by Jami Gray
“And the invitation-only part?”
“Invites are based on reputations. The better your driving reputation is, the more likely you are to receive one.” Unlike typical street races, which were all about showing off shiny decked-out rides and thumping chests, night races were more about people pitting their skills against equally skilled others.
“So you’re not in it just for the glory of saying you’re the best.”
Catching the sardonic note in his voice, I laughed. “Partially, but it’s also for the money.”
“Were you ever caught?”
Hypersensitive to potential judgment, I was relieved to hear only curiosity in his question. “Once or twice when I was younger. It didn’t take me long to figure out how not to repeat that experience.”
“And your family was okay with this?”
I paused. If he was real about his intentions, it was time for me to open the door and let him in. “I lost my family when I was young and basically grew up in shelters and group homes. Being out past curfew was kind of a time-honored tradition. By the time I joined the Arcane Guild, I knew how to evade the cops.”
“But you didn’t stop racing.”
“Is that a question?”
“No. I’m thinking that expecting a Transporter not to race is like expecting a combat mage not to fight.”
I had to chuckle because his assessment was spot-on. “No, I didn’t stop racing—I just got choosier about which races I accepted. The Guild doesn’t do sides, so it had no problem with me racing so long as I didn’t get caught.”
“Because getting caught—”
“Was bad for business,” I finished.
The Guild’s members couldn’t care less which side of the line people stood on, so long as they upheld their end of the contract and paid for services rendered. It was all about business, after all. That straightforward simplicity had held tons of appeal to a preteen used to running wild on the streets. An appeal that hadn’t faded until I grew older and wiser.
“Did you always want to work for the Guild?” Zev asked.
Truthfully, the answer was no. But as soon as I realized I had an ability no one spoke about, I knew my survival would hinge on cultivating skills that could hide me in plain sight. Since admitting that would lead to questions I wasn’t ready to answer, I stuck with, “As soon as I realized they were my best chance at honing my skills, yes.” Needing to get off this treacherous path, I turned his question around. “Did you always want to be an Arbiter?”
It was his turn to pause. “I’m not sure you can call it a choice.”
I wondered if the hint of wistfulness I heard was simply my imagination. “Why’s that?”
“Being an Arbiter was kind of a given. Not only did I grow up alongside Emilio and his brother, Alan, but my skills are also a natural fit for the role.”
I remembered how Emilio’s nephew Jeremy had called Zev uncle, and knowing that being a Family’s dark horse meant dealing with problems in the most direct, generally lethal, way made my heart ache for him just a bit. It couldn’t be easy finding that delicate balance between love and duty. “It must be difficult.”
“Difficult?”
“Being both feared and loved.”
He was quiet for long enough that I worried I’d way overstepped my bounds. I was gathering up the courage to apologize when his low voice came through the speakers. “Yeah, it is.”
There was a darkness in his admission that hurt to hear, and before I could rethink, I leaned forward and hugged him, offering what comfort I could. “It’s good they have you.” Before things could shift to awkward, I let go and sat back, forcing my voice to lighten. “All right, so before we hit the race, a couple of ground rules.”
“Rules?”
Grateful that he was following my lead, I said, “Yep. You just maintain your dark and moody persona and let me do the talking.”
“Who are you calling moody?”
Even though he couldn’t see me, I rolled my eyes. “If you go in being all you, everyone will shut up tighter than an overtorqued spark plug. We need gossip. You are definitely not the gossiping type.”
“And you are?”
“Nope,” I answered cheerfully. “But I’m a known face, so casual conversation is a given.” I raced through a couple of possible approaches before settling on what would hopefully be the easiest one for him to pull off. “You are going to be Felix, a visiting Hound out of California with a side interest in racing.” Hounds were the retrieval specialists for the Guild, which would explain his presence at my side. Hounds and Transporters tended to gravitate toward each other thanks to the nature of their assignments, and it was a role that would best explain Zev’s intimidating aura.
“No last name?”
“No one uses last names at these events, and when they do, ninety percent of them are fake.”
“But not yours.”
“No,” I said, ignoring the unhappy vibe in his comment. “Not mine.” After all, I had a reputation to maintain, and in the racing crowd, everyone recognized my name.
Chapter Nine
It was just after midnight when the dirt road we had followed for the last few miles ended in a flat section of desert filled with an eclectic mix of vehicles gathered in a rough oval. The darker shades of cliffs formed a horseshoe ring around the area. I had Zev park near the far side, away from the milling figures lit by the glow of bonfires and headlights. Dust and smoke filled the air, turning it hazy. Laughter, high and bright, joined the competing strands of hypnotic drumbeats and heavy bass from someone’s window-rattling sound system. While a party was obviously in full swing, my goal was to get beyond the edge of the shadowed figures and over to where the drivers were gathered.
As we made our way through the gyrating bodies, Zev garnered plenty of attention, mostly female. Big surprise. Sweating beer bottles were thrust into our hands. I passed mine off to a gray-bearded, barrel-chested man in a heated debate about forced induction versus naturally aspirated. Past experience indicated that the discussion would graduate to the pros and cons of supercharged versus turbocharged soon.
We emerged from the motley mix of spectators and crossed to the quieter area where firelight danced over the carefully crafted pieces of motorized art that housed the type of horsepower that made people like me drool. Unlike the races that occurred on city streets, the drivers were shooting the shit despite the rising tide of adrenaline as the start time for the upcoming races ticked closer. Caught between the crowd and the cliffs was an empty swath of desert punctuated by flickering bonfires set at intervals. Familiar with how these races played out, I knew those burning lights followed the predetermined route of the course. At the farthest point, the only way spectators would be able to identify drivers would be by their taillights.
“Rory!”
I turned to find a familiar face making its way toward me. “Gunnar.” I smiled and returned the bone-rattling hug from the wiry blond scarecrow. “You racing or watching?”
“Racing, darlin’. Got my seats coming in for the sixty-eight, and they’re wiping out my reserve.”
Hence the need for a quick kitty. Gunnar was in the midst of rebuilding a 1968 Chevy Impala, and customizing the interior took a lot of cash. If I hadn’t been such a Mustang loyalist, his royal purple beauty would have tempted me to dip into my savings.
Gunnar looked at the cars lining up at the starting point behind me. “Where’s your baby, girl? I’m looking forward to seeing how those modifications of yours turned out.”
I patted his arm. “Sorry, my man, but you’re out of luck. I’m just watching tonight.”
True disappointment dimmed his face. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
His gaze flicked to Zev and bounced back to me. “What’s with your shadow?”
“Colleague from California. He was bored and wanted to check out the race.”
Gunnar lifted his chin at Zev. “Dude.”
Zev returned the chin lif
t and stayed silent.
“So who’s racing tonight?” I listened to Gunnar go through the roster with half an ear as I surreptitiously studied the undulating crowd. I spotted a couple of faces I knew, a handful of recognizable repeat attendees, but the majority were unknowns, which, for an event like this, was par for the course.
“Right.” Gunner squeezed my arm. “Wish me luck. I’m heading in.”
Rising on tiptoe, I pressed a brief kiss against his stubbled cheek. “Leave ’em in the dust.”
Gunnar gave me his mad grin, his eyes alight with excitement, and jogged toward the cluster of drivers gathered near the starting point.
Zev closed in until I could feel his heat along my spine. Without looking at him, I said, “Come on. I’m going to go place a bet.”
“On him?” Zev kept his voice low so it stayed between us.
I gave a short headshake. “As much as I love the guy, Wheelz will squeeze him out on the last curve, which means he’ll dominate the fast line on the last section.”
Zev stayed at my back as I made my way to heavily tattooed woman perched on a camp table, making book. “Give me one on Wheelz, Em.”
Em looked up, her teeth overly white in her tanned face. “Rory, how’s it going?” Her gaze flicked to my unusually bare hands. I wasn’t wearing my driving gloves. “Not driving?”
“Nope.” I propped my booted foot on the seat next to her and dug out the emergency hundred I had tucked inside. “Just enjoying the action tonight.” I handed the bill over.
It disappeared into the glowing can at Em’s hip. “Better move it if you want a good spot, then.” She handed over the blue poker chip that served as a betting slip.
The buzz of magic reverberated against my fingers as I took the clay chip. I ignored the simple charm meant to identify the holder once the race results were in. There was nothing harmful about it, unlike the spell wrapped around the collection can, making it glow like a night-light. Reach for that, and you’ll pull back burnt nubs instead of fingers. I dropped the chip into my pocket.
Bet placed, I meandered through the spectators with Zev at my side. I exchanged greetings with a few known faces and engaged in a couple of casual conversations as I kept one ear on nearby discussions. We worked our way to the far side, my preferred viewing point, as that final rush down the straightaway tended to be the most exciting. If I couldn’t feed my cravings by driving, at least I could do it vicariously. A sharp whistle caught my attention. I looked over and saw a heavily tattooed arm waving in my direction from the back of a lifted truck. Recognizing the black-and-white Mohawk and colorful ink, I took Zev’s hand and began tugging him behind me as I made my way over. By the time we made it to the truck, the rising rumble of revving engines began to fill the night.
Light and shadows played over the vibrant canvas of tattoos covering the gold-skinned arm extended toward me. “Get up before you miss the takeoff.” The words were barely discernible under the rising growls of the revving engines.
I grabbed hold just above the wrist, where a tangle of leather was wrapped, noting the blue cast on the other arm. “Hey, Umber,” I said. Zev’s hands curled around my hips, and between the two men, I was hauled up to the bed of the truck. I moved out of the way, giving Zev room to follow. I motioned to Umber’s cast. “What happened?”
He stepped back, elbowing a couple of the other occupants in the truck’s bed, forcing them to make room near the wheel well. “Weird story.”
“I like weird stories.”
Umber laughed and hooked his arm, cast and all, around the hips of the curly-haired young woman perched on the elevated hump of the wheel well. He tugged her against his chest and motioned to the open space next to her. “Hop up, short stuff.”
Since I wanted to see the race and not the back of spectator heads, I hopped up. “Hey, Liv.”
“Heya, Rory.” Light danced off Liv’s glasses, and she grinned as she lifted her drink. Unlike Umber, her skin was artwork-free and so pale it almost glowed. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Felix.” I felt Zev move in behind me, his hands going to my hips, the heat he naturally generated a solid wall along my back. “He’s in from California.” As much as I appreciated his additional support—the wheel well wasn’t that wide—his nearness was also creating a distracting amount of havoc with my libido.
Liv and Umber both greeted Zev, as the music cut out, leaving behind the rumble of engines. Then a smattering of cheers broke out, indicating the race was about to start. I angled so Zev could see but didn’t take my eyes of the starting point. This first race was all about the small tires, and Wheelz’s ride skated just under the parameters. Eight cars, ranging from classic souped-up muscle to sleek-lined tricked-out modern racers, crouched at the line. Since this wasn’t a traditional street race, where the invitation to race and acceptance hinged on the flashing of headlights, tonight’s signal was a short triple blast from an air horn. Dust choked the air as the cars leapt forward before the last bleat faded.
The crowd roared, and I added my voice, my attention focused on the drivers jockeying for position. Wheelz’s distinctive fluorescent-orange paint job made it easy to keep track of his progress. He deftly maneuvered his customized Dodge Hellraiser around the smaller frame of an older Toyota Supra and took up an inside position by Gunnar’s customized Honda Civic. I kept my eyes on Gunnar and Wheelz as they pulled ahead of the others. Their taillights blurred as they hit the far curve then winked out, only to be replaced by the glow of headlights as they came out into the end stretch. My heart pounded, and caught up in the excitement, I was screaming with the rest as Gunnar and Wheelz went nose to nose and blurred past us. I leaned over, trying to see the two battle it out and hit the last section. Zev’s hold on my waist was the only thing keeping me from toppling to the ground. When Gunnar’s brake lights sparked, I knew Wheelz had the victory. Sure enough, the crowd at the finish line went wild as the Hellraiser scorched over the line, leaving the Civic in a cloud of dust.
I threw my head back, raised my arms, and did a little celebratory dance. “Yes!” I spun around and caught Zev’s face in my hands and took his mouth in a kiss. Heat and his unique taste hit my tongue and set up an achy burn. Before it could suck me in, I pulled back, dropped my hands to his shoulders, and grinned. “What did you think?”
Amusement turned his normally intimidating face wickedly sexy, but before he could answer, Umber and Liv were crowding in, yelling to be heard over the raucous din. “You going to head over to join the party or keep watching?”
Sure enough, segments of the crowd were breaking free to form again over by the finish line. I knew the next race wouldn’t start for another fifteen minutes at the outside. Wheelz needed time to bask in his glory, then he’d move out so the other drivers could set up for side races that would take up the next few hours.
I turned back to Umber and Liv. “Let’s hang here for a bit.” In a few minutes, the crowd would thin out and tone down, making it easier to chat.
I sank down to sit on the edge of the truck’s side panel as Liv did the same next to me. Dust, fuel, and smoke hung in the air, slowly drifting up to disappear into the star-studded skies. The truck bounced as others began clearing out of the bed. Umber and Zev stayed standing, providing a welcome buffer between the hyped-up departures and the impromptu bench Liv and I claimed. Umber lifted his chin as a burly bald man pounded his back and hopped down out of the truck.
Finally, there was space to breath and, even better, talk. Only then did I turn to Umber. “Let me hear your weird story.”
Umber dropped to sit next to Liv. Zev waited for another couple to clear out and then sat next to me, his foot braced near mine on the wheel well. Between the four of us, we managed to claim the side closest to the action. Only a trio of twentysomethings standing by the cab remained. They chatted in low voices with their backs to us and their beers on the roof, giving us a semblance of privacy.
Umber braced his arm along the metal edge, and
Liv shifted until she was leaning against him. “It was the damnedest thing. A couple days ago, I was at the shop, waiting for my next appointment, when all hell broke loose near the back door.”
“Drunken frat brats?” I asked.
It was a legit question. Umber owned Etched Chaos, a tattoo parlor near the university. His designs were in high demand, and an appointment with him and his chair required months of advance planning. At least, from the dedicated customers. Those who just wanted to claim their ink was from Etched Chaos could plan on a couple of weeks of delay before a slot opened so long as they didn’t request Umber.
“Nope, some poor sleeper hyped out of his mind. When I came out, he was screaming that the rats were eating his brain.” He grimaced. “He kept tearing at his face, gouging his skin and shit. Then there was the cat.” He stopped, the gold of his skin turning a sickly pale yellow as he visibly swallowed.
When it looked as if he that was all he was going to say, I prompted softly, “Cat?”
He blinked and shook his head as if clearing fog. “Yeah, didn’t see it until the sleeper sent me headfirst into the dumpster. I managed to block the worst of it.” He lifted his cast-covered arm. “Ended up with this as a lovely parting gift. I was lying there, thinking my arm was on fire and my head was ringing. Then I got to my knees, lifted my head, and saw it. Took a few to put it all together. It looked like what’s left after an animal dares to cross the street and loses. Bones, fur, blood. I didn’t realize the head was missing. Well, not until I turned to revisit my lunch and saw it sitting just under the dumpster.”
Under his trying-to-be-stoic expression, something close to fear rippled. I wasn’t the only one to notice it. Liv pressed a kiss against his arm draped over her chest. Umber returned the gesture by rubbing his chin over her curls.
“The whole fucked-up scene was disturbing. Hell, it just felt… off. The sleeper was nearly foaming at the mouth, and his fingers were…” Umber lifted his hand, forming a claw. “And covered in gore. I got to my feet and barely had a chance to brace before he rushed me. I managed to hold him off.” Umber was a low-level air mage, and his best defense was knocking someone out by launching an air balloon that basically Saran-wrapped the attacker’s face, cutting off oxygen until that person collapsed. “The look in his eye…” He gave another hard headshake. “It almost made me piss my pants. There was something seriously wrong with him.”