Evernight Publishing ®
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2015 Angelique Voisen
ISBN: 978-1-77233-488-3
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: Katelyn Uplinger
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To my readers, I hope you enjoy the first book in my new MC series.
REVO’S PROPERTY
Hellhounds MC, 1
Author Name
Copyright © 2015
Chapter One
Ezra Haines drove through the night. He didn’t know when his faithful black Buick could give out on him. It sputtered and shrieked through his long road trip, but tonight, it sliced through the cracked pavement like knife on butter.
Even his radio worked, but the only thing on were raspy sounding preachers belting out the same old tune of hell and damnation in some still-functioning radio tower. More importantly, nothing came at him. No mutated biological nasty popped from the sand, or came swooping down at him from the skies.
Ezra didn’t know how long his fortune would last, but he needed Lady Luck on his side for what he needed to do.
During the day, the desert rose on either side of him. A colorless and cheerless sprawl of red soil and sand, and Ezra could hardly see any trace of life. Night wove a different story because with the dark on either side of him, it was easy to forget the world had moved on. That he had a job to do and time was running out.
He rolled his windows down, let the air whip his hair and face, but his mood died down the moment his car passed from one country territory to the next. Ezra expected some sort of tollgate, barbed fences with armed men patrolling and asking uncomfortable questions maybe, but all he saw was the sign.
Ezra read it out loud. “Welcome to Wolf County. Beware of werewolves. Warning noted.” He scoffed, but an uneasy feeling crept down his bones.
Everyone in the West Territories knew the rules. Wolf County might welcome outsiders, but if any visitor broke the law, they didn’t face some self-elected official. They got run down by the Hellhounds MC, the werewolf bikers who ran Wolf County with an iron fist, and their notion of justice involved claws and teeth. Some folks Ezra passed by even said they ate human flesh.
He shivered. With his lax mood lifted, Ezra sat up higher in his seat.
“Damn you, Echo. Why the fuck would you screw up our perfect system? I’m so sick of cleaning your messes.” Ezra screamed out his frustration to the empty wind, and like always, no one answered him.
He had a gut feeling Echo still lingered in Wolf County, but the important question remained. How much damage had his twin left in his wake? Wolf County was different from the other towns Ezra passed by. Those in charge actually gave a damn about those under their protection. They wouldn’t turn one blind eye, let alone Echo slip past their fingers. They would demand payment for the damages incurred—retribution. A pound of flesh.
Up ahead, the roads remained broken and riddled with holes, but another surprise awaited him. Spaced out from one another, actual working lamps lit up the path into town. Ezra couldn’t even remember the last time he visited a town where electricity still worked.
He gripped the steering wheel hard and followed the lights. Blinking flashes of color from the corner of his eye made him slow the Buick. A few meters from him, a dirt path split from the main road and into an open lot lined with a few vehicles. This close, Ezra heard familiar noises—a woman’s rowdy laughter spilling through the night followed by drunken voices and loud country music. A roadhouse.
“Perfect.” He needed to feed, but unlike Echo, Ezra would be careful.
The last time he fed his inner demon and spiritual hunger had been three days ago. Slim pickings. Ezra parked in one of the free spots. Before he got out, he checked his reflection from the side mirror. Smoothed his hair and clothes, before sauntering out.
The moment he stepped through the doors, a couple of heads turned to his direction. Underneath the smell of cigarettes, beer, and vomit, he found his next happy meal. Musk. Sex. In the hidden corners, he found his targets. Two men mounting a whore on a table and a threesome going at it like mating snakes against the wall—mortals drowning too much in lust to notice anything around them.
Ezra stretched out his senses further. He found one weak fledging vampire gently feeding on the throat of a waitress, a couple of young shifters, but no one dangerous who could puzzle out what he was, or what he would take tonight.
“You looking for some company tonight, boy?” One grizzled man in his forties asked as Ezra walked past. Others didn’t speak, but propositioned him through the line of their bodies, the suggestive look in their eyes.
Ezra might look like walking jailbait, but wasn’t prey, at least with this bunch. He settled himself on a free stool by the bar.
“What would it be?” asked the burly bartender.
“Local beer.” Since the world ended, prosperous and functioning towns brewed their own liquid poison, and Ezra liked to taste each one and keep the bottle caps after. “Leave the cap please, I collect them.”
Ezra glimpsed a flash of nicotine stained teeth, what passed for a smile.
“Let me,” a man said, sitting beside him.
Ezra didn’t bother asking his name, and the stranger didn’t bother asking his either. All the stranger saw was an attractive, slender and young man, who looked like he needed to be used, and Ezra saw his meal ticket. Big, hairy, and blunt, the stranger no different from those who took him behind back alleys, motels, trucks, and hell, even refugee camps.
“Here you go.” The bartender handed him a bottle and left him the cap as per his request. Ezra fingered the wolf on the label, before plastering a cheeky grin at the stranger.
“Thanks for the beer.”
“No problem. You came here alone, boy?”
“I drove up here from Kat Kounty to meet my brother.” Ezra watched his bushy brows furrowed, then he added, “But we aren’t scheduled to meet until tomorrow.”
He took the bait. “Is that so?”
Predictable dialogue. Ezra tipped his bottle, eyes widening as smooth, liquid ambrosia slid down his throat. The stranger grinned at his reaction, and unable to help himself, Ezra grinned back.
“First time tasting Wolf County’s home brew?”
“First time in Wolf County.”
“Maybe I can show you around. I’m Ray Matthews, the owner of the local brewery. Not much to see in town, but we’re also known for our kick-ass apple pie. Some decent antiques, Pre-Fall—”
“Apples still grow here?” Ezra blurted out stupidly. Shit. This wouldn’t do. Now he had a name. Ray. Ezra needed to think of his prey as food, not a reminder they were human beings too.
“Sure they do. The orchard’s next to the brewery, we offer combined day tours too.”
Ezra miserably looked at his glass, feeling deflated. He prodded at Ray’s aura, wanting to find malice, but came out with nothing. Worse, the lust he felt from Ray moments ago turned into something else. Genuine sympathy. Holy shit, just when I thought all decency has been stripped from this world, this guy appears.
“Look, I don’t know you, but a boy like you doesn’t belong to a place like this.” Ray gestured to the roadhouse. “You should find your brother, not look for some stranger to hook up with.�
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“Hey, it’s either you or some other man. If you’re no longer interested, I’m moving onto someone else.” Ezra hopped off his stool, beer in hand, but Ray grabbed his wrist.
Ray’s gaze looked angry and conflicted. Ezra wondered what sort of inner demons he fought inside. Maybe he had a wife back home, a decent woman, who didn’t spread her legs for a living, and who had no clue she couldn’t satisfy all of Ray’s needs.
“Look, I’ve had a hard drive. I know what I want, and I know what you want deep down. Me, or at least, young men like me.”
Ray’s mouth twisted to a frown and his eyes grew hard. “You’re a pro at this aren’t you?”
“I’m a jaded whore. I do what I can to survive. So are you going to fuck me, or do I move on?”
“How much?”
“I’m not asking for payment this time. I only want to scratch an itch.” God. I’m pathetic.
Wise men questioned freebies, but not this one. Ray only said one word. “Upstairs.”
Ray didn’t let go of his arm. Ezra let him lead him up the stairs by the elbow, feeling like shit. That was saying something, since he’d never felt like this in a long time.
****
Morning light slithered through the dusty blinds of the room. Ezra woke up with a splitting headache. He rubbed at his eyes, not surprised to find himself in a familiar setting. Strange bed, weighed down by one hairy arm flung over his chest, a grizzly of a man snoring away beside him. Ray, Ezra remembered. He gently moved aside Ray’s hand, and swung his legs off the rickety bed.
Ezra fished out his jeans from the puddle of clothes on the floor, wincing at the small aches acting up, a testament to Ray’s enthusiasm the night before, and his well-fed spiritual hunger. At this rate, Ezra could go on for a couple of days without feeding his inner demon. Free to explore Wolf County as he liked, pretending to be a mortal.
He started searching for his sneakers when the hasty sounds of footsteps made him jump. Ezra’s breath caught in his throat as whispering voices followed. Was he caught? Did the Hellhounds MC somehow catch word of a lone incubus, an outsider illegally feeding on its denizens?
Wanting to avoid an unnecessary confrontation, Ezra desperately searched the room for another escape routes.
“Did you hear about what happened at the Dancing Bitch?”
“Massive orgy caused by some kind of supernatural spell or what shit, and I heard Mace’s more pissed than usual.”
“Whoever this poor fucker is, he better be smart enough to put some distance between himself and Wolf County.”
Ezra relaxed after he heard the fading footsteps. Not a threat then. Damn he was jumpy, but no reason he shouldn’t keep his guard up. Their words nagged at him though. An orgy suspiciously sounded like Echo’s work. His twin never really did learn how to be subtle.
Fuck Echo. Didn’t he know how he signed both their death warrants each time he went on a feeding spree? Hell, Ezra doubted Echo gave a shit, but he couldn’t just leave his brother be. Echo was blood, and the same brother who protected Ezra from bullies when they were kids trying to survive in the rough slums after the apocalypse happened.
“Leaving so soon? I’m not surprised,” Ray grumbled from the bed.
“I arranged to meet my brother at the Dancing Bitch. Where is that? Is that the name of a bar?” Ezra asked.
Lying came to him easy. He did it without thinking now. He wondered if he needed to undress, climb back into bed, and do more information gathering with his mouth. Ray had been forthcoming too, both in bed and with information.
Ray looked like he’d been asleep when the gossiping men passed by the corridor, because he didn’t bat an eye or attempt to dissuade Ezra. “It’s another bar across town. It’s not far, but you be careful now. It’s a lot rougher than this place and it’s run by a former member of the Hellhounds.”
Ezra swallowed. Seemingly noticing his discomfort, Ray continued. “It’s not so bad and you don’t look like the sort that courts trouble.”
“Yeah? Good then.”
Ray yawned, and curled back into the blankets. “If you and your brother plan on staying long, come visit the brewery. I’ll give you a tour.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” Although Ezra doubted they had the time.
Once he found Echo, he’d rope him, then get the hell out of Wolf County, before the wolves came sniffing at their door. Ezra felt all drained up and exhausted from traveling. All he wanted to do was drag back his brother and go back to their old way of life as nomads, carefully taking little sips and nothing more. He had enough excitement to last him a lifetime.
Chapter Two
Revo’s bike kicked up a storm of dust and dry dirt as he parked the black beast by the curb of the Dancing Bitch, Wolf County’s infamous roadhouse. He turned his nose at the smell wafting from those doors. Vomit mixed with blood, mingled with the stink of fear, violence, and the overpowering smell of arousal.
Fuck. The VP of the Hellhounds MC, the only real law in Wolf County, shouldn’t be sent out like some goddamn errand boy just because the club president needed to pick a bone with someone. Revo killed his bike, got off, and took the shotgun he brought with him.
“Let’s get this over with,” he muttered himself. The faster this task was done, the faster he’d head back to the club house and into the willing arms of Nathan, one of his favorite club whores.
Usually he only needed claws and canines to make his point, but today felt different. He smelled trouble the moment he heard Mace telling the guys this wasn’t the first time something unusual like this happened. Not that strange things weren’t a common occurrence ever since the Apocalypse came, went, and did a piss poor job of strangling the life out of every living being on earth.
Revo slung his shotgun over his shoulder and shoved the doors open. Dead silence. The welcome party he expected, hell, hoped to have just so he could let off some steam, didn’t exist. Drunk, drugged, or both, both human and supernatural bodies remain slumped over tables, chair, floors, and every grease encrusted counter top in twos, threes, and multiples. Every single one naked or in various states of undress and those Revo guessed, must’ve clung desperately to their modesty.
“A fucking orgy like Mace said,” Revo muttered, experimentally nudging one boot at Chops’ side, the Dancing Bitch’s owner and a werewolf who used to ride with the Hellhounds. “Hey, Chops. Wake up.”
Chops groaned loudly, turned and gave Revo the treat of seeing his inked beer belly and other delicate bits.
“Shit, man. I didn’t need to see that.” Revo turned his eyes away.
Chops looked far too gone and wasted to talk anyway. Fuck, did he have his work cut out for him. Going back to the club and telling Mace he didn’t find out the cause of the orgy wasn’t an option. Failure guaranteed Revo a taste of fists if he were lucky and being torn from limb to limb and ending up as Mace’s dinner if he weren’t.
Ever since Mace’s mate died, their club president and pack alpha had become unpredictable. Too reckless and some said, a little fucked in the head to function properly.
Didn’t help that Revo wasn’t much of a thinker. He won his position as pack beta and club VP because he got things done. The thinking he left to either Spider or Bray. The rustle of cloth caught his ears, followed by the sound of movement—footsteps too fluid and soft to be the steps of a drunkard waking up.
Revo scented the air. He quickly separated the disgusting scents that clung to the unconscious bodies and centered on one. His spiritual wolf howled when they found their target, their prey, and hopefully the culprit of this little prank.
Decidedly male, certainly not human, but fuck did this stranger smell so good Revo wanted to lick the salt off his skin. To press his nose up against his neck and scent mark him like a wolf marking its territory. Tell the world this man was his to do as he pleased. For a moment Revo was tempted to strap poor protesting fucker over his bike, bring him back to the clubhouse, bend him, over and fuck him.
Whoever this bastard was, he crept slowly and nimbly past chairs and tables, past the maze of bodies, and slowly made his way to the door.
Revo moved with supernatural speed. He easily picked up the slender man from the floor, twisted his hands behind his back, and slammed him against the table within seconds.
“Let go of me!”
Revo tightened his grip over his wrists, smirked when he felt the pulse leap at his rough handling. “You sure you want me to let you go?”
He blanketed his body over the man, felt the heat between their bodies. Revo closed his eyes, ran the top of his nose up the side of the man’s neck and breathed in his scent. He flicked his tongue against the man’s pulse.
“Sick fucker!”
“If I’m the sick fucker, then why are you getting so aroused?” Revo whispered in his ear.
“Liar.” The man snarled.
“I can smell you, stranger. Smell your sharp want.”
His captive grew still and finally stopped fighting him. Revo quickly took inventory. Tall, leanly built, skin the color of copper, short black hair, and a face he’d call pretty except there was an almost feral cast there. Hunger wasn’t uncommon during hard times, but the man in front of him needed another kind of sustenance to survive.
“You’re one of them,” the man whispered the words so softly Revo wouldn’t have caught the words if he weren’t a shifter. Something had changed between them. Revo could tell in the way his captive’s voice shifted from saucy defiance to quivering fear. Too bad all that fear turned him on. “One of the Hellhounds. The werewolf biker gang that controls Wolf County.”
“What gave me away?” Fucking hell, was he flirting? Revo never flirted. If he saw something, he took without asking, but then again, he’d never encountered a challenge before, a conquest worth having. When the man refused to answer, Revo went on, “Who knew all this trouble was caused by a little thing like you.”
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