The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood - Prison Camp 2)

Like his voice had magical powers over that woman, like he could summon her to him?

Yeah, whatever, he thought. It was more like the other way around—

Down at the head of the alley, a handful of humans turned the corner and came striding toward him. Stepping back, Lucan stayed in the shadows thrown by the weak security lights. It was a pack of four men dressed for the club, all in black, their hair spiked up, their pushing and shoving not from drink or drugs but anticipation for the night ahead.

He was guessing they looked as good as they were going to. By four a.m.? All that put-together was going to be rough as fuck—

Abruptly, they stopped in front of a sunken doorway and one of them got out a phone. A moment later, a guy in a “STAFF” shirt opened the way inside and motioned all quick-quick-quick, like he was letting them in without them paying.

The door clapped shut.

Lucan crossed his arms over his chest. Glanced to the left. Glanced to the right. As his fangs tingled with aggression, he had to walk down to the corner because he couldn’t stand still. Every three or four strides, he rechecked the cell phone the Executioner allowed him to have . . . which was a waste of time.

If she’d called, it would have vibrated.

If she’d texted, it would have vibrated.

As if there were a third option? Fucking hell—

His senses came alive in warning before his nose informed him of exactly what was about to enter the alley—and his body moved on its own volition to relative safety: One moment, he was walking along against the building across from the club; the next, he was ducking down behind the parked car.

The two figures came out of the shadows at the head of the alley and stopped by the fire escape.

Vampires. He could tell by the scent—and not aristocrats or civilians. Fighters. The one on the left was blond and as wide-shouldered as a span bridge. The other one had black hair, a goatee, and an expression on his face like the world bored him to death. They were both dressed in black leather, and he knew that the bulges under their biker jackets were not only muscles.

They had plenty of gunmetal on them.

They stayed just out of the reach of the security lights, hulking shadows that, if he hadn’t scented them because he was downwind, even he might not have noticed.

Goddamn they blended into the night well.

“—nah, this is where she was last evening,” the one with the goatee muttered.

Lucan’s upper lip curled back. But what were the chances—

“She was here waiting for the contact.” The male took out what appeared to be a thin cigarette and put it between his teeth like he wanted to bite something that bled instead of lit up. “She took that human to rehab. That’s all I got, Hollywood—because of your little sneezing fit.”

As a Bic was taken out and thumbed, the brief, flaring flame highlighted both their faces. Lucan did not recognize them.

“It wasn’t a fit, V. It was one, single achoo.”

“Sneeze, cheese, whatever. If you hadn’t had your ges-gun-dheit moment, I would have gotten to her—”

The vampires went silent as another round of humans came down the alley, three this time. At the back door to the club, they stopped and texted. A moment later, the same security guard opened things and shuffled them in.

Lucan disappeared the cell phone into the pocket of his jacket. Then he welcomed some of his wolven to the forefront of his consciousness—not enough to change himself into his other form . . . but enough to sharpen his senses even further.

As he closed his eyes, he knew he had to be careful.

Back last night, when he’d toyed with those human boys who’d snuck through the chain-link fence, he’d known that the kids were so far beneath his wolf that he hadn’t been worried about his other side going after them. They hadn’t been a threat at all, and he hadn’t been hungry. And like all predators, there were only two occasions when his wolf was going to go on offense. One was out of hunger; the other was to defend territory. Otherwise, the calories expended didn’t compute.

These big-ass vampires? He was going to have a problem, especially if the wind changed directions and they scented him. For one, they were a match for his aggression, far more deadly than any human walking around Caldwell. But worse? They were talking about that female of his—not that she was his—and that was a recipe for two servings of fresh meat, even if he had fooded up before he’d left the prison camp.

And if he killed them? He wasn’t going to find out what else they knew about his female, was he.