed off. She hadn’t meant to bring her trainer into the conversation already – it had just slipped out. And now it was too late.
Jessie pulled back from her and gently held her by her upper arms. His amber eyes burned into hers. “He’s the reason for all of these bruises, isn’t he?” he asked. She could hear the suppressed rage in his tone. She trusted Jessie with her life, but she knew he wasn’t a man to cross. He had connections and she was worried about him interfering somehow, about him trying to do something to David Reese.
“Jessie, it’s my own fault. He’s only trying to teach me-”
“Bullshit, Charlie. The man is a sadist.” He yanked the covers out from between them, exposing both of their bodies. His stark gaze raked across her flesh, stopping on the dark marks on her hip bones and upper thighs. He pointed to the splay of small bruises at the bottom of her rib cage. “These were not accidental,” he told her, his tone harsh. “He’s marking you up while you’re too exhausted to fight him off, and he’s enjoying it.” He almost growled that last bit. “Can’t you see that?”
Claire pulled away from him, suddenly angry. Her gaze narrowed. “He’s the only one who can teach me what I need to know, Jess. So far, it’s saved my life several times over.”
Jessie didn’t seem to have a reply for that. He opened his mouth as if to say something and then closed it again. She knew that he knew that she was right.
There was something about her that attracted a bad element. Men were magnetized to her; always had been. She exerted some sort of pull on members of the opposite sex. The good ones managed to keep their distance, out of respect maybe or at least a sense of what was right and what was wrong. But the others lost out against their more base instincts and she’d had to defend herself against them too many times.
Her parents had warned her about this. Well, sort of.
Before they’d been killed, they had pulled her aside and sat her down. She had been twelve at the time. Her mother had taken her hands and held them in her own. She told her that she was special and that it might cause some problems.
Problems? she remembered thinking. What sorts of problems? Like… strange periods? Zits? Delayed learning abilities? She remembered the horror that had crossed her mind as she thought, Oh God, do I have some sort of deadly disease?
Charlie had been utterly confused by her mother’s statement and had wanted to ask what her mother meant, but her father cut in before she could voice her question. He told her that she would need to learn to defend herself, and that she would always need to play it safe. She would need to learn to keep herself out of harm’s reach.
When Charlie had finally asked why, her parents had fallen silent.
“It’s complicated, Claire,” her mother had said. “A little too complicated for you to understand just now. But we’ll explain in time. When you’re ready.”
And they’d left it at that. It was the most bizarre conversation she’d ever had in her life and, as a twelve year old, she’d been quick to file it away in some cabinet in the back of her mind where all of the shadows and spider webs of adolescence lurked. She got on with her life.
Two months later, her parents were killed in a car accident on the Fort Pitt Bridge. Witnesses said that the SUV seemed to appear out of nowhere and then veer horribly out of control. It went straight through the barrier and off of the bridge, into the Monongahela below. When they pulled it out of the river, the vehicle had been ripped into metal shreds. They hadn’t said as much, but Charlie knew deep down that the same sort of thing had happened to her parents’ bodies.
The closed caskets all but confirmed it.
Charlie spent the remainder of her under-age days with her god-mother, and seeing as how the two of them got along relatively well, the courts hadn’t pursued it any further.
High school was touch and go. Claire grew up. And while everyone around her noticed that she’d bloomed into an extraordinarily beautiful young woman, all she wanted to do was bury herself in her work.
The combination was like catnip to her male peers. They began to take ardent notice in her. So did their girlfriends, though not in the same way. It wasn’t long before she found herself seeking out large friends for the relative protection their friendship offered. One such friend was a giant of a boy who loved Metallica. He let her play his drum set one afternoon and was stunned at how well she pulled off a flam paradiddle and buzz roll without ever having touched a drum kit before in her life. She was a quick study.
Claire also learned not to go anywhere alone. She learned to break eye contact with boys right away, so as not to send the wrong messages.
It all helped a little. But nothing was fool proof.
It was a nearly supernatural phenomenon, but she seemed to be a magnet for would-be rapists. After one too many narrow escapes that chilled her to the core, her parents’ warning came back to her. She wondered what it was that they’d never had a chance to tell her. At the same time, she resigned herself to never knowing.
Instead, she tried to deal with the problem she inexplicably faced.
She was a natural drummer; her hands seemed to fly on their own, always knowing where to go and when. So it was easy to join a band, surrounding herself once more with people who were not afraid to fight on her behalf. And she sought out trainers who could help her learn to defend herself.
One day, a woman in a Judo class suggested that Charlie try a man by the name of David Reese. She swore that there was no one better. She told Charlie that she could tell he was the kind of trainer she really needed.
David Reese was not listed in the phone book and he didn’t advertise anywhere. If the woman hadn’t given her his business card, Charlie may never have been able to find his private studio.
The man readily took her under his wing and she had been training with him for three years.
She had to agree that he was good. Very good. The best, maybe. B
ut Reese didn’t mess around. He attacked full-out and, short of back-handing her into unconsciousness or shoving a needle in her vein, he used the exact techniques that rapists or attackers would use. Charlie had found herself in many a painful position, trapped in his arms and at his mercy as he told her, in vivid detail, what it was that a rapist would most likely do next. He seemed to enjoy whispering the threats into her ears. His hands would often wander. Just as a rapist’s would.
Jessie was right, of course.
David Reese was sadistic. He was brutal and severe, even as he was thorough. Charlie’s friends had often implored her to stop going to him. But she knew, in the back of her head, that his ruthless methods were what kept her alive. Like it or not.
Right now, Jessie was looking at her with that intent, all-seeing gaze that meant he was noting every expression that crossed her features and placing them into some kind of communications formula for what he would say or do next.
What he did was take a deep, slow breath, in and out through his nose. And then he let the topic of David Reese drop.
“So, this Las Vegas deal,” he ventured, instead. “You’re taking it, I guess.”
She nodded. Once.
“When will you leave?” he asked.
“The day after tomorrow,” Charlie replied, pulling her gaze away from his to stare at the rug. She really didn’t want to go. She had never liked the desert. And the idea of Las Vegas seemed so plastic to her, so fake, it tore at some sort of sore spot deep within her. She loved it here in Pittsburgh. She’d grown up here. Her parents were buried in Homewood Cemetery.
Again, Jessie waited a while before speaking. When he did, he’d once more changed the subject and was pulling her back against his chest and wrapping them both in his sheets. “Tell me about these dreams of yours, baby girl.”
Charlie chewed on her lip for a moment. And then she took a deep breath and sighed. “Okay. But only if you promise not to laugh.”
“On my honor,” Jessie swore, placing a gentle kiss on the top of her head.
* * * *
Charlie swung her legs back and forth where they dangled over the wall above the train tracks. Her gaze was locked on the curving tunnel in the distance. In ten minutes, the train would come barreling around the corner, all metal and wind, and she would wave at the conductor. As always, he would wave back and pull the whistle. It was one of her favorite things about Pittsburgh. She was really going to miss her home town.
She sighed. “So, you don’t think this business is the least bit strange?”
Jessie glanced at her from where he sat beside her. “You mean Gabriel Phelan and his Casino deal.”
She shot him a withering look. “No, Whole Foods,” she quipped, nodding toward the store front several hundred yards away.
Jessie shook his head, rolling his eyes.
Charlie went on. “It’s just that this guy comes out of nowhere, Jess. He sends someone else to meet us and sign us up....” She shrugged, feeling strange. There was something about the deal that didn’t feel right. A man by the name of Gabriel Phelan, who apparently owned a lot of real estate all over the country but especially in Vegas, had just signed Charlie and her band to a very big deal. But she’d never met Phelan personally and the deal had come out of nowhere. It had a strange flavor to it. “Why would he want us, specifically?” she asked. “How the hell does he even know Black Squirrel exists?” She blew out a sigh. “And the whole six month thing is just sort of….”
“Creepy?” Jessie offered.
Charlie blushed. And then she shrugged.
Jessie’s cell phone beeped. He shut it off without looking at it and smiled at her. “You guys are good, Charlie.” He shook his head, something akin to wonder playing across his handsome features. His amber eyes seemed to burn in the waning light of day. “And you, Charlie? You are really good. You’re something special.” He laughed softly. “Baby girl, word gets around.”
Charlie didn’t necessarily agree. She couldn’t shake an uneasy sensation that had cloaked over her ever since Gabriel Phelan’s contact had approached them at a bar a few days ago. However, she didn’t have a chance to discuss it further with Jessie. A dull rumble was filling the air around them. The train was coming.
She turned to watch as the black dragon’s dependable roar effectively shut out the rest of the world.
* * * *
The man and woman seated precariously on the outside of the bridge over the roaring train were apparently unaware of anything but themselves and the train they watched roll by. They had no idea that they, in turn, were being observed.
A man in dark sunglasses and a gray sports coat pulled a phone from his pocket and dialed. His gaze remained locked on the woman with long, magnificent waves of strawberry blonde hair.
The call picked up on the first ring. “They’ve accepted the deal.”
“When can I tell him she’ll arrive?”
“She’ll leave here Monday.”
“I will relay the message.”
“There’s something else,” the man’s gaze narrowed as he watched the black man beside her wrap an arm around her and pull her close. “She spent the night with the attorney.”
There was a pause on the other end. And then, “Graves?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” It was stone-cold.
“Do you want him out of the picture?” the man in the sunglasses asked.
There was another pause, this one a good deal longer than the first. “No. He represents a weakness for her. Mr. Phelan may have use of him.”
“Understood.”
“Shadow her until she leaves. Make certain that everything runs smoothly.”
The line went dead and the man re-pocketed his phone. A gentle breeze wafted by him and he caught the young woman’s scent. He smiled, flashing predatory whites. “Special, indeed,” he chuckled to himself. “You have no idea, little Charlie.” He lowered his shades for a moment in order to obtain an unobstructed view of her. She laughed and he caught the sound, like wind chimes on the air. His smile broadened and he raised his glasses back into place. “No idea at all.”
Chapter Two, The Tell
A lot can happen in two years. A lot can change.
He should know. Over the course of the last two years, he had gone from being Malcolm Cole, the mass murderer, the rogue werewolf, the green-eyed monster - to Malcolm Cole, the exonerated. The pardoned.
He'd been forgiven. For things that he had never done.
To the Clan Council, the pardon was enough. His actual curse was a footnote to the more important business of determining his innocence in the grisly murders that Cole had been relentlessly forced to witness first-hand for decades.
The Roma's dying words didn't matter to them. The Clan only wanted to know that one of their own kind had not become that which the human world might actually fear. It was unfortunate that Cole bore the markings of a gypsy blight. But there was nothing they could do about it.
Malcolm took a shaky breath as he moved quickly through the large house and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. He winced when the red mark on his wrist brushed against his brown wavy locks. He supposed he should be grateful. At least, to one individual.
His case never would have been opened and set before the Council, much less heard and tried and closed again, if it had not been for the persistent and persuasive testimony of Lily St.Claire. After all he had put her through....
The forced confessions of one Allan Jennings, a Hunter, didn't hurt either.
Now, Cole raced around the corner and down the final corridor of the West wing of his home, toward the door at the end. A large blonde werewolf stood before it. Cole managed a nod toward Jake, who always guarded the entrance to Malcolm's new sanctuary. Cole didn't like the idea of the werewolf community knowing his weakness. Weaknesses could be exploited, and his was a doozy.
Jake nodded toward his alpha and opened the door for him. "God speed," Jake told him, with a reverent bow of hi
s head. It was what he always said when Cole was on his way out. Jake knew what it was that Cole would soon find himself surrounded with. He knew where his pack leader went when the wicked, ancient marks on his wrists began to glow red and the blood drained from Malcolm Cole's face, causing his emerald burning eyes to glow eerily bright.
Cole entered the stone room beyond without a word. He was always beyond speech at this point in the curse's cruel cycle. It just hurt too much.
Jake closed the door behind him. The sanctuary was a large stone room with no windows. Rich tapestries hung on the walls. At the room's center was a massive, round, stone stand-alone fireplace. Its blaze burned all day and all night, without fail. A set of large black leather chairs sat before it. Between the chairs was a small black refrigerator. Thick plush rugs covered the chamber's rough-hewn stone floor.
At the moment, the fire in the hearth crackled noisily and shined a stubborn, hopeful light through the darkness that was quickly wrapping itself around Cole's tall form. He struggled to get to the empty space between the chairs and the hearth before it would happen. He'd been too far away this time; it had taken him too long to get to the hidden room and the privacy it afforded.
Malcolm made it to the center of the vast chamber and bowed his head as the pain in his wrists became too much to bear. He gritted his teeth and suppressed the growl rising from his throat. His fangs pierced through the gums in his mouth, his fingernails threatening to lengthen into claws.
And then he felt himself shimmer. A familiar agony ripped through him, at last tearing a harsh, guttural cry from his throat. The room melted around him, flashed a bright, horrible red, and re-formed. When it was whole again, he was still standing, though barely.
He kept his eyes closed, shut tight against the world and its realities. Somewhere far away, traffic horns blared, people yelled at one another, and music poured from discotheque doors that opened and closed again. But here and now, in the silence of the stuffy space he'd found himself in, the only sound was that of his ragged breathing.
The Strip Page 2
