Primal Heat

by Susan Sizemore

  Jason Cage graciously waved them toward a pair of chairs, and Phillipa was not only impressed but disconcerted that he had brought his wolves into the dressing room with him. One of them was curled up on the couch. The other one lounged on the floor in the kitchen area, where it was ripping great balls of cotton fluff out of a stuffed white tiger.

  When Cage noticed her looking nervously at the wolf, he said, “They wouldn’t eat anyone I didn’t tell them to. Actually, they’re too spoiled to hunt for themselves, and they’re three-quarters malamute, anyway.”

  She smiled wanly at this reassurance, knowing that he was lying, the way she always knew suspects were lying. But what was he lying about? And what was he suspected of?

  Nothing, she reminded herself. Your senses are all screwed up. Pete’s here to interview him as an expert witness.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Phillipa,” Cage added, with the typical lascivious Cage male glint in his bright blue eyes. She frowned at him, and he turned an intense look on Pete. “You’re here about the robberies, aren’t you? How can I be of help, Detective?”

  Pete gestured toward the wolf sleeping on the couch. “Are you sure those don’t eat people?”

  “I know that these don’t.” Cage moved to sit on the couch, and the wolf put its head in his lap. “There are a lot of European folktales about wolves attacking people, but there’s no documented evidence of those tales being true. A rabid wolf might be crazy enough to attack a human, but it’s not something a normal wolf is likely to try.”

  “How about a trained wolf?” Phillipa asked. “Could a wolf be trained to attack a human?”

  “Of course,” Cage replied. “But trained wolves are known as dogs, and I don’t think Detective Martin came here to ask me about dogs.”

  Phillipa bit her tongue at this reminder that she wasn’t the one here to ask the questions, and restrained herself from snapping a retort at the Beast Master. “Sorry,” she murmured to Pete.

  Pete nodded, his attention focused on Cage. “The remains of several people have been found in the desert recently. The indications are that they’ve been murdered, but the bones also show evidence of being gnawed.” Pete gave a faint laugh. “Somebody in the department suggested we look for a werewolf, but it’s more likely that the murderer has a pet wolf or wolf mix that’s been allowed to feed on the bodies of the victims.”

  “That’s sick,” Cage said.

  “Serial killers are very sick people,” Pete said. “We haven’t had any luck searching for this killer. Then a wolf turned up when the robbers hit a bank this morning. The robbers got away and so did the animal, but we don’t think it was taken with the robbers. The police and animal control are looking for the wolf.”

  “You want me to help with this wolf hunt?”

  Pete nodded. “There’s an underground trade in wolves as pets, and these people don’t talk to outsiders. My guess is that you’re in touch with that community. I’d appreciate any information you might be willing to share.”

  Cage rose to his feet and gestured toward the door. “I’ll consider your requests,” he said as Phillipa and Pete also rose. “But for now I’d suggest you go with the werewolf theory.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  T he Beast Master had been hiding something, Phillipa was certain. But she was beginning to think that maybe secretiveness was the norm when dealing with Cages. She didn’t mention her suspicions to Pete, because—well, because the Cages were family and you didn’t turn on family, no matter how peripheral the relationship, until you were sure they’d actually done something wrong.

  Besides, Jason’s attitude could just be because he preferred animals to humans and didn’t want to see a wolf hunt started in the streets of Las Vegas.

  “Ms. Elliot?”

  Phillipa jumped, then looked at the man across the desk and tried to remember where the hell she was. This wasn’t another doctor visit, was it? Then she remembered, and grimaced. This job interview was an irretrievable mess, the “Ms. Elliot” was a very bad sign; before her attention had completely slipped to thinking about the case, this HR guy had been calling her by her first name.

  “How long was I gone?” she asked.

  “I beg your pardon?” he asked, all bland politeness.

  Phillipa smiled. “It’s okay. I admit I was, well, let’s call it daydreaming.” And not even about Bridger, although she’d had some graphically erotic dreams about him last night. She stood. “I have no business being here. When I got up this morning, I thought I could do this interview, that I could be sensible and normal, but I can’t. Not today.”

  I’m taking my life back.

  “Ms. Elliot, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I know.”

  She picked up the very large purse that contained her insulin, monitor, medicines, glucose, emergency numbers, and all the miscellaneous crap she now carried with her. It weighed a ton, but she wasn’t going to let it weigh her down.

  “Does your behavior have something to do with the diabetes?” he asked as she headed toward the door. “I appreciate your telling me up front about your condition, but—”

  “Hell, no,” she told the concerned and embarrassed young man. “I’m tired of trying to make the world seem normal; I’m a cop, and I need to fix things. I have to be a cop again.”

  Merely working for a security company wasn’t enough for her; she knew that now. As she stepped out of the air-conditioned building, she was hit by a blast of bright light and heat. She needed a strategy. Where did one go looking for a nutcase, especially in a town like this, where pyramids, fantasy castles, and Italian palaces were part of the landscape?

  They’d met at the airport, and she was certain he’d followed her there. Which meant he knew her car. And where would he know her car from? From the parking lot at Jo’s condo, was the most likely answer. They’d staked the place out, of course.

  And he had been driving…

  Phillipa closed her eyes to better focus on the memory of the airport encounter. Bright white sunlight pressed against her closed lids, and hot wind scrubbed her cheeks.

  White.

  Yeah. He’d been driving a white van. She’d been annoyed that she hadn’t been able to make out the plates. She was even more annoyed now, but remembering the nutjob’s ride was something, at least. Every piece of a puzzle helped eventually.

  Had there been a white van in the underground garage? Her memory was too shaky to know for sure. But maybe the crazy vampire hunters still had the building staked out.

  She opened her eyes, completely energized. She had a place to go and a clue to follow.

  “Let the hunt begin,” she murmured, with the fierce determination she’d been missing for months.

  It had been a while since the radio in the rental car had actually played any music. It was annoying enough for Matt to deal with American-style driving without having at least some soothing background noise.

  “Would a bit of Led Zeppelin be too much to ask?” he complained.

  The newsreader continuing on about wars and oil prices and environmental disasters while Matt cursed the fact that he hadn’t figured out how to work the unfamiliar sound system. It seemed very odd to be hearing about the traumas of the real world while driving the busy streets of the least real city he’d ever encountered.

  He wondered what his night-dwelling ancestors would make of this place. Then he remembered that his great-grandmum in Bristol had been here on holiday once in the 1980s. She’d broken the bank at one of the casinos playing high-stakes poker, and he’d had to remonstrate with her in an official capacity about using psychic talent to influence the mortal world. She’d grudgingly donated her winnings to charity, and that had been the end of the matter. It was embarrassing when one’s own family broke the rules.

  Then again, he supposed it was inevitable to have trouble with family when most vampires were related one way or another. Even the most righteous and upstanding of Clan boys had wicked Tr
ibe cousins somewhere along the line, though both sides would be loath to admit the relationship. Family vampires weren’t so proud and picky. They were allied with the Clans, and took in Tribe members who agreed to reform their evil ways. And as a result, the Families had the largest population of any of the three vampire societies.

  “In local news,” the woman newscaster said, “authorities have just released a statement confirming another bank robbery. Also, an anonymous source has informed this station that yesterday’s daring penthouse raid by the same criminals was at the home of celebrity chef Marcus Cage.”

  Not likely, luv. Matt snorted. And a good thing, too, or I’d have to turn my attention to a gang best left to mortal police.

  But the mention of Marc’s penthouse did give Matt an idea. It wouldn’t hurt to return to the scene of the crime for a good, long, psychic look at the place. Maybe he’d pick up a trail from there.

  He smiled and changed lanes.

  “Let the hunt begin,” he murmured.

  “This is my hunt,” Andrew said, pacing the living room of Britney’s apartment. “I’m going alone.”

  “You can’t,” Britney protested. She jumped up from the couch to step in front of Andrew. “Hunters work in teams.”

  “It’s tradition to hunt in groups,” Andrew answered. “That’s all.”

  “It’s safer,” Britney said.

  Kevin rubbed his bandaged leg. “Well, I’m not up to it.”

  Michele listened and worried, but she didn’t join in the discussion. She knew this was the right thing to do, but something nagged at her. Something wasn’t right. It was like she was searching for a memory that didn’t exist. And she didn’t quite feel she was all here.

  “It’s not that I mind killing the blond bitch,” Britney said. “I like the idea. I want in on it.”

  “But she’s not one of them,” Kevin protested.

  “She stabbed you,” Britney reminded him. “She fought me. She got in the way of our doing the right thing.”

  “We ought to out them,” Kevin said. “All of them.”

  “I’ve tried that,” Andrew said. “With the magician, remember? Nobody believed me. Killing them is the only way.” He stepped around Britney and began pacing again. “Killing her is the only way.”

  “He has to do it,” Michele finally said. “Leave him alone to do what must be done.”

  Britney turned on her. “You’re our leader. You’re supposed to be the sensible one. Do you want him to get killed?”

  “Phillipa Elliot is as human as we are,” Michele pointed out. She glanced at Kevin. “She was lucky.”

  “I have a gun,” Andrew said. “She won’t have a chance to fight me or stab me. I’ll do it from a distance.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Michele soothed her people. “It’s important that he act alone.”

  She was certain of this. Only—she wasn’t sure why Andrew’s solo mission was so imperative.

  “I want you to kill Phillipa Elliot.”

  That had been said to Andrew. Only Andrew.

  Michele rose and sternly addressed the others. “Andrew acts alone.”

  Britney quivered with frustration, but eventually she nodded. “Fine. But where? When? What’s the plan?”

  “I have to find her first,” Andrew answered. “I’ll stake out the vampire’s place first and see if she comes back there.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  H e needed a drink.

  The day was too hot. His vision was blurry. Sound was fading. The pain was bad, but it was the thirst that was driving Mike insane.

  He hadn’t caught the scent of any water that wasn’t too near people. There were lawn sprinklers merrily shooting water only a block away, but the sound and scent of this false rain was torture—he didn’t dare try to get to them.

  He couldn’t take the risk of capture by the mortals, no matter how parched he was. He had to keep going, reach the wilderness before the hunters could close in. He’d find water there, and a safe den.

  Somehow.

  The only thing that was still working properly was his nose, but even that was intermittent, because his attention span was fading in and out. Scent was all he had to lead him out of the city, the only thing he could trust to help him avoid detection.

  He’d long ago identified the individual scents of the human hunters, but it was the inhuman things creeping up on him that frightened him.

  There was a werewolf ahead of him, blocking his escape into the desert. Waiting for him. Laughing at him. Ready to close in for the kill, but savoring the wait.

  Mike understood the savage anticipation, and he welcomed the fight if he couldn’t find a way to avoid it. He had to believe he would win it. That was the only way an alpha could think.

  Behind him was a vampire.

  It was a vampire that had gotten him into this mess in the first place. He was aware of the vampire in much the same way animals could sense impending earthquakes; it was a disturbance in the Force.

  But escaping the wave of psychic danger heading his way, avoiding the vampire, drove him closer in the direction of the werewolf.

  Were they working together?

  Of course, remember how they were together back at the body site? Remember how they were together at the bank job? That was when I was shot by the mortal. Damn, it’s hard to keep my brain working!

  Mortals, werewolves, vampires—what had he ever done to deserve this much unwanted attention from people out to kill him?

  He held on to the thought that it was the vampire’s fault. Step by limping step, as he forced himself to move, Mike grew more and more angry with the vampire. And it wasn’t advisable to make a werewolf angry. He was so tempted to turn and attack, but he talked himself into waiting until he found a time and place where he’d have half a chance.

  He paused when he sensed the vampire creeping closer. He leaned his weight against a wall, the stucco hot in the sunlight. The effort to concentrate drained him, but information was vital if he was going to survive.

  He listened, he breathed, he bent all his own telepathic senses on gathering intel. Both the vampire and werewolf were male, he decided, and healthy. Too bad. The werewolf was the one he’d set out to hunt—he couldn’t remember how long ago that was.

  The vampire—

  There was something familiar about the scent and psychic signature…

  Matt?

  That was wishful thinking. Matt wouldn’t stalk him; he would walk right up and confront him.

  Matt would help him.

  Hadn’t he set out to find Matt Bridger? He couldn’t remember how long ago that hunt had started, either. Time didn’t mean too much when in this form.

  He had to keep going. He’d find out who the vampire was soon enough.

  He finally made his way into a warehouse area, where the large parking lots were full of row upon row of parked semi trailers. He was near the airport, because the roar of airplane engines filled the air. So did the stench of jet fuel, masking all other scents. If he couldn’t detect them, then he was as masked from them as he was going to get. This was as good a place to make a stand as any.

  Mike looked around, trying to use his human intelligence as much as possible. The wounded animal simply wanted to stand and fight and get it over with. Since wolves were excellent strategists, this animal attitude was embarrassing, and counter to survival.

  He saw a lifted door at the back of one of the trailers. It was the closest thing to high ground, and he forced his aching body to make the leap into the back of the truck. Once inside, he crouched behind a pallet of cardboard boxes to recover from the effort to get this far. At least he wasn’t bleeding from the strain on the wound; fresh blood would pinpoint his position to the others.

  For a few minutes all he did was wait, gather his waning strength, and listen. When one of his trackers finally came near enough, Mike bunched his muscles and leapt.

  He hit the vampire square in the chest. That should have knocked the vampi
re to the ground, where Mike could go for the exposed throat or belly.

  Instead, the vampire grabbed him by the scruff and threw him to the pavement.

  “Got you!” he shouted. “Now let’s see about your friend.”

  What?

  Puzzlement was the last thing he was aware of as the world went totally dark.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I f crime-scene tape had been put up at the site, it had already been removed. This left the exterior of the building looking bland and inconspicuous, for which Phillipa was grateful. She’d heard a news report on the radio on the way over, revealing that the Cages’ condo had been hit by the robbers. She’d half expected to find the hounds of the media out in full cry, but the activity surrounding the building didn’t look any different than usual. She drove around the block slowly once to make sure.

  While she hadn’t been subjected to the same sort of media attention Jo had to endure when she survived an airplane crash, Phillipa had had her own run-in with reporters after the shooting incident that curtailed her career. She’d found having a microphone stuck in her face infinitely more daunting than having a gun pointed at her. At least with an armed suspect she knew what to say. “Drop your weapon or I’ll shoot” did not work with a reporter.

  When she saw nothing but a few cars parked in the guest lot at the side of the building and a glass repair truck in the back, Phillipa decided that the place was a media-free zone for the moment.

  She pulled into the guest parking area, rolled down her window, and switched off the engine. The air cooled by the air conditioner was instantly replaced by the dry heat of the desert. She found the heat pleasant, even though she’d been warned that extremes of temperature had debilitating effects on diabetics. Surely, just a few minutes of hot sunlight wouldn’t hurt her.

  Please check the diabetic rule book in case you feel you’re in danger of having any fun, she thought, but with less resentment than usual.