The Dark Storm (16 page)

Riel looked over at the man, still standing within the circle of bone. “It’s your reward, mortal. For your betrayal of your own, you shall feed my newborns.” Riel laughed menacingly. The demons shot up through the corpses in the ground and passed through Riel before choosing their hosts’ bodies.

The realization had finally set in and the driver knew that the demon had lied to him and there would be no riches, only horrible death. He struggled as much as he could, but one of the Stalkers had an unyielding grip on his pant leg. One by one the bodies of his dead passengers came to life, hungry and crawling in his direction. The driver would’ve screamed had it not been for the Stalker who had just chewed through his vocal cords.

The Triple Six nightclub was located in the Village, right off the West Side Highway. Though it wasn’t the most well-advertised spot, there was never a shortage of people trying to get in. The Triple Six specialized in what some would call exotic pleasures. Sex, drugs, snuff, nothing was forbidden within the walls of the Triple Six.

The inside of the club was packed to capacity. Goths, gangsters, and business types partied together as DJ Hex played a mix of house, hip-hop, and alternative music. Her ability to rock any party made her one of the most sought-after DJs in the city. Clubs paid Hex a queen’s ransom to spin at their events. They’d probably be pissed to know that it wasn’t the music she played that rocked the party but the magical undertones she laced it with. DJ Hex was one of the few muses in the United States.

The dance floor was packed with people dancing and drinking and doing whatever the darkness would allow. Tucked into a dark corner Rogue could make out a couple locked in an embrace. The man’s face was buried in the woman’s neck, while her eyes were lulled back in ecstasy as if she was having the orgasm of her life. Only when he raised his head could you see her blood smeared across his lips. The feedings weren’t unusual within the Triple Six. It was a part of the truce between Dutch and
the house of Lamia, who were the ruling vampire body in New York City. They could feed from the
willing
patrons so long as no one died; in exchange they provided security for the club against the other supernaturals, sorcerers in particular. The inside of the Triple Six was sanctuary, but outside its walls the war raged on.

Rogue hated clubs. Not because they were hot and overcrowded and smelled like ass but because of the different pulses that ran unchecked through them. Everyone, supernatural and mortal, had a pulse. Supernatural pulses were pronounced and distinct, like body odor, but mortal pulses were much subtler because mortals were unaware of the power they emitted. But when you added the two pulses and threw in a splash of alcohol and a healthy amount of drugs, it could cause sensory overload in someone sensitive to these things. This was what Rogue was trying to fight off at the time.

The nightclub was teeming with mortals, but Rogue could feel the others mixed in with the crowd. Casters, Weres, posers, he picked up on all their magical pulses. Skilled or uninitiated users of magic could pick up on the presence of others like him, even if they didn’t know what they were feeling, but Rogue’s unique magical bond with the other realm made him supersensitive to it. Whenever Rogue brushed against someone, which seemed like every step he took because of the crowd, his equilibrium felt off.

He hiked the left sleeve of his jacket slightly, exposing the bracelet on his wrist. It was a simple gold link, attached to what looked like a coin in the center of the bracelet. It was a pendent with magical runes of focus and clarity on it, which had been given to him back in Florida. Rubbing a sweaty thumb against the coin to add of himself to the spell, he chanted the words softly. As soon as the last word had left his mouth, he started to feel more
focused. The pulses were still pressing against him, but not as forcefully. The power of the bracelet wrapped a thick layer of magic around him, driving the temperature up a few degrees, in the already-hot club, but he’d live. It was a small price to pay in a place like the Triple Six, where not being focused could mean a slow, nasty death.

Normally Rogue would’ve put off investigating the insurgence of Stalkers until after he had finished the case he was working on, but the fact that he’d almost wrapped his car around a streetlight added urgency to his investigation. He’d been heading up Broadway, on his way back to the office, when a jolt of pain shot through his skull. It was as if someone was trying to boil his eyes out of their sockets. Even their donor seemed to cringe at the sensation. Whatever the force was that had frightened the demon, it was somehow connected to the Stalkers; this he was sure of.

There were several people he could’ve consulted on the matter, but most either were abroad or wanted him dead, narrowing his choices considerably. He knew there was only one person he could call on for the answers he needed, but to get to him Rogue had to venture into the lion’s den, the Triple Six.

Rogue had been to the Triple Six a time or two, but those were because he absolutely had to and they had been by invitation. The warlock king despised mages, as did most witches and warlocks, and with good reason. Though the mages had never officially chosen sides in the Great War between the sorcerers and their servants, the more ambitious of the order had been retained as slave hunters and sometimes executioners of unruly casters. There was more than enough bad blood between the mages and the warlocks, enough to get Rogue killed if his true nature was discovered while he was inside the Triple Six.

With his hands tucked deep inside the pockets of his leather jacket he picked his way through the crowd, trying to keep from making skin-to-skin contact with any of the partygoers. He might’ve been able to fool some of the young ones, but the older and more seasoned ones would know him, and there were some truly ancient things inside the Triple Six. He swept his shaded eyes through the crowd, trying to pick out the familiar pulse in the darkened club, but couldn’t spot it on the main floor. This meant he would have to venture into the VIP area, which he’d hoped he wouldn’t have to do.

Rogue kept his head down as he headed for the long corridor that would lead him to the lower levels. The main floor was mostly mortals, but there were some supernaturals scattered throughout the crowd. Through his eyes they looked like a kaleidoscope with magical pulses of all different hues. He was so preoccupied with the swirling colors of the pulses that he walked right into a brick wall dressed in leather. Rogue looked from the man’s glowing red eyes to the liquor splashed on his leather vest and knew he had a situation on his hands.

If he had to describe the man in front of him in one word, it would have to be
brute
. He stood a head over six-three with a massive jaw and long brown hair. His shoulders were like two melons connected to arms that stopped just above his knees. Even if those arms hadn’t been covered in hair, Rogue would’ve known he was a Were of some kind.

“Sorry about that, man, let me buy you another drink,” Rogue offered.

“To hell with the drink, this vest cost me two hundred bucks!” The brute snarled, giving Rogue a glimpse of canines that were slightly too long.

Definitely a Were
.

“Look man, I’m sorry—”

“What are you?” The brute sniffed the air around Rogue. “You smell like one of us, but for some reason I can’t figure out what you are. Tell me,” he leaned in, “what’re you trying to hide?”

“Dig, I don’t want a problem in here; I’m just trying to get a drink,” Rogue said easily, trying to step around the brute. The brute moved with him.

“I didn’t ask you all that, flesh sack. I asked what you were.” He jabbed his finger into Rogue’s chest.

Rogue looked down at his chest as if something were growing out of it. He looked back up at the brute and in a very calm tone said, “If you put your finger on me again, I’ll have to put my finger on you.”

The brute snorted. “Little man.” He jabbed his finger in Rogue’s chest again. “I’d tear out your freaking—” That was as far as he got.

Rogue grabbed the brute’s wrist with his right hand and twisted it to the left. It was hardly enough to break the bone of a Were, but it was enough to stun him while Rogue raised his left hand. He stiffened his index and middle fingers, jabbing them into the brute’s chest and expelling a wisp of his power. The thread of energy looped around the brute’s heart and tightened, stopping it. Before he could sag to the ground, Rogue caught him under the arms and guided him onto a bar stool. The beast’s heart would restart in a few seconds and he would be Pissed with a capital
P
, but Rogue had no intentions of being around when it happened. Catching a werewolf by surprise was one thing, but a head-on confrontation would result in a loss of limbs and even that was the best-case scenario. When he was sure no one was watching Rogue allowed the shadows of the club to engulf him. The only sign of his passing at the bar was the twenty-dollar bill he’d left under a glass.

Managing to avoid any more life-threatening skirmishes
Rogue navigated the shadows and made his way to the lower levels of the club. The main area was open to any and all, but the lower section was reserved for members of the king’s court. If you weren’t a witch or warlock of the coven, then you ventured below the club at your own peril, but of course Rogue made his living putting his ass on the line.

“Angel,” Rogue greeted the vampire as he approached the entrance of the Black Court.

Angel looked over his shoulder nervously. “Rogue, what’re you doing here? You know Dutch is gonna shit a brick if he finds out you’re up in his spot uninvited.”

“And what makes you think that I haven’t been invited?” Rogue challenged.

“Because I work the entrance and I’d know if a murdering, sneaky, blackmailing son of a bitch was on the list, and he ain’t!”

“Hey, my mother’s got nothing to do with this, errand boy, so let’s try to keep the insults personal. Don’t worry your pretty undead ass over it, fam; I’ll be in and out before Dutch even catches wind that I’m here.” Rogue tried to step past, but Angel blocked him.

“Come on, Rogue, you know this’ll come down on my head if I let you in here and you start some shit.”

“Angel, would I put you in a bind like that?”

“Yes.”

Rogue smiled. “Look, all I want to do is see if a buddy of mine is inside. I gotta ask him something and then I’m gone.”

“Rogue, you know just as well as I do that you ain’t got a friend in this world, let alone Dutch’s club… . Hell, I can count on one hand how many people in the city actually like you and still have fingers left over. Why don’t you do us both a favor and take a hike, huh?”

“Angel.” Rogue placed a hand on the vampire’s
shoulder. “Why you wanna go and hurt my feelings like that?”

Angel slapped the hand away. “You ain’t got no feelings, Rogue. If I were you, I’d make myself scarce before someone saw me and tried to turn me into a goat.”

Rogue folded his arms. “Angel, you know I hate to call in markers, but need I remind you who it was that kept Mesh and his boys from carving up that pretty face of yours?”

Angel shivered. A year prior he had gotten himself into a situation where the daughter of a respected mob attorney was murdered and Angel was fingered as the killer. Angel swore he was innocent, but it was discovered that he and the girl had been lovers and he’d been feeding from the girl for several months. Because Angel was a supernatural creature, the lawyer sought justice through one of his special clients, Rupert Croft. Croft was the leader of a syndicate not recognized by the FBI but was respected in the supernatural and mortal underworlds. Croft’s favorite killing device was his nephew Gilgamesh.

Gilgamesh was a dark elf who had killed more people than the West Nile virus. His crew, the Black Hand, was worse. Angel knew that it would only be a matter of time before they caught him, so he hired Rogue to find out who had set him up. The Black Hand had captured Angel and nailed him to a cross in the lawyer’s greenhouse so he’d have a nice view of the sun when it came up. Just as the first rays began to blister Angel’s skin, Rogue turned up the real killer. As it turned out, he was an old boyfriend who couldn’t get past the fact that the girl was sleeping with a vamp.

Angel attempted to pay Rogue for his services, but the bounty hunter declined, opting to take his payment in the form of a favor. One thing Rogue had learned in his years
of dealing with the unknown was that a favor came in a lot handier than money.

“Rogue, don’t do this to me.” Angel threw his hands up.

“I’m not doing anything to you, Angel. All I wanna do is go inside and look around for my buddy. I promise I won’t even talk to anyone while I’m inside.” Rogue held up his hand in a Boy Scout salute.

Angel glared at the man for a minute before stepping aside to let him in.

“Thanks, man.” Rogue went to pass and Angel took him by the arm.

“Rogue, if you jam me on this I’m gonna hunt you down and kill you personally,” he said seriously.

“You’re welcome to try,” Rogue said in an equally serious tone. His shadow cast against the wall seemed to grow as threads of darkness snaked about his hands. “But I’d hate to be on either end of that one.”

“As long as we understand each other,” Angel said.

Rogue didn’t even bother to answer; he just kept walking down the corridor. A few seconds later his shadow caught up with him.