The Strip

by Heather Killough-Walden

  Slowly, Malcolm swallowed his fate and opened his eyes.

  The sight that greeted him was, as always, inexplicably wrong. This time, something inside of Cole snapped. The strength he'd fought to maintain only moments before at last gave way, and he fell to his knees. His fists clenched until his claws dug into the flesh of his palms and he could feel the blood well there.

  How many... his mind rebelled. How many must I see?

  Would there ever be an end? Despair clutched at him as it never had before. In the sterile coldness of truth, this one was no worse than any other. They were all the same. But they were all painted by the red and the darkness and the cloying stench of helpless misery.

  Like Dachau.

  The Roma's dying curse had struck with the sword of a vengeance harsh and pure. Malcolm was indeed Death's eternal witness.

  With a sound that was half cry, half growl, and all anguish, Cole pushed himself up from the blood-stained rug and stumbled to the front door of the small, stifling apartment. It was already part way open, so there was no need for him to touch the blood-drenched handle. He shoved through the door and it banged against the opposite wall as he stumbled out into the night beyond.

  Neon lights accosted him. Horns blared. He blinked against the blurry brightness and tried to gain his bearings. Behind him, the reek of murder clung to him, pulling at his senses with elastic, sticky-fingered arms. He gasped for breath beneath the disgusting onslaught, bewildered by both his unusually bad reaction and by the hopelessness of his perpetual doom.

  A truck carrying some sort of bakery goods roared by, mere inches from the curb of the sidewalk on which Malcolm stood. The vehicle stirred the air as it passed and a breeze washed over him.

  He froze. His ragged breath stilled in his broad chest. His fangs hid, but ached, from behind his closed lips. Without thinking, he straightened and closed his eyes.

  And, as pure instinct dictated, he slowly breathed in.

  There it was again. He'd never scented anything like it. It was unmistakable. And yet... it was also impossible. He opened his eyes and began to search the crowded sidewalks with an uncompromising and piercing gaze. She was here. Somewhere in this mess.

  At once, the destruction that waited for the police behind him was forgotten. All that existed in Cole's world was the very unique, very special Dormant nearby and his inexorable need to find her. He tuned his senses into the dizzying world of sights and sounds around him, zeroing his vision onto each individual human face and then moving on to the next.

  And then he heard it. It was her voice; he knew it without knowing how he knew it. It was simply the most incomprehensibly beautiful sound he had ever heard. His head snapped to the side and he peered across the street as she stepped out of the warehouse thirty yards away.

  Cole's heart skipped one long beat in his chest, picking up its rhythm again at a harder and more rapid pace than before. At the same time, the marks on his wrists began to heat up once more. He ignored them, focusing on the angel.

  Her hair was the strawberry blonde color of a San Francisco sunset and fell in long, lush, thick waves to the narrow of her small waist. Her skin looked pore-less, a soft peaches and cream with the tiniest smattering of freckles across her dainty nose. And her eyes.... They were like ice. Like the hidden parts of glaciers, frozen oceans so unfathomably deep, should someone fall in, it was unsure whether he would first freeze or drown.

  She was exquisite; impossibly, so.

  All he could do was stare at her as she approached a moving van filled with musical equipment, blankets, pads, and dusty tarps. She was accompanied by a woman with shoulder-length dark hair. Behind the girls followed two men. Cole was stunned to find that his immediate and instinctive craving was to rip both of their male throats out.

  "Charlie, you worry too much," the angel's black-haired companion was saying. "He's just RFB comping us because the casino is new and he's taking a chance in this economy and he wants us to be comfortable enough to stick around."

  The angel seemed to think about that for a moment. She bit her lip and Malcolm found himself growling. Low. Hungry. His gums were aching once more, his fangs yearning to grow and pierce and feed.

  "Why us, M.J.? He's obviously loaded. He owns several casinos around town. Why doesn't he really draw a crowd in with someone like... I don't know - Three Days Grace or Rihanna or even the Jonas Brothers?"

  The dark haired woman threw back her head and laughed heartily. "Sweetie, you really went all over the place with that one, didn't you?"

  The men laughed as well, but it was a friendly laugh.

  "You underestimate us, Charlie,” one of the young men told her. He was tall and well-built and wore long dread locks. His eyes were starkly colored, reminding Cole of a werewolf’s eyes, though he smelled human. “And especially yourself. Don't forget that we were booked up for three months' worth of showings when we signed this contract for Mr. Phelan...."

  Malcolm's attention deviated for a moment by the growing pain in his wrists. He tried to focus further on their conversation as he glanced down at his arms to see that the cursed markings were beginning to glow. He didn't have much time.

  His head snapped back up and his green eyes once more settled on the Dormant. Charlie. Charlie, he thought.

  "And the only reason we were at Scott's for so long is because you figured we owed him," the dark haired woman added.

  Charlie turned to face her. "You really think we're that good?"

  The young man with long reddish-brown dread locks and starkly colored eyes shoved his hands into his pockets and fixed Charlie with a rather exasperated expression. "Girl, you can't be serious."

  Charlie shrugged, arms up, expression innocent.

  "M.J. how many of Charlie's stalkers have we had to do away with in the last month?” he asked, his eyes still on Charlie.

  M.J., the dark haired girl, made a derisive sound. "Three, if you kick it up to a month and a half."

  "Okay," the man went on. "Three stalkers in forty days and no fewer than six bands in the Burgh trying to steal our drummer away from us because she's so good." He shook his head. "We're good, Charlie," he reiterated, nodding as he said so. "You know we are, so don't pretend. And don't pretend that you don't know it's mostly because of you."

  At that, the other band members fell silent. They were all watching her. Malcolm looked on in rapt fascination as she blushed beneath the scrutiny.

  And then the world began to look smudged around him. A sharp pain shot up his spine, arcing like lightning through his tall, strong body. Malcolm doubled over, robbed of breath. Move now! his mind screamed.

  With speed that blurred, he spun away from the sidewalk and rounded the corner, entering the adjacent dark alley. He had the tiny fragment of time to notice the stench of rotting garbage and the distant wail of sirens as the world finally melted completely, flared once, and then sent him reeling back into his own territory.

  He flashed into the stone corridor with a horrid jolt and fell to his knees, a mass of raw, tortured nerves. Almost at once, the pain in his body and wrists began to recede, fading away into nothing within seconds. But Malcolm did not rise. He remained where he was, doubled over on the plush rug over the stone floor, his eyes shut tight, his breathing harsh in the fire-crackled silence. Behind his closed lids, an image of the blue-eyed angel floated enticingly. He didn't want to lose it.

  Charlie.

  He whispered the name into his mind. She was an impossibility. A Dormant....

  And a female born werewolf.

  There was no mistaking the scent. Such a thing should not exist. It never had. It had long been deemed impossible. Werewolves had always had to turn to humans for their mates.

  But Charlie was not human. And she was very real. She was nothing short of a miracle. The fact that she had not yet been claimed by an alpha was astounding in and of itself.

  Malcolm took a deep breath. And then another. The need uncoiling within him was unyielding. He was an a
lpha without a mate and had been for far too long. Catching sight of another Dormant at this juncture was like waving a canteen of water before a man in the desert.

  But Cole's conscience weighed heavily on his heart. In his race to fill the emptiness that yawned inside of him, he had done things he was not proud of. Two years ago, he had kidnapped another alpha’s marked mate and tried to take her for his own. She’d forgiven him when he did not deserve that forgiveness.

  It gave him pause. Now that the chance seemed to have arisen again, what exactly was he willing to do?

  If he had not been cursed to flash to that murder on the Las Vegas strip at just that time, and if he had not stumbled out into the waiting city at that exact moment, he never would have scented her. He never would have laid eyes on the Dormant who was also a werewolf.

  What would he do to claim the woman that fate had thrown so perfectly into his sites? Was he willing to go down that sinister path again?

  For Charlie.... Yes. Yes, he was.

  With that thought, his resolve hardened into a steely determination. He sat back slowly and opened his eyes. The emerald glow died down into a stark jade green in his handsome face. His expression settled into one of dark purpose as he fluidly rose from the floor and then strode to the door.

  Jake opened it for him before he reached it.

  "Jake, charter a flight to Las Vegas," Cole ordered, his British accent lacing his low, smooth tone. He moved out into the hall and the blonde werewolf followed beside him. "We leave within the hour."

  * * * *

  "Guys...." Charlie’s voice trailed off as she thought of her friends and all of the trouble she'd caused for them over the years. Roman was right. They were good. But he was also right about her penchant for attracting stalkers. And that wasn't easy on the band. It seemed like they always had to be on guard. "I'm sorry," she told them. And then she shrugged. "I just don't understand. If we're so good, then why are we accepting this strange deal from this man we've never met? Why not wait for something better to come along?"

  "This is the something better, Charlie." Kevin gestured to the city around them. He wasn't as tall as Roman, but his blue-gray eyes always looked as if they had storm clouds building in them and his strong, stocky build and buzz-cut blonde hair made him appear meaner than he actually was. "And stop apologizing." He smiled at her, shaking his head admonishingly.

  "Really, Charlie. It's already earned you a nick name." Mary Jane shoved at her lightly with her elbow. "Besides, this isn't so strange. So, he wants us to play for him exclusively for six months. So what? It's like asking an author for exclusive rights to review a manuscript. He doesn't want someone else to come in and offer us a record deal before he does."

  Charlie, whose real name was Claire St.James, thought about that as she and the others brought their equipment in from the truck and set it up in the warehouse. Gabriel Phelan owned four of the casinos on the strip on Las Vegas. One was a daring, brand new high-rise that split the Nevada sky with its shimmering metal and glass; and that was the one that he wanted Black Squirrel to play in for the next six months. It boasted a tri-level club on the first floor with enough room for three thousand revelers. The band's platform was immense and the backstage was incredibly well stocked.

  He'd given them rights to decorate however they chose. He would foot the bill. Not only was he paying for their set up, but he was paying for their room and board within the hotel. He was paying them a sizeable salary, to boot.

  It was a dream come true for them all. There was just one problem. Claire couldn't shake the feeling that something about this entire deal was not right. It was simply too good to be true.

  There was a strange feeling uncoiling in the pit of her stomach. Lately, her skin had been flushing hot and cold. Her chest had felt unnaturally tight and her heart had been skipping beats.

  She knew she was either having panic attacks or mini heart attacks. And since she was in good shape and ate well and was fairly young, she was betting on the former.

  Not getting enough sleep undoubtedly played into it to some extent. She'd been having the same recurring dreams for months now. They involved a man with piercing blue eyes that terrified her, another man with stark green eyes that melted her insides, and a horrific, nightmarish mad dash through the woods in an attempt to escape a beast that gained on her a little more with each passing moon. The dreams were draining her strength and stealing her concentration.

  Claire sighed as she glanced down at the rack and the toms in front of her. She needed new drum skins. Badly. She'd beat these ones to their last layer.

  "You need new skins, girl."

  Claire glanced up to see Roman watching her from where he was setting up his own equipment a few yards away. It was as if he'd read her thoughts. She wasn't surprised. She sometimes wore her thoughts on her sleeve.

  "And now you can afford them," he added with a single nod and a smile. She knew what he was getting at. He wanted her to be happy about their new gig. And he was right. With the pay that Phelan was giving them now, they could all afford new equipment. They could afford a lot of things.

  "Not if she donates her paychecks to some spaying and neutering charity again," Mary Jane retorted. "I swear to god, Charlie, if you give all of your money away this time around, I'm telling Jessie on you."

  Claire smiled at that. "Please do."

  Mary Jane glanced up from where she'd been tuning her bass and pinned Claire to the spot with her mascara'd gaze. "Girl, you are all kinds of wayward, you know that?" Her red lips spread into a knowing smile.

  Just then, Claire's back pack began to play Beethoven. She left her kit and went to the bag, which was sitting against the wall. She pulled her phone out of its front pocket and flipped it open, as usual forgetting to check the number first.

  "Two-talk," A voice said.

  Claire blinked. "What?” she asked, her brow furrowed.

  "Two-talk, Charlie. It's two little buttons. You can't push two little buttons to let me know you're alive?"

  Claire let out a breath. It was Jessie. She'd forgotten to call him when the plane had landed. She'd been having a minor panic attack at the time and all she'd been able to think about was whether or not she wanted the beer that Roman was offering to buy her at the first bar they came across in the airport.

  She'd opted against it, knowing it would wear off just in time for her to have to practice with a hangover. That was three hours ago.

  "Jess, I'm so sorry."

  "I know, girl. That's why we call you Charlie," Jessie said grudgingly. She could hear the exasperation in his tone, but she could also hear that he'd already forgiven her. "So, how is everything going so far. Kosher?"

  "So far, so good," Claire nodded. "We're just unloading in our new practice space right now. Pretty big warehouse, but someone went to the trouble to add a ton of baffling and provided pads to prevent coupling."

  "Baby girl, you do know I don't have any idea what you're talking about, right?"

  Claire blinked and bit her lip. "Sorry."

  At that, Jessie was silent and Mary Jane, Kevin and Roman all looked up at her, their brows raised, their expressions amused.

  She looked back at them. "What?"

  Jessie laughed. "I can practically hear them shaking their heads at you, Charlie. You need to stop apologizing all the time. You haven't done anything wrong."

  "Okay, that's enough," she told him, pointing at each of her band members in turn so that they knew she was talking to them as well. "You guys quit picking on me."

  "I'll let you get back to work," Jessie told her, his tone amused but gentle. "Let me know when you meet Gabriel Phelan." He paused and Claire waited. "I want to know more about the man you're dealing with."

  "Can't you just track down files on him or something?” she asked, knowing that Jessie was used to having people researched for his cases and that his reach probably extended to people he was not representing, as well.

  "Phelan is a very... private ind
ividual," Jessie told her slowly. "Believe it or not, there's not much on him anywhere. His financial empire is real estate based. He has no family - no wife, no children. And that's about all anyone can find on the man."

  Claire mulled this over for a moment. "What does he look like?" she finally asked.

  "No pictures," he admitted. "I have no idea. It's one of the reasons I want you to call me when you meet him. I'm really curious."

  "Great," she said. "He probably has six-inch fingernails and only eats ice cream in an all-white room on the top floor of one of his casino hotels."

  Jessie chuckled. And then he said, "That would be the same casino hotel you're staying in, baby girl. His residence is the one thing I was able to find on him. He lives in the penthouse suite at the top of The August."

  "That has to be a relatively new address, then," she said.

  "It is. Before that, he was living in some private estate in the suburbs."

  There was a silence between them and then Claire shook herself and stifled a yawn.

  "I caught that," Roman and Jessie said, at the same time. It was bizarre to hear their voices synchronize on either side of the phone’s speaker.

  "Get off me; I'm tired," Claire mumbled.

  "Get some sleep, baby girl. Call me tomorrow." Jessie hung up.

  Claire folded her phone and put it back in her bag. "Guys, what do you say we call it a night and start early tomorrow?" She straightened and turned to find that Kevin was pulling his jacket off of a nearby stand and that Mary Jane was throwing her faux crocodile purse over her shoulder. Roman was already half way to the exit.

  "Okay, then." Claire shook her head, a tired smile on her lips. She picked up her back pack and followed them out of the warehouse.