Wolf King (Wolves of New York #1) Read online

  Chapter 12

  Maxim

  Acting on instinct, I grab Willow by the back of the neck and push her down into the floor of the box, shielding her from flying debris.

  Then I order her, “Stay down,” and stand, ripping off my suit coat and tossing it to the floor.

  The rest of my clothes are shredded as I shift into my wolf.

  I couldn’t navigate a jump from this height as a man, but my wolf easily leaps from our box to the one below, and from there down to the rapidly emptying orchestra seats.

  The civilian members of the pack are surging toward the exits with a speed and efficiency that makes me proud—this is why we drill for emergency evacuations every month—while the guards stationed by the exits and the enforcement wolves who happened to be in the audience launch into emergency protocols.

  As I dash toward the orchestra pit, my junior enforcers are already helping clear the theater and sounding the tower-wide alarm while my senior officers file in behind me in their wolf forms to offer back-up.

  I send out a telepathic command—ease of communication is another benefit of this form. I order the wolves on my right to circle around to the backstage area and evacuate the actors. Those on my left, I instruct to search for injured in the wreckage.

  To Hermione—who I can sense just behind me—I say, Follow me and help comb the area for more explosives.

  I leap over the ruined remains of the first few rows of seats and race up a narrow chunk of wood that’s separated from the apron of the stage. Reaching the top, I peer over the edge into the smoking pit, gut twisting as I spot several bodies—including our orchestra director, a major talent and one of my father’s dear friends—lying still in the wreckage.

  I tilt my head back, mentally calling for a medical team to get here ASAP, then pick my way through the rubble to the source of the blast.

  The epicenter is easy to spot.

  The far wall of the pit sports a hole the size of one of the tubas lying on the ground. I’m guessing someone planted the bomb in the instrument storage lockers. If they’d detonated the device during the show, every single member of the orchestra, as well as a good portion of the front few rows of the audience, would be dead.

  We’re “lucky” to get away with a handful of losses, though I’m sure the dead wolves’ family and friends won’t feel that way.

  But right now, I’m thinking as a warrior, a battle strategist.

  And my warrior gut is screaming that this was a warning, not a full-blown attack. And then I get close enough to the source of the blast to find red powder all over the ground and what’s left of the back wall.

  Venom. I would know the popular Parallel street drug by sight, but in wolf form I can smell it, too, the faint, sickeningly sweet scent that should warn any shifter worth their fur to stay far away from it.

  Venom smells like a corpse cloaked in violets, rot spritzed with perfume.

  Beneath the sweetness is a smell that warns this shit will kill you—quickly.

  You don’t hear many stories about Venom addicts causing trouble, but that’s only because they go from addicted to dead so fast, making selling V a stupid, unsustainable business decision as well as morally bankrupt and downright villainous.

  But the Blood River pack’s leaders don’t care. They figure there are always more addicts where the last batch came from and care very little for the lives of anyone outside their pack.

  Their pack…

  Willow.

  The chances that the first bold-faced Blood River attack on my pack’s territory came within twenty-four hours of granting Pax’s mate refuge can’t be a coincidence.

  I reach out with my mind again, calling for security forces to surround and protect Willow, who was last seen in my private box in the second level balcony.

  Behind me, I hear Hermione growl low in her great white wolf’s throat.

  I turn to her with a snarl on my lips, telepathically alerting her, Blood River did this. Find Willow, help protect her. I’ll see if I can track the person who planted the bomb.

  Without a beat of hesitation, Hermione spins and leaps back toward the top of the pit. I turn in the other direction, jumping over the red powder to land on the other side, near the door to the musicians’ green room.

  The doorway is mounded with rubble, but there’s still enough space for my wolf to squeeze through at the top.

  Inside, I see the room already cleared—the wolves who play in the orchestra have their own emergency protocols—and no trace of the red powder on the ground.

  But I can still smell it in here, and, as I hoped, the sickly scent gives me a trail to follow.

  I cross the room to the door leading even farther beneath the stage. The heavy, soundproof door is closed, but I’m able to open it by shoving a paw against the lever handle without shifting back into human form.

  Good. I still need my wolf.

  My human nose wouldn’t notice the faint scent of Venom continuing down the dark hallway leading to the rehearsal rooms, prop storage, and theater director’s office deep in the bowels of the space.

  But my wolf easily follows the scent through the winding hallways, past the shuttered snack bar where the actors often grab lunch and toward the garage/warehouse where larger set pieces and bulk building materials are delivered and stowed.

  I prowl through the open cargo bay door, nostrils flaring as the smell of gasoline quickly overpowers the Venom stench.

  It’s far more intense than the scent of spilled fuel or a leaking gas tank. It burns my nose, making my eyes water as I circle around a pile of lumber to see a petite scrap of a shifter in black jeans and an oversized black t-shirt cowering on the concrete in front of the parked delivery trucks, reeking of gasoline.

  Fur bristling into spikes across my back, I let out a warning growl, but the intruder—I can’t tell if the person is male or female, or what species of shifter, only that he or she can’t be more than eighteen and might not be wolf—only shivers harder.

  “Sorry.” The boy—I’m fairly certain it’s a boy now that he’s lifted his pale, wasted face to peer at me through the shadows—gulps. “He said he’d kill my sister if I didn’t do it. I’m so sorry.”

  I growl again and prowl closer, not impressed with the kid’s excuses. If he’s telling the truth, he was given a horrible choice to make, but he still made the wrong one.

  “Don’t,” he croaks, shaking his head back and forth. “Don’t come any closer. It’s going to go any second. He said I only had ten minutes after the explosion.”

  Ten minutes until what? And who is he? Who sent you? I send out the words telepathically, but the boy doesn’t seem to hear me.

  He has to be Blood River Pack. The fracturing of their pack structure hasn’t just led to an increasingly small number of wolves discovering their pack gift, it’s also decimated the telepathic abilities most shifters are able to access in our animal form.

  They’re a rotted, dying tribe that, as far as I’m concerned, can’t implode soon enough.

  But until the day they destroy themselves, they’re also dangerous.

  I have to figure out how this boy breached our defenses and make sure it never happens again.

  I’m shifting into human form to ask my questions in a language he’ll understand when he suddenly bursts into flames. It happens so fast I barely have time to duck back behind the lumber pile before the kid is on his back, screaming and writhing as fire races across his skin.

  The smell of burning hair and clothes and a darker, sicker smell I don’t want to name fills the air. Less than a minute later the sprinkler system hisses on, spraying the entire room with water, but it’s too late for the boy.

  Thanks to the gasoline accelerating the fire charm he must have been carrying, he’s already so much charred meat and ash.

  Stomach turning, I press a fist to my mouth and nose and cross to the phone on the wall by the forklift. Lifting it, I dial the command center. An operator answers in the middl
e of the first ring with a brisk, “Central.”

  “It’s Maxim, requesting back up and a forensics team in the theater delivery bay as soon as the tower is locked down,” I say, adding before the operator can respond. “And put me through to Hermione’s com.”

  “Yes, sir,” he says, then adds quickly, “lock down is currently at sixty-five percent and we should have a team to you in five.”

  “Excellent,” I say, relieved by the news.

  The fact that our tower was breached is a fucking embarrassment, but at least we’re circling the wagons at an impressive speed.

  A beat later, Hermione is on the line, with less encouraging news. “She’s gone, Maxim,” Hermione says without bothering to sugarcoat the news. “No sign of her in the booth or anywhere in the theater. Her rooms are also empty.”

  Cursing beneath my breath, I begin pacing back and forth, thoughts racing. “It was all a diversion to get to her.”

  “Looks like it,” Hermione says. “Or she’s hiding somewhere we haven’t thought to look yet.”

  “No,” I say, dismissing the idea. “She wouldn’t hide.”

  “I don’t think so either, but we’ve locked down almost all the exits from the second story down. The only two unsecured points are the theater cargo bay—”

  “No, I’m here,” I cut in. “There’s no way she could have been taken out this way before I got down here.”

  “And the balcony on the fourth floor,” Hermione continues without missing a beat. “If they have the right equipment, they might be able to get her out that way.”

  “Send a team,” I say. “I want you to meet me on the roof. Bring Briggs and Denver if they’re close.”

  “Be there in five,” she says, hanging up without questions or commentary.

  But she’s a pro and always keeps a level head during a crisis.

  I hang up the phone and jog back toward the rehearsal rooms and the elevator close by, hoping my gut is steering me straight. If I were trying to throw a rival pack off balance long enough to spirit a woman away via helicopter, I would arrange for an explosion and a terrorist catching fire as far from the roof as possible.

  If I’m wrong, or if they’ve already taken Willow…

  Or worse than taken her…

  I dart into the elevator and slam the button for the roof and the override button to make sure no one else can summon the car at the same time. Then I curl my hands into fists and wait to be delivered to the top floor, refusing to think about what I’ll do if they’ve killed my little wolf right under my nose.

  Sane or not, that’s how I think of her—as mine.

  And no one takes what’s mine without paying the price.

  And if they’ve hurt her?

  They’ll pay in blood.

  Chapter 13

  Willow

  One minute, I’m running down the stairs to the lower lobby, determined to get to the orchestra section and help the injured.

  The next, thick arms are around me, a sweaty hand is over my mouth, and I’m being hauled into a tiny room that smells of sour beer and hot pretzels.

  I thrash against my attacker, wide eyes scanning the dimly lit space, trying to find something I can use as a weapon. I spot an empty vodka bottle on a counter—I must be in a prep room by the lower lobby’s bar—and determine to get my fingers wrapped around it at the first opportunity.

  In the meantime, I intend to scream as loud as possible.

  I cry out against the hand, but it’s so large it almost completely muffles the sound. Anyone beyond this room would be hard-pressed to hear me even if it was quiet out there.

  And it’s not.

  People are shouting, crying, and running for cover, focused on getting themselves and the people they love to safety, not saving a woman on the verge of being kidnapped.

  That’s what this is.

  Pax or Victor must have sent this man, even though he doesn’t smell like a wolf.

  It’s the only thing that makes sense.

  Which means, if Sweaty Hand Dude succeeds in getting me out of the North Star tower, I’m a dead woman. And not just dead, but slowly and miserably dead. The Alphas will torture me to death. Publicly. An example to anyone else foolish enough to think they can take their fate into their own hands.

  Adrenaline dumping into my blood stream, I curl my right leg into my chest and shoot it backward into my attacker’s knee. He bends with a groan and his hands slips from my mouth.

  A beat later, I’m out of his arms with my fingers around the vodka bottle.

  I spin, bringing it down as hard and fast as I can on his head—once, twice.

  It’s classy vodka, the kind that comes in thick, heavy glass. It doesn’t shatter until the third blow.

  Thankfully, the giant man falls to his hands and knees a second later, groaning and weaving back and forth.

  I don’t stay to see if he’s going to pass our or not. I shove my hands against the bar on the door in front of me and explode out into the chaos.

  People are still running for cover, moving swiftly past me toward the multiple sets of doors on the other side of the main lobby.

  Heart slamming, I search the faces racing toward me for someone who looks like they’re in charge—an enforcement officer or even one of the theater staff who might know where we can hide to call for backup. But these people are all theatergoers like me. And many of them are elderly or carrying children in their arms.

  I can’t ask them to stop and help, not when Sweaty Palms could be up and out of that room at any moment.

  As if summoned by my dread-filled thoughts, the door to the food prep room opens and Sweaty staggers out, blood dripping from a cut on his temple down the side of his cheek.

  A woman running past almost collides with him, but veers away at the last moment, crying out in surprise as she gets a better look at his face.

  “Call for help!” I shout at her as she passes me. “He’s with the people who planted the bomb.”

  I don’t know that for sure—I’ve never seen this guy in my life and have no idea if he’s into explosives—but odds are that the bombing and my kidnapping are connected.

  Which means my presence here is responsible for who knows how many injured wolves.

  Maybe even dead wolves.

  Innocent people, whose only sin was wanting to sit up front at the theater.

  Bile rises in my throat as I scan the area for another weapon, determined not to let this guy get away. I’ll subdue him until help arrives and then we’ll find out who he is, why he’s here, and what can be done to make sure the North Star pack isn’t targeted again.

  If it means sending me back to The Parallel to die…so be it.

  But I’m going on my own terms, damn it, not as this thug’s prisoner.

  Figuring a liquor bottle served me well enough the first time, I sprint for the bar, aiming myself toward it at an angle to keep the most distance between Sweaty and myself as possible.

  He’s already spotted me and is on the move, stumbling forward with his arms held out to his sides—like he’s dizzy and struggling to maintain his balance.

  Hopping up onto the counter, I swing my legs over to the other side and slide down, lunging forward to grab the biggest bottle from the selection of alcohol lined up on the counter. The bottle is full of dark liquid—bourbon, I think—and has a menacing looking octopus on the front.

  Taking that as a good sign, I turn, lifting it over my head, ready to bring the Mean Octopus pain…but Sweaty is nowhere to be seen.

  Pulse hiccupping, my gaze darts back and forth, scanning the rapidly emptying lobby, but there’s no sign of him.

  I’m about to sneak forward to check the other side of the counter—he could be crouched behind it, hiding, or passed out on the carpet—when two giant paws pop into view, braced on the counter between the two cash registers. Not long after, the head of a massive tiger rises between them.

  I scramble backwards, until my back is against the far side of the s
nack bar and the liquor bottle drops from my hand to thud onto the carpet by my feet. I won’t be saving myself with bourbon this time.

  This thing is easily the biggest big cat I’ve ever seen, with glittering amber eyes and incisors as big as my hand that it bares with a growl that vibrates my ribs.

  So that’s why Sweaty didn’t smell like a wolf.

  He’s not a wolf.

  He’s a massive tiger with paws bigger than my head and he’s going to gobble me up in one gulp like that evil tiger in that book I loved as a kid. It’s already pushing onto its paws, rising higher into the air.

  It’ll be over the counter and on top of me any second now.

  I have to do something, have to distract it long enough to get back over the counter, shift, and run.

  My wolf, ironically, is as dainty and lithe as my human body is curvy and solid, but she’s fast. Probably not fast enough to outrun Sweaty the Sabretooth, but in an open area I’ll at least have a shot.

  Here, I’m an appetizer waiting to be plucked from a tray.

  Sweaty’s cat muscles coil in prelude to a pounce and I do the only thing I can think of that might throw him off his game for a second or two. Lunging forward, I grab the soda gun dispenser, jam my thumb down on the trigger and lift it up to spray something brown and diet-smelling straight into the tiger’s eyes.

  It roars and jerks to the left, sliding off the counter.

  As soon as the path is clear, I leap between the cash registers, kicking off my heels as I jump onto the carpet.

  Barefoot, I run for the doors as I reach for the bottom of my dress.

  I’ll have to get it off before I shift. Unlike Maxim, my wolf isn’t big enough to rip through my clothes, at least not completely. It’s more likely I’ll get trapped in the stretchy fabric and give Sweaty a tasty, gift-wrapped treat to devour.

  I tug at the skirt, but I’ve barely managed to get it up to my waist when a very naked—and goddamned magnificent—Maxim appears in the open lobby doors to my left.