The fight night was held inside a warehouse on the docks. Judith’s information was that no weapons of any sort were allowed and the fights were invite-only via a password system that leaked worse than cheap Tupperware. I wore a dress, ignoring the fake cat call whistles from the twins, and strapped a knife high on my inside right thigh. It wasn’t one of my favorites, so if it was found and confiscated, I wouldn’t feel a need to go back for it later. I was ready to do what I had to do with my bare hands, and maybe some tooth and claw if I ended up with a chance at the pack Alpha.
Cora and Alma would wait in the RV, which we’d moved as close to the warehouse as we could get without anyone seeing. They’d found an alley just outside the fenced portion of the port with buildings now empty for the weekend to hide us. Jaq was ready to teleport the whole vehicle back to our spot in the RV park at the dunes, he’d mapped the proper ways already while we got ready.
“Remember, distraction only, and only if I say so,” I said to the twins as I tucked my ear piece into place. I pulled my hair back over it and picked up the glasses they’d gotten me.
“Is it wrong that I’m hoping this all goes sideways so I can try the new grenades? It feels wrong,” Cora said, an excited gleam in her dark eyes.
“Yes, it’s wrong,” Alma muttered. “I still can’t believe you bought a grenade launcher off the web.”
“How’s my scent?” I asked for the tenth time. The world was flat without the use of my nose, and I’d sprayed enough of the Wizards smuggling juice to satisfy a church lady, so I didn’t figure I’d have my sense of smell back anytime soon.
“Gone. Weirdly gone,” Alma said. “You feeling all right?”
I was excited for action, looking forward to the thrill of walking into the middle of a wolf pack without them the wiser. Hungry for the kill, too, if I was being honest. Marcus Cross had evaded me once, his family and organization had become a pain in my ass, and I was thrilled for a chance to solve it again. My heart beat strong in my chest and anticipation had me flexing and relaxing my muscles. I rolled my shoulders and nodded.
“Good,” I said. “Great even.”
“She’s high isn’t she?” Cora said, tipping her head to the side and leaning into her twin.
“As a fucking eagle,” Alma said.
“I’m not high,” I said. I bared my teeth at them and checked my knife position one more time. “I’m ready.”
“Vaya con dios,” Alma said into my ear piece as I left the RV.
I stuck to the edges of buildings and made my way into the dark docks with ease. The fences were there to keep out casual traffic and vehicles, not determined shifters. There was a short line of traffic parking and coming into the venue, so even if I hadn’t known which way to go from the twins’ directions, I couldn’t have missed it.
The warehouse was a generic looking two story building lurking right on the edge of a field of cargo containers. Cars of various makes and models were lined up next to it, parked at angles by men in suits who directed the occupants toward a hanger-style door. Light and music spilled out of the door.
I fell in behind an older gentleman with a too-young female companion wearing a fur coat that was massively overdressed for the occasion and climate.
“She with you?” A suited man came forward as we approached the roped off doorway.
“I am with me,” I said before the couple could answer.
“This way,” the suit said. I didn’t need my sense of smell to tell he was a shifter, the way he moved gave it away, too smooth and sure and fluid. He wasn’t armed, which I found interesting.
I followed him to the side, noting how another suit talked to the couple for a moment in voices too quiet for me to pick up more than a murmur over the music. The suit with me motioned to a square of red carpet.
“You’re new,” he said with what he probably thought was a charming smile. “Have to get the password and pat you down.”
“Of course,” I said, pulling my lips into what I hoped was a pleasant expression. I gave him the password as I moved onto the carpet.
His pat down was unfortunately thorough. He found the knife as his hand slid closer to my crotch than anyone else had come this month.
“Remove that,” he said, looking up at me suspiciously.
“Girl can never be too careful,” I said. I reached under my dress, pushing the fabric up far more than I really needed to, and undid the sheath. I handed the knife over without argument.
“You can pick this up when you leave, I’ll remember you,” the suit said, his words both a warning and a promise. He finished his pat down, finding nothing else, and stood back.
“I go that way?” I said, thickening the Russian accent I’d already started to fall into. I peered at him over the rims of the glasses that the twins has sworn would make me look fifty percent less murdery. I’d forgone a wig, deciding that it would be too obvious I was wearing one to close scrutiny. The glasses also helped hide the mic and the ear piece.
“Sure, go on in. Enjoy the arena,” he said. A tiny line had formed between his eyes that I didn’t quite like, and his nostrils flared for a moment. “See you later.”
He let me go and I didn’t question that, wondering if he was just confused because I didn’t smell like anything or because I’d overdone it on the smuggler juice and he was having trouble smelling at all.
“I’m in,” I murmured as I walked through the entrance hall, following a small group of young men.
The short hallway opened up into a huge space with two floors of balcony and stadium style seating around a giant sand arena set down about eight feet into the floor. One end of the arena had an opening in it, and there were barred doors along the sides, visible as I approached the closest edge and peered in. I wasn’t the only one looking in before making my way to my seat, so I took my time. The arena opening seemed to lead into a tunnel, which had seating over it all the way to the far wall. I did quick math on the interior and exterior dimensions of the building and figured out that wall was likely an interior one, with a good amount of space behind it. Maybe where the fighters got ready.
Lack of smell was driving me a little mad. The arena sand looked raked and clean but there were stains on the walls that might have been paint or blood or other bodily fluids for all I could tell. I pushed away the tingle of panic and focused on the crowd.
Spectators were well dispersed around, far fewer people than I would have expected, but looking at jewelry and clothing, the crowd was wealthy, upper class. This was no cheapseat underground fighting ring like I’d somehow expected. The place was clearly designed and decorated to evoke a Roman gladiatorial arena, straight from the sands to the faux-stone walls and seating.
The lack of crowds made it easy to find Marcus. He was seated arena-side in one of the fake stone boxes, lounging with three other men and two women. I vaguely recognized the faces from the night before in the restaurant. Nobody had told me where to sit, so I made my way toward his box, seeing empty seats in the area behind him. As I moved I tried to look around and pick out other exits and avenues of escape in case the front door was a problem later.
There was a door, barely visible back behind the first stack of seating, where the boxed in risers created a curving wall of their own. I had no idea where it led, but I noted it just in case. Another door was more visible in the interior wall to the near side of the arena tunnel. This one had two men standing by it, wearing similar suits to the men guarding the main entrance. Their presence clearly stated “keep away” and I doubted whatever was behind that wall would make for an easy exit. Still, doors were doors.
There were no windows, all the lighting was subtle around the boxes and seats, with bigger lights trained into the sands, giving them a whitened, baked look that suited the feel of a Roman arena under a hot sun. No expense had been spared and it made me curious what exactly I was about to witness. A handful of women in short black dresses and tall black heels made their way around with trays, delivering drink orders.
“These are the best seats in the house, if you wish to join me?” A deep voice spoke just behind my shoulder and I barely managed to keep from spinning and attacking in shock.
If I’d had a sense of smell, I was sure I’d have noticed the man who had walked silently up behind me while I paused among the boxes and contemplated where I should sit for a good line of attack. I managed to keep my surprise to a mere jerk forward and a hopefully not too quick turn.
The man was an inch or so taller than I, with wavy brown hair left long over his forehead, amused hazel eyes, and a jawline I wanted to lick whiskey off of. He was wearing a pearl buttoned shirt and pants so tight over his muscled thighs he was probably breaking laws in some countries by just existing.
One thing was certain: I didn’t need the twins to call in so I could pinpoint the Alpha anymore.
He was standing right in front of me. I wondered if I could figure out a way to fuck him before we had to fight to the death, and then immediately shoved that thought far away. Maybe the cocaine was getting to me after all. Goddamn.
“Did I startle you, darlin’?” he said in an amused drawl that was as fake as the smile that came nowhere near his eyes.
“No, not startle,” I said, leaning into the Russian accent I’d worked so hard to eliminate.
“Eastern bloc?” he asked, eyes narrowing slightly.
“Russian,” I said. “And you? You come here for fights?” I tossed my head toward the arena, which was now at my back, hoping to distract him with waves of blonde and my very attractive cleavage.
“I run the fights,” he said. “My name is Russel,” he added in passable Russian. I kept my expression mild but felt my heart speed up for a moment as he confirmed what I’d already known. The Alpha.
“Lada,” I said, offering my hand to him, which gave me an excuse to step back. “Your Russian is not bad.” I stuck to my mother tongue, the words coming easily even after all these years of little use.
He took my hand and brought it to his lips. His nostrils flared and I suppressed a nervous shiver as he kissed my knuckles, then turned my hand and kissed the inside of my wrist. Russel’s gaze was contemplative, curious, but not hostile as he released my hand, and I relaxed marginally.
“Come join me,” he said. “If you are not here with anyone?”
“I am not, thank you, Russel,” I said. No point in lying to him, he could just ask his pack and they’d tell him I’d come alone. I was sure that the twins had heard my repetition of his name, they would know what was happening. They were very quiet in my ear, which I was grateful for. There was a chance if they spoke that Russel’s shifter hearing would pick it up.
He led me to the box immediately adjacent to Marcus Cross’s group. They greeted him but turned quickly back to talk among themselves after he acknowledged them and showed me to a cushioned seat. He wasn’t wrong about the best view, the sands were almost beneath us, the seats not quite directly across from the doors that I assumed led to the tunnel the fighters would arrive through. There were cards tucked into pockets on either side of the seats, but I had no chance to look at one before Russel captured my attention again.
“Something to drink?” Russel asked me as one of the women in a little black dress approached us and paused at the entrance to the box.
“Champagne?” I said, noticing that Marcus’s group was drinking it. Champagne flutes make decent improvised weapons, and if they brought us a bottle, as it appeared they had for Marcus’s group, I’d have that at my disposal as well.
Not that I was going to be able to murder a shifter Alpha with a champagne glass, but it was better than nothing. Marcus would have to be my focus; the Alpha was just a small, all right, not so small, complication. He’d brought me within fifteen feet of my prey, and that was a start. Now I just had to wait for a good chance to pounce.
And fend off the six foot four hunk of dangerously bad ideas on cowboy booted legs sitting next to me.
“It will start soon?” I asked after Russel sent the woman away with a request for champagne.
“Soon enough,” he said. “Tell me about yourself, Lada.” He stretched his arm out around the back of the cushioned bench seating, completing his full man-spread. A king in his domain. I was tempted to bite him, and not in the fun way.
Though I had to admit to myself I was tempted to do that, too. Maybe there was a way I could kill Marcus, get out, and make peace with this pack instead. They might not appreciate the whole starting a war with a human mafia, but Russel had technically started all that by encroaching on the mob’s territory. I saw no lack of intelligence in the bright, too-interested gaze he’d trained on me.
With how my week had been going, I supposed that having to deal with a ridiculously hot Alpha who was probably smarter than your average wolf, instead of an unintelligent mangy weakling was keeping with the theme. Not that I’d expected the latter. Shifters had a way of being hot no matter what we looked like. He was a wolf, however, and he probably had terrible taste in coffee. I held out hope.
“I am looking for adventure,” I said, hoping that sounded plausible. “Life can be so dull, here in America. But also opportunity.” That was a lot of nothing and I could almost hear Cora and Alma groaning, though they stayed muted in my ear.
I was doing my best off the cuff. I had planned on killing the Alpha, not making small talk with him while his thigh married itself to mine. The upside of being weirdly aroused was that I knew it would cover a host of involuntary and small body language cues I was trying not to give away. He’d hopefully interpret my elevated heart rate and tense muscles as me having the hots for him, not me waiting next to a man I would probably have to rip the head off of in order to get to the other man whose life was definitely on the menu tonight.
The champagne arrived; freeing me from whatever the next question would have been while Russel accepted it and poured. He waited until I’d sipped mine to lean in.
“Who sent you?” he said, his voice low and seductive, but his eyes had gone flat and cold.
“I think you know,” I said, keeping my own voice soft. I forced myself to sip at the champagne again. I flicked my eyes toward Marcus Cross’s party.
“The son?” Russel said. His fingers played with the sleeve of my dress, reminding me his arm was still around the back of our seating.
I shook my head, my mind racing. I had a feeling he already thought I was some kind of spy, his man at the door had been a little too calm about the knife. So I hoped I was letting him believe what he wanted without putting undue urgency on the situation. I needed him to feel safe enough to leave me where I was, I could sort the rest out later.
“The father?”
The lights were dimming around us, people in their seats quieting as anticipation built. The music shifted from pleasant to epic, ramping up the tension.
“We talk after?” I said, forcing my gaze to the arena even though looking away from the predator seated beside me was against all my instincts.
“Yes, Lada,” Russel said, putting emphasis on my fake name. “We’ll talk after the show, somewhere more private.”
“Good,” I said. I wouldn’t mind being somewhere private with him eventually. Hopefully alone, and soundproofed. Maybe with a heavy vase I could break over his head.
He wasn’t going to remove me, though he was sitting between Marcus and I, which presented its own problems, but I would worry about that later. I could always beg a bathroom retreat due to the champagne, though I doubted he’d let me wander around unsupervised. Those were all problems for future me to handle. For now I had to take the stalking predator approach and wait. My prey, both of them, weren’t going anywhere immediately. I could afford a little patience.
The music changed to trumpets, the doors from the tunnel into the arena swung open, and the show began.