A sad look passed over the boy’s face. “The collar protects me more than if I remained rogue. Without it, I’d be bottom to everyone. If I’m accepted into a pack, they’ll protect me.”
“Unless they kill you first.” Rogues don’t last long past their prime out in the open.
The lean man who stood so proudly before her didn’t look to be the threatening monster everyone claimed about rogues, the reason for their unspoken, kill-first law for unregistered rogues.
He shrugged. “Those are the rules. Unless you’re born into the pack or challenge and kill for your place, you have to earn your spot.” An uncertain smile tipped the corner of his lips, an expression that didn’t settle easily on his face. An almost indistinguishable sheen of sweat clung to him.
The people inside were like animals in the way that if they sensed fear or weakness, they singled you out. After years of practice, she made an art out of blending into the background. The boy had no such protection.
“Maybe you’ll find me inside.” Without waiting for her response, he disappeared into the club, leaving the scent of defeat. Anxiety. And more damning, hope.
Raven debated the wisdom of leaving against all that she could gain. If the boy could face the crowd, then so could she. Five minutes, then she would yank her friends’ asses out. Squaring her shoulders, she opened the door, her fingers steady only from years of practice.
Blue and red lasers flashed through the club. Black material clung to the walls, giving the impression of space. Drapes hung around the booths, adding a false sense of intimacy. She avoided peering too closely into the shadows and gazed over the crowd.
At twenty-eight, she was older than most. The elders of the pack usually didn’t stray from the meeting rooms upstairs. It wasn’t too long ago that packs had decimated other packs for territory. Not to mention the tenuous three hundred year peace between wolves and vampires was shaky at best. Only in the last ten years, when the paranormal world became exposed, did they start doing business with one another to present a united front to the humans.
Most of the shifters she saw in the club were male. Although female shifters weren’t rare, very few pure bloods remained. Those selected few were treasured and rarely permitted to leave the protection of the den. And never alone.
The women trolling here were mostly donors for the vampires, while others were available for a more amorous relationship with the pack members, men who could control their shift and not accidentally change during heightened emotions.
Gazes slid over her, judging, testing. She pretended not to notice the cloud of vampires in the back or the gaggle of witches at the bar, not wanting them to misunderstand and take it as an invitation for more. The shifters’ gazes swept over her like she wasn’t there. She scanned the room for her friends, noting about a third of the crowd were scantily clad slaves with a cloud of desperation hovering over more than a few of them.
The press of people ate away at her shields. She needed a few minutes to settle the energy swamping her before she dug further into the crowd. She seated herself at a far table tucked in the corner. Not wanting company, she manipulated the energy that saturated the air, pulled the darkness around herself, merging into the shadows like an old lover. A trick she learned from a vampire. Most wouldn’t see her unless they were purposely searching for her.
Once on the vinyl stool, she realized her mistake. Realized why there were so many slaves present. An auction. She’d thought they’d been abolished when paranormals gained their citizenship. Since her friends held the same attitude as she did, they wouldn’t have stayed to watch this debacle.
Any thought of lovers disappeared, replaced by concern for her friends. She needed to contact them and find out what the hell had happened. They wouldn’t have abandoned her unless there was trouble. She groped for her phone when she spotted him.
The boy she’d met outside had since lost his shirt, revealing more muscle than she would’ve expected for one so slim, though it shouldn’t have been surprising since most shifters were built sturdy. He carried a serving tray. Then he turned. Even at this distance, clearly defined marks crisscrossed his back, wounds days old.
The table under her hand groaned, plastic crunched, her fingers leaving behind impressions in the fake wood veneer. A slither of current escaped her control. The phone in the other hand gave a puff of smoke as the circuits fried. “Damn it.”
Flashes of images from the labs slammed against her mind, the wails of pain and terror, the fanatical need to escape the torture. She wouldn’t allow that to happen here.
The kid should’ve been able to shift and heal but hadn’t.