Breaking the Alpha Beast Page 7

  Ian replaces the microphone back in the stand and jumps down from the stage. He takes Claire’s face in his hands and kisses the side of her mouth. “How do you think he took it? He laughed it off, told me that I was fool for believing such rubbish. I told him that I didn’t care if he believed it or not, that I was leaving the rock star life behind and that my solicitor would draft a proposal in the morning.”

  “You didn’t tell him about my visit to your cell Saturday night?”

  “Oh, I decidedly left that part of the story out. Those two guards would have lost their jobs and I owe them for letting you be with me that night. I might never have realized the truth otherwise.”

  “I think I intimidated them into it…or maybe I irritated them into it. Anyway, I’m glad that you didn’t mention it to Mal—I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

  “After tonight it won’t matter,” Ian says as he sifts his fingers through her hair, kisses her forehead lingeringly, “you’ll never have to take another order from Mal Tranter, I promise you.”

  Claire slips her arms around Ian’s waist, slowly massaging his lower vertebrate. “Maybe I’ll write a novel about a werewolf whose curse was lifted by a witch with the right DNA. Don’t worry, I’ll change the names. In fact, I’ll write under a pseudonym.”

  “Well, you certainly have a lot of reference material at hand. It’ll be a bestseller.”

  One of the sound technicians strolls to the edge of the stage. “Ian, you done with your sound check? Need us for anything more?”

  Ian keeps his attention on Claire, doesn’t even glance at the technician. “Everything’s good. Go home and get some rest. Come back at your usual time.”

  The technician gives Ian a casual salute and motions to the other technicians, nodding.

  Ian smiles warmly at Claire. “Time for the two of us to get some rest, dove. This will, after all, be my final performance as the beastly rock star. I’ll give my fans a show to remember.”

  * * *

  Mal Tranter stares at the bags of clothing fetched by the intern. He feels a heartburn spurt of anxiety at the base of his esophagus just thinking of their purpose. In a few hours his assistant will be performing the “ritual” with Ian l’Argent and a few hours after that, hopefully torn to pieces by a fully transformed werewolf. It seems a desperate act, but he sees no other way to keep Ian as he is—even if he doesn’t actually believe the story, as far as Ian is concerned the story is true. And, really, that is all that matters now.

  Once Claire Pomeroy is gone, Mal will have another month to find a suitable replacement. And this time, hopefully no one with a Welsh witch in their family tree.

  * * *

  Mal and Claire are watching Ian’s performance from Ian’s suite. Mal glances at Claire and notes her flushed face. Fresh from a good fucking, he thinks. He notes with some remorse that he has enjoyed her company thus far, sometimes a bit perky, yet efficient and with a witty sense of humor. But now she threatens his ability to become a multi-millionaire several times over by the end of a decade. He would sacrifice a thousand assistants to save his livelihood and future fortune. He must be careful to show no resentment toward her. Making his acceptance of the situation sound genuine will take some major acting chops on his part.

  “Ian’s in top form tonight,” Mal says brightly. “Giving his career a proper send-off.”

  “He felt it best not to announce his ‘retirement’ before the concert.”

  “Just leave it to publicity to release the official statement later, I reckon.”

  Claire turns to Mal and smiles. “That’s the plan.”

  Only there will be no such statement after tonight, Mal thinks. A fortunate happenstance that Ian hadn’t begun the concert with a farewell speech. Now the fans will be no wiser. Perfect. “Well,” Mal says, getting up and strolling to the bar. “Such a performance should be commemorated—or should I say consummated—with a glass of champagne. I have some chilled Moet & Chandon.” He pops the cork and begins pouring two glasses, keeping his back to Claire. He marks his own glass by dropping a cherry into it, in the other he squeezes a few drops of sedative from a doctor who owed him a favor.

  Claire accepts her glass with a radiant smile. It’s obvious to Mal that she is truly convinced that he has accepted Ian’s premature retirement.

  As she’s sipping the champagne her eyes focus on the cherry at the bottom of Mal’s glass. “That’s unusual,” she says, frowning. “I’ve never seen anyone add fruit to their champagne.”

  “Oh, I like to flavor my champagne,” Mal says, smiling as he takes a sip. “Sometimes it’s a strawberry or a blackberry, other times a chunk of pineapple.” He studies her face, hoping for a sign of drowsiness. He notes that Claire is blinking slowly, her head dips slightly forward. “Feeling a bit fatigued, Claire? I suppose the combination of coitus, concert and champagne has got to you.”

  Claire’s head is lolling in a clumsy circle as she tries to keep awake. She looks from her drained glass to Mal and her eyes widen. “You put something in my drink, didn’t you?”

  Mal feigns indignant innocence. “What a terrible thing to accuse me off!”

  “That’s…why…you…added the cherry…I should have suspected…” Claire is quickly losing consciousness. “Should…have known…you’d never accept…” The glass drops to the carpet and Claire crumples on the sofa like a marionette whose strings have been cut.

  Mal grasps Claire’s shoulders and gives them a sound shaking. Her head falls backward and forward with the movement. He realizes he could gut her right then and she wouldn’t feel a thing. She should be out for at least four hours, plenty of time for Ian to be fully transformed after the concert. Plenty of time for the beast to maul the love of his life.

  Mal pulls the bags of clothing hidden behind the bar, brings them to the sofa. He undresses Claire, taking his time. He leaves the underwear on since it wouldn’t seem proper for her to be jogging without support garments. He traces a finger along the cleft of her groin through the silky fabric of her panties, digging deeper when he finds the opening of her vagina. He could fuck her now if he wanted to, but having sex with an unconscious female seems pathetic to him. Buggering her isn’t much better, he decides, but he can’t resist. He glances up at the television screen. The concert is winding down and he must finish—quickly.

  * * *

  The two guards bring Ian down to his cell to finish his transition from man to wolf. Mal Tranter is waiting at the door when they arrive. Once they’ve attached the shackles to Ian, they bolt the door and assume their positions. Mal pats them both on the shoulders, “I’ll take over, boys. Go and have a pint or go home and rest.”

  The guards give each other a quizzical look. The taller one says, “Are you sure, Mr. Tranter? I mean, just in case…”

  Mal shrugs good naturedly, palms spread. “What could happen? The bloke is behind a bolted door. I’m certainly not going in there. Have you ever had a problem? Really, your presence is a precaution for insurance purposes only.”

  The guards’ expressions brighten in unison. “Okay! Thanks Mr. Tranter!”

  When the elevator door closes behind the men, Mal opens a utility closet and pulls an unconscious Claire out into the hallway. Now, he only has to wait another thirty minutes and it will all be over.

  * * *

  Mal sits with his back to the wall staring at the bolted cell door. His arms are crossed against his chest, pressing on his ribs to keep himself awake. He has been staring at the door for a good twenty-five minutes listening to Ian’s muffled moans, groans and anguished yelling. Fortunately Claire is still out cold and sprawled like a wanton beside him, her auburn hair lashed across her face, strands puffing with every shallow breath.

  Follicles on the back of Mal’s neck stand at attention as one long and mournful moan spirals into a canine-like growl. It’s done, he thinks as he glances from the door to Claire and back again. He slowly rises to his feet like a centenarian with a massively crooked back,
hands shaking. He hopes the chains hold, that he can heft his assistant far enough into the room without himself getting caught between huge snapping jaws.

  With all the caution of a nuclear facility technician moving radioactive rods, Mal Tranter slides the bolts back as carefully and quietly as possible. He freezes when the howling stops for a moment, imagines the wolf beyond the door trying to sniff his scent through the door’s threshold. When the howling begins again he slides the final bolt back and opens the door a sliver, peers inside.

  He sees the enormous silver and black wolf with the strangely human eyes atop the bed, heavy chain snaking along the floor. Mal notes that there is just enough play in the chain to allow him a couple of feet before the wolf’s jaws can grab him. He will have to be quick about it. He thinks of speaking to the beast but isn’t sure he’d be understood. He’s never attempted to speak to Ian once fully transformed—in fact, he’d only witnessed the full transformation only a few times in all of their working relationship.

  “This is for your own good, Ian,” he whispers into the room, half to himself. “She’s likely nothing more than an opportunist. You must know this. Now, here she is. Bon appétit.”

  Mal drags Claire to the doorframe, lays her lengthwise just over the threshold. For a moment he pauses, takes several deep breaths, feels as if he’s hyperventilating. I’m not the murderer, he thinks to himself. The beast in Ian l’Argent will take care of that. This must be done. He braces Claire’s back with his palms, ready to roll her into the room, in the wolf’s path. He looks at her lovely face in repose and an image of the porcelain flesh torn away to the muscle and tendons flashes before him. He stifles a shriek, gathers his strength and heaves her into the room, relieved to watch her forward momentum continue until it’s stopped by the bed frame.

  He knows he should leave and close the door, but he needs to see the deed done. And he must recover the mangled body to transport to Runyon Canyon, hoping it’s eventually discovered and thought to be a mountain lion attack. He bites his lips thinking of recovering the body. It’s obvious that a corpse won’t roll itself back to him. The beast surely won’t sit back allowing him to get close enough, so he will have to wait until Ian is human again. Ian usually sleeps for a few hours afterward; this will give Mal the opportunity to collect the body.

  Mal rises slowly from his crouch, keeping his eyes on the wolf. “Okay, go on then,” he tells the beast. “Do what you must. It’s what you need, fresh meat.”

  The wolf cocks its head like a pet German shepherd, whimpers quizzically as it gazes from Mal to Claire. Mal holds his breath as the wolf leaps from the bed and approaches the sleeping Claire. This is it, Mal thinks. This won’t be special effects. It will be real. He loathes horror movies, can’t ever watch them. But this, this he must watch.

  The wolf continues to whimper hopefully as it draws its muzzle along Claire’s neck and jaw, sniffing her hair. The wolf begins to lick her and nudge her, as if trying to awaken her. The whimpering becomes more high-pitched and anxious. When she doesn’t stir, the wolf snaps its head up to stare directly at Mal Tranter. The heavy brows knit together above angry golden eyes. Mal feels his stomach drop to his bowels and his blood turn to ice water in his veins.

  The beast doesn’t intend to attack Claire—it wants the manager. Mal feels disjointed thoughts soak into his brain, thoughts that are not his own. It’s as if something is rummaging through his thoughts. Oh my God—the beast is telepathic!

  When I’m like this, I can read thoughts.

  “What—why now? You never told me—”

  Because I sensed darkness, that’s why. I know what you want done. It will happen, but not the way you want it.

  “What do you mean?” Mal says as he takes a step backward, toward the door and safety. This is no longer a mission to save his livelihood, he must save his own flesh. He’ll lock them in and set fire to the mansion if he has to. Whatever it takes…

  No.

  The wolf strikes so fast that the beast is no more than a streak of dark grey arcing from the bed. The wolf strains with such force that the links of the chain pull apart as if made of plastic.

  Mal screams as the wolf’s outstretched paws catch his chest, driving him backward, half across the threshold. The last thing he sees are the wolf’s jaws rippling in a snarl. The last thing he smells is hot wolf breath curling about his face. The last thing he feels is his throat crushed and torn by the long sharp teeth, blood coming up his ruined esophagus and gushing out of his nose. Mercifully his heart stops pumping and his brain runs out of oxygen before he can feel any more pain.

  * * *

  Claire gradually awakens with a skull that seems weighted with lead. She vaguely remembers sipping champagne in Ian’s suite with her boss. After that, darkness. Her eyelids are heavy curtains and she struggles to lift them. When there is a sliver of vision she sees Ian’s face hovering above her; he is touching her face. “What…where am I?” Her voice is heavy, thick; mouth full of dry cotton.

  Ian pulls her to his chest and cradles her head against his throat. “You don’t want to look. I’ll take care of everything.”

  “What do you mean?” She tries to swivel her head but Ian holds her firmly.

  “You don’t want to look. Mal Tranter is a bloody mess right now—he expected you to be the bloody mess. I saw it all in his mind. I never thought he’d be so desperate, that he would resort to murder.”

  “Murder?” Claire forces her head away from Ian and sits up, now fully awake with the revelation. “Mal tried to kill me?”

  Ian strokes her hair, presses his forehead to hers. “No, dove—he wanted me to kill you after I’d become a wolf. I hadn’t revealed to him that I could sense you, even fully transformed into a wolf—remember? He assumed that I would attack and tear you to bits. He also didn’t know that I can sense thoughts as a wolf. It’s strange—I don’t ‘hear’ language, only images. And I saw enough of his plan.”

  Claire instinctively tries to look over her shoulder, Ian takes her head in his hands and gently brings her to face him. “Please, I don’t want you to look at him. It’s very bad, truly.”

  Claire give him a trembling smile. “Something you don’t know about me, but I’m a big fan of the Saw films—and I have all of Eli Roth’s films in my DVD collection. I can handle it.”

  “But this isn’t special effects with rubber, spirit gum and fake blood made of syrup and food coloring. I tore the bugger up pretty badly. Please, go into the bathroom and shut the door.” He lifts her chin and kisses the side of her mouth. “Do this for me, please?”

  “Okay. I won’t look. I promise.”

  Claire rises from the bed and makes a show of sidling to the bathroom, her eyebrows arched as if saying, See, I’m doing what you ask. Ian tracks her progress, a serious look on his face. When she has shut the bathroom door, she presses her ear to it. She hears Ian talking to someone on the phone, but she doesn’t understand what he’s saying.

  In twenty minutes, Ian opens the bathroom door. “He’s gone.”

  “Where? And who were you talking to?”

  “Men I brought with me from Hastings. Mal never knew about them; they were on my special payroll—a kind of insurance, in a way. They’re sworn to secrecy. They are the only ones I can trust…besides you, Claire.”

  “Where are they taking the body?”

  “They’ll dump Mal Tranter where he expected to dump you: Runyon Canyon. It will hopefully be assumed that he will have been attacked by mountain lion. Lucky he’d changed into suitable running gear. I expected that he’d planned to toss the sullied clothing into the rubbish—probably burn them later. Didn’t want to destroy his expensive suit, after all. Convenient happenstance.”

  Claire shivers. She should have suspected something, but she really didn’t think that her boss was capable of committing murder. “Where do we go now?”

  Ian l’Argent smiles at her and looks up. “North. I’ve just purchased some land outside of Seattle. But first
, I’ll take you home. To Hastings.”

  Twenty-nine days later…

  The l’Argent castle hugs the coastline of Hastings in East Sussex, England: an expanse of green lawn and hedgerows separating its grounds from the sea. Though it is ancient, dating back to the 11th century and the Norman Conquest of England, the castle has been fitted with all the modern conveniences—including the very modern bed that Ian and Claire slumber upon.

  The first full moon of the month casts its bright light through an open window. Ian wakes, turns to look at Claire as she sleeps like a child, cheek resting on her bent forearm. He smiles warmly, then looks at the full moon—a phase he no longer dreads. The curse is gone from his flesh, from his blood, from his DNA, thanks to the woman sleeping beside him. He has said his farewells to his legions of fans. It’s true, he has enough money for several lifetimes and no need or desire to ever ascend the stage again—he will be content enough to live as a semi-recluse. He has no need or desire to deceive his fans. All that matters is Claire, who loves him and knows what he was, that he will no longer be the beast the full moon fashioned him to be every twenty-nine days.

  It will take many months to finish the mansion he is building near Seattle. They will remain at the l’Argent castle until then. And Ian l’Argent will count each of those twenty-nine days until their new home is finished and gaze up at each full moon and give thanks to it. For sending to him Claire Pomeroy and his cure.

  About the Author

  Ana Felix fearlessly writes toe-curling erotica. Ana Felix is also the nom de plume and alter ego of a writer of various genres which include science fiction, fantasy, historical fiction, mainstream fiction, horror fiction, and erotic romantic fiction. Both are fans of the Oxford comma.