The Strip (32 page)

After he’d finished pulling on a pair of engineer boots and running a towel over his head, he took a long-sleeved sweater from the bottom drawer of the dresser and headed for the bathroom.

He knocked on the door.

“Yeah?” came the soft reply.

“I’ve got a sweater for you, if you’re cold,” he said. He inched the door open just a tad and slid the garment through the crack, allowing her the privacy she most likely wanted. There was a brief hesitation, and then Charlie took the sweater from his hand.

“Thank you,” she told him, with genuine gratitude.

He smiled to himself. They were making progress. “You’re welcome, Charlie.” He closed the door again and left the room to make a phone call.

* * * *

I should take her first,
he thought to himself,
before the wounds are too much. Before the blood began to ruin everything.
She was nice enough looking. She had nice tits. Lean. Attractive body.

But not as nice as Charlie’s.

No
one was as good as Charlie. Charlie was perfect. No one would ever fight him like she did. No one was strong enough to last….

Gabriel gazed down at the woman tied to a chair before him. Her hair had come loose from her braid hours ago and hung in dark, sweat-soaked locks on either side of her face. One threatened her left eye, which was steadily blackening where he’d had to strike her during her initial struggles.

It was a shame, really. She had pretty eyes, deep brown, almost black. Like coffee. They were big and soulful and she had that certain look about her that only young mothers had: youth force-fed wisdom, portrayed through the finest of lines that were testament to a broader, more intelligent view of the world.

Such a shame….
But it had to be done, because in the end, she wasn’t Charlie. No one was.

“It’ll all be over soon, sweetheart.”

The woman whimpered behind the gag he’d forced into her mouth. It was nothing more than a cloth, covered with a piece of duct tape. It was certainly not his favorite way to gag a woman, but it worked. It would suffice. For her, anyway. Not for Charlie.
No
. Charlie deserved the best. He had plenty of very nice gags he would love to see pressed between Charlie’s plump, pink lips.

“Since you won’t live out the night, I thought you might be curious as to why I’m doing this.” Gabriel turned and paced slowly toward an old, chipped wooden chest of drawers along one wall. Atop it was a round mirror, and tucked into the rim of the mirror were pictures of a little boy and a little girl, both the same age, and both with the same hair color and eyes of their mother.

He glanced at these pictures, carelessly, and then turned around, leaned on the dresser, and crossed his broad arms over his chest.

“You see,” he began, softly, “the man I want to bring here tonight is cursed. He bears marks placed upon him by a gypsy long ago. And any time there is a murder, without heart, without purpose or reason – grisly enough to make the front page news,” he flashed the woman a straight, white smile, “he has no choice but to pop out of existence wherever and whenever he may be and pop back into existence at the scene of the crime.”

He laughed softly then as the woman stared at him with eyes that were wide with shock and fear, despite the puffy nature of one of them.

“I know. It’s a horrible curse, isn’t it?” He shook his head. “I don’t envy the man.” Gabriel paused and frowned. “Well, that’s not strictly true. I do, actually. He claimed Charlie first, and I can’t deny that I’m jealous over that. Still, it doesn’t matter. He’ll soon be dead and when he is, Charlie will be unclaimed once more.”

The woman in the chair began to struggle in her bonds. She wasn’t stupid. She knew what was coming.

Gabriel gave her a cursory glance, but paid her labors no further heed. She was bound tight. He’d had years of practice tying knots that held.

* * * *

Charlie lifted the giant sweater before her and marveled at its size. Cole was a big man. She would be swimming in it. But she was grateful for it. When the world overwhelmed you, it helped to be able to hide in something warm.

She placed the sweater on the counter, pulled on her jeans and t-shirt, lamented the fact that she had no underwear or bra, and then pulled the sweater on over everything else. Her hair was already beginning to dry in the arid Nevada night. So, she flipped her head over, ran her fingers through it, and then straightened again, calling it good.

She had yet to look at herself in the mirror, however. She was certain that she looked like a ragamuffin draped in the fleece that Malcolm had given her and that her legs probably resembled stilts, sticking out the bottom in their fitted denim – but she didn’t really care to see it, because if she did glance in the mirror in order to adjust her wardrobe, she might see her eyes again. She wasn’t quite ready for that.

She sighed heavily.
Gotta get used to it, sweetheart
, she told herself. While he’d held her in the shower, Cole had tried his best to explain things to her. Things about the werewolf world and the fact that she was even more a part of it now than she had been a few hours ago.

He’d told her that when he’d bitten her, her body had accepted that it was time to make the Change. The Dormant wolf within her climbed to the surface, forever altering her physiology and the way she would feel and behave.

Her knee-jerk reaction to this news had been anger. Had she been adequately warned? Was this even fair? But as she stood there and listened, she realized that this final turning point had been her destiny all along. And that,
yes
, she had been warned. Gabriel Phelan had intimated that as much would happen. Lily Kane had hinted at it. And the very fact that she’d been “marked” in the first place was a reminder that she was special – and that she represented a hope for the werewolf community that they could not find in any other woman. That hope was for procreation and survival.

She could only do that if she was one of them.

Cole explained to her that the glowing eyes she seemed to be so upset over were actually very beautiful, and quite natural for a werewolf. He assured her that she would very soon learn to control the light of emotion behind her “baby blues.” Though, he claimed he wouldn’t mind if they looked like that forever. He said she was stunning and gorgeous and that she would never know what she meant to him.

And when she’d finally stopped crying and was able to return his gentle smile, he’d left her alone to finish bathing.

All along, she’d managed to keep the red marks on her wrists hidden from him. She still wasn’t certain why she had bothered. She just felt that it was important somehow and that this new and delicate treaty of understanding between them would be ruptured should he catch sight of the red tattoos that had by now fully formed on the insides of her arms.

Charlie shoved the sleeves of the large sweater up to her elbows and gazed down at the strange new brands. They were nearly as intricate as Cole’s emerald green mark had been, but there was a wicked, unkind appearance to them. They were the color of blood and the angles were sharp and unforgiving.

He hadn’t mentioned anything about new marks when he had been explaining her Change and the symptoms of it a few minutes ago. It was possible that he forgot. But it was far more probable that he didn’t know about them. And Charlie was willing to place money on that.

She sighed and dropped the sleeves, effectively hiding the marks. Then she opened the door to the bathroom, allowing a thick cloud of steam to swirl upwards and out as she stepped into the hallway beyond.

The air that hit her face was air conditioned and much cooler than it had been on the other side of the door, and she was instantly grateful for the big, soft sweater draped so comfortably over her. She wrapped her arms around her waist and tip-toed into the hallway, craning her neck and listening carefully to catch any sign of Cole in the rooms beyond.

But they were empty.

She stilled when a delicious, deeply enticing scent wafted toward her and caressed her senses. She entered the dining room to find that candles had been lit on the table and several porcelain plates had been filled and left for her.

There was wine; a deep blood red that she could tell would burn wonderfully across the tongue and down the throat. There was a plate filled with chocolate covered strawberries – six of them. And most enticing of all, though she never really ate red meat, was the rare steak that waited on a plate closest to her. Its surface steamed in the chilled air, its scent carrying across the room toward her, pulling her closer.

Her mouth began to water. Her stomach growled. She hadn’t even realized how famished she was until now. With a rush, she closed the distance to the table in long, quick strides and sat down in front of the steak. She picked up the fork and knife and began to eat.

As the first piece hit her tongue and fairly melted across it, she closed her eyes, lost in some sort of primal ecstasy. Her teeth ached in her gums. She wanted to rend, to chew, to swallow
more
of it. She finished the steak in five minutes and then reached for the glass of wine that had already been poured for her and left beside the plate.

She downed the wine and it did burn. But as she drained the glass and replaced it, she realized that there was no immediate buzzing sensation leaping to life in her body. There was no dullness seeping to her extremities.

Non alcoholic wine?
No matter
, she thought. It was probably better that way, because she was really thirsty and wanted to drink more of it.

She poured herself another glass and then started in on the strawberries. She ate with abandon, not caring about morality or fat content or cholesterol or calories. She chewed slowly, but continuously, her mouth ever filled with the next bite, the next taste, of this amazingly delicious fare.

The front door beeped and its lock clicked in its hinge. Charlie set down the last bit of strawberry she was holding and stood, turning around to face the entrance. She swallowed just as Malcolm came through the small foyer and into the hallway.

When he exited the shadows and entered the light of the dining room, he stopped and gazed steadily at her. “Christ, you’re beautiful Charlie.” He stared as if in wonder, his light green eyes drinking her in, despite the over-sized sweater hiding most of her body from him. “You have no clue.” He shook his head. “None,” he whispered.

Charlie blushed beneath his scrutiny and the unexpected praise. She hugged herself, wrapping her arms around her middle. He tsked her gently and came forward, crossing the room in long, slow strides. “I told you not to hide yourself from me, did I not?” he asked her, his tone one of gentle but stern reprimand.

She didn’t move her arms. She remembered his words well enough – she would never forget them. But she felt strong, just at that moment. She stayed where she was and lifted her chin in defiance. As she did, her heart rate sped up.

He stopped a few feet away and smiled, the dark pupils at the centers of his eyes expanding quickly. “I would love to remind you of what happens when you disobey my commands, Charlie, but as it is, we’re late.”

Charlie blinked. She ignored the first half of his statement and focused on the last bit. “Late for what?”

“Come with me,” he told her, offering her his hand.

She hesitated just for a second and then slid her hand into his. As they always did, his fingers curled around hers possessively. He led her from the room and down the hall to the elevators.

Instantly, Cole was hitting the stop button in the elevator, his green gaze cutting a fast line to her and pinning her to the spot. The elevator lurched to a halt and Charlie gripped the brass bar beside her. She could feel his sudden surge of anger. She could hear his heartbeat speed up and smell the adrenaline in his veins.

It was both intoxicating and terrifying.

“My name is Malcolm, Charlie,” he told her, his jaw tight and his tone low. “A lot of people call me Cole. Friends. Editors. Werewolves. The Overseer.” He stepped toward her, closing the distance between them. “But the woman I just slept with will call me by my first name.” His tall form towered above her, filling the space of the elevator with werewolf power and heated frustration. “My
mate
will call me Malcolm. Do you understand?”

It didn’t take a genius to see that this had become a sore point with him. And so, though she felt defiant and strong, she decided this probably wasn’t the best time or place to display it. She nodded. Once. She could always give him a hard time about something else later.

Malcolm turned and hit the same button again and the elevator began moving once more. An amp somewhere near the top of the elevator came to static life.

“
Mr. Cole, is everything all right?”
asked an unseen speaker.

Cole gazed steadily at Charlie and then slowly, he looked away to glance up at the tiny black camera lens that rested, half-hidden, in the top corner of the lift. “We’re fine,” he said calmly. “Thank you.”

“
Very good,”
came the static reply.

The elevator reached the casino level and the doors pinged open. Cole gestured for Charlie to exit first, and she did. She was a tad more nervous now than she had been a few minutes ago. “You really aren’t going to tell me where we’re going?”

“Almost there,” he replied, this time reaching down and grasping her hand firmly in his. The touch instantly warmed Charlie. It was a gesture of reassurance and was almost electric. She wondered if her touch had anywhere near that kind of effect on him.

Cole led her through the Casino and out into the Las Vegas night. People were gathering along the stone wall in-between Las Vegas Boulevard and the lake in front of the Bellagio. They spoke with one another and laughed out loud and many of them were drinking. But every now and again, they glanced back at the lake and seemed to be waiting for something.