Once Upon A Midnight

by Stephanie Rowe

  “I said I wasn’t supposed to do it,” he yelled back. “But all’s fair in the game of keeping my librarian alive.”

  Claire smiled. His librarian…

  “Swear, I won’t move a muscle, vampire. See you downstairs.” She pressed the button for the elevator, listening to Irish rustle around in the bedroom, gathering his things.

  When the doors popped open, she got in and pressed the button for the secure garage this Mathias Lawson had and sighed. Irish was right. She knew it. Alone in the Zone was a bad idea—even when you were paranormal.

  But there had to be another way to prove what Gannon had been doing. The mere thought of it still filled her with disgust. Hearing him say the words, hearing what he’d intended…She fought back a gag.

  Maybe Mathias did have enough contacts in this seedy mess of refuse and sin to help; it was the only hope she had at this point, but somehow, she’d prove Gannon was a pig who’d deserved every bit of what he’d gotten.

  As the doors slid open and she put one foot outside the elevator’s perimeter, her phone announced a text that had her dropping her backpack on the elevator floor to dig it out and scroll her messages. Locating the newest one, she began to read, her eyes opening wide as dread filled her stomach.

  Oh, God. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, no, no, no!

  Just as she looked up, preparing to turn right back around and go back up to Irish, something very hard, something very large, bashed her in the head.

  Something that was definitely going to leave a mark.

  * * * *

  It was all he could do not to wrap his hands around Claire’s delectable neck and squeeze the life out of her when she’d told him her reasons for being in the Zone. Sitting on the bed, pretty as a damn picture, and telling him she’d come here to tangle with a man he’d only heard about. A legend in the black market trades here in the Zone.

  A vicious, sick, twisted demon who’d sooner rip your fucking face off than look at you—and he was selling young girls to depraved fucks. Irish’s fist clenched as he gathered his jacket and his phone, wanting nothing more than to ram his fist into something, ease this rage, this sick gut feeling that bigger trouble lay ahead.

  He had to give it to Claire. She had guts to take this on alone, but the hell she’d be alone anymore. He’d never doubted her reasons for killing Gannon—and speaking of him, Irish still hadn’t told Claire that he had no idea where Gannon’s body was.

  It wouldn’t be long now before he’d have to confide in someone. Juggling all these balls in the air at once was becoming harder and harder.

  Finding out Gannon was deeper into the black market than even he’d anticipated, sicker than he’d ever given the bastard credit for, made it clear he needed to at least let Mathias in on this.

  And now, he had to find a way to protect Claire before Courtland found out she was the one who’d killed his brother. To protect the children of his town if Courtland was neck deep in this, too.

  But Courtland claimed to know nothing about where Gannon got the synthetic blood, and while he hadn’t rooted around in his head, Irish tended to believe him. That meant there were likely many things the Dogs were completely unaware of.

  Courtland was a sadistic fuck, and there was no way Irish believed if Courtland knew what his brother was doing that he wouldn’t have been all in.

  But then again, it would be just like Gannon to keep vital information from his crew so he was always the one on top. Always the smug ruler of his little kingdom.

  As he plodded out of the bedroom, he left it with regret. This had been a safe harbor for him and Claire, somewhere they could hide. When he was done ripping into her again, for posterity of course, he’d tell her all about how much he’d wanted to stay right here with her—forever.

  The elevator dinged, signaling its arrival. When he stepped inside, Claire’s backpack was on the metal floor.

  Reaching down, he scooped it up and lugged it over his shoulder. Jesus, they weren’t even officially a couple yet and he was already carrying her purse.

  Some fierce, snarling vampire he was.

  As the doors popped open, his phone pinged an incoming text, making him dig it out of his back pocket. He noted Liam’s number scrolling over the top of the screen.

  He poked his head out into the garage, smelling the oppressive air. He didn’t give a shit how badass Mathias thought his security was. You could never be too careful.

  Blood. He smelled blood—three different types of blood to be precise, so mingled together, it would take a moment for him to sort them.

  His gut tightened. Motherfucker.

  And that was when he saw two security guards—enormous, beefy men, sprawled on the empty garage floor, blood spilling from their heads.

  Claire. He smelled her blood.

  Jesus Christ, where was Claire?

  His vision narrowed for a moment before righting itself, before the pounding in his head he wasn’t supposed to feel eased enough for him to see any other color but the red haze of bone-crushing fury.

  Then his eyes caught sight of her sneaker, a faded pink with pristine white shoelaces, left right near one of the security guards’ bodies, with a trail of blood leading toward the exit.

  Fury. So deep, so thorough it engulfed him, made him want to tear throats wide open, and smash faces to the hard pavement until they were nothing but bloody pulps.

  His phone pinged again and, even enraged, he knew logically he had to check it because of Hadley. He fought for control. He fought for reason, but was there any reason when it came to his feelings about Claire?

  Read the text, Irish. Then go kill people, the rational side of his brain demanded.

  Irish clicked the text open, reading it—then reading it again to be sure he was seeing it correctly.

  Sarah? Irish frowned, his mind clicking through the faces of the people in Rock Cove until he landed on the only Sarah he knew. Hadley’s best friend. The one who loved the library so much?

  No. Fuck no.

  As his mind began to race, real fear began to claw its way to the surface. So he reread the text from Liam for confirmation.

  Sarah is missing. We think kidnapped. Get the fuck home now, Irish!

  Part 5: Revelation

  Chapter 18

  “Aren’t. You. Deliciousss?” a male voice hissed in Claire’s face while what sounded like chairs rustled and feet scuffed.

  Claire stood stock-still, unable to open her eyes due to the blindfold secured tightly around her head. But she knew they were swollen from the dull, burning throb, oh, and the punch to her face when she put up a fight.

  And she was weak, as weak as a newborn kitten.

  Still, she tilted her chin up at his words—in defiance, in unspeakable rage at being held captive this way. Even after the crack over her head and the beating she’d taken when her abductors had dragged her across the concrete garage, the rage still thrummed a hearty rhythm.

  A distant humming, a sound that had kept her company all while she’d wavered between consciousness and unconsciousness, droned on, oddly soothing that rage, muting it until just now, upon the entry of this man who was surely here to kill her.

  She would die here. Wherever here was. She would die painfully, of that she was almost certain.

  A finger, long and softly padded, scraped under her chin then flicked her nose, making her bite back a groan behind the tape covering her mouth. Blood, dried and cracked, had begun to form a hardened barrier over her nostrils, making it increasingly difficult to breathe. But Claire recognized the oily, dirty stench of a demon even as her senses dulled.

  The man came closer; she knew he had when she smelled his hot and minty yet somehow strangely rancid breath waft over her face. “You know, Claire Montgomery, werewolf librarian from Rock Cove, Maine, you’re delectable. A vision of plump, creamy softness with hair the color of fiery mahogany. A rare coup in the circles I travel. Oh, the money I could garner from your brand of saucy charm. But you know what the trouble
here is? You’re too—what’s the word I’m looking for here, boys?”

  He paused before his voice rose. “Wait. I know. Old. Yes, that’s it. You’re too stinkin-blinkin’ old!” he screamed, so loud, so full of hideous anger, the air from his lungs blew her sweat-soaked hair away from her face.

  Claire’s stomach sank, the bile in her throat rising up, forcing her to swallow it back or choke on her own vomit.

  It was true. What she’d heard that night with Gannon was real. There really was someone he’d provided paranormals girls for. Disgust swept along her spine.

  Claire fought her rising hysteria, shoved the awful images that sprang to mind to another place in her head. A place she’d explore in therapy if she lived.

  The man pressed his body to hers, the lanky length of him crushing her against the wall she was chained to. A damp, cold concrete wall. He dragged a finger down her shirtfront, stopping at the hollow between her breasts.

  Don’t move. Don’t react. Think, Claire. Think! All that matters is Sarah. Find Sarah.

  He sighed as though put out. “You do realize what you’ve done, don’t you, Claire? By sticking that pert little nose in my beeswax? By asking questions better left unasked?” Now his voice was silky, trickling into her ears like warm oil.

  She fought a shiver of revulsion. Fought it with every ounce of willpower she had. The hell she’d let him see her fear—whoever he was.

  He chuckled, a high-pitched twitter laced with bone-chilling evil. “Are you afraid, Claire? Are you afraid you’ve gone too far, Fancy Pants? Isn’t that what your mate Gannon called you?”

  Now more than ever, she was sure this was the man who’d been on the phone with Gannon that night. Was this the Angus Sweeten? The man for which the mere mention of his name sent people running, cowering in fear?

  Did it matter who this man was when Sarah was missing, and the text Claire had gotten just before she’d been cold-cocked was from an eyewitness to her abduction. An eyewitness convinced Sarah had been taken here to the Zone.

  Nothing mattered but finding Sarah. Claire would do whatever it took to stay alive long enough to see to Sarah’s safety. Whatever game this nutbag wanted to play, she was grabbing her playing piece and jumping on board.

  Leaning close, the man put his lips to her ear—they were cold, worm-like, and greasy against her flesh. “Claire, the moment I met you, I swear.” He sang the old Gilbert O’Sullivan tune softly, his breath whistling on its way out.

  Madness. He was a tangled ball of twisted madness.

  The men in the room, at least three if she was hearing right, laughed their approval.

  “Shut. Up!” he screamed, clenching the front of her sweater, hoisting her upward, making the chains her hands were bound with rattle. “All of you shut up!”

  Please, God, let them all shut up.

  He took a breath, almost as though he were gathering his patience with a group of toddlers on a sugar rush. The body pressed to hers tensed then relaxed. “Can you believe the insolence of these baboons, Claire? The sheer gall of them? Laughing while I’m serenading you as though they were privy to some ‘man’ secret. Like we’re all one big band of dandies, slapping each other on the backs at our cleverness. Not. True. Not true at all. But in this day and age, it’s hard to buy good muscle. So I take what I can get. You understand, don’t you?” He let go of her shirt and wrapped a hand around her throat, applying just a bit of pressure, enough that her heartbeat raced.

  “Anyway, where were we?” He paused for a moment, and when she sniffed the air, she realized he was pondering something.

  Claire held her breath as her heart pounded against her ribs, one of which she was sure was cracked.

  “I know! I know!” he singsonged, his boyish face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Gannon. Your mate. Your luvah. Your in-ten-ded. Ugh! Loathsome—worse than any caged animal. So deplorable, smelling of cheap beer and perspiration. Do you know what it’s like to do business with the likes of Gannon Dodd?”

  Well, if they had nothing else in common, they had their hatred of Gannon to stew in together.

  He clucked his tongue. “How unaccommodating of me. You can’t share my Gannon tale of woe if you can’t talk, can you, Claire? Let me help.” With a swift motion, he tore the tape from her mouth, taking bits of her flesh with it, the ripping sound echoing around the room.

  She fought again. Fought not to wince. Fought not to show her almost immobilizing fear.

  Licking her lips, Claire ran her tongue over her teeth, knowing the effort to shift was futile. He’d done something to the chains that held her captive, something that left her as weak as a newborn calf—essentially incapacitated.

  “That’s wolfsbane,” he drawled. “I had my goonie-goons dredge the chains in ground-up wolfsbane because you, pretty-pretty Claire, are saucy and need restraints. It’ll keep you immobilized until I can gut you. The boys told me you fought them like a wildcat, so it had to be done. But see what I mean when I say you’re delicious?”

  Claire thought for a moment about interacting with him and whether it would benefit her. He certainly enjoyed a big production—his wild, almost theatrical rants, his pleasure at her fear were all very clear, but he was no fool.

  This wasn’t a man who’d engage for any other reason than to play the game, and when he was done cat and mouse-ing her, she’d be done, too.

  So, Claire, go down in a blaze of glory or keep your oftentimes snarky mouth shut?

  “Now, werewolf librarian from Rock Cove, Maine, why do you suppose you’re here?” he cooed against her neck.

  She licked her bleeding lips, relishing the salty taste, the stinging pain. It meant she was still alive. In that moment, she decided to shoot straight. “Because I know something I’m not supposed to know.” Claire croaked her reply, her throat dry, her stomach heaving.

  “Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding! You win the kewpie doll!” he purred, stroking her cheek with a knuckle. “That’s exactly right, Claire. Now that you know Gannon was talking to me on the phone that night, well, I just can’t have that, Bookworm. Not even a teensy-weensy hint of my existence can be leaked. You’ve done a lot of snooping around, Claire, bandying my name about the Zone. That’s bad. So very bad. It draws attention I absolutely do not want.”

  Her heart began that thrashing again. When she’d heard Gannon on the phone with his talk of trafficking paranormal children, when she’d confronted him about it, he’d screamed at her to mind her own business. Gannon had called her “Claire”. If that phone had still been on while she and Gannon fought, that meant this man heard everything. Everything.

  Her breathing grew harsh. Still cloaked in darkness by the blindfold, Claire felt her terror ratchet up a notch.

  Twisting a length of her hair around his finger, he yanked it as though he were tugging her pigtails playfully. “Aw, Claire, you do know I can see your big, beautiful brain racing, hmm? You want to know if I know what you know. You want to know if I heard who really killed Gannon Dodd that night, don’t you, Bibliophile?”

  Oh God. He knew. He really did know everything.

  You know what that means, Claire, right?

  That meant Angus Sweeten was a witness.

  That meant he had to die, too.

  Huh. How did one kill a demon?

  * * * *

  Irish paced the length of Mathias’s parking garage while he waited for Liam and the rest of the Fangs to show up. His white-hot anger, his spiking rage had him wanting to chew a hole in Angus Sweeten’s neck, watch while his blood gurgled in hot crimson gushes from his throat.

  It had to be Sweeten who had Claire. If he knew Claire, her impulsive nature prevented her from asking questions around the Zone about Angus with as much caution as was necessary. She was a damn librarian. What did she know about laying low?

  Someone had tipped Sweeten off about Claire and her poking around, and he was eliminating all possible evidence of his existence. Who else would care enough about a harmless werewolf to kidna
p her in the Zone?

  But what if it wasn’t Sweeten at all?

  He was the only clue they had at this point.

  One thing he knew for sure, if Angus was the one who had Claire and Sarah, he had plenty of backup. Cold-blooded killers, the lot of them, just waiting to do Sweeten’s bidding.

  Irish knew with a certainty he couldn’t even explain to himself, Sarah was here in the Zone—and wherever she was, likely, so was Claire. It was the only thing that made sense.

  Claire had found out about this Angus Sweeten, and he’d found out about her finding out about him. She’d gotten too damn close, and now she was going to get herself killed. If this Sweeten was even half as much of a freaky fuck as Mathias said in his texts, he had to find her. Soon.

  He would damn well find her.

  Fuck.

  And then there was Sarah. She had to be connected to this. Claire hadn’t mentioned overhearing Gannon say anything about the girls in town. For Gannon to take a risk like that was insane in a town full of vampires just waiting for him to make one wrong move.

  But Gannon wasn’t big on brains, and according to Mathias, young vampire girls Brought especially high prices on the black market. Had Courtland picked up where Gannon left off? Maybe he’d had Sarah abducted in Gannon’s stead? Maybe he’d promised to deliver the goods his brother couldn’t?

  Revulsion twisted Irish’s gut. A sick wave of disgust made him clench his fists to keep from punching holes in the garage walls. Claire had been right. Gannon had deserved to die. Now he understood all the blood from one end of Boomer’s to the other, the mess Gannon’s death had left in its wake.

  He understood why Gannon’s corpse was missing its heart and a vital organ or two. Claire had clearly lost control and ripped him to shreds, ensuring the werewolf would never be capable of self-healing. Which was merciful in his opinion, and far kinder than what would have happened had he been the one to snuff Dodd’s slimy lights out.

  Whatever it took, when he found Claire and Sarah, he would see to it they had the evidence Claire needed to clear herself with her council.