Dark Wolf Rising

Chapter 4

Chelsea Smart needed to have her little backside blistered. And Eric was tempted to do it himself, just as soon as he managed to find her.

As he pulled into the parking lot of the Heaven and Hell strip club late the following afternoon, he didn’t think he’d ever been so furious. There’d been an odd ache in his chest just moments before, when he’d driven past the Travelodge without spotting Chelsea’s bus—which had been delivered to the hotel early that morning—in the parking lot. Though he’d known it was for the best, the idea of never seeing her again had been uncomfortably disturbing, a strange sense of loss weighing heavily in his gut. But instead of easing when he’d caught sight of that ridiculous bus parked in the club’s lot, he was suddenly in a world of hurt. One much darker and deeper than before. One that was angry and hard and violent.

She’d blatantly disregarded his orders, and now the headstrong little idiot was chin-deep in the kind of danger he’d tried to warn her about. Son of a bitch.

He’d mistakenly assumed that with her being a woman and him being a big, intimidating, dominant Lycan, it would be enough to make her realize she should listen to him, whether she wanted to or not. But he’d obviously been wrong.

After a long day of dealing with issues up in Shadow Peak, Eric had headed down to Wesley intending to visit the club to see if there was anything he could learn about Perry Smart’s whereabouts, as well as to get a better idea of exactly what was going on there. He hadn’t planned on having to save her older sister’s stubborn ass, though that seemed the more likely scenario now that he knew Chelsea hadn’t left town…but had done exactly what he’d told her not to do instead. Damn. He’d known she was willful, but still. The woman was downright destructive.

Pulling in a deep breath, he struggled for patience as he finished a pass around the two-story square, windowless building and parked next to her bus, trying to give himself time to come up with a plan, but the lingering traces of her scent inside his truck were still screwing with his head.

There were things hidden in that scent. Confusing things. Important ones. Things he needed to understand. He just…he couldn’t quite catch hold of them, as if a strong wind kept whipping them out of his reach, like meandering whorls of smoke. One instant they would be so close, and in the next, whoosh. They were gone.

Climbing out of his truck, Eric dug his cell phone from his pocket, then reached into his other pocket for the receipt with Chelsea’s number. The call went to voice mail after eight rings, and he ground out something that would have made his mother box his ears when he was younger. Whatever Chelsea was doing inside the club, she wasn’t in a position to answer her phone, and a cold sweat settled over the back of his neck.

Her bus had been delivered to the Travelodge at six that morning. It was now five-thirty in the afternoon. Which meant she’d had eleven and a half hours to get into trouble. Nearly half a damn day to be bullied or threatened or whatever the hell else might have happened to her. Rape. Assault. Torture. The nauseating list was endless.

Muttering another gritty curse under his breath, Eric quickly scrolled through his contact list until he found the next number he needed.

“Burns here,” said a deep voice, after only two rings. Jeremy Burns was one of the pack’s Bloodrunners, and a serious badass with a warped sense of humor. He was also the husband of one of Eric’s closest friends, Jillian, the pack’s healer, which had put the two males on rocky footing when things had started heating up between Jillian and the Runner the year before. But as soon as Jeremy had accepted the fact that Eric and Jillian were nothing more than friends, he and the Runner had slowly become friends themselves. He knew he could trust the guy with his life, and with anything else he threw at him.

“It’s Eric,” he said, locking the door to the truck behind him. “I need to let you know where I’m at, in case I don’t make it back to the Alley tonight.” Bloodrunner Alley was a secluded part of the forest where Jeremy and the other Bloodrunners lived, and where Eric had been spending a lot of his nights lately.

“Well,” the Runner drawled, “that’s a hell of a way to open a conversation.”

He scanned his surroundings to make sure no one was listening in. “Save the sarcasm for another time. I’m down in Wesley, in the Heaven and Hell parking lot.”

Jeremy cursed, but didn’t waste time demanding to know what Eric was doing there. Instead, he asked, “You got weapons?”

“Yeah, but can’t take them in with me. They’ll have security at the doors.”

The Runner’s frustration was evident in the hard edge of his voice. “I should have known something was up when you started asking questions about that place this morning. Didn’t think you were stupid enough to actually go down there on your own, though.”

“What can I say?” he grunted, squinting against the last dying rays of the sun. “I needed something to do.”

Jeremy snorted. “Yeah, well, next time just ask. If you’re bored, I’ll think of something to keep you busy. Jillian’s gonna kill me if anything happens to you.”

He started to tell the Runner that that’s why he was calling—to make plans if something did happen—but Jeremy suddenly told him to hold on a second. Eric could hear him talking to someone else, relaying the situation, and then another voice came on the line. From the rough tone and lilting Irish accent, he knew it was Cian Hennessey, one of the other Silvercrest Bloodrunners. “I’ve got some information you might find useful, seeing as how you’ve decided to jump the gun on us.”

Various possibilities of what the Runner might have learned ran through Eric’s mind, and none of them were good. “I don’t have a lot of time, Cian. Just get to the point.”

“Well, after I heard about the woman you ran into last night, and that you were asking for information about that club, I thought I’d look into things for you. Made a few calls to some of my…” the Irishman gave a husky laugh “… let’s just say some people who owe me a few special favors. But you’re not going to like what I learned. You were right about the Donovans being involved with the club, but they’re not the only ones. From the sound of things, the Whiteclaw pack has a finger in the pie, as well.”

“The Donovans and the Whiteclaw?” Eric wouldn’t have been more surprised if the Irishman had just told him that the NRA was partnering up with Greenpeace. As far as the Silvercrest knew, the Donovan family didn’t like the arrogant, thuggish Whiteclaw clan any more than the rest of the Southeastern Lycan packs. “What the hell is that about?”

“Yeah, I know,” the Runner murmured. “It sucks. All I can figure is that they have some kind of joint operation going on down there. The Donovans are obviously the brains and the money, the Whiteclaw most likely the hired muscle. And seeing as how they’re all a bunch of assholes, it’s not a comforting combination.”

“No shit,” Eric grunted. “Especially with them both so close to our land.” The Silvercrest were still in a highly vulnerable position, thanks to his father’s bullshit, and it freaked the hell out of him that the vultures were joining forces.

“Brody and I were planning on checking it out later,” Cian said, referring to Brody Carter, his best friend and Bloodrunning partner, “but it sounds like you’re beating us to it.”

“No choice.” Eric cast an uneasy look toward Chelsea’s bus, his gaze moving over the whimsical confection of clouds. “She’s here.”

“She?” There was a significant pause, and then, “You don’t mean the woman from last night, do you? The human?”

“Yeah. That’s exactly who I mean.”

Cian gave a low whistle. “Holy hell. That lady have a death wish or what?”

“Feels like it,” he ground out, starting to make his way across the parking lot. “I’m getting her out.”

The Runner’s voice turned hard. “Don’t be an idiot, Drake. You need to wait for us to get there. Brody and I can head down now.”

“Can’t—it’ll take too long, and there’s no telling how long she’s already been in there. Can you put Burns back on?”

Cian ordered him not to do anything stupid, then handed the phone back to Jeremy. “Look, I don’t have a lot of time,” Eric said, “but I need to ask you guys for a favor. If you don’t hear from me, I need the Runners to look after—”

“Dude,” Jeremy cut in, “stop right there. If you go down, your sister will be looked after. That’s a given. But keep in mind that I will track your ass to hell and put you through serious pain if you get killed. I will not be happy. You got that?”

A wry smile twitched at the corner of Eric’s mouth. “What makes you think I’m not headed for heaven?”

The Runner snorted again. “The day they let a jackass like you past the pearly gates is the day those self-righteous pricks up in Shadow Peak stop looking down their noses at us.”

They said a quick goodbye, and by the time Eric was slipping his phone back in his pocket, he’d reached the front of the club. Making his way down the concrete walkway leading to the entrance, he glanced up at the neon sign perched on the roof. The words Heaven and Hell glittered in the twilight with obscene brightness, pulsing like a heartbeat. A fitting name, he thought, walking inside, where a beefy bouncer sat on a black stool just inside the doorway. One quick sniff and Eric knew the guy was one of the Whiteclaw clan. The man drew Eric’s own scent into his lungs, and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What’s your business here, Drake?”

So the Lycan knew who he was. Good. He could use it to his advantage.

Anxious to get inside and find her, Eric deliberately ran his gaze over a tall, busty brunette who walked past the club’s arched entryway, balancing a tray of shot glasses on one hand. “I’d think my reason for being here was rather obvious,” he said, slanting the bouncer a knowing smile.

The guy snickered. “What’s the problem? Can’t get any in your hometown anymore, now that your old man turned psycho?”

Eric fought to hold his hard smile in place, but it wasn’t easy. Slipping the bouncer a crisp hundred-dollar bill, he lowered his voice. “Let’s just say that I’m bored with the usual fare I get back at home. If I was looking for something a little less…tame, would this be the place to find it?”

The Lycan didn’t so much as bat a lash, but Eric knew he’d caught the guy’s attention. The seconds stretched out while the bouncer’s steely gaze bore into Eric’s, looking for the trap. Finally, he gave a low grunt and moved off his padded leather stool. After checking him for weapons with a quick pat down, he told Eric to take a seat inside the club and order a drink, saying that someone would come by to talk to him within the hour.

Uncertain whether or not the bouncer had bought his story, Eric walked through the high arch that separated the entryway from the main room of the club and tried not to wince. But it wasn’t easy. Why Chelsea’s little sister would have ever been willing to serve drinks here, he couldn’t understand. It wasn’t as cheaply decorated as a lot of the clubs he’d seen, but there was no mistaking the heavy desperation that hung in the air. It slid against his skin like a damp, sickly caress, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He could only imagine how it made Chelsea feel.

Wanting to rip the place apart until he found her, Eric forced himself to slide into a chair at a table hidden in the shadows at the far side of the room, to the left of the raised stage where five glassy-eyed human females were slowly gyrating their naked bodies in time to the deep, throbbing rhythm blasting through the sound system. Despite the early hour, over a quarter of the tables surrounding the stage were already full, the clientele a mix of werewolf and human—a fact the humans were no doubt oblivious to. The Lycans seemed to come from a wide variety of packs, though he was thankful he was the only Silvercrest in the room. Eric recognized a few of the Lycans as belonging to the Whiteclaw clan, and suspected they were there to keep an eye on things. Either that, or to broker the deals for whatever illegal activities the Donovans were running at the club.

As he sat with his back to the wall and scanned the room, Eric had what could only be described as a seriously bad feeling. It didn’t escape his notice that while the clientele were a mix of human and Lycan, the strippers and servers were all human females. And young ones, at that. It was like watching a group of baby seals unknowingly swim through shark-infested waters. A crap idea no matter how you looked at it.

The Whiteclaw, it seemed, were treading a dangerous line in their new partnership. Since the pack didn’t have any Bloodrunners, any infractions of the laws that governed their kind were the responsibility of the nearest packs: the Silvercrest and Youngblood. If they were harming humans, deadly measures would have to be taken. If they were simply exploiting these women for money, then they’d be watched to make sure things didn’t go too far.

And since the Donovans were a part of the Youngblood pack, there probably wouldn’t be any help coming from that quarter. Rumor had it that the Donovans had been buying off the Youngblood Runners for years, lining their pockets with serious amounts of cash to look the other way. Jeremy and the other Runners had asked the Silvercrest pack’s leadership to authorize an investigation into the matter too many times to count, but Eric’s father had made sure the requests were always denied. Now it looked as though it would be an issue that came back and bit them in the ass.

Hell, at this point, Eric wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that his father had been on the take, as well.