The Strip (13 page)

Charlie closed her eyes.

Malcolm seemed to rise from the ground until he was able to gaze over a congregation of people who had gathered for what was obviously a funeral.

The rest of the people were dressed in black, as was customary. Charlie and her companion stood out from the others, like candle flames in a dark room. Charlie’s hair glinted in the sun. She’d left it down.

There were two rectangular holes in the ground and Malcolm knew all too well who they were for. He wondered how much time had passed between the last part of his dream and this one. How many more days had Charlie had with her mother before the woman had been taken away from her?

Again, time seemed to lapse, though the backdrop remained the same. Once more, Malcolm stood in the cemetery, but this time dead leaves coated the dying grass on the rolling hills and, above him the trees had been painted red, orange and gold.

He heard a woman crying and turned in place to find that Claire St.James, now a fully blossomed teenager, was kneeling before two twin grave stones. She was hugging herself and rocking back and forth. The sleeves and neck of her thermal shirt were torn, causing the garment to hang over her shoulder, exposing the creamy flesh beneath. Mud and dirt caked the knees of her jeans and a tear in the material over her right leg exposed a long gash that marred the skin beneath. Leaves and small sticks had tangled in the thick mass of her hair.

When she looked up to wipe the tears from her eyes with the backs of her hands, he could see that her lip was bleeding. There was a scrape across her left cheekbone and that eye seemed to be slightly swollen.

Malcolm stood frozen to the spot, unreservedly dazed by what he was seeing. At the same time, a terrible fury, harsh and hot, roared to life within him, painting the entire dream scape a bloody red. Charlie had been attacked.

He tried to look away, to peer around her in order to find her attacker.

But he could not peel his eyes from her form. The dream wouldn’t let him. Instead, he could only remain where he was, paralyzed in place, as Charlie stood on long, wobbly legs and whispered something private to the spirits of her parents. She turned and walked away, stumbling once on a stone hidden beneath the leaves.

Again, the scene changed. Now, the cemetery was gone and Charlie was standing in a crowded hallway outside of what appeared to be a studio in a busy gym. She was damp with sweat and her sports bra exposed the taut, tanned muscles of her abdomen. It also exposed a bruise on her upper arm that looked remarkably like a hand-print.

Malcolm gritted his teeth and, even in the dream, he could feel his fangs begin to lengthen.

Charlie’s gray sweats were thin from much use and clung tantalizingly to the tight curve of her bottom. A worn pair of sneakers adorned her feet. She was grown now and Malcolm would have placed her in her early twenties.

She was speaking to several other women, all dressed similarly, none looking nearly as perfect as Charlie.

Finally, the women she was conversing with each gave her a hug and hurriedly walked away. When Charlie was alone, another woman approached her. Charlie turned to face her and the woman whispered something and handed her a business card.

Charlie didn’t seem to know what to think of whatever it was the woman was telling her, but she took the card and nodded, obviously thanking her politely.

When that woman, too, had gone, Charlie stood alone in the hall and gazed down at the card. She seemed to consider something for a moment. Then, distractedly, she rubbed her hand over the bruise on her arm and took a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh.

When she began to make her way down the hall toward the women’s locker room, Malcolm at last found that he could move. He attempted to follow her, wanting to speak with her, wanting to gaze into her blue eyes – desperately wanting to touch her.

But when she walked through the locker room door and he entered on her heels, the scene once more changed.

The dojo beyond was empty, save for Charlie, who stood at the center of the room, and a man who stood at the mirrors, his back to the doors. He was peering at Charlie through the mirror in front of him and Malcolm instantly recognized him as the man that Lily Kane had described as the Hunter. There could be no mistaking him. Not many men in the world looked as this one did.

He was very tall and well built, with the physique that Malcolm would normally reserve for werewolves. His hair was long and blonde and wavy, pulled back in an intricately tied leather band. He wore a tight black t-shirt and black sweats and his biceps were tattooed with Celtic knots. It was only his eyes – his normal, human eyes – that marked him as less than supernatural.

But right now, those brown eyes were peering at Charlie with dark promise.

What is she doing here?
Cole thought, his mind spinning.
How can she be so close to a Hunter? To someone who wants our kind dead?

For her part, Charlie was staring right back at the man, giving as good as she was getting. Her body was tense and ready, crouched low for an attack. Every part of her aura seemed alert and prepared to fight.

The Hunter smiled a nasty smile and then, like lightning, he was spinning around and the two were colliding in a whirlwind of hits and blocks that vaguely reminded Malcolm of something one would see on Roadhouse or Burn Notice – or even Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

He couldn’t keep up with what they were doing, and that astounded him. He’d seen a lot of fighting in his days – three wars’ worth. But this was unlike anything he had ever witnessed. Both combatants moved faster and were hitting much harder than a human should be capable of. As far as Charlie was concerned, Malcolm could guess where the extra speed and strength were coming from. She was a female born.

But the Hunter? Malcolm had no idea how the man could be so good. Hunters trained hard and they were very capable killers. But not like this. Charlie should have been able to fight him off. If what Cole was seeing was real – if it was a peek into Charlie’s world, as he believed it to be – then Charlie was amazing. She was a one-woman army. Buffy had nothing on her.

And the Hunter was simply too strong. Way too damned fast. Something here wasn’t right.

A few seconds more and the Hunter suddenly had Charlie in his grip, her arms pinned up behind her back, her body pulled up against his with the strong arm he had wrapped around her chest.

She gritted her teeth against the pain she was obviously feeling and the Hunter smiled. He whispered something in her ear and she tried to jerk away. She failed.

Malcolm couldn’t help what his own body did then. The flash came over him unbidden and he was helpless to fight it. One second, he was a man – the next, he was a wolf, his teeth bared, his hackles raised.

However, even the massive black wolf was trapped in the invisible muck that makes up a dream’s atmosphere. He could not help Charlie. He could not move toward her. His menacing growl was drowned out in the thick nothingness that stood between him and his chosen mate. All he could do was watch.

The Hunter whispered something else and his hand slid across her collarbone to gently cup her breast. Charlie went rigid in his grasp and Malcolm watched through glowing emerald eyes and a field of vision that was quickly turning red as the Hunter softly laughed in her ear. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, he shoved her away from him.

She went stumbling forward a few steps and then swung around just in time as the Hunter came in with another full-fledged attack. Malcolm couldn’t watch. He simply did not want to see Charlie abused any more.

And, blessedly, the scene changed.

Three-quarters of a century without a single night-time reverie and now Cole was stuck in one that seemed go on forever.
Will this dream never end
… he thought, as he found himself suddenly standing in a small public restroom. The Hunter stood a few feet away, his tall form bent over the only sink in the otherwise empty bathroom. His eyes were shut and it appeared as if he were catching his breath. Or even praying.

Malcolm’s gaze narrowed.
If this wasn’t a bloody dream, I could just kill him now
.

But all thought flew from Cole’s mind as the Hunter then straightened, raising his head to gaze into the mirror above the sink. His eyes were no longer brown.

They were blue.

And they were glowing.

Chapter Eight,
The Burn

“You look a tad anemic, Vince.” The gray-haired man entered the sitting room and went directly to the bar, where he took a bottle of hard liquor from one of the shelves and poured himself a straight glass. “Phelan has you working overtime, I’d wager.”

Vincent Cromwell opened his eyes and peered across the room from where he sat, sprawled, on one of the plush love seats. “He had me cast an expansion spell that forced his territory to engulf the entire hotel, not just the penthouse suite,” he stated softly.

The gray haired man turned to face him, one brow arched in interest. “Ah.” He nodded and downed half of the contents of his glass. “That was clever of him, you have to admit. Cole can’t enter the hotel now – he can’t get anywhere near Claire St.James.”

Vincent made a derisive sound and ran his hand over his face. “I had to keep her under while he felt her up. That mark was glowing like the fires of Hell.”

The other man seemed to consider this for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he downed the remainder of the liquid in the glass and set the empty vessel on the table in front of him. “Is that all?”

“No.” Vincent let his head drop back on the couch and closed his eyes. “I have to find a warlock by midnight.”

* * * *

Lucas Caige sighed and dropped the curtain. The hot Nevada sun had just come up over the horizon, eager to scorch the parched land yet again. Day was not his favorite time of… day. He loved the night and its cool air and its endless, vast expanse of space. He loved the stars and the moon and the velvet cloak of darkness. He felt at one with it; always had.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment and made his way to the adjoining kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door and peered inside, feeling restless and unsure of what to do about it. He could sense the strangeness coming off of his leader, who was currently passed out on the couch. He glanced over his shoulder at the tall, strong form of his alpha where he lay sprawled across the leather sofa. There was a definite tinge of magic about him.

Lucas recognized the scent. He knew that Cole had utilized it from time to time and, Lucas himself had dealt with it before. But it hadn’t ever been by choice. He didn’t like it. Not one bit. Magic was an intangible, un-sure thing that could not be fought with fang and claw. It slid and slithered and its icy tendrils reached in to grasp you where you hurt most, and it couldn’t be killed by having its throat ripped out.

Anything that could not be easily killed was not to be easily trusted.

Lucas took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he reached in to grab one of the beers on the top shelf, popping the top off with the thumb of the same hand.

In the next instant, he spun around, startled by the sudden movement behind him. Cole was rising from the couch, his emerald eyes in full glow, his fangs extended and pronounced. Lucas immediately set down his beer and headed toward him, but before Jake Samson had fully made it in from the other room and he and Caige could stop their leader, Cole was striding for the door at full speed.

Jake was on his heels in an instant. “Boss! What the hell-”

“It’s Charlie. Someone is using magic on her. I have to get to The August.”

So, Lucas had been right. It was magic. “Is that what sent you under?” he asked as he yanked his leather jacket off of the chair by the table and followed Jake and his leader out the front door. His blood was humming to life with the adrenaline he would need to fight, but at the same time, he felt relieved not to be doing
nothing
any more.

“It has to be.” Cole led the way to the stairs, not wanting to wait for the elevator. He tried not to blur into motion going down the twenty or so flights to the bottom, as the other two were not quite as fast as he was and wouldn’t be able to keep up. But it was hard. “She’s in more danger than she knows. The Hunter is one of us,” he told his men as he reached the bottom and slammed through the exit door.

When he came out the other side, it was to come face to face with James Valentine. Cole stopped short and straightened, the air around them suddenly charged with the power of two of the clan’s strongest alpha werewolves.

James cocked his head to one side, his silver gaze reflecting in the light of dawn. Lily was just behind him, her golden eyes shimmering, her cheeks flushed as if she’d just run to get where she was.

“The Hunter is a werewolf?” James asked softly, obviously having heard Cole from the other side of the door.

Cole wasn’t exactly surprised to see them there, and he wasn’t surprised at
all
that Valentine had heard him. But he didn’t have time to waste explaining things to anyone right now. So, he decided to talk while he walked.

“Yes,” he said, as he turned and continued to stride down the street. James fell in beside him. “And for some reason, Charlie knows him personally. I watched them spar with one another in some kind of dojo.”

“When did you see this?” asked Lily, who had moved up on Valentine’s left side.

Cole shot her a quick glance and wondered how much he should tell her. And then he remembered that
she
had abruptly and unexpectedly known an awful lot about
him
after she’d received Daniel’s mark. He wondered, suddenly, whether marking a Dormant automatically released some sort of… magic. A dream magic, perhaps?