The Strip

by Heather Killough-Walden

  If she’d called Valentine with this news, then it must have been another vision. She was taking them in rather rapidly today.

  Cole shook himself and forced his mind to think fast. Jake was beside him, and the rest of his pack, except for Lucas Caige, were further down the alley – waiting.

  He turned to Jake. “I have to go in and find Charlie. You take six men and help Valentine clear the hotel. Check the pools.” Children always went swimming with sitters while their parents were out enjoying a break. “Get the kids out. Keep in touch and let me know when you’re in the clear.”

  Jake nodded and waved a few men over. They were gone within seconds. The rest of Malcolm’s pack gathered just behind him, awaiting his next command.

  “Cole!” Again, Valentine was calling him, this time from where he stood beside the witch. Malcolm joined him without prelude.

  “Dannai says that Claire is in the basement. The Council’s enforcers have already gone in ahead of us. They should be making it in right about now.”

  Malcolm glanced from Valentine to the woman beside him. She was a starkly attractive young woman, possibly in her late twenties to early thirties. Her hair reminded Cole of a raven’s wings and fell in thick waves to the middle of her back. Her complexion was smooth and clear and just dark enough that it was a good bet one of her parents had been black, and she had the unexpected eye color to prove it. It seemed to be a speckled amalgamation of blue, green, gray, and brown.

  They were pretty, but odd enough to be somewhat disquieting.

  Malcolm assumed that this was Dannai. “You can sense her?” he asked.

  The woman nodded. Once.

  “Then can you tell me how many people are in the hotel, in general?”

  “Not many,” she said. She had a beautiful voice; deep and rich, but a touch shy. “There’s a show going on down the street. Big opening thing; most people are there this morning.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Maybe about fifty… mostly on the first few floors. Majority are in the casino.”

  Malcolm nodded and turned to his men. “Clear out the bottom floors and then get out.”

  Adam Trenayne, a younger but very hard-hitting member of Cole’s pack, stepped forward. “I want to go with you. You can handle Phelan, but not his entire pack.”

  Cole eyed him. Trenayne knew that Malcolm was going down to the basement to retrieve Charlie and that Gabriel Phelan would probably be there as well – along with most, if not all of his wolves. Adam was never one to shy away from a fight; the slimmer the odds, the better.

  Malcolm nodded, accepting the offer. “Valentine,” he then turned to the guardian werewolf, shooting him a meaningful glance.

  James Valentine nodded; he would join him as well.

  “You can control human minds, Cole,” Dannai suddenly said, pulling his attention back to the witch. She gazed at him steadily. “At least to some extent. I can help you expand your reach – you can make the humans in the building want to leave immediately. No werewolf interference required.”

  Cole blinked. Shit. “You can do that?”

  She nodded again, all confidence.

  She was good. And she knew too much about him. For a human, she was very, very much within the werewolf community’s circle. She was important enough to be working directly for The Council. It made Cole wonder.

  “Fine. Do it,” he told her. He waited as she came forward and placed her hand, palm-down, on his chest. Electricity seemed to buzz through her hand and onto his skin, spreading and sinking until his entire mid-section was encompassed in a cocoon of rather brawny legerdemain.

  “Go,” she ordered, closing her eyes.

  Malcolm closed his eyes as well and reached out with his power, spreading it around himself like invisible feelers, until he sensed that it had gone much further than it normally would have gone. The witch was assisting his coils of influence, making them thicker, longer and stronger.

  He found a human mind and dove in deep, causing the human to throw down his cards and fold, pushing away from the table at which he sat. Others followed suit. Within a few minutes, slot machines found themselves abandoned and Craps tables were empty. Bouncers began to head toward the exits, wondering what was happening.

  None of the burly guards were werewolves. They were unsuspecting humans, hired to protect an enterprise that was about to be blown to smithereens. Cole attacked their minds, scrambling their thoughts until all they knew was that they wanted to go outside and take a walk… just like everyone else.

  How much time do we have? Cole asked, knowing instinctively that the witch who was now touching him would be able to hear his thoughts.

  Minutes… I don’t know. St. Claire is the seer, not me.

  He opened his eyes and she removed her hand, stepping back. “I’m going in,” he announced as he turned to Adam and James. They nodded, in unison, falling in behind him as he raced through the entrance to the back stairwell of The August.

  Cole’s werewolf hearing immediately caught the sounds of struggle somewhere below, deep underground.

  He could smell blood and would be willing to bet that the other two men with him could as well. They sped down the steel and concrete stairwell until they came to a set of double doors that had already been torn off of their hinges.

  Malcolm followed the sounds ahead, sprinting down a long dark tunnel to another set of doors. These too had been ripped open. Beyond was a final hallway, this one lined with sconces that held torches now extinguished and smoking in their brackets.

  The stench of more blood assaulted his senses. But, this time there was a delicate ribbon of scent attached to it that Malcolm instantly recognized. It was Charlie’s blood.

  With a roar of rage, Cole flashed into wolf form and drove into the fray beyond the last, arched doorway.

  Immediately, another wolf met him in combat, going for his throat. He easily knocked the silver wolf aside, slamming the other animal’s body against the stone wall. Then he looked around, his vision having shifted into perfect night sight so that the forms in the chaos of the large room were easily discernable.

  Charlie was not among them.

  And, though he still had no idea what the other alpha werewolf looked like, Cole was certain that Gabriel Phelan was not in the area, either. The entire room had been outfitted as a dungeon, complete with racks and restraints and a large variety of torture implements lining the walls. The vast, dark space reeked of black magic. There was either a warlock currently in the room – or there had been recently.

  As Malcolm pondered this, he caught the slender waft of Charlie’s blood once more and whipped around to follow it.

  He bounded forward and was caught, mid-flight, by another body crashing side-long into his. The two fur-covered forms went sailing at a right angle and hit the ground rolling, their blurred bodies an entangled flurry of black and gray.

  Malcolm wasted no time in gaining the upper hand; his strength was greater, and his need more desperate. His claws found purchase in the other wolf’s belly and his fangs found the other wolf’s neck.

  He bit deep and pulled back, ripping his attacker’s throat out. He didn’t wait to watch the man flash back into human form. Instead, he bounded away and sniffed the air, locking once more onto the scent of Charlie’s suffering.

  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.

  “He owns a house North of town. He’s with a warlock who used a Recall Stone.”

  “I need the address,” Cole stated, simply.

  “Fine, but be warned, Cole,” Vincent straightened and shot him a steady gaze. “There’s something not right about the warlock.”

  “You mean besides the fact that he uses black magic?” Lily asked. She wasn’t quite being sarcastic.

  Vincent glanced at her and nodded. “Yes. He calls himself ‘Seth,’” he said. “And he smells different from other warlocks.”

  “Exactly how many have you had occasion to scent?” Valentine asked, his tone heavy with disapproval.

  “A few,” Vincent replied, undaunted and unashamed. “And Seth is worse than all of them combined.”

  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.”