Free Dead and Kicking by Lisa Emme Page B

headquarters.
Even growing up in an isolated community outside of the city, we had
heard about The Lodge and the infamous parties that occurred there. Werewolves were notorious party animals, pun
intended.
    Tess stood quietly on the other side
of Holly. We hadn’t spoken since my
little outburst and I was really in no mood to party even if I was dressed for
it in a cute little Sherri Hill dress.
Looking at The Lodge, I began to think the whole night would be a
bust. It certainly didn’t look anything
like I expected pack party central to look like. It was a dive bar and we were seriously
over-dressed.
    Located out near the airport in an
industrial park, The Lodge appeared to be housed in an old country roadhouse,
complete with wooden shingle siding and a decaying wood-spoke wagon wheel hanging
forlornly on the wall. It was wedged
between two other apparently vacant buildings.
    “Are you sure we’re at the right
place?” I looked at Holly who shrugged.
I wasn’t expecting a big neon sign proclaiming “PARTY HERE” or anything,
but I hadn’t been expecting a derelict building either. There weren’t even any vehicles parked nearby
and despite the empty street, Holly had made us park around the corner. For all intents and purposes, it looked like
an abandoned building.
    Tess pushed forward, striding towards
the entrance. “Not everything is what is
seems you know,” she muttered.
    With a shrug, Holly followed
her. I didn’t really want to be left
standing alone in that neighbourhood, so I hustled in on Holly’s heels.
    The inside pretty much matched the outside
in terms of décor, the tacky western saloon theme unfortunately continued,
although it appeared to be a great deal cleaner and the lighting wasn’t as dim
as I expected. Despite its dated theme,
you could tell that someone put an effort into maintaining the place, the
wooden bar gleaming with polish. Maybe
Tess was right, there was more to this place than what it seemed.
    There were several booths hugging the
perimeter of the room but the main seating was either at the bar itself or at
one of the checkered-cloth tables, scattered in no discernable pattern across
the space. The room was about half full
and the low buzz of conversation came to a halt when Holly and I walked in the
door.
    I scanned the room. The faces didn’t look threatening, but they didn’t
look all that friendly either. One in
particular stared back at me, eyebrows raised in surprise. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Nash was
stalking me; although I guess technically, he had arrived first this time. He grumbled something and an attractive woman
behind the bar swatted him on the arm.
Someone called out, “Hey look, fresh meat,” and
his buddies guffawed along with him.
    Holly, always happy to be the centre
of attention, and how could she not be when wearing a leopard print halter top and
a very short leather mini skirt, beamed and pranced up to the bar, “That’s
right boys, look out.” She winked at a
grizzled old man in a worn jean jacket sitting near the bar.
    Tess rolled her eyes at me and I
laughed, forgetting for a moment I was still supposed to be mad at her. She nodded to the woman drying glasses behind
the bar. The tall brunette nodded back
and said, “You’re late.” This seemed to
be the cue to the rest of the room that we were accepted, because the tension
eased and the buzz of conversation started up again.
    “I’m sorry,” Holly said, climbing onto
a bar stool, “totally my fault. I
couldn’t decide what to wear.” She held
out her hand, “I’m Holly.”
    The striking woman behind the bar
smiled and shook Holly’s hand. “Eileen,
Eileen Nash.”
    Surprised, I looked over to the where
Nash sat at the opposite end of the bar.
He was married? I wasn’t sure why
that bit of information should bother me, but it did.
    Just then, another slightly older,
attractive brunette came out through the swinging saloon doors behind the bar,
carrying a steaming