The no smoking laws had forever changed the face of drinking establishments, and the air inside was clear. The bar was straight ahead, bottles against the obligatory mirror, and the food ordering station was a bar on the left, with a dry board above it listing menu and prices. Between them was the jukebox, new but looking old-fashioned with neon all around and lots of shiny metallic paint. There were tables scattered between the door and the bars, seating people with food and drinks in front of them.
The floor was concrete, painted navy. Easy to clean. Color scheme was navy and red the color of blood, vamps’ favorite shade. Ceiling was fifteen feet over my head, with exposed vents, pipes, and wiring, painted black. On the front wall, the bay doors’ arches were windowed with seating. To my right was the pool area, with three pool tables. No one was eating or drinking or playing. Everyone was watching me. I took a breath and the musky undertone of the scents raised Beast’s hackles. Deep in my mind, she growled, as if recognizing the odor. She crouched close and looked through my eyes, her paws and claws milking my mind, the sensation unpleasant.
I followed the scent to seven guys and a girl standing in the pool area. One of them was the fire truck-sized smoker from outside. But they weren’t vamps, so not my target. I moved across the floor to the bar, taking position on the far left of it where no patrons sat on bar seats to obstruct my movements. I angled my body, keeping everyone in sight, leaned one elbow on the bar, and placed one booted foot on the raised footrest that followed the bar’s shape. The position looked relaxed but also gave me leverage if I needed to push off fast. I fished a card out of a pocket and slid it to the bartender. He was a little guy, maybe five feet four with a potbelly and tattoos of birds of prey up his arms. His name tag said BOOGER. I hoped it was a nickname and not his mama’s idea of a joke. Booger picked up the card and looked at it.
It said JANE YELLOWROCK in small caps, and below that, the motto: HAVE STAKES, WILL TRAVEL. Vamp-hunter humor. He looked from the card to me. “So?”
“Leo Pellissier sent me to chat with a vamp—average height, slender, black hair. Pretty.”
Booger tucked the card in his T-shirt pocket. “Can’t help you. My place ain’t fancy enough for the fangheads.”
Which was very true, now that I thought about it. But ... Leo hadn’t actually said I was meeting a vamp. The only term, beyond the general description, was a persona non grata. Crap. I’d assumed vamp.
“Course, there’s others he mighta sent you to chat with.” He nodded to the pool area and hit a red button under the bar mirror. Clanking overhead startled me and I stepped away from the bar as a metal wall, shaped like a garage door, but made of short lengths of chain formed in squares, rolled down and hit the floor. It was a security device, like mall stores draw down at night to protect their wares. Another wall did the same in front of the food bar. Two more slid down over the windows in the arched insets. I tensed to sprint into the night, but it wasn’t a cage. The doors to Booger’s had no obstructions. The people sitting at the tables got up and left, letting the night air in. The jukebox went silent. No. Not a cage. A fighting ring. But with a way out if I wanted to take it.
Beast growled low inside. She sent a thought picture to me. A pack of wolves against a snowfall, a full moon overhead.
And I got a real bad feeling.
CHAPTER 3
She Was Wearing a Red Thong
I recognized the smell now, like wet dog, but rangier, wilder, feral. Them. The pack. All but one of them male. The girl was watching me from the shadows, her bottom lip caught in her teeth, her eyes excited and gleaming and possibly not quite sane. She was a tiny, blond thing with a deep tan, her skin catching the light with a sheen of perspiration. She was loaded down with bling-style jewelry, dressed in a skirt with a tight, spandex waist that left her pierced navel bare, the short skirt belling out around her hips. With it she wore a tight tank and no bra and red platform sandals with four-inch heels. Reaching behind, she gripped the pool table and levered herself up, her feet swinging, sandals flying off and into the darkness. She was wearing a red thong and made sure I knew it. Oh joy.
As the wolf-bitch moved, she stirred the air, and I caught the reek of sex hormones. She was in heat. No wonder she was so demonstrative.
The men I could see all wore jeans and T-shirts. And except for Fire Truck, were barefooted or wore flip-flops. Which was weird until I spotted the boots lining the wall near the side door. I sniffed one last time, scenting them. I had never met a werewolf, but I was meeting them now. Leo hadn’t sent me to meet a vamp and send him packing. He’d sent me to meet a pack of wolves. Without warning and without backup.
These guys didn’t ride down from Wyoming today, which told me the interview footage from this morning—the one where a wolf had accused Leo of the murder of a man named Henri—had been taped, suggesting the wolves had been here longer than a few hours. They’d marked territory and were willing to fight for it.
One of the wolves stepped forward, his feet bare and silent on the painted concrete. I recognized the angry werewolf from the TV. The strawberry blond leader who cussed so much. His movements were graceful, feral, deadly. Around him the others fanned out, starting to form a semicircle. Fire Truck stood in the back, pulling off his boots.
“Jane Yellowrock. Roguevamp hunter,” I said to the leader, loosening my knee joints and adjusting my balance. “I was sent to deliver a message. But none of you matches the description.” Pretty wasn’t a term anyone would use for a werewolf.