“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.
One