As soon as Trixie’s high-heeled boots hit the basement concrete, Boss’s hand was in the air, signaling her. The dark warlock snapped his large fingers with annoyed impatience as if she wasn’t already headed straight toward him. Around her, the bar’s basement felt too hot, stifling among the sweaty nearness of so many close bodies packed into one small space. The soured, stale scent of beer that’d been ground into the concrete floor one too many times never disappeared. The buzz of too many voices speaking at once and the basses of one of the same five or so godforsaken songs the patrons loved to drunkenly sing along to vibrated the floor. If she heard “Free Bird” again, she might go ballistic.
Thankfully, she’d made it back downstairs with the bottle of Ketel One and a tray of six chilled highball glasses with exactly one minute to spare before Boss completely lost his shit.
“Hold your horses, big man,” she muttered under her breath, hoisting her tray higher on her shoulder as she navigated toward the large boxing ring in the center.
Fridays and Saturdays at the Coyote were the busiest. Come six o’clock, service always picked up. By nine, they were slammed belowstairs.
At the far side of the ring, Boss, Stanislav, and a handful of Stan’s Kamchatka bear shifter associates sat around one of the reserved high-tops, conversing. As members of the South Side Shifter Outfit, the supernatural equivalent of the Mafia, Stan and his men typically operated near Chicago. Too far east to be here in the middle of godforsaken Idaho. But despite the locale, for the past three weeks, the Triple S had shown up every Friday and Saturday night for the cage fights and to meet with Boss, which meant she’d had to hustle even more than usual.
Trixie waded through the crowd, making her way to the table. As she did, she muttered a spell under her breath, so low that not even the most attuned of shifters could hear. Instantly, the noise in the room dampened as she homed in on Boss and Stan, listening. When it came to meetings like this, there were more half-truths than not. The lies left a bitter taste on her tongue, but she’d long since mastered her poker face. A veritas witch like her was the perfect lie detector for a powerful warlock. But not for forever.
She inhaled a deep breath, steadying her focus.
Two years, seven months, and ten days and then she’d finally be free of this place and her contract. Selling your soul to the devil didn’t have to be literal. Sometimes the devil was an ancient necromancer with heterochromia who had a penchant for binding spells.
“It could be worse. Could be the actual devil,” she whispered to herself.
As she approached, one of Stan’s associates was gesturing wildly. “And then she was so high on supe juice she said, I don’t want to put that in my mouth, but I guess I have to!”
The Chicagoans roared with laughter.
Boss smiled that wide, white-toothed, easy New Orleans grin of his and forced a chuckle. She knew the warlock well enough to tell when he was being genuine. Out on the floor like this, those times were few and far between. Trixie came up beside him and set down the first highball glass as the men continued. Fly meet wall.
“No, no, no,” the jokester said, waving his hand to quiet the group. “With all due respect, Boss. I think we have a mutual interest in our…lupus problem. Just make sure the fangers are on board.”
Lupus. The word pinged around in Trixie’s brain like a code. Her magic sensed the lie beneath. Even without her abilities, she would have known there was no truth in the word. Shifters like Stan and his goons didn’t get human illnesses like lupus.
Lupus.
No, lupine, her magic instantly corrected as if another voice inside her head were speaking to her. If the “fangers” were involved, that meant they had to be talking wolf shifters—and there was only one pack of wolf shifters who ruled the West. She mentally cataloged the information, tucking it away for later use.
“I think they see eye to eye,” Boss answered coolly.
“We’ll see.” Stan grabbed hold of his highball glass, pulling it out from beneath where she was pouring. Trixie jolted the cold bottle back upright, barely avoiding spilling it all over the tabletop, and quickly moved on to the next shifter in the group, another Kamchatka bear shifter who reeked oddly of earthy beets.
Stan drew a sip of his drink. “And we’ll see how your little fighter boy does in the ring tonight.”
Little fighter boy.
Trixie hesitated as she set down the last glass. The chilled rim started to sweat. There was only one young shifter she knew talented enough to be put in the ring that fit Stan’s vague description. She shook her head, blond curls bouncing. She couldn’t have heard Stan correctly, but as her eyes darted toward Boss, he didn’t refute the comment. His dark features held firm, playing his hand close. Anger coursed through her, sharp and fierce.
Holding her tray against her chest like a shield, she inched over to Boss’s side, her face betraying nothing. “Boss, a word,” she whispered in his ear.
Boss nodded, patting her on the shoulder. Holding up a finger to interrupt Stan exactly when the Russian opened his big mouth to speak again, Boss pushed out his chair. “S’cuse me, gentlemen.” He rose from his seat, buttoning his violet suit coat before he tipped his hat, then followed her away from the table and into the downstairs office.
The door shut behind them with a quiet snick.
“This better be good, girl,” he muttered, his velvety voice tinged with annoyance.
Trixie whirled on him. “You promised!”
The darker of Boss’s mismatched eyes sparked with fury. “You know full well I don’t make no promises. Not even to you.”
Trixie paced the length of the small office space, hands on her hips. Sometimes, she couldn’t believe him. Boss might have saved her life once upon a time. Not without a cost, of course, but the warlock was her friend—and right now, an infuriating one. “You said you wouldn’t put Jackie in, that he wouldn’t be in the ring this season,” she accused. “He’s good, but not that good.”
The young coyote cage fighter was a talent, but his bravado got the better of him when it came to estimating his skills, particularly against shifters who were older, nearly double his size.
“Circumstances change, cher.” Boss was shaking his head now. “You know that.”
“Not this circumstance.” Unexpected tears stung the edges of her eyes. Immediately, she blinked them back, never allowing them to get past the thick layer of her mascara. “If you put him in the ring, he’ll die. Mikey will slaughter him.” Her voice wobbled slightly, betraying her.
“That’s the point, cher.” Boss let out a long sigh, perching against the edge of the desk. He eyed her, dropping the hardened face he wore among the crowd. He was at least thirty years her senior, the closest thing she had to a father, but with his magic, he didn’t look it. Yet as he watched her, his handsome features looked tired, weary. In the past few months, a few crow’s-feet had creased near his eyes. “And what’s he to you now?”
She shook her head. Jackie wasn’t anything to her, not really, but she couldn’t say that. Instead, she settled on, “He’s just a kid.”
“Far younger been in that ring than that boy.”
She knew that, but…
“Doesn’t make it right,” she countered.
Boss pushed off the desk. He stepped closer, closing the space between them. Placing both large hands on the sides of her head, he was careful not to muss her hair even as his thumbs made smooth, comforting circles. He leaned in and placed a warm, welcome kiss on her forehead. It wasn’t sexual. It simply was. Acknowledgment that in their own strange way, they were partners, family. “His family will be taken care of, cher,” Boss said, clearly recognizing her thoughts. “I’ll do that for you.”
She pulled away from him, the comfort she’d felt at the old warlock’s touch no longer providing warmth. “Is that supposed to make it better?”
“That’s why he got himself into these fights in the first place, why they all do. It’s for the prize money, to provide, you know that.” Boss was shaking his head again, as if she were being foolish to the ways of their world, and maybe she was. “We all do what we have to.”
“Yeah.” She turned her back toward him, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” She sighed.
Boss released a sigh of his own. “Take a moment, girl.” She heard the twist of the office’s metal door handle. “Then it’s back to work,” he said gently.
The office door latched shut behind him.
Trixie balled her hands into fists, letting out a silent, internal scream. Fuck this life. Fuck the hand they’d been given. Not a single one of them deserved it. Not her. Not Jackie. None of them. Yet here they were. And why? Because money equaled power and power made the world go round, even the supernatural world, and they’d had the misfortune of drawing the short end of the goddamn stick. She slammed one of her fists against the desk, hard enough that her hand stung.
Trixie swore several unladylike swears under her breath. Her sweet, southern mama was probably turning over in her grave from it, but Trixie couldn’t bring herself to care. Collecting herself, she straightened her clothes, her apron, and the girls, double-checking her reflection in a picture of the New Orleans French Quarter that Boss kept on the wall.
Her makeup was still in place. Her face still on.
And she’d live to see another day, even if Jackie didn’t.
That was what survivors did after all, and she’d be damned if she hadn’t survived more than her share of adversity. What was one thing more?
All she had was the hand fate had dealt her. That was it.
Steeling herself, she pushed open the door, heading back out into the crowd. The patrons’ rabbled roar was still quieted, muffled to her ears thanks to lasting effects of her spell. Moments later, she was at Boss and Stanislav’s table again, topping off their already half-consumed drinks as if not a single word had passed between her and Boss.
But the old warlock hadn’t returned to Stan and the other bear shifters. Instead, he’d detoured to the other side of the ring, where she caught sight of him shaking hands with Blaze, then Malcolm and two leather-clad biker wolves she didn’t recognize. Some kind of MC. She stiffened. The bottle of Ketel One grew warm against her palm.
She hadn’t even realized she’d been openly staring until Stan’s hand snaked its way onto her lower back. A shiver trembled through her.
“What do you know about those Grey Wolf shifters?” Stan asked, his eyes following hers toward Malcolm and Blaze.
Trixie set the bottle of vodka on the table, leaving it for the group.
The question was spoken from regular patron to bartender, not to her abilities as a witch. There was no way Boss had let on to the Russian bear shifter about her truth-telling. That was a close-kept secret between her, Boss, and whatever supernaturals happened to deem God on any given day, and, well…now Malcolm. Heat filled her cheeks as she blushed, realizing what she’d let slip earlier. But she covered it from Stan by making as if she’d turned away to fix an earring.
It wouldn’t happen again. She couldn’t let it.
“Not much,” she answered, straightening to her full height as a means of subtly brushing Stan’s filthy hand off her lower back.
“Come on, Trixie. You expect me to believe that?” Stan teased. “You know everything that goes on around here.” He flashed her what was meant to be a charming grin.
As if some half-assed compliment and a mediocre smile were supposed to mask the fact that Stan was a grade A dick who didn’t tip. But she’d need to throw him a bone, keep him amenable, and prevent Boss from getting pissed. “The one in the Hawaiian shirt is the Grey Wolf security specialist.” She shrugged a shoulder as if that didn’t mean anything important. “Wouldn’t know it from the look of him, but they say he’s a double threat, a former soldier disguised as a real tech genius.”
“And the other one?” Stan asked.
Trixie frowned as she turned away again, filling one of the other bears’ glasses. She’d hoped throwing Blaze’s credentials out there first would deter Stan from Malcolm. She didn’t know why she felt a drive to protect the snarly bastard, but she did.
From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Jackie, looking young and fearless in the far corner as he warmed up for the fight. Two jabs and a right hook across his body. She could barely stand to look at him, knowing he was going to die. And for what? All because the monster beside her needed bloodshed for entertainment.
“Bless your heart, he’s the Grey Wolves’ assassin,” she answered Stan finally, “and from all I hear, you best not fuck with him ’less you have a death wish, sugar.” Bless your heart translated into a big, old southern fuck you and she made certain that sugar said as much. He could rot in hell for being the cause of Jackie’s death.
She moved to step away, but Stan yanked her back toward his table with enough force to bruise her wrist. “Are you saying I couldn’t take that asshole?” The bear shifter snarled.
Clearly, he wasn’t from around here. It’d take more than a couple grumbles from a pissed-off shifter to fill her with fear.
She wrenched her hand away. She could feel Boss’s gaze narrowed on her now, the tangy scent of his powers hanging in the stifling, close air as he watched over her. No doubt Stan could feel it, too. Boss asked her to put up with a lot of shit from the patrons, but he wouldn’t tolerate anyone hurting her. Not even a Triple S-hole. “I’m saying ‘that asshole’ eats men like you every day for his damn breakfast.” She leaned in close to Stan’s face. “There wouldn’t even be a fight. Just you pissing yourself before he cut you.”
Stan snarled, eyes flashing bear-amber. The loud and guttural sound was enough to draw other patrons’ attention. She felt Boss moving toward her. The warlock’s dark power wrapped around her like a protective shield, but she was already done. Trixie fled from the table, weaving her way through the watching crowd. Boss caught her on her way toward the stairs, linking her arm in his, just as her spell faltered and the sound of the crowd roared again.
“What’d that bastard say to you, cher?” Boss whispered into her ear.
“Nothing important.” She nodded over her shoulder. “Ask him.”
She freed herself from Boss’s hold, carrying her now-empty tray with her. A second longer and she’d detonate. She couldn’t stand to be in the stifling closeness of the basement another moment, and the fight was due to start any minute. One of the patrons careened into her, nearly knocking her on her ass, but she quickly recovered, staying her course. The toe of her heeled boot was seconds away from hitting the first stair when another dark figure blocked her path.
She hit the muscled plane of Malcolm’s chest, hard, his large hands catching her.
“You okay?” he growled, low and rough against her ear. He’d clearly witnessed her and Stan’s exchange, yet the concerned question on his lips sounded strange, foreign. The feel of his breath against her neck sent a shiver down her spine in an entirely different way than Stan’s grubby paw had. She felt her nipples stiffen, the girls growing heavy with need as she inhaled the welcome scent of lemony soap on his skin. Thyme and lemon verbena.
She tilted her chin, staring up at him. His face was only inches away from hers, close enough that if she wanted to, she could close the distance between them, feel the softness of his lips again. She wanted to fall into him, to let herself collapse into his arms, though she doubted he’d let her for long. Kindness, amiability wasn’t like him, and she didn’t truly believe his concern for a minute.
She felt her chin quiver.
Damn him.
She couldn’t look weak, couldn’t fall apart. Not now.
“I’m fine,” she snapped, pulling away. “What’s it to you?”
Malcolm’s features went dark, concern instantly disappearing. She wouldn’t characterize what she saw there as hurt so much as a subtle hardening, the mask she knew so well slipping back into place.
“You’re right. It’s none of my business,” he said, turning away from her.
He disappeared, blending into the crowd, not bothering to glance back as he likely made his way toward Blaze and the other shifters. Trixie couldn’t stop herself from glancing over her shoulder to watch him go.
She turned and barreled up the stairs, calves burning from the strain of her heels as she climbed. With each step, she cursed Stan, Boss, Jackie, Malcolm—especially Malcolm—anyone and everyone, all for reminding her that her stupid heart wasn’t nearly as disillusioned as she wished it were.