The Gatekeeper, the sensual and gripping prequel story.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 1
The City News and Herald
Las Vegas
Are Zombies Roaming the Streets of Las Vegas?
The scene on historic, neon-lit Fremont Street was an unprecedented bloodbath last night as a crowd of several thousand went into a panic, killing and trampling one another as they scrambled to survive a “zombie apocalypse.” The frenzy began when the body of Marston Greenwood, thirty-eight, of Portland, Oregon, was discovered in the midst of an Old West display beneath a blazing green neon Z. The man appeared to have been partially consumed by some sort of animal, which sent the crowd into a frenzy just as, ironically, the cast of the new Zombieville revue appeared on the street for a promotional stunt—with tragically unfortunate timing. While eyewitness accounts vary, one survivor, Sam Nichols of Nunnelly, Tennessee, claims, “Some guy who walked like a mummy and had a serious skin rash stumbled toward a woman just as she discovered the body. She screamed, and the man next to her—I think he was a Texan, ’cuz he was fast on the draw—tried to protect her and shot the zombie or actor or whatever the hell he was. Then people were screaming, running like crazy. There was a giant hairy creature roaring down the road, and I couldn’t tell the showgirls from the hookers or the actors. Music was blaring from somewhere, but you could still hear everyone screaming. Looked to me like zombies or werewolves or vampires or God only knows what were ripping through the streets, tearing into everyone.”
Despite Nichols’s claims and other similar reports, police, state and federal authorities have characterized the tragic incident as a case of mass hysteria in reaction to the combination of an unfortunate death and the ill-timed promotional performance by the Zombieville cast. The agencies have joined forces for the continuing investigation into the tragedy. Pending notification of family, the names of the dead are being withheld.
While the area is currently closed, Mayor Herman Langston is assuring the local population and tourists alike that the situation is now under complete control. “Vegas is open for business. Police are out in force, and while we’re all shocked and saddened by the horrific events of last evening, we will not be shut down by this tragedy that has been visited upon our exceptional city. The local hotels and casinos are offering free rooms and entertainment, so if you already have plans to visit us, don’t change a thing. And if you don’t already have plans, then this is the time to make them.”
Saxon Kirby stood in the morgue staring at the body of lynching victim Joe Moore. Art Krill, the medical examiner, was carefully removing the rope used to hang the man. He spoke in his dry monotone so the microphone clipped to his chest could record his findings.
“The deceased, identified as Joe Moore, thirty-one, resident of Las Vegas, Nevada, actor by trade, appears to have been in excellent health before his death. X-rays show that the deceased’s neck was not broken, and that he died...”
Saxon didn’t actually need to be there. There was nothing for him to do but stand around and watch. But he was a cop, a detective, and his presence was expected. He was pretty sure that no one needed a medical degree to figure out that the poor guy was dead, and that he had died slowly, ripping desperately at the rope around his neck as he kicked and fought before finally losing the fight. The smell in the room was rank, but then, hanging wasn’t an easy way to die. The body gave in and the bowels emptied. There was no dignity in death. He’d met Joe Moore a few times. He’d been a decent guy and a half-decent actor who’d finally gotten his big break with a role in Zombieville.
Yeah, his big break.
Saxon looked out at the stainless steel gurneys filling the room. The statistics were horrifying: nineteen dead and forty-nine in local hospitals, some in critical condition.
He turned and exited the autopsy room, his strides lengthening as he left the morgue. Outside in the bright Las Vegas sunlight, he headed for his car.
“Detective!”
He stopped and turned.
Captain Clark Bower was there. It was unusual to see him at the morgue. Then again, this entire situation was unusual.
Bower was nearing retirement. He was a good captain, but at the moment he just wanted to finish out his last three months in office.
“Captain,” Saxon said.
“You’re leaving already? I thought—”
“Captain, what am I going to learn here that we don’t already know? Joe Moore was hanged. Eleven died of gunshot wounds, and the others were stabbed or trampled. I was here earlier for the autopsy of the man who was...cannibalized—and that mattered.”
Bower gritted his teeth, looking up at the sky as if asking the heavens how this could have happened now. “The mayor is down our throats, Saxon. The police chief—”
“The mayor wants to be reelected. This town runs on tourism, so naturally he wants an explanation for everything that happened, and he wants it fast and all wrapped up in ribbons. It’s not like we can blame it all on some crazy with a gun permit. Every man out there—assuming we find every man—who shot his piece will claim self-defense. I don’t need to hang around the morgue, Captain. I need to find whoever killed Greenwood and dumped his body on Fremont so something could chew his face off.”
Captain Bower nodded. His jowls weighed his face down heavily. Bower had been in charge of units that had solved some of the most vicious murders in the city, but right now he looked as if he were a cast member in Zombieville himself. He was a big man, but it suddenly looked as if his skin was hanging off his bones.
“Yes—find who murdered the man. Or who found his gnawed body and threw it into the street. Get to the core of this and—Lord help us all, Saxon—do it fast. I’d say you could start with—”
“I know where to start, Captain. I have connections on the street. I know what I’m doing,” Saxon told him quietly.
Bower nodded. “Then do it.”
Saxon turned and continued to his car.
But he wasn’t really heading out to see a snitch.
At the Wolf and Crown, one of the newest and most elegant casinos to grace the Strip, he pulled up to the valet stand and tossed his keys to one of teh attendants, Billy Shield, a kid he knew pretty well.
Billy grinned as he caught them. “I’ll have it ready the second you want it,” he called. Billy knew that even though Saxon was a cop, he tipped.
Saxon headed past the flashing slot machines. He was barely aware of the din that filled the casino as he strode across the elegant marble floor toward the elevators, and he ignored one of the executive guard dogs who saw him, frowned worriedly and hurried in his wake.
The elevator door closed after him just as the suit rushed up.
Saxon knew the code to reach the level devoted to the private office of Monty Reilly, owner and CEO of the Wolf and Crown.
The elevator opened on Monty’s floor.
And there was Monty.
He was still in his bathrobe. A silver coffee service sat on his desk. There was an urn of coffee on it with a large bottle of bourbon next to it. To his credit, Monty wasn’t sitting there petting one of his scores of buxom fortune-hunting beauties. He was pacing. He’d dragged his fingers through his dark hair a dozen times and looked like hell.
“Saxon! I knew you’d be coming, but you got to believe me, this wasn’t done by one of mine. I’m telling you—”
“Sit down, Monty.”
Monty, who had the smooth look of James Bond—at least when his hair was combed—sat immediately and stared at Saxon. “It wasn’t one of mine,” he repeated.
Saxon walked over to the desk and leaned on it, staring back at Monty. “It all started with the discovery of a corpse, Monty. A corpse that had been eaten. Gnawed. Devoured.”
He’d seen that body, and he knew a
werewolf’s marks when he saw them.
Monty swallowed hard. “Come on, Saxon. You know that a body doesn’t last long in the desert without something eating it. A coyote, a—”
“A werewolf, Monty. And you’re the Keeper of the Vegas werewolves. Your charges have been getting out of control for a long time. And I know you have a pretty good idea which one of them did this. I’ll bet you cash money that a werewolf was responsible for the disappearance of that craps dealer two months ago, and for that pretty blonde singer who left work and never returned. And I know damn well that a wolf was responsible for those bones we found out in the desert last month. What the hell is going on, Monty?”
Monty looked away.
“Who is it, Monty?” Saxon sat on the corner of the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. “That new hotshot from Toronto who gave me grief when I kicked him out of the Wolf’s Den? What’s his name? Jimmy Taylor? Or how about the billionaire pulling your strings—old Carl Bailey? He’s been talking all over town about going back to the old ways. And God knows, he has both the power and the money to get rid of any witnesses. Then there’s the new girl I’ve been hearing about, fresh in town, Candy Laughton. She’s been working the elite clientele—‘entertaining’ them. Stripping, maybe more. God alone knows what really happens when she gives a guy a private lap dance.”
Monty swallowed. “Come on, Saxon. You don’t know that a werewolf is to blame. That guy from Toronto is just a jumped-up punk with a big mouth and too much money. Old Carl Bailey is all talk. And Candy...she’s just another wannabe, even if she’s an especially pretty one. Saxon, I’m telling you the truth—I don’t know who did this. I mean, you don’t even really know that it was a werewolf.”
“We both know the truth, Monty. And when the first disappearance happened, you should have been right on it. Damn it, Monty, it’s your job, your calling.”
Monty rose. He was going to lose all his hair, Saxon thought, if he kept running his fingers through it so hard. The Keeper shook his head. “I thought everything was going well. I mean...what control do I really have? They’re the biggest players in the city, some of them. You know that. They’re powerful. They’re— Hell, Saxon, stop looking at me like that! There really aren’t any rules...no justice system for us to rely on. I can’t haul anyone into court. I—”
“Monty, Keepers maintain control.”
“That’s not fair, Saxon. Sure, we’re supposed to control the other races. But what power do we really have? It’s not like everyone signed off on a bill of rights. Once it wasn’t a big deal. The populations in the New World were small—hell, the worldwide population was still small—and it was possible to discreetly handle situations. But there’s no recourse for me now, nowhere to go—and no real laws.”
“You should find a way to handle it,” Saxon said. “But since you can’t, I will.”
“This is everyone’s fault—not mine!” Monty insisted.
Saxon felt tension riddling his body. He wanted to land a punch on Monty’s clean-shaven jaw; he wanted to shake him out of his comfortable, suck-up position at the casino. Monty was a figurehead. He wasn’t running the werewolves—they were running him.
But one thing Monty had said was true: there was no overall governing body for the Keepers to rely on when they were dealing with their charges; there were no real laws. Life and society had changed over the years. For well over a century now, the Keepers had been keeping control all over the world—preventing the mass extinction of human beings by keeping the werewolves, the vampires, the shifters and all the other paranormal races in check. But Monty was right. They were living in a world where populations had exploded. If a Keeper in one city was weak, hell, just move there and behave as irresponsibly—as violently—as you wanted.
Saxon cursed the fact that there was no judicial system for Keepers and their charges.
There should be.
Except he didn’t even know who to talk to about forming one.
And for the moment he couldn’t worry about it. He had to find the werewolf chewing his way through Las Vegas.
Hell.
Did he start with the kid, the billionaire or the stripper?
Chapter 2
The Rock Candy Club occupied the penthouse level of Candy Country, one of the few casinos that hadn’t been built using Carl Bailey’s money or ended up with Carl Bailey owning a huge percentage of the shares, whether by name or through one of his many business ventures.
Carl had wanted in; Saxon knew that. But one of the major investors was Reginald Holland, a vampire who held sway in New York City. None of Carl’s goons were going to get to Reginald in his cement castle in the Big Apple, and Reginald could not be bought. Saxon had never met him, but he hadn’t heard about any vampires causing problems in New York, so presumably Reginald was working hard at living the American dream—controlling his appetite for blood with domestic animals, the small forest creatures that inhabited Central Park or, most likely, blood banks.
Saxon smiled, pleased that Carl Bailey hadn’t managed to take ownership of the entire city.
The Rock Candy Club was reached via private elevator.
The women who worked there weren’t listed in advertisements—nor, he suspected, on any IRS forms—as either prostitutes or strippers, though both professions were legal in the city.
The Rock Candy Club hired entertainers.
To be fair, the women were reputed to be quite entertaining.
There was a guard outside the elevator. It wasn’t so much that you needed ID to reach the upper floors, but you did need an impeccable credit rating to reach the penthouse level.
Saxon produced the exclusive platinum card that he carried for precisely such an occasion. Sometimes in Vegas it was necessary to play the part.
The guard let him by, but there was another “host”—not as tall as Saxon, but massive and broad like a steel-hulled ship—ready to greet him in the elevator.
Werewolf, definitely.
Big, hairy, broad-faced werewolf.
“Welcome, sir,” he addressed Saxon politely. He wore his suit well, though he did seem to chafe a bit in the tailored shirt, high collar and tie.
“Elven?” the guard asked politely.
Saxon merely nodded.
The man cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, sir. I didn’t mean to pry. We don’t see too many of your kind here, on account of...”
His voice trailed off as Saxon pointedly ignored him.
Elven were invariably tall and generally blessed with exceptional looks. That was why so many of them had successful acting careers out in Hollywood; not only did they tend to be tall, blond and good-looking, they were usually also blessed with a considerable amount of charm.
Both sexes were also revered as lovers, endowed with stamina and, in the males, sexual equipment to match their well-toned physiques.
“Actually,” the guard said, “we don’t see many of your kind in Vegas at all.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Saxon agreed.
“And certainly not...here. You know what I mean. Here. Looking to spend money on...entertainment.”
Saxon wasn’t feeling the patience for a pissing contest. On the other hand, he didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot before he’d even made it into the club.
He grinned at the guard. “I’ve heard great things about this place.”
The guard smiled back at that. “It’s spectacular.” He lowered his voice as an indication of confidentiality. “Ask for Candy.”
“I hear she’s new,” Saxon said. “And exceptional.”
“She may or may not agree to see you,” the guard told him. “She’s selective.”
Luckily Saxon didn’t have to continue the conversation any longer. The elevator had reached the penthouse.
The door opened.
At the end of a hallway stood a beautifully constructed glass enclosure, the customary pole at the center. The pole was wrapped in a shimmering sheath of fabric that matc
hed the temptingly designed outfit worn by the dancer on display.
She was incredible. Lithe, her every movement was seductively smooth as she danced to a tune he knew well and barely heard.
She wasn’t half-naked, like the typical Vegas entertainer, or even provocatively dressed. Clad from head to toe, her exceptional allure came from the figure within, which was tall and lean and wickedly curved. Limber didn’t begin to describe the exotic way she could twist and turn. She moved around the pole with the animalistic grace of a cat.
Saxon was dimly aware as the guard behind him said, “Enjoy yourself, sir,” and the elevator door closed. He continued down the short hall that led to the foyer—and the glass-enclosed dancer. The place was elegantly and tastefully furnished in antiques; paintings graced the walls. None of them were sexually explicit. One was of a medieval damsel clad in delicate draping white, bending down to draw water from a shimmering stream. Another was of a knight in shining armor, a fair lady gently carried in his arms. The rest were similar in subject matter and tastefulness.
Saxon barely noted them or the decor. His attention was fully caught by the dancer.
Her hair was dark—not black, but a sable color with streaks of auburn running through it. Her face was delicately, aesthetically, sculpted, yet her lips were almost supernaturally full.
Her eyes, when she deigned to notice him, were an intriguing mix of green and gold, as sharp and beautiful as diamonds, glittering like the fabric that covered her.
And when they met his, they filled with disdain.
Once she caught his eyes, she didn’t look away. She stared at him and continued dancing as if he were no more than a fly buzzing nearby.
“Mr. Kirby?” someone murmured in a silken voice.
He turned. A blonde with the perkiest—and undoubtedly heavily silicone-enhanced—breasts he had ever seen was coming toward him. She was clad in something that resembled a stewardess uniform from the earliest days of commercial flight.
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