by J. C. Holly
He turned to leave the room only for two men to step into his path. He turned back to the alpha, an eyebrow raised.
“You’re not going anywhere until I’ve corroborated this,” the large man said. “Now sit back down.”
Harlan sighed and shook his head. “I have more important things to do than wait around while you fact check.”
“You sit, or we make you sit.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
The alpha laughed. “You may think yourself something special because The Ancients pay you to murder, but you’re still one man.”
“The Ancients hired me because I’m very good at what I do.” He cracked his neck. “And then they made me even better.”
The two men with hands on his shoulders squeezed, trying to push him to the ground. He responded by slamming his elbows into their chests. As they staggered back he jumped up onto the edge of the table, then flipped backwards in a somersault, landing behind the two men. Before they could turn he jabbed them both in the kidneys, dropping them like stones.
The rest of the pack were on their feet in an instant, moving toward him as one. He held out his left hand and willed his blade into existence, then held out the right and willed another. The pack slowed.
“I don’t want to fight, and I certainly don’t want to kill,” he said, his gaze directly on the alpha. “But if your boys come any closer, I’ll put a blade between your eyes.” He tossed one blade into the table and willed yet another to appear in his now empty hand. “And then I’ll do the same to everyone else.”
The alpha’s eyes were wide, but he waved his men back. “What the hell are you?”
“I’m a shifter.” Harlan smiled and turned back to the door. “With extras.”
Despite his confidence that he wouldn’t be followed, Harlan didn’t dawdle on his walk back to the car. He dismissed the blades as soon as he left the building, so as not to create a scene, then jogged across the parking lot and was away into traffic within another minute.
The blades always swayed things in his favor. While shifters weren’t allergic to silver like the stories told, the metal attracted attention. And a knife was still a knife, regardless of its color, and these could cut through anything.
They, or rather the ability to produce them, had been a gift after his tenth successful hunt. The “transference,” as his handler had called the process of giving the ability, had been excruciating, and had left Harlan incapacitated for a week as the magics were forced into every cell in his body. Even thinking back to it made him wince. The blades had saved his life on more than one occasion, though, and the pride of being trusted enough by The Ancients to bestow them more than made up for the occasional nightmare.
As he pulled up to a red light, he texted Mitch back.
Sure. My place again? H.
As he sent it, he swore. After the meeting with Brubeck’s pack, he needed to keep a low profile for a day or two, and that meant moving motels. Thankfully the text that came back almost immediately solved the issue.
How about my place at six? I have a minibar and all the towels you can stuff in a suitcase.
Harlan laughed and made a note of the address that was at the end of the text, along with who to ask for at the desk, then pulled away from the light and headed back to his motel.
Chapter Six
Mitch slid his phone into the back of his pants only for it to start ringing. He pulled it back out, wondering if it was Harlan looking to change something, then sighed as he recognized the name on the screen. Robert Charleston, agent extraordinaire.
“Hey, Bob. What’s up?”
“Mitch!” The man drew out the i to an annoying degree. “I hear you didn’t head out with the band. That’s great!”
Mitch rolled his eyes. Here it comes…
“Someone got wind of that information, and a local radio show is asking if you’ll show up tonight. Around ten?”
He knew who had told the radio station. It was Bob. It was always Bob. “No can do. I’m busy.”
“Aw, come on, man. The money’s good. More than usual, since I pointed out you weren’t here for long.”
“Not interested. Like I said, I’m busy.”
His agent sighed, overdramatically. “Date?”
“Sort of, yeah. It’s hush-hush, though. And I don’t mean ‘one photographer in the bushes,’ I mean no photographers on pain of firing and a lawsuit.”
“Yeesh, chill out, Mitch. I won’t tell a soul. Promise.”
He may have been many things, but Bob was good to his word. Probably because he knew how much money he’d lose if Mitch fired him.
“So, you heading out tomorrow?” Bob asked.
“That’s the plan, yeah.” Mitch glanced at himself in the hotel room’s long mirror. “Depends on tonight though, I guess.”
“Oh, it’s that kind of date, huh? A serious one.”
“No, not really. It’s just…” He rubbed at his scar. “It’s complicated. I’ve gotta go. Speak to you later.”
He tossed the phone onto the bed and rubbed his stubble as he decided what to tell Harlan.
If he’d felt good last night, he’d only improved further throughout the day. He had never felt more energetic, or stronger. Hell, even his senses seemed to be more acute. He’d ordered breakfast that morning and smelled it coming as soon as the waiter came out of the elevator.
As great as that was, though, there were parts he wasn’t so sure of. He felt pent up. Like he needed to do something, but he didn’t know what that thing was, which left him on edge all day. As a result, his temper seemed to be shorter, leaving him frustrated by things that wouldn’t usually piss him off.
On top of that, he’d woken horny as hell and itching for a fight. One was easily taken care of, but Mitch wasn’t a fighter. Up until that moment he’d never had any interest in getting into a tussle of any kind. Not to mention that the press would be all over it. Still, the urge remained, bubbling under the surface.
“Maybe he’ll think I’m crazy,” he muttered as he dropped the bathrobe and pulled on a pair of jeans. “Or he’ll run to the press to sell the story.”
Prior to the band hitting the big time, he’d been a trusting man. A few sleazy headlines had seen to the end of that, though, leaving him jaded and closed. This would be the first time he’d met a guy twice in years. Usually he’d fuck them and then never see them again.
Something about Harlan made Mitch think he was different, though. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was a sense of… kinship? He snorted and shook his head. That sounded like something out of a western. Still, the guy seemed different.
“That, or the booze last night fogged my head.”
As he said that, he remembered that he’d barely drank that night. He shrugged and grabbed a few things off the floor and tossed them into a bag in a half-hearted attempt to tidy. He could just call a maid, but he never liked to do that. It seemed needlessly extravagant. Easier to do it himself, even if he could easily afford it.
Just for a moment he imagined Harlan, lying on a lounger beside the home Mitch kept in Los Angeles. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. He’d only fucked the guy. He didn’t even know his last name.
Maybe he’d ask.
* * * *
The motel manager appeared as Harlan was loading up his car with the few bags he’d brought with him.
“Hey, you’re not trying to skip out on me, are you?”
Harlan shook his head. “Need to leave early, though.” He tossed the man a roll of twenties. “If anyone enquires, tell them I left town, headed east.”
The man inspected the money, then frowned. “Couple hundred extra, here. You must be expecting someone to come calling.”
“It’s a possibility. They won’t trouble you, though. Just tell ’em I headed east,” he repeated.
Whether the pack would come after him or not was an unknown, and Harlan hated unknowns. It was worth the money to ease his mind somewhat. That sai
d, he’d still have to keep his eyes—and ears—open. His handler hadn’t been too pleased to hear that the pack turned hostile, but he wasn’t that surprised either. It happened. Shifters were as loyal as they were territorial, even if that loyalty was sometimes misplaced.
In actual fact he was headed north for a few blocks, then stopping at another motel. He’d also avoid any and all places he’d previously been inside. It would be easier if he could just leave town like he’d said, but he had to finish the job.
The job, he mused as he pulled out of the parking lot, leaving the bemused manager behind. As far as The Ancients were concerned, it was his duty to make sure that Mitch was made aware of his new life and instructed on how best to stay safe. After that he could leave. He knew from experience that fraternizing with targets and secondary targets was frowned upon, but he doubted any severe reprimands would come of it.
That was if Mitch wanted to continue “fraternizing,” of course. The guy might hear what Harlan had to say then call security. Ideally he’d listen, learn, and ask informed questions, but life was rarely that simple.
The last time he’d been in the same situation—minus the sex—the new shifter had listened, asked questions, then tried to stab him in the neck, accusing him and his “aberrations” of ruining her life. It had taken a lot of time and no small amount of patience to finally calm her down to the point where he could point her in the direction of a shifter councilor trained in such cases.
Hopefully Mitch wouldn’t be the same, and not just because he was gorgeous. Harlan had felt something during their short time together. He could see himself spending more time with the rocker, if Mitch felt the same.
If he didn’t, Harlan decided he’d pass on the instruction to another shifter. He knew a few in the area that would willingly help.
A red stoplight attracted Harlan’s attention. He glanced up to find that he was next to the new motel and pulled into the lot to rent a room. Then he’d get changed and head off to the hotel.
* * * *
Fifteen minutes before Harlan was due to arrive, Mitch started to panic. It happened every time he had someone come to him, rather than him going to them. There were so many variables to worry about. What if someone in reception started talking to him and he mentioned who he was visiting? What if a photographer spotted them meeting? What if the guy he’d paid off to send Harlan up and keep his mouth shut decided to tell all to the first newspaper in the phone book?
“Damn it, Mitch, calm down,” he muttered to himself as he paced the hotel room.
If all went according to plan—as it always did, he reminded himself—Harlan would head into the lobby and ask for the concierge, who would then give him a key and direct him to a room on the first floor. Inside that room, hidden under a pillow, was a note with the room number for Mitch’s room. Harlan would take it, head up in the elevator, and then knock on the door.
Simple.
He tilted his head toward the door as he heard the elevator ping, ignoring the fact that, at that distance, he shouldn’t be able to hear it in the first place. Someone was on the floor, headed his way. He licked his lips nervously as he glanced at the clock by the bed. He was a few minutes early. A moment later there was a knock on the door and Mitch forced himself to take a breath. It was Harlan. He just knew it was. That sense he’d got from the man the previous night seemed to work at a distance.
Mitch rubbed his sweaty hands on his jeans, then let the man in.
Harlan hadn’t needed to dress incognito, but he hadn’t gone out of his way to stand out, either. He’d dressed simply, a pair of jeans, a blue shirt, and a pair of work boots. Anyone passing him would simply assume he was headed to his hotel room after a long day at work. He had a pair of sunglasses hanging from the pocket of his blue shirt. It wasn’t bright out, so Mitch assumed he’d brought them just in case he needed to hide his face from photographers. That was more effort than most of Mitch’s guys put in.
“Hey.” He closed the door behind them. “Any trouble getting in?”
“Nah, no problems.” Harlan smiled. “Very James Bond of you, using another room and all.”
Mitch shrugged. “Not my first time.”
Harlan waggled his eyebrows but didn’t reply. He gestured to the sofa on the other side of the room. “Shall we?”
“Sure. Drink?”
“Scotch or a beer would be good.”
“A beer it is. I can call down for whisky if you want, though?”
Harlan shook his head. “Beer’s good. Saves me hiding in the bathroom.”
“You wouldn’t have to hide in the bathroom.” Mitch grinned. “You could hide under the bed instead.”
Harlan took the beer and flipped the top off with a thumb, catching the cap with his other hand, then took a sip. “So, I have to ask.”
Mitch sat on the other end of the sofa, cradling his own beer. “Ask what?”
“Why do you hide being gay?”
He took a long drink then shrugged. “At first it was because of the whole ‘rock persona’ thing. Those who knew told me that I’d do better if women thought they stood a chance of fucking me.”
“Freddy Mercury managed just fine without that,” Harlan said.
“I know, and I love the guy. Like I said, that was my reason at first.”
“And now?”
Mitch sighed. “The press. Those bastards will hound me for months, trying to get exclusives, digging into my past to find ex-lovers…”
Harlan nodded. “I get it. I’m more a ‘fuck ’em’ kind of guy, I guess. Let them print what they want. It all means sales, right?”
“True. Believe me when I say I’ve thought about it a lot.”
Harlan simply smiled and sipped his beer. Usually Mitch simply told people he didn’t want to talk about it, but that hadn’t seemed right this time. He didn’t know why, but he thought Harlan should know. Thankfully the guy was good about it, too. The few guys he’d discussed it with had often thought he was ashamed of his sexuality.
“You, uh, you want some music?”
“Sure,” Harlan said. “Whaddya got?”
Mitch grinned. “Pretty much something in every genre.”
“A man after my heart,” the man said with a laugh. “I expected you to just say rock ’n’ roll.”
“Nah, not me.” Mitch stood and walked to his MP3 player, which was docked into a small but overly expensive speaker—audio hardware was one of the few extravagances he could justify. “The other guys in the band are sort of like that, but I believe in keeping my horizons broad.”
Harlan smiled at that, and seemed to relax a little, too. Odd. Mitch mentally shrugged it off and bent by the dresser to turn on the music player. “So, what are you in the mood for?”
“Right now, with you bent over? It ain’t music on my mind.”
Mitch rolled his eyes at the man. “Play nice and maybe you’ll get what you’re after later.”
Harlan held up his beer. “I’ll drink to that. How about something bluesy?”
“I can do that.” He selected an album, then sat back beside Harlan as the music started. “Good?”
Harlan smiled. “Aretha Franklin. You have taste.”
Mitch grinned. “You wouldn’t believe how much music I own. It’s my hobby.”
“A good hobby to have.” Harlan nodded at the arm Mitch held his beer in. “I see the scar is shrinking.” He sipped some of his own beer. “That why you called?”
Mitch chewed his bottom lip, then nodded. “Kinda, yeah.”
“Kinda?”
He colored. “Well, I was hoping after we talked about that, we’d make use of this here bed…”
Harlan raised an eyebrow. “Well, I guess that depends on how this conversation goes.”
Mitch frowned at the somewhat cryptic comment, but let it drop for now. “So, yeah. The scar shrank way quicker than they normally do. The pain faded fast, too. You mentioned that a friend had been bitten and had a similar thing happen.”
“I did.”
The man had changed in the last few seconds. His jovial body language was gone, replaced with a more serious posture and expression.
“I–is it bad?” Mitch asked. His gut churned at the thought. Was he going to say the friend died?
“Yes and no,” Harlan said. “Let me make a few guesses here.”
Mitch swallowed the rest of his beer. “Okay.”
“You’ve been noticing other things. At first it was minor. You woke feeling better than you normally do. Maybe you were hungry, too.”
Mitch nodded, but didn’t reply.
Harlan placed his bottle on the floor, and took Mitch’s and did the same. “You noticed your hearing was a little sharper? Along with your sense of smell?” He nodded when Mitch did. “Thought so. Those two senses are the most noticeable. If you’d been a glasses wearer you’d notice your eyesight sharpening, too.”
Mitch’s heart started to beat faster. Harlan knew more about this than he’d mentioned the previous night. What the hell was going on?
Harlan bent to fiddle with his pant leg. “I don’t have a friend that was bitten.”
“What?”
He let out a breath, then raised his trouser leg to reveal a faint jagged scar. “I was bitten.” He looked Mitch in the eye. “You were attacked by a werewolf.”
Chapter Seven
Mitch just stared at Harlan as his mind churned. His first thought was that it was a joke, or that Harlan was deluded. The man had been bitten by a wolf at some point, and it had scared him so much that his mind had snapped. That had to be it, right?
But he knew. He knew what Mitch had been going through. The increased appetite, the sharper senses, the overall sense of being stronger than he was before he’d got onto the tour bus that night.
“That’s…” He moistened his suddenly dry lips. “That’s not possible. Werewolves aren’t real, Harlan.”
Harlan dropped his trouser leg and sat back, his face impassive. “Aren’t they?”
“No, they’re fucking not!”
