The Gatekeeper

The elevator door closed after him just as the suit rushed up.

Saxon knew the code to reach the level devoted to the private office of Monty Reilly, owner and CEO of the Wolf and Crown.

The elevator opened on Monty’s floor.

And there was Monty.

He was still in his bathrobe. A silver coffee service sat on his desk. There was an urn of coffee on it with a large bottle of bourbon next to it. To his credit, Monty wasn’t sitting there petting one of his scores of buxom fortune-hunting beauties. He was pacing. He’d dragged his fingers through his dark hair a dozen times and looked like hell.

“Saxon! I knew you’d be coming, but you got to believe me, this wasn’t done by one of mine. I’m telling you—”

“Sit down, Monty.”

Monty, who had the smooth look of James Bond—at least when his hair was combed—sat immediately and stared at Saxon. “It wasn’t one of mine,” he repeated.

Saxon walked over to the desk and leaned on it, staring back at Monty. “It all started with the discovery of a corpse, Monty. A corpse that had been eaten. Gnawed. Devoured.”

He’d seen that body, and he knew a werewolf’s marks when he saw them.

Monty swallowed hard. “Come on, Saxon. You know that a body doesn’t last long in the desert without something eating it. A coyote, a—”

“A werewolf, Monty. And you’re the Keeper of the Vegas werewolves. Your charges have been getting out of control for a long time. And I know you have a pretty good idea which one of them did this. I’ll bet you cash money that a werewolf was responsible for the disappearance of that craps dealer two months ago, and for that pretty blonde singer who left work and never returned. And I know damn well that a wolf was responsible for those bones we found out in the desert last month. What the hell is going on, Monty?”

Monty looked away.

“Who is it, Monty?” Saxon sat on the corner of the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. “That new hotshot from Toronto who gave me grief when I kicked him out of the Wolf’s Den? What’s his name? Jimmy Taylor? Or how about the billionaire pulling your strings—old Carl Bailey? He’s been talking all over town about going back to the old ways. And God knows, he has both the power and the money to get rid of any witnesses. Then there’s the new girl I’ve been hearing about, fresh in town, Candy Laughton. She’s been working the elite clientele—‘entertaining’ them. Stripping, maybe more. God alone knows what really happens when she gives a guy a private lap dance.”

Monty swallowed. “Come on, Saxon. You don’t know that a werewolf is to blame. That guy from Toronto is just a jumped-up punk with a big mouth and too much money. Old Carl Bailey is all talk. And Candy...she’s just another wannabe, even if she’s an especially pretty one. Saxon, I’m telling you the truth—I don’t know who did this. I mean, you don’t even really know that it was a werewolf.”

“We both know the truth, Monty. And when the first disappearance happened, you should have been right on it. Damn it, Monty, it’s your job, your calling.”

Monty rose. He was going to lose all his hair, Saxon thought, if he kept running his fingers through it so hard. The Keeper shook his head. “I thought everything was going well. I mean...what control do I really have? They’re the biggest players in the city, some of them. You know that. They’re powerful. They’re— Hell, Saxon, stop looking at me like that! There really aren’t any rules...no justice system for us to rely on. I can’t haul anyone into court. I—”

“Monty, Keepers maintain control.”

“That’s not fair, Saxon. Sure, we’re supposed to control the other races. But what power do we really have? It’s not like everyone signed off on a bill of rights. Once it wasn’t a big deal. The populations in the New World were small—hell, the worldwide population was still small—and it was possible to discreetly handle situations. But there’s no recourse for me now, nowhere to go—and no real laws.”

“You should find a way to handle it,” Saxon said. “But since you can’t, I will.”

“This is everyone’s fault—not mine!” Monty insisted.

Saxon felt tension riddling his body. He wanted to land a punch on Monty’s clean-shaven jaw; he wanted to shake him out of his comfortable, suck-up position at the casino. Monty was a figurehead. He wasn’t running the werewolves—they were running him.

But one thing Monty had said was true: there was no overall governing body for the Keepers to rely on when they were dealing with their charges; there were no real laws. Life and society had changed over the years. For well over a century now, the Keepers had been keeping control all over the world—preventing the mass extinction of human beings by keeping the werewolves, the vampires, the shifters and all the other paranormal races in check. But Monty was right. They were living in a world where populations had exploded. If a Keeper in one city was weak, hell, just move there and behave as irresponsibly—as violently—as you wanted.

Saxon cursed the fact that there was no judicial system for Keepers and their charges.

There should be.

Except he didn’t even know who to talk to about forming one.

And for the moment he couldn’t worry about it. He had to find the werewolf chewing his way through Las Vegas.

Hell.

Did he start with the kid, the billionaire or the stripper?

Chapter 2

The Rock Candy Club occupied the penthouse level of Candy Country, one of the few casinos that hadn’t been built using Carl Bailey’s money or ended up with Carl Bailey owning a huge percentage of the shares, whether by name or through one of his many business ventures.

Carl had wanted in; Saxon knew that. But one of the major investors was Reginald Holland, a vampire who held sway in New York City. None of Carl’s goons were going to get to Reginald in his cement castle in the Big Apple, and Reginald could not be bought. Saxon had never met him, but he hadn’t heard about any vampires causing problems in New York, so presumably Reginald was working hard at living the American dream—controlling his appetite for blood with domestic animals, the small forest creatures that inhabited Central Park or, most likely, blood banks.

Saxon smiled, pleased that Carl Bailey hadn’t managed to take ownership of the entire city.

The Rock Candy Club was reached via private elevator.

The women who worked there weren’t listed in advertisements—nor, he suspected, on any IRS forms—as either prostitutes or strippers, though both professions were legal in the city.

The Rock Candy Club hired entertainers.

To be fair, the women were reputed to be quite entertaining.

There was a guard outside the elevator. It wasn’t so much that you needed ID to reach the upper floors, but you did need an impeccable credit rating to reach the penthouse level.

Saxon produced the exclusive platinum card that he carried for precisely such an occasion. Sometimes in Vegas it was necessary to play the part.

The guard let him by, but there was another “host”—not as tall as Saxon, but massive and broad like a steel-hulled ship—ready to greet him in the elevator.

Werewolf, definitely.

Big, hairy, broad-faced werewolf.

“Welcome, sir,” he addressed Saxon politely. He wore his suit well, though he did seem to chafe a bit in the tailored shirt, high collar and tie.

“Elven?” the guard asked politely.

Saxon merely nodded.

The man cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, sir. I didn’t mean to pry. We don’t see too many of your kind here, on account of...”

His voice trailed off as Saxon pointedly ignored him.

Elven were invariably tall and generally blessed with exceptional looks. That was why so many of them had successful acting careers out in Hollywood; not only did they tend to be tall, blond and good-looking, they were usually also blessed with a considerable amount of charm.

Both sexes were also revered as lovers, endowed with stamina and, in the males, sexual equipment to match their well-toned physiques.

“Actually,” the guard said, “we don’t see many of your kind in Vegas at all.”