“Hey, Rudy, dude, how’s it hanging?”
The dealer looked at him appraisingly and then nodded. “As well as can be expected. What you got planned for tonight?”
“I’m gonna head on out to the back and wait for my girlfriend Mary J. It’s kinda hot in here.”
The dealer looked like all the other truckers in the bar, but the trips he ran were strictly short-haul—to his source and back, most likely stopping at dozens of little dive bars like this one along the way. Hell, he probably had a wife and kids at the end of the route, even though that rig of his was set up for long-haul living. Chances were he’d be running hookers out of the truck pretty soon. Rudy had one hell of an entrepreneurial spirit.
“Gimme ten, kid.”
Travis didn’t want to wait. The heat was getting to him, and the beer was starting to sour in his belly. He still had that stupid erection but wasn’t enjoying it anymore. He headed out the front doors, then took a sharp right till he was at the back of the building. When he was alone, he leaned against the corrugated steel of the walls and soaked up the cool evening air.
He didn’t need weed all that bad. The buzz never lasted very long. Last time he shot up heroin, the high had grounded him for days. It had totally fucked him over. And tonight’s beer… Maybe he should just go clean. That’d make a lot of people happy. Shifters and drugs didn’t seem to mix, though herb wasn’t so bad. He tried to stand up straight and grabbed his head, fighting not to giggle at the dizziness washing through him. He backed into the wall of the building and braced his ass to keep from reeling to the ground.
“Hey, dude. You okay?”
That was when he knew he’d been roofied. He’d baited a bunch of these guys and was naive enough to think he’d get away with a fight. He squinted, trying to bring the two men into focus, but they were disturbingly fuzzy. He felt a sharp sting on his cheek, then heard the crack of a hand slapping him.
God, was this his week for getting bitch slapped?
Travis struck out but stumbled and landed in someone’s arms. He was whirled and tossed to the other, then shoved again till he was rattled and disoriented and thoroughly nauseated. He managed to break away, and then he bent over, trying not to vomit, reaching deep inside to find his wolf. But the coward was hiding, completely miserable and confused.
“Dammnnn…” A blow to the ass planted him on the oily gravel, and then he was moving, his leg high in the air, the rest of him firmly on the ground. His shirt rode up, and gravel bit at his back. They were pulling him by the ankle.
Well, hell, it looked like he was going to take a bit more than a beating tonight. Through bleary eyes he looked up at the sky and saw the baleful gaze of the moon as she watched his assailants drag him behind a truck at the far edge of the parking lot. His belt came loose, his jeans came down, and when he could no longer watch the moon, it just didn’t really matter.
Chapter 4
The kid was living sin. Dylan shook his head, finished his drink, and set the mug next to Travis’s empty. The young shifter bubbled over with anger and temptation and wild joy; unfortunately he was 99 percent out of control. A kid like him was just begging for someone to come in and set him in line. But not Dylan—no fucking way. He didn’t want the trouble of a boy toy, even one as magical and pretty as young Mr. Travis, with his midnight-blue eyes and tousled black curls. He was sexy, but looking at him had put an ache in Dylan’s chest, a longing for a place that didn’t exist for him anymore.
However, maybe Arcada was like Homewood. And maybe the boy was his key to getting inside.
He stood, dropped a generous tip on the table, and headed for the door, not really noticing the surprised expressions on the faces of the men and women he passed. They hadn’t seen him, which was exactly as he’d wished. If he’d desired, he could have escaped unseen, but there was a chance he’d be staying around for a while longer; they might as well get used to their new neighbor.
He was just out the front doors when he immediately felt a strong draw to the back of the building. He deftly stepped around and spotted a deep, man-size indent in the metal walls. Perfect for a fuck. He wasn’t surprised to feel powerful residual energy wafting from the spot. Big magic had taken place there, and while intriguing, it wasn’t his business.
He stood motionless, letting the night tell her story. The gibbous moon hung heavily in the sky, winking and wavering behind slender trees swaying in the wind. Yards away, Arcada’s temperamental border shimmered in his mind’s eye, but he ignored that and focused on the young man he sought. He’d been out here but was now gone. Dylan looked around, peering into shadows. The drug dealer with the yellow hat stepped out of a rusty door in the back of the bar. He too peered into the darkness, probably looking for Travis as well. Dylan ignored him.
He sighed. He should just get in his car and leave, try and catch the kid another night. Reel him in slowly. But a vague sense of anxiety touched him, so light and subtle that Dylan wasn’t sure it was really his own emotion. Anxiety turned to alarm; the wind kicked up, and clouds began to race through the sky. It was frigid, cold enough to snow. Stretching his hand to the sky, Dylan closed his eyes.
Don’t need a weather vane to know which way the wind blows.
The wind shifted and caressed his cheek, coaxing him with its frigid touch.
Hello, Lady. So now you want me.
Arcada did take care of her own, even if she had to use an unwelcome outsider to do so.
Out there. He hurried toward the gravel parking lot, pushed faster by the wind at his back. Icy cold flakes spun down from the sky, but the moon was still visible. He moved silently, looking deep into shadows as he ran. He wasn’t prepared for what he found.
He’d expected a beating. He hadn’t expected to interrupt a parking lot fuck. He stood in the darkness and watched as a man hefted Travis’s half-naked body onto the bench seat of a pickup truck. The shifter wasn’t struggling. The first man dropped his pants, then shoved the kid’s knees up high.
The shifter wasn’t fighting because he wasn’t conscious. Dylan remembered looking at Travis’s empty mug and called that image back to mind; it was a trick he’d learned ages ago. Mentally he walked around that table, gazing at the mug. Up toward the brim, the glass was clear, but lower, there was a hazy coating on the glass. He looked down inside the mug…
“So what did you boys slip into this young man’s drink? Roofies? X?”
The bare-assed man jumped back and scrambled with his pants. The other dropped into a fighting stance. Travis’s legs slid down onto the seat.
“You’d better get the hell out of here.” Number Two—which seemed an appropriate nickname for the man—stood upright and put on the swagger. Dylan remained still, drawing in on himself. “Just forget what you saw.”
“That’s not likely to happen.” He gave a smile that felt as cold as the air. Overhead, clouds skated across the moon, robbing the night of its light. Snow fell softly, flakes drifting in lethal beauty.
Once upon a time, Dylan had been a creature of the sun; now he loved the night and its darkness. He inhaled deeply, then let out his breath slowly, enjoying the plume of vapor that escaped from his lips. It floated across the span between them to caress the face of Number Two. The first thug watched, fear settling into his eyes. The fog wreathed the other man’s face and soothed him into a trance.
“What’s your name?”
The man was mesmerized. “David.”
“Hello, David. And what is your friend’s name?”
“Fuck it. Dave, don’t you say a word!” He started toward his friend and then backed off, afraid of the hypnotic fog rolling around the other man.
“His name’s Scott. Scott James.”
“Damn!” Scott James was beyond angry now; he was scared.
“So David, I see you and Scott James planned to have some fun tonight.”
The idiot giggled but didn’t answer. Dylan glared at the other man. “Mr. James, it might be best for you to tell me what
you put into that young man’s drink.”
“Fuck off!” He backed up, moving away from Dylan. Unfortunately he didn’t have anywhere to go. Travis was in his truck, and Dylan blocked the route to the bar. Oh well, no answers coming from him.
“David, my friend, what did you put into his drink?”
“I didn’t. Scott did.” David laughed sleepily.
“All right. What did Scott put into that young man’s drink? And what were his motivations?” Dylan had to tamp down his impatience. He had no idea what effect drugs would have on the shifter. This might be the sort of crisis he really didn’t want to get involved in. Still, the anxiety in the air became stronger and more intense. He glanced around, feeling like they were being watched.
“Special K.”
Shit. Ketamine. Unpredictable in humans, a staple in veterinary medicine. Who knew what it’d do to a shifter?
“Why, David?”
“Shut up, Dave. Just shut the fuck up!” Scott darted forward, then back to the hood of the truck. He could conceivably get into the front seat, start the engine, and take off with Travis still inside. With a thought, Dylan iced the locks in the driver’s side and froze the radiator for good measure.
“He was pissed. Travis kept coming in and flirting with the girls, leaving with more than his share. Scott said if he wanted a fuck so bad, we should give him one.” David gave him a loopy grin. “I think he’s just got the hots for Travis.”
On cue, Scott James darted for the driver’s door, then struggled with the jammed lock. Pitiful. Dylan turned away and ignored the driver, who’d now lost his keys in the gravel.
“All right, David. This is what you’re going to do. You are going back into the bar. You’ll call 911 and tell them what happened. And then you’ll sit down and wait for the nice sheriff who will come for you and Scott. You’ll tell him everything about what you did tonight.”
He cocked his head, looking for his own car just a few rows away. “But first you’ll carry this young man to that big black sedan. Carefully.”
Following his instructions to the letter, David shuffled along in his fugue, gently depositing the seminaked man into the backseat of Dylan’s car. He then hurried toward the bar, cell phone in hand. Dylan gathered up the remnants of Travis’s clothing and paused to watch Scott run off into the bushes. He shook his head; the idiot would freeze his ass off out there. Hopefully he’d make it to civilization before getting lost. Dylan would hate to see the bastard miss out on an attempted rape charge.
He returned to his car, started the engine, and cranked up the heater. He could turn up the heat himself, but he wasn’t an elemental, and the fog trick had tapped him for the night. He dug through Travis’s pants and was relieved to find a cell phone and a wallet. With an invitation and a passenger, surely he could make it through Arcada’s barrier. He memorized the address on Travis’s license and pulled onto the narrow highway, squinting against the glare of falling snow in the headlights. He drove slowly as he approached the curve he’d rounded the night before. No sign of wolves tonight, but he began to feel the heavy, forbidding presence of the town limit.
“Still don’t trust me, eh? Send me to save this kid’s ass; then you won’t let me in?” He slowed the big car to a near crawl and leaned forward to peer out into the night. “Seriously. He’s in bad shape. He should be home in his own bed.” On that note, he shifted into drive and rolled forward. For the briefest second he felt suspended in time and space—he was going to make it!
Then he blinked and stared at the highway in front of him. His motel was just down the road. Not only was he facing the opposite direction, but he’d been moved miles away.
“Well, hell.” He sighed in resignation, then glanced at his passenger. “Looks like you’re stuck with me for a while, boy.” The snow was piling in drifts as he coasted into the parking lot. In another fifteen minutes, cars would be chaining up. An hour and the road would be impassable. He was glad to be off the highway before it got really ugly. He maneuvered the Caddy to the end of the parking lot, outside his room where the light glowed dimly inside.
Old habit. He hated coming home to darkness. Always had. Dark houses reminded Dylan of death. He came around and gathered Travis into his arms, then opened the door to his room with a mental twist and a kick down low. It swung open, and he carried the young shifter inside, much like a groom would carry his bride.
“Welcome to Casa de Dylan. Make yourself at home.”
The room had only one bed, and he gingerly pulled back the covers, then settled Travis into the center of the queen-size mattress. He quickly covered him after catching a brief glimpse of narrow hips, muscular thighs, and a rather thick cock. But the kid had been victimized enough for the night; he didn’t need another man gaping at him while he was out cold.
Or maybe not. Those dark blue eyes were glassy but open. He watched cautiously as Dylan took off his coat and turned up the thermostat. Dylan dragged a chair to the bedside.
“How you feeling, boy?”
Blue eyes blinked, his lips twitched, but nothing came out. His gaze went distant, and his head rolled to the side.
“Well, you need help, and I don’t quite know what to do.” He pulled Travis’s cell phone from the pocket of his jacket, flipped it open, and studied the keypad. His own was a waste of technology; he’d never bothered to figure out most of its functions. He made phone calls, read texts, sent the photos. This one wasn’t too different.
Once he located the contacts list, he opened it and found one single, solitary number—a number to be dialed in case of emergency. Made sense; if someone snagged his phone, there’d be no links to pack members. Before Dylan could dial the number, the phone rang. Travis opened his eyes again and watched him with a faraway look.
Dylan took a deep breath and answered. “This phone belongs to Travis Feris. And I hope you’re his friend.”
There was momentary silence on the line. “I suppose I hope you’re his friend as well.” The voice was deep, ominous, and gave him the chills.
“Not really, but he’s here with me and seems to be in some trouble. I was just getting ready to call his emergency number.”
“Is he there? Can you give him the phone?”
“He’s here right next to me, but he’s unable to speak.” A deep-pitched growl carried over the line. Dylan cocked a brow in the direction of the patient. “Calm down, sir. He’s in a good bit of distress, and I was hoping I could speak with a member of his…family. It seems someone played a rather cruel prank on your young man. They told me they slipped ketamine into his drink.”
There was a harsh intake of breath.
“Look. I’ll be frank. I know he’s not…mainstream. I’m not sure how this particular drug will affect him. I’d vastly appreciate it if you’d collect him. We’re at the Rosemont Motor Inn—”
“I know where that is.”
“Good. Room 117, on the end.”
There was another pause, and then the man came back on the line. He sounded marginally more friendly. At least not as threatening.
“Look, we’ve got a problem. The snow’s piled up far too high to drive through, and the plows won’t fire up till dawn. I can…try to make it, but I’m not sure how long it’ll be or if I’ll be able to get him home safely.”
Dylan stared at the young man on the bed. Or not so young; his driver’s license identified him as being nearly twenty-five years of age. Still, just a babe compared to Dylan. He sighed in resignation.
“Understood. He’s welcome to stay here. I did try to drive him home earlier but became lost.” Dylan heard a short laugh. Hopefully he’d sounded befuddled rather than irate.
He sat in the chair next to the bed, evaluating the young man. “I am worried about him. Should I try taking him to the hospital?”
“No.” The answer was curt and blunt. “It’s… The weather is too bad. Tell me his symptoms.”
“He’s hot. His lips are dry, and he drifts in and out of awareness but seems dis
associated from what’s happening around him.” He didn’t mention the assault. He’d let Travis deal with that on his own. Somehow he didn’t think a report would be filed. Which meant Scott James and his lackey would soon be free to pull this shit on someone else.
“Okay, hold on.” The line went dead, but Dylan didn’t hang up. He sat, one leg crossed over the other, and stared down at his boot. If he didn’t focus on something, he’d be looking at Travis again. In his life Dylan had seen it all—the world’s greatest beauties, both male and female. He’d known fae and vampires and everything in between. Yet no one had drawn his focus like this young shifter. He felt…smitten. He turned the chair and looked through the crack in the curtains. The snow was a thick blanket outside; even his black car was rapidly vanishing.
A low moan drew his attention. Travis frowned, staring at the opposite wall. He moved restlessly but with little coordination. He was seeing something that wasn’t there. Or perhaps he’d opened a window to another side of the world. Who knew?
“All right, I’m back. I’ve got someone else on the other line. Tell her what’s going on.”
A woman broke into the conversation. “Is Travis able to talk? What happened?” She sounded sleepy, confused, and a bit frightened. Without thinking Dylan moved over to sit on the bed, and he reached out to stroke the kid’s forehead. He was hot—so hot.
“Dru, someone spiked his drink with ketamine.” The man’s voice dropped into a gruff, soothing tone.
“I was… Okay, so that’s what was wrong. I was having bad dreams.” She took a deep breath and exhaled. “So…”
“Dylan,” he supplied.
“Dylan. First off, thanks for having his back. Now, what are his symptoms?”
He repeated them to the woman, thinking how odd his night had ended up. He’d never expected a midnight conference call over an ailing shifter.
“All right, he’s still pretty young, and this might be hard on him. His temp will drop, then spike again. He’ll probably hallucinate once the disassociation ends. His…er… Well, his libido might also rise, so I’d really appreciate it—”
Silver-Steel Page 4
