The Strip

by Heather Killough-Walden

  “Call Scrubs,” Cole commanded. “There’s no way in hell I’m waiting for that spell to drop.”

  Jake’s eyes widened.

  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 li
kely, 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.

  “Of course,” Seth answered easily. “One can’t be too careful, and contracting with werewolves is dangerous business for my kind. An associate of mine was killed a few years ago in Baton Rouge for agreeing to do the same thing I will be doing tonight.”

  Vincent knew who he was referring to: Eva Black, the witch-warlock who had attempted to remove Daniel Kane’s mark from Lily St. Claire’s arm. She had failed. And Kane’s pack had killed her. It seemed like ages ago. Working for Phelan was no walk in the park. If time flew by when you were having fun, then it positively crawled when you were employed by the devil.

  “Just out of curiosity, how many people can it carry?” Vincent asked, still referring to the stone and its magical abilities.

  “It’ll take everyone within a thirty-foot radius,” Seth answered calmly. Then he leaned forward and pinned Vincent with a meaningful look. “Everyone that I want it to take, that is.”

  The significance of that final statement was not lost on Vincent. But he had no time to contemplate it further, for the sound of footsteps came from beyond the dungeon door.

  He stood and faced the door, knowing that Phelan and his men – and Claire St.James – were on the other side of it.

  He could hear her heartbeat. It was a frantic hummingbird kind of sound amidst the calm, cool beats of the werewolves surrounding her. And he could hear her breathing. It was clear, by the sound of it, that she had not been gagged. It would have been pointless, and she probably knew it. The stairwell leading from the two upper floors to the basement was completely private and sealed off from the rest of the hotel. It was sound proofed and free of doors or windows.

  As was the dungeon. There was only one way in or out of the massive, stone room, and only two people had a key. Gabriel Phelan had one. Vincent Cromwell had the other.

  Seth the warlock remained seated as the door unlocked and Phelan and his men came in. However, once the two men leading St.James dragged her into the room, the warlock finally stood.

  Vincent noticed the movement and turned to look at the other man.

  It was clear, from the fascinated expression on Seth’s attractive face, that he was incredibly impressed with her beauty. Apparently, whatever dark, insidious powers had informed Seth of Cromwell’s need of his magic had failed to mention that the woman he would be casting that magic on was very special, indeed. She was a female-born werewolf – and a Dormant.

  In addition, Cole’s possessive mark seemed to have released an air around her that screamed of sexual tension. It was as if she was in heat or drenched in pheromones.

  “Strip her and string her up,” Phelan ordered as he strode through the room toward one of the leather “viewing” couches near Vincent and the warlock.

  Cromwell watched as Phelan’s men unfastened Claire’s cuffs in order to disrobe her and she immediately began fighting. She moved incredibly fast. Her body nearly blurred with speed as she back-handed one werewolf and kicked another solidly in the solar plexus.

  Beside Vincent, Gabriel shrugged off his suit coat and laid it on the sofa, watching the proceedings with an interested, but detached air. His blue eyes sparkled with barely-disguised malevolence, even as his easy movements spoke of a cool and collected calm.

  Gabriel unhurriedly unfastened his tie, taking it off to lay it next to his suit coat. Across the room, Charlie’s wrists were caught by one man and she used the leverage of his weight to lift herself up and kick him in the chin. He let her go.

  Gabriel sighed. He unbuttoned the top three buttons on his white shirt.

  Charlie was attacked again, and this time her movements were a tad slower. But she managed a few direct blows before she was ducking away from one of the large men and then jerking out of the sudden grasp of another.

  Gabriel began to roll up the sleeves of his shirt, barely paying any attention to the struggle now. Instead, he seemed to be focusing inward. Preparing himself.

  Vincent knew that his boss had done this before. Many, many times. He was a born dominant and a practiced sadist and he was well versed in the art of breaking a person’s spirit. Unlike most dominants, however, he didn’t do so with the express permission of a submissive and he didn’t do it for her pleasure. Instead he did it simply because he could. He’d been wanting to break Claire St.James for years, and now he had an excuse. He wanted the mark off of her arm; he planned to tear down her will until she gave him the permission he needed to take it off.

  A few more tense minutes passed and, finally Claire was once more detained, this time by four men whose fangs were extended and whose eyes were glowing like headlights. They hadn’t been allowed to bring her any harm in apprehending her, which had made their jobs much more difficult. The anger and frustration they felt was blatantly obvious. Claire’s struggles had only spurred the hunger within them. If Phelan had not been standing in the same room with them, she would have been their dinner by now.

  “You know how much I love to watch you fight, Charlie, but I have to admit that I had something a little different in mind for today,” Gabriel said calmly. His deep voice echoed off the walls and drowned the sound of Claire’s heavy breathing as he moved to one of the stone walls in the room and began to casually peruse the whips that hung from hooks along its surface.

  Behind him, three of his men held Charlie tightly while the fourth roughly grabbed the front of her Metallica t-shirt and ripped it clean away from her body. She hissed as the material bit into her skin and then gave way, revealing the lace bra and supple swell of her breasts beneath.

  Her narrowed gaze flashed ice-cold fire at the man. From between gritted teeth, she ground out, “That was vintage, you son of a bitch.”

  He smiled a fang-filled smile and then wrapped his fist around the front band of her jeans. Charlie stilled. A shirt was one thing, but ripping the jeans off of her was going to hurt. Bad.

  “Hold still and I won’t shred them,” he threatened her, as if he could read her mind.

  Vincent could tell that she desperately wanted to fight him; she knew what was at stake. But she was a smart girl. She stopped struggling and the werewolf’s smile became positively wicked as he snapped each of the buttons and then lowered himself to one knee in front of her.

  She gazed down at him, her chest rising and falling with quick breaths as he grasped the jeans in two strong hands and slowly slid them down her long legs. The tattooed biceps of the werewolf’s arms bulged with barely suppressed ferocity as all of the muscles in his body tensed, flexing with the need he felt. Vincent was pretty sure that he knew why. He imagined that the werewolf could scent her in that position – kneeling before her long, lithe form. Her body was probably making him cr
azy. Vincent didn’t envy him.

  But the werewolf certainly didn’t lack self control. You couldn’t work for Gabriel Phelan if you did. And so, when he was finished pulling Claire’s jeans down, he allowed them to pool at her feet and then instructed her to step out of them. As she did, he grasped her ankles and pulled off her shoes, leaving her in nothing but her panties and the matching bra.

  Then he stood and strode to a nearby shelf, which bore on its surface a wide assortment of leather restraints and cuffs. He selected a pair and returned to the center of the room.

  Vincent could hear Claire’s heart skip a beat and then start up again, harder than before. He wondered if it hurt her. There was so much adrenaline already flooding her blood stream that he wouldn’t be able to tell if it had. He could see the mark on the inside of her right arm. It had gone from emerald green to a blood red and he didn’t have to guess whether it was causing her pain. He knew it was. She wasn’t supposed to be touched by anyone but the wolf who had given her that mark.

  She was being touched by all sorts of people.

  The werewolf with the cuffs watched Claire through hooded, brightly glowing eyes as he reached up and grasped one of the leather ropes that dangled from the ceiling above him. At its end was a buckling device. He pulled hard on it, as if to test its strength. When it held easily, he let it go and nodded toward the men who held Claire. They moved her forward, lifting her and then setting her down firmly in front of him.

  He wasted no time, then. Quickly and efficiently, the fourth werewolf proceeded to wrap the strong, leather restraints tightly around each of her slim wrists. When he had finished, he then raised her arms over her head to connect them to the buckles on the end of the leather ropes.

  All four men released her then and stepped back. It was a scene straight out of an S&M film. Countless strong, fully clothed men in a dark dungeon, surrounding a nearly naked, very beautiful woman who was bound and helpless before them.

  Vincent couldn’t deny the pull the picture had on him. He was a wolf. He loved the hunt as much as the next wolf. And when the entire pack was aroused, it was exceedingly difficult not to follow suit.