Rise of the Fallen (10 page)

Thankfully, the night was quiet. No dreck skirmishes kicked
up that he had to break apart. Even the human thugs on the South Side were
behaving tonight, not causing any drama that would require Micah's special kind
of interference. He was free and clear to wander where his mind had been
pushing him for two days: back to Sam's apartment.

After arriving at the ramshackle townhome-turned-apartment
building she lived in, he walked the perimeter out of habit, wanting to make
sure nothing was amiss. He didn't like that Sam lived in this part of town. It
was a rough neighborhood with a lot of crime, not to mention the amount of
dreck activity that went on around here.

His predatory senses tuned in to everyone and everything
that had been here in the past 24 hours. Sam's lilac smell strengthened around
her windows, but four other scents told him that four people lived in the
building besides Sam. Then there was a dog, a stray cat, and someone who had
the inky, papery smell of a mailman.

He glanced around outside the entrance to the apartment
building then entered the dingy foyer. His dark silhouette filled the small
space as he inhaled deeply then jolted as the funk of drecks swept into his
nostrils.

Drecks had been here – the same ones from two nights ago.
Well, two of them, but at least neither of which was John Apostle.

Fuck! Sam!
They had found her.

He had been afraid Apostle had marked her, and he had been
right. Apostle had been pissed not to get the kill Micah had promised him, and
now he had Sam in his sights for taking it away.

Darting for Sam's door, he found the lock picked and burst
inside.

"Sam!"

He flew to the bathroom where her lilac scent was strongest
then spun back toward the main room in frustration when he didn't find her. The
apartment was only one room, so she had few places to hide. All he found were
clothes and a few pairs of shoes when he checked the closet. Next, he dropped
to the floor and looked under the bed. Just plastic sweater boxes filled with
clothes.

Panicked, Micah jumped back up and inhaled deeply again and
again. Sweeping his gaze around the room, he picked up what he could of the
odors in her home. Had she even been here when they broke in?

Micah didn't sense the acrid smell of fear and there was no
sign of a struggle, which meant there hadn't been any fighting. Relaxing only
slightly, Micah sighed with relief. They hadn't taken her, at least not from
here. The drecks had come for her, but she obviously hadn't been home when they
broke in.

But that didn't mean she was safe. As distant cousins to the
vampires, drecks were excellent trackers and their senses were just as keen.

So Apostle's lackeys had been here, but now were gone, which
meant they had gone after Sam and had a head start on him.

He had only just found Sam. She had saved his life in more
ways than one, and even though he barely knew her, he knew enough that if he
lost her, it would kill him. She was his. If those drecks touched her – if they
took her from him – he would make sure every last one of them suffered through
their last breath before he walked into the sun to take his own life.

* * *

From the shadows, Trace leaned against a cold, brick wall
and plucked the matchstick from between his lips and tossed it to the
pockmarked pavement. He hated that he had lied to Micah, but he was as worried
about the guy as much as everyone else, and he actually liked the fucker. Plus,
he needed him. Micah was his kind of people and he didn't want the asshole to
do anything to get himself killed. Trace didn't have many friends, but he
thought of Micah as one even though the two had never spent a night drinking
and watching their pals troll for sex at Four Alarm, the local hangout where
all the others on the team spent their off hours. Hell, the two of them had
never even caught a Bears game together on Monday Night Football over pizza and
Budweiser. Still, Trace felt a kindred spirit in Micah.

Glancing up as the door to the apartment building opened,
Trace frowned as Micah shot out and took off down the sidewalk like a man on a
mission, grim panic in his step. The woman must have been gone, but why Micah
had come back here was anyone's guess.

With a curious glance back at the building, Trace pushed
away from the wall and kept his distance as he followed. He had a feeling
things were about to get interesting.

Sam's trail, as well as that of the drecks, led Micah uptown
to the Black Garter, a gentlemen's club with a high-end reputation. Why the
hell would Sam come here? Micah bristled, not wanting to think the obvious,
that she was one of the dancers. He didn't want to think of Sam dancing for men
who lusted after her bare breasts and God only knew what else. Surely, she
waitressed or just tended bar. No way was she a dancer.

For any other woman, though, it would be a good gig. The
dancers at the Black Garter were upper echelon women. Healthy and clean, the
management took good care of them, especially the star, a dancer named Scarlet.
Her act was amazing. Micah had caught it a couple times. She kept the big
spenders coming back week after week with her mysterious, elaborate,
contortionist-like shows. She was treated like royalty. That had been clear
during Micah's previous visits.

He had been a regular patron before meeting Jackson, his eye
favoring women until Jack came along. Malek spent one night off a month here.
12 nights of lust per year was all that male allowed himself, even now, so long
after losing his mate during the war.

Still, Malek's coming here didn't make Micah feel all warm
and fuzzy about Sam being inside. If anything, it made him want to punch Malek
for even being near her, whether she was a waitress, a dancer, or just a
lesbian here to watch the girls. Seven hells, Micah sure as hell hoped Sam had
a good reason to be here. A reason that didn't include taking off her clothes
while grinding a pole.

Taking the steps to the entrance two-at-a-time, Micah
stepped into the dimly lit foyer with its elegant furnishings and travertine
floor to be greeted by a pair of breasts in a black push-up bustier. Cleavage
that was hard to ignore bobbed toward him.

"Welcome to the Black Garter."

Micah pulled his gaze to the woman's face, trying to inhale
beyond her to the bodies in the room on the other end of the long, dark hallway
that led to the main floor. "Sam Garrett?" He asked.

"Who, honey?" Her eyes danced down his black
attire, narrowing as she saw the leather sheath of his Bowie knife. She was
just about to wave for the guard behind her when Micah compelled them both, not
in the mood to waste time.

"You never saw me, I was never here."

The two nodded with blank expressions, and he hurried down
the hall. Dim wall sconces lit the way as he followed the sound of music then
turned and exited into the main room, which was even darker. A woman spun on
the pole on the main stage, the long fringe of her red velvet bra and panties
whipping around as she unwound her legs from the pole and stepped down with
clear-soled platform pumps that looked like they were made of glass.

Small, red lamps sat in the middle of round tables big
enough for only one person. The men who came here weren't known for big groups
or jeering. This wasn't your standard strip club, and the clientele preferred
to remain private.

Touching was strictly forbidden during public performances,
but the private performances were a bit more lenient. If a customer wanted to
tip a specific girl – and many did – they could buy a private dance with her in
one of the back rooms where they were allowed to touch all but her breasts and
crotch, tuck money into her G-string, hold her hand, etc. As long as they
didn't get rough or too hands-on, nobody got thrown out. Eight minutes cost
$50, or twenty minutes for $100.

Micah had paid for private dances a couple of times, but had
never been able to get a round with Scarlet. At the time, the idea of touching
hadn't bothered him, because he had wanted to touch Scarlet if he ever got a
private performance from her. But now? Well, now was a different story, because
if Sam was a dancer, the last thing he wanted to think about was her being
touched by anyone other than him. In fact, Micah's trigger finger twitched at
the thought of another man touching her.

This was going to be a long fucking night. He could just
tell by the way his skin crawled with possessive heat and the need to find Sam
when she couldn't be found.

It didn't take him long to find the two drecks sitting at a
table near the stage, though. He recognized them from the other night. One
glanced up and saw him, nudging his companion. The two sneered at him as if
they knew why he was there. Micah glared back, daring them to make a move, but
both stayed firmly seated like they knew what they were doing. Keeping to the
perimeter where he could watch them, he quickly scanned the room. He needed to
find Sam and get her out of there. His gaze skirted from waitress-to-waitress
then to the bartenders. None of them were Sam.

Where was she? Her smell was strong, so she was here
somewhere.

* * *

With a sigh, Sam prepared for her turn on stage. The house
was packed. She had seen that much during a quick peek at the floor after
arriving a half-hour ago. A couple of her regulars were here tonight. It would
be a good night for tips.

Stretching through yoga poses in her private dressing room,
Sam breathed in, then out, feeling her body loosen and the tension fade even
further. She had already meditated, a necessary step to help her disengage
enough to dance; otherwise she would never be able to take the stage. Every
night was the same thing: meditate, stretch, yoga, dress, perform, finish, and
go home to take a long, hot shower to wash away the degradation and invisible paw
prints left by her private admirers.

"Namaste." Sam concluded her yoga exercises with
the traditional salutation.

Rising from the green yoga mat, she removed her robe and
dressed in one of the one hundred or so costumes the club provided for her,
making the final transition to becoming Scarlet, star dancer at the Black
Garter. A long, black trench made of shiny, heavy duty plastic covered black,
zip-up hot pants and a matching top. Beneath that, a black leather bra and
leather and spandex panties were all that remained. Military-style knee-high
boots completed the look.

She was in a solemn mood tonight, her thoughts having been
steeped in visions of the dark man from the other night. Who was he? Would she
see him again? She wanted to see him again, didn't she? It wasn't like her to
fantasize about a man she didn't really know, but that was exactly what she had
been doing since she met him.

Tonight she would dance for the mysterious man who dominated
her thoughts. He was her muse that roused her to dress more quickly than usual.
She was almost eager to take the stage now just so she could channel her
thoughts of him into her performance. When was the last time she'd been eager
to dance? Sam couldn't even remember.

She selected a black and red leather mask from her
collection. It had black-out plastic eye covers, as most of her masks did to
keep her eyes hidden from the audience. Just that simple costuming trick added
more mystery and intrigue to her act. She became almost inhuman to the
audience, as if she was a mystical creature or an alien sent to Earth to
entertain them. When the men – and women – in the audience couldn't see the
windows to her soul, she became so much more enigmatic and erotic, and they
were able to dive deeper into their fantasies.

She secured the mask to her face then stood in front of the
mirror to make final preparations. She wore wigs most nights, and tonight she
adorned one of black hair with a long ponytail.

Completely detached from reality now, she made her way
backstage to double-check her music with the technician then waited for her cue
to go on.

* * *

The lights dimmed and drew Micah's attention to the stage as
a man's voice whispered seductively into a microphone somewhere off stage,
"Scarlet." He drew her name out sensuously as a low hum of
near-sinister music cued up.

Scarlet stepped onto the stage, her masked face down at
first then she looked up as she prowled first to one side, then the other. The
energy in the room surged as every man seemed to lean forward in his seat, waiting
to see what she had planned for them tonight. Damn, that woman knew how to work
a room.

She was dressed to kill, too, at least as far as Micah's
tastes were concerned. Lots of black and lots of leather. Too bad he wasn't
here to watch—wait a minute. Micah's brow furrowed as he stepped away from the
wall, his lips parting in disbelief.

Sam? Sam was Scarlet?

"Fuck me," Micah said, his voice low.

With a long, directed inhale, he confirmed what his other
senses already told him.

And the drecks were in on the action, too, perking up as
they recognized her scent at the same time he did.

A different kind of tension suddenly filled the room. The
humans remained oblivious to the danger about to erupt around them. The drecks
kept an eye on him as he tracked the edge of the room, looking for an opening
to get to Sam while fending them off. Unfortunately, the drecks seemed just as
determined to get to her, too, flashing him a warning glance to keep back. Like
hell he would. They would not leave here with her tonight.

It felt like a stand-off on steroids.

Sam moved like a graceful dominatrix, using the pole like an
extension of her body as she undulated, spun, and bent, flinging the coat to
the side before lowering into a seductive squat and unzipping her top.

Micah could barely take his eyes off her, and possessive
need riled his hands into fists. He smelled the spike of heated arousal in the
room, and he ground his teeth in territorial menace, his jaw clenched.
Malevolent threats shot from his eyes to the unaware men sitting behind their
quaint, red lamps. Micah saw more than one adjust his cock under the table.
Dirty perverts. She was his. Sam—Scarlet—whatever the fuck! She was his,
goddamn it!