Bitten 2 Read online

  I stalked to the back door, which had been rehung by Holbrook after Samson tore it off its hinges, and pulled it open with controlled motions. Anger tingled in my fingertips, and I knew that if I didn’t keep a tight rein on it until I was running free amongst the trees, there was no telling how destructive I would end up being. It had been a constant struggle to keep the wolf under control since my very first shift, but since I’d pumped Sampson’s face full of silver bullets there had been a surge in her strength and determination. Although I’d spent much of the past eight years trying to deny that other side of myself and what it meant to have a wolf under my skin, the change was always a welcome reprieve from the complications of my human life. Not for the first time in recent weeks, I wondered if I had done myself a disservice by remaining stubbornly opposed to embracing the wolf.

  As my thoughts began to spiral in directions I wasn’t ready to address, I shook my head to send them sinking back down into the dark where they belonged, and concentrated on the sensation of my hair brushing against the naked skin of my shoulders. Stepping onto the back step I closed my eyes, tilting my face up towards the sun to enjoy the feel of its warmth cutting through the chill of the cold February air.

  Gritting my teeth, I welcomed the change, urging it to flow over me even as it seared a burning path along my synapses. The usual pleasure of shifting barely had a chance to chase away the pain before I stood panting on four paws. Bowing my head I waited as the last few tremors rippled through my body, my nose picking up the hundreds of scents I couldn’t detect when I walked on two legs. I could smell the almost citrus tang of pine and the clean scent of the snow, and, further out, the tantalizing smell of dozens of warm bodied creatures snuffling their way through the undergrowth.

  Powerful legs launched me off the back step in a soaring leap, my feet touching down on the snow for a moment before I was flying again. The ground raced beneath me as I cut a familiar path through the trees, barely feeling the low hanging branches thumping against my flanks. Time lost all meaning in the rush of cold air through my fur, and the powdery snow beneath my paws. The wolf felt the sting of rejection as keenly as I did, but out here she had no need for such human emotions. Out here in the wilds, nothing mattered except the wide expanse of blue sky overhead and the never-ending wilderness.

  CHAPTER THREE

  HOUSED IN A former Catholic church, Asylum was one of Denver’s hottest spots for those looking for a walk on the dark side. A strip club staffed almost entirely by vampires, as cliché as it was, drew patrons with a deep desire for something dangerous. Within its once hallowed walls, you could get a lap dance from a beautiful woman who had been witness to the horrors of the Black Death or a handsome young man who had slain Nazis on the beaches of Normandy.

  With a cover charge of a hundred bucks, you’d think the place would be begging for business, but once darkness fell the line was sure to stretch halfway around the block on any given night of the week. As much as the more conservative inhabitants of the city lambasted its existence, there was no denying that it was a veritable cash cow, and that was just how its proprietor, Alexei Cordova, liked it.

  It was still early enough when I arrived that the line at the door was only three deep, but it also meant that the Humans for Humanity whackos were still brave enough to form a picket line along the sidewalk. Religious zealots who thought that if you weren’t pure human you were just a moment away from spontaneously combusting in the flames of hell, they were one of the largest—and loudest—anti-supe groups in the country. I’d had a couple run-ins with their members and felt my hackles rise instantly at the sight of their intolerant bullshit. Tonight, a dozen people marched back and forth along the curb shouting their hate-filled diatribe at anyone within range.

  I’m all for freedom of speech and understand that those rights extend to everyone, including nut jobs like the Humans for Humanity crowd. I get that they’re just as entitled to their vile beliefs as anyone else, but having experienced the actions inspired by those opinions firsthand, I’d lost what little tolerance I had for the anti-supes group. While they never publicly encouraged their members to engage in violent protests, there was little punishment meted out to those who got “a little carried away.”

  As far as I was concerned, people could believe whatever they wanted, including that I should burn in hell simply for not being a vanilla human. Once they threatened me and mine, however, all bets were off.

  Approaching the throng of protesters, I hunched my shoulders up around my ears as much to protect them against the cold as to help me muscle my way through the crowd. What I didn’t anticipate was one of the younger members of the group breaking away from his buddies to block my path.

  I’m so not in the mood for this crap.

  Ignoring the man-child, I stepped around him only to find my way barred again when he sidestepped in front of me. Wisps of sandy blonde hair escaped from beneath his blue baseball cap while brown eyes squinted at me accusingly behind a pair of oval glasses. He couldn’t have been more than 21.

  How can someone so young be filled with so much hate?

  “God hates fangs!” He almost bounced with zealous energy, his eyes shining with hate fueled conviction.

  “Yeah? Well, I’m sure he doesn’t like hate-mongering douche bags much either,” I replied, baring my teeth in the beginnings of a snarl.

  I could feel the wolf floating up out of the darkness, all too happy to teach those idiots a lesson, and had to exert far more effort than I would have liked to keep her at bay. The burning itch in my eyes signaled their shift from human greyish-blue to gold, and I watched with a flicker of amusement as the fanatic waving his sign at me recoiled, horror-stricken.

  “Werewolf!” He pointed a shaking finger at me. From the way he reacted, anyone would think I’d sprouted a second head or belched a swarm of locusts. A smirk curved my lips when he crowed his warning again, but my amusement quickly withered as the cry of “Werewolf!” spread through the group like wildfire. Before I knew it, the protesters were glaring and waving their signs in my direction, all while shouting insults.

  “Beast of Satan!”

  “Flesh not fur!”

  “Not blessed, just cursed!”

  Biting my tongue, I shouldered my way through the crowd, “accidently” shoving a few of them aside with a well-placed elbow. A smug smile tugged at my lips as they stumbled over one another in an attempt to get out of my way. None of them moved to come after me, but the volley of shouted insults followed me all the way to the entrance of the club.

  Stepping up to the door, I dug my I.D. out of my pocket and handed it over to the doorman. If it hadn’t been for the unmistakable dry and musty stink of the undead that wafted off him in a noxious cloud, I might have mistaken the great hulking behemoth manning the door for a mountain troll rather than a vampire. Then again, the smell of a mountain troll would have been enough to clear the streets for a three block radius. Personal hygiene was not high on their list of priorities.

  Topping out somewhere just under seven feet tall, he was easily one of the largest men I’d ever seen. Broad shoulders strained against the fabric of his black t-shirt emblazoned with the club’s logo, looking like even the smallest flex of his muscles would reduce it to shreds. The bulging muscles of his shoulders flowed up into a neck as thick and solid as a tree trunk. The neon glow from the sign above the door gleamed on the skin of his bald head, accentuating his deathly pallor and the creepy milky white of his eyes that alternated between tracking my approach and keeping a watchful eye on the protesters.

  “Dancer auditions were last night,” he said in a gruff monotone, baring fangs in a smile that didn’t come remotely close to reaching his colorless eyes. His surly manner instantly made me feel that he deserved some kind of nickname, and I decided that Chuckles was the most appropriate.

  Baring my own canines I said, “I’m here to see Cordova.”

  Brows as hairless as the rest of his head knit into a disbelieving f
rown. “Do you have an appointment?”

  Huffing in irritation I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the business card that had been included with the employment documents couriered over earlier that day. The back of the card bore Chrismer’s flowing script indicating the date and time of my appointment with Cordova. Plucking the card out of my fingers, Chuckles peered at it closely, the crease between his eyes remaining firmly in place.

  Reaching down to thumb a button on a small device clipped to his belt, he turned his head away to say something in a hushed voice. He spoke in such a low and rapid whisper that even with my wolf hearing I couldn’t figure out what he was saying. After a moment he turned to me and handed back the card.

  “The Shepherd is expecting you.”

  No shit, Sherlock.

  I resisted the urge to make a smartass comment and settled for murmuring “Thanks” and stepped up to the door. I didn’t want to find out firsthand what kind of damage one of his undead meat hooks could do to my face.

  The massive wooden door of the church was easily four inches thick but moved smoothly and soundlessly, opening onto a small foyer lit by flickering sconces nestled in amongst the blood red draperies covering the walls. I felt like I’d stepped into someone’s boudoir and half expected to be greeted by a doe-eyed manservant in silk pajamas. Instead a buxom blond with the same dead, milky eyes as the doorman stood behind a podium that had been crafted to look like an old fashioned coffin. The hostess’s fingers moved in a blur over the screen of her cell phone, typing out a message faster than even the most technology-addicted teenager. I’d braced myself to be inundated by pounding techno music, but instead was enveloped in a soft hush.

  Quiet as the grave, the voice lurking in the back of my mind piped up, sending a shudder down my spine.

  As I approached, the hostess managed to pull her attention away from her phone long enough to pass her undead eyes over me in an assessing look. The minute wrinkle of her pert nose made me hazard a guess that I didn’t measure up to the club’s usual clientele.

  “Cover charge is a hundred bucks,” she said in a grating little girl falsetto that set my teeth on edge.

  It had been my experience that some vamps, in an effort to detract from their ageless nature, adopted an almost childlike persona, speaking in high pitched voices and dressing in the latest teen trends. Rather than achieving the appearance of humanity that they were aiming for, they ended up coming across as something out of a low budget horror movie. The hostess gazing at me with a dead stare was no different, and her childish appearance gave me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies.

  “I have an appointment with Cordova.”

  “One moment please.” Picking up a phone hidden in the back of her coffin podium she spoke in the same rapid whisper as the doorman, and after a moment disconnected the call.

  “You can go on through, Ms. Cray.”

  Yay. Let the games begin.

  As the curtain swung shut behind me, I decided it must have been enchanted to block out the noise and the smell of the club. The fierce pulsing beat of techno music I had been expecting in the foyer started reverberating in my chest, echoing the pounding of my heart. I felt the assault of the music almost as keenly as the stink of vampire that bombarded me, making me wish I had a couple tissues to shove up my nostrils. Somewhere between a mildewed towel and rotten wood, the scent of the undead was far from what I’d call a pleasant aroma.

  Ugh. How can mundanes not smell that?

  The relentless music and pervasive smell made it hard to think. The human half of me was sorely tempted to duck back through the curtain and hightail it back to my cabin as fast as I could, while the wolf was invigorated by the influx of sensory input. Squashing my warring desires, I faced the main room of the club and immediately felt all other thoughts fade away.

  Silence fell over my mind as I was struck by the feeling that I’d stepped into the medieval lair of a blood thirsty villain.

  Everywhere I looked was some prop meant to lend the club a dark and dangerous air—massive wrought iron candelabra, taller than I was and draped with ribbons of shredded lace, were scattered around the space to create islands of light. I had to wonder what the fire department thought of the plethora of thick candles lending their flickering glow and distinctive scent to the air. It was sure to pose some kind of fire hazard. Tall bookshelves and curios, filled with a pawn shop’s worth of spooktacular trinkets and oddities, were interspersed between plush velvet couches and leather arm chairs that would have been just as at home in a gentleman’s club. Peering at the nearest cabinet, I saw that it held a selection of skulls that looked just a little too authentic for comfort.

  Shaking off the chill that threatened to ripple down my spine, I glanced upwards at the ceiling. Traces of the cathedral’s original architecture peeked through the decor where the dark stone pillars curved overhead like the gently sweeping trunks of majestic trees whose branches had woven together to form a thick canopy of curling filigree. It would have been a breathtaking site if not for the flock of glittery, Halloween store bats suspended on strings to loom over the club’s patrons. It was the only part of the decor that leaned more towards trite than elegant.

  Even the church’s original pews had been refurbished to meet the club’s needs—transformed into cozy booths and tables spread across the flagstone floor. The only part of the church that appeared to have been left untouched were the intricate stained glass windows, gleaming in the soft glow of lights that had been crafted to look like flickering torches. All of this was lorded over by a DJ in the pulpit, surrounded by the electrical monstrosity of his sound board.

  The overall design aesthetic was pretty heavy-handed, but I expected nothing less from the Shepherd of the City and his ilk.

  I’m not a religious woman by any means; the last time I attended any kind of church service was my grandmother’s funeral. Still, I couldn’t help feeling that Cordova’s choice of locale for his club was more than a little brazen. Of course, I thought the whole concept of a strip club staffed almost entirely by vampires was trite and held a certain amount of inherent sleaze anyway.

  Still trying to get my bearings, I warily watched the sashaying approach of a petite brunette. A bright red leather corset hugged her shapely figure as if it had been made for her, the addition of a frilly garter skirt, red sequined pasties, and sheer red stockings left little to the imagination. She was the poster child for the sultry seductress except for the milk white stare that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. A gold chain with glittering rhinestones proclaimed her name to be Candie, but somehow I doubted she was as sweet as the moniker implied.

  “Hello, beautiful,” she said with a flirty smile and husky lilt to her voice that I’m sure worked wonders on the club’s typical patrons. I wasn’t a typical patron and her femme fatale act was lost on me. “Can I get you a table?”

  Suppressing a reflexive shudder I folded my arms over my chest and regarded her with a blank stare. “I’m here to see Cordova.” I said yet again, starting to feel like a broken record.

  “I’m afraid the master is busy at the moment. Can I interest you in a cocktail instead?” she asked, dismissing my request with a flutter of her fake eyelashes. “Or perhaps a private dance?” she added, with a pucker of her painted lips.

  Christ, am I going to have to be vetted by everyone before I can see Cordova?

  “He’s expecting me,” I stated in a monotone, ignoring her attempts at seduction. “The doorman and hostess have both called ahead to confirm my appointment. I’d rather not keep the Shepherd waiting any longer.”

  Something in my flat stare took the shine off her smile, and I was relieved when she dialed the seductress act back a little, offering me something much closer to a professional smile.

  “Right this way.”

  Following the exaggerated sway of her hips through the spread of tables, I traipsed along behind my guide as she led me across the floor. All around me, customers spo
rting business attire were sipping brightly colored cocktails while their eyes greedily drank in the pasty white flesh of the beautiful men and women undulating right in front of their noses. I couldn’t see the allure myself, but I suppose it takes all sorts.

  Stopping at a heavy velvet curtain like the one in the foyer, Candie swept it aside to reveal a narrow set of stairs leading up. Gazing upwards into the gloom, I was reminded why mundanes are afraid of the dark. As if sensing my hesitation, Candie gestured for me to proceed with a sweep of her pale arm, her blood red lips spreading into a wide smile that flashed fang.

  Reminding myself that this was going to be my first paying gig in some time and that a wolf could not survive on ketchup and crackers alone, I set my foot on the first stair and was instantly grateful for the escape from the repetitive beat of the music. The prickle of magic made my teeth itch even as some of the tension eased out of my shoulders, the quiet settling around me in a welcome embrace. Gripping the handrail I made my way up the curving stairs, unsure of what I would find at the top.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A PLUSH FOYER reminiscent of a high-end office building greeted me at the top of the stairs, and for a moment I wondered if I had been transported somewhere else. Looking around, I saw that the original stone walls of the church still peeked through here and there from behind thick beige fabric panels suspended from the rafters and extending all the way to the floor. A small seating area contained a sleek white leather sofa and two uncomfortable looking clear plastic chairs. An oval glass table sat in the middle with an artfully arranged vase of lilies scenting the air with their soft perfume that did little to soften the cold feel of the space, or mask the stench of vampires. White and grey geometric rugs covered the wooden floors that would have looked a hell of a lot warmer if they’d been left bare.

  I’m no interior decorator, but if Cordova had been going for something that felt about as welcoming as an exam room, he’d certainly achieved success.