by Nell Stark
“Look,” I said, trying to get the conversation back on track. “I’ve only seen Vincent twice in my life: once on the Red Circuit, and once last week. Since the Consortium is putting up information roadblocks, I thought I’d go back to the Circuit. But the marquee is blank.”
Sebastian laid down his fork and grimaced. “More of your friend Olivia’s work. She’s taken her fight up the Consortium food chain, asking questions she shouldn’t know how to ask. Malcolm ordered me yesterday to put the Circuit on ice for a while.”
“Damn it.” I swallowed the coffee dregs and shifted my mug to the end of the table in the hopes that it would be refilled. “Where the hell is she getting her information?”
Sebastian’s jaw bunched. “I think we have a leak.”
“A traitor? Really?”
“How else do you explain it?”
I shrugged. “You could be right. All I know is that her source is male.”
“Well, that narrows it down.”
Ignoring the gibe, I glanced around the diner to be certain the waitress wasn’t nearby. Maybe I was paranoid, but then again, given the unanswered questions both Sebastian and I were wrestling with, maybe not. He still hadn’t told me what I wanted to hear, and I wasn’t about to let him off the hook.
“You can’t expect me to believe that the Circuit has actually ground to a halt,” I said. When Sebastian opened his mouth to protest, I raised one hand and fixed him with what I hoped was my most intimidating stare. “You know as well as I do that our people need that kind of outlet. So tell me where they’re getting it now.”
He pushed the plate aside and leaned in close enough to kiss me. I didn’t move. “The Chinatown tunnels. Tomorrow night.” Uncertainty flashed over his face—an unfamiliar expression. “You really think the Circuit has something to do with what’s happened to Vincent?”
“It’s your baby. You would know better than I.” When Sebastian shook his head, I flashed my sharp canines to forestall him. “Don’t try denying it. ‘I put the Circuit on ice,’ you said.”
He grimaced. “So I did. Damn it. I can’t afford to slip like that right now.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. When he opened them, they telegraphed his anger. “I don’t like coincidences. The ADA starts snooping around at the same time a sick Were goes missing?”
“And there’s been no word from Telassar,” I reminded him. It wasn’t surprising that urbane Sebastian didn’t have a strong connection to the isolationists in Africa, but I knew somehow that Alexa’s silence was part of this puzzle.
“Fine, yes, that too.”
I looked at my watch. I needed to be at the lab in an hour. “Will you be there tomorrow night?” I asked as I threw a few bills down on the faux granite tabletop. “Come to think of it, I’ve never seen you on the Circuit.”
Sebastian’s grin was pure wolf. He stood with a subtle grace that was both masculine and animal. “Nonetheless,” he said softly, “I’m always there.”
Chapter Six
I reached the Bloody Angle just as it began to rain. Earlier in the evening, dark clouds had rolled in from the west, smothering the sunset. But the storm had held off until I’d set foot on Doyers Street. Probably a bad omen.
At the turn of the century, crooked Doyers had been infamous as a good place to get mugged by one of the gangs warring over the turf of Chinatown and Little Italy. Now it was a tourist attraction. As the skies opened, I made a dash for the Wing Fat Arcade, stepping down into the tunnel only seconds before the first crack of thunder rent the night. In the moments it had taken me to get indoors, the rain had plastered my hair to my head and my shirt to my torso. Rivulets of water streamed down my face to drip onto the stone steps leading into the bowels of the city.
Shops, all closed for the day, lined the narrow underground street: acupuncturists, an apothecary, English schools. When I reached the first intersection, I looked right, then left. Both corridors ended in barred doors with signs in English proclaiming “Keep Out!” and signs in Chinese that probably said the same thing. The one on the left also featured a beautiful woman lurking in the shadows. The gatekeeper.
She pressed close as she handed me a raffle ticket. “Haven’t seen you in months.” When she breathed in deeply, frown lines materialized on her forehead. “Hmm.”
“What?”
“The cat. Her scent has faded.” Her lips skated lightly across my neck. “She shouldn’t be so cavalier about her territory.”
I stiffened and stepped away, tamping down a blistering surge of anger that made me want to sink my sharpened teeth into the tattoo just below her collarbone. Instead, I reached for the door handle. It didn’t budge. The gatekeeper smiled provocatively as she pulled her cell phone from the front pocket of her skinny jeans. When she punched three numbers into the keypad, I heard a click as the lock released.
“Have fun,” she said as I stepped into the gloom beyond. As soon as the door slammed shut, I crumpled up my ticket and tossed it onto the floor. I wanted what it offered too much to trust myself.
The corridor was sinuous, twisting every ten feet so that it was impossible to make out its destination. Naked lightbulbs hung from the ceiling, their harsh light illuminating doors that were set into the uneven stone walls at regular intervals. The fifth door on the right had been propped open with a brick, and I slipped into a large, low-ceilinged room that might once have been a warehouse but now functioned as a club. Several folding tables had been lined up to form a bar along the near wall, and a makeshift plywood dais across the room served as a stage on which a blond woman, wearing nothing but stilettos, danced for the crowd.
In another room nearby, I knew, would be the dogfights. I needed to find them and ask around about Vincent. But first I needed a drink. Being here reminded me of the last time I’d braved the Circuit—the night when the Missionary had made an appearance. The night I’d almost died at his hands a second time. If it hadn’t been for Alexa…
Suppressing a shudder, I worked my way to the bar and ordered a double of whiskey, neat. After a long sip, I took a look around, intending to head for the fights, but at that moment, the lights dimmed and a spotlight focused on the stage. When a woman, dressed head to toe in black leather and holding a bullwhip, stepped into the bright circle, I sighed in relief. The Record was much easier for me to handle than the Raffle for some poor homeless soul’s lifeblood.
As the dominatrix dramatically cracked her whip, two men, shirtless and barefoot, led a naked woman out onto the stage by a chain clipped to the collar around her neck. I sucked in a surprised breath when I recognized her.
“Gwendolyn was reborn in India one hundred and eighteen years ago.” The disembodied voice ricocheted around the room, soft and sibilant. As though it were inside my head. “The last time she stood before us, she nearly broke the Record. Tonight, she wishes to try again. Will you welcome her?”
Applause thundered beneath the low ceiling, and I felt my pulse increase to match the beat of the crowd. Gwendolyn’s skin shone under the spotlight, and for a moment, I thought she had used oil, until my keen vision caught a bead of sweat trickling between her breasts. I frowned. These tunnels were cool. If she was nervous enough to be sweating profusely, she wasn’t going to last long.
The dominatrix’s crimson lips twitched below the cruel beak of her falcon mask, and I wondered what she was feeling. Power? Lust? Perhaps even a little trepidation? The collar around Gwendolyn’s neck looked heavy and the chain strong. But only months ago, I had watched her transform into a Bengal tiger and snap those iron links in one powerful lunge. She had been beautiful in her ferocity. And I had no doubt that she would have killed her tormentor if given the chance.
A hush fell over the room as the dominatrix moved into striking distance. In the pause before she raised her arm, I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to feel anticipation for the spectacle, but the mood of the crowd had caught me up. I walked the streets above among mortals with the face of a woman and the appetites of a mons
ter. Down here in the belly of the city where the veneer of civility had no place, we were all unmasked. It would have felt like a relief, had I not been so desperately thirsty.
My throat pulsed greedily as a streak of red opened along Gwendolyn’s flank. Another followed it below her left shoulder blade. Another, and then another, until her flesh was weeping and it was all I could do not to vault onto the stage and kneel beneath her to catch the red drops as they fell upon unyielding wood.
The crowd counted. Twenty-four. Thirty-seven. Forty-nine. The Record was fifty-seven lashes; I knew that from the last time Gwendolyn had attempted it. Her tiger had leapt free at fifty-one. Now, on the cusp of fifty-five, the energy in the room was nearly unbearable. She was shaking, convulsing against the pillar, held up only by her chained hands as her feet skidded over the rough floor. How was she not shifting?
The room went berserk at the fifty-eighth lash. It felt like Times Square on New Year’s Eve, and I clutched at my glass, struggling to keep my feet. Once I’d found my balance, I looked up at Gwendolyn again, wondering how long she would be able to hang on…only to realize that something was terribly wrong. She was jerking in her chains, and her eyes had rolled up in her head. Spittle foamed over red lips drawn back in a rictus of agony. And that’s when I knew: it wasn’t self-control that had allowed her to break the Record. Like Vincent, like Martine, she couldn’t shift.
The dominatrix had lowered the whip. It trembled against the floor, an extension of her shaking hand. The crowd was starting to quiet now, their exultant shouts subsiding into confused murmuring. Cursing, I pushed forward, shouldering through the wall of people. I didn’t know what I could do when I reached Gwendolyn, but I had to try something. When her body began to blur, I felt a surge of hope that she might transform after all, but she continued to spasm, human and helpless, the chain clanking hollowly against the pole as the seizures racked her flayed body.
And then, as though a switch had been flicked, the paroxysms stopped. Her chin lolled on her breastbone as she swung slowly from the bonds around her wrists. When blood seeped out of her nose to join the crimson smears at her feet, I knew she was dead.
An uneasy hush fell over the room. Those who came to the Red Circuit came to watch death. But not like this. I kept pushing toward the stage, but I was still twenty feet away when Sebastian’s cronies emerged from the shadows. They made quick work of disposing of Gwendolyn’s broken body, then disappeared into the mass of black curtains. When I looked around for the dominatrix, she was nowhere to be found.
“Damn it,” I breathed. At least Helen’s guards hadn’t been the ones to collect the corpse. With Sebastian in control, I would have access to Gwendolyn’s body.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the sibilant voice announced. “Do not be alarmed, but for security purposes, this room must be vacated. Please make your way to the adjoining chamber, where we will continue with the Raffle.” Several more men dressed in black emerged from behind the stage to direct people. The procedure was orderly and efficient, and while many in the throng looked troubled, no one was panicking.
I spun in a slow circle in an effort to locate Sebastian, but all I saw was the seething crowd. Working my way toward the front of the room made me feel like a salmon swimming upstream, but after several minutes, I succeeded in skirting around the stage. I ducked behind the curtains, only to be brought up short by the sight of two guards flanking a door set into the wall.
“I’m a doctor,” I fudged. “I need to get back there.” The left guard stared at me, expressionless. The right shook his head.
“And a friend of Sebastian’s,” I said.
“No one passes.”
I bit back a frustrated retort. “Call him. My name is Valentine Darrow.”
When neither made a move to activate the mics strapped to their wrists, I thought for one insane moment about taking them on. Gwendolyn and Martine had died because they couldn’t shift. Vincent had come close, and was perhaps even now lying on his deathbed. The most likely explanation was that they had contracted some kind of pathogen, but it was impossible to tell for sure without more information. And I had to know now, because Alexa might be coming home to an epidemic. But without my gun, I was no match for two shifters.
I was just about to turn and head for the surface, where I’d have cell reception and could leave Sebastian a message, when both guards put their left hands to their ears.
“Yes, sir,” the right one said into his wrist as the left one beckoned me closer. He pushed the door inward and as soon as I’d stepped into the shadows, he closed it behind me. Sebastian was there. I could smell his distinctive cologne before I saw him step around a bend in the tunnel ahead. A surgical mask dangled around his neck.
“It’s a pathogen?” I asked, fear coiling in my gut.
“I don’t know. The mask is a precaution.” The muscles along his jawline flexed ominously. “I want the Consortium kept out of this. Do you have a way of testing Gwendolyn’s blood?”
“At the lab where I intern, yes.”
But instead of showing relief, he rocked back on his heels. “You’re sure? You’re no medical examiner, Val. And this has to be done right.”
My fists clenched and I took a step toward him before I could help myself. “You think I don’t know that? Goddamn it, Sebastian, Alexa’s supposed to come home in two days! I need to know what the hell she’s coming home to. We all need to know. I’ll make sure it’s done properly.”
“Okay. Come with me.”
He led me back the way he’d come, around one bend in the tunnel and down a steep slope to a T-intersection. He turned left and froze.
“Fuck!” He took off sprinting down the corridor before I could tell what was wrong. And then I saw it as he skidded to a halt next to a recessed doorway: a crumpled human form lying across the threshold. By the time I reached them, Sebastian was rising from his crouch.
“Is he—?”
“He’s alive. Tranked.”
I knelt to feel the guard’s pulse and was reassured by its steadiness. Sebastian was leaning against the door, his face turned toward the room. When I followed his gaze, all I saw was an empty table.
“Someone took the body.”
“Lambros.” Sebastian spat the word, and I had to fight not to take a step away from him. He was angry. So angry that he was struggling not to shift.
“Why?” I moved into the room, searching for even the slightest trace of blood that was still salvageable. There was nothing. “How did they clean up so fast?”
“There was nothing to clean. We had her in a bag, in case of infection.”
Inspiration struck. “What about the stage? Her blood was all over it.”
Our pace was hurried as we walked back the way we had come. A dozen feet from the doorway, however, Sebastian broke into a run.
“What?” I called after him.
“Bleach!”
Puzzled, I followed close behind as he burst through the doors. The guards that had blocked the passage now lay on either side of it. I bent to check their vitals. “Tranked, too.”
“Can’t you smell it now?” he asked bitterly. “I bet her fucking commandos covered the stage in bleach while we were in the tunnels.”
He was right—the acrid smell of bleach pricked my nose when I breathed in. Together, we walked up the crude wooden set of stairs that led to the back of the stage. When we pushed through the thick curtain, my eyes began to water. Sebastian was right—someone had dumped a large quantity of bleach over the pool of blood. The mixture had trickled over the left side of the stage and was pooling onto the floor. Not a drop of it would be viable for testing.
“Damn it!” What was Helen covering up? It had to be big, or she wouldn’t have gone to such efforts. I stood still, listening to Sebastian take deep, even breaths in an effort to calm his wolf, and tried to figure out what to do now. I could either stick with my original plan and ask questions about Vincent, or I could follow the body. It had to be at the Con
sortium somewhere. And this time, I wasn’t going to stop looking until I found answers or was forcibly removed.
“I’m going after the body,” I said. I expected Sebastian to try to argue or tell me it was hopeless, but he only nodded. This version of him, weary and fighting for control, was unsettling.
“I have to deal with the aftermath here. There are going to be a lot of questions.”
“What are you going to say?”
“I don’t know.” He closed his eyes and slumped against the side wall of the stage like a prizefighter who had taken too many punches. “If I tell the truth—that I have no fucking clue—the uncertainty will cause a panic. If I cover this up, then I’m no better than Lambros.”
“What if you tell half the truth?” I flashed back to Gwendolyn’s last moments. “You could say that you’re not sure what happened tonight, but that it might be drug-related. Given what you’ve told me about the drug abuse in the shifter community, people might buy it. They’ll have something to latch on to, but you won’t actually be lying.”
Sebastian’s taut triceps finally ceased their rapid flickering as he pushed off from the wall. “That could work. You’ll call me if you find something.”
I knew what he wasn’t saying—that even given our friendship it was difficult for him to trust me, a vampire who had a close relationship with Helen. “I will,” I said softly. “Nothing’s more important to me than Alexa. Nothing.”
He nodded once, then gestured for me to follow. As I let him guide me through the warren of tunnels, I wondered where the dominatrix had disappeared to. Had she pulled off her mask and blended into the crowd? Or had she been part of Helen’s cover-up attempt? Remembering the agonized curve of her mouth and the anxious trembling of her arm, I rejected that suspicion. She had been as surprised as the rest of us. And the pain in her eyes had been palpable.