Maybe a similar thought whispered in Wolffey’s ear, because it wasn’t the moon that made his pupils dilate.
oOo
Wolffey didn’t swallow the knot in his throat until Mercer rounded the corner with three of his betas. The last time he saw Mercer fight, it’d been for his position as alpha. He never forgot those eyes. They were soulful, dark and expressive.
“She’s nary going to let you leave,” Rufus said, dragging the conversation back to Akili.
Wolffey licked his lips and inwardly sighed. A sparse group of people still lingered between the cabanas, but the majority of the noise was ahead of them.
“What does she have planned?” Wolffey asked. No one from Akili’s pack lingered.
He shook his head. “She hasn’t spoken her plans, yet.”
She was waiting for the fight results. He didn’t have enough weapons to keep Akili’s pack at bay, but he could take a few down with him.
“Are you coming?” The cowboy beta asked.
When he didn’t answer, the cowboy leaned in and whispered to Wyatt before leaving them alone. He held his annoyance firmly in check when the beta approached. Even though the beta was thinner than his brothers, Wyatt outweighed him by twenty pounds of muscle. He didn’t doubt he could hold his own.
His shirt hugged broad shoulders. His brown hair was short and fashionably combed forward. Beneath the heavy smell of harsh cleaning chemicals and rubbing alcohol, was the musky scent of fur, leather books and coffee. Wyatt’s eyes were more greenish-gold, than brown like the other brothers and those eyes studied him like he was a project.
Wolffey didn’t want company; he wanted a moment to think. This had gone too far. He never would’ve agreed to Akili’s challenge. It was too risky and he never gambled unless the odds were in his favor. He didn’t agree with Mercer gambling on his behalf.
His Beithir scratch gave a sharp twinge. He turned his back as Wyatt approached and dug one of the pills Bohu gave him, from his pocket.
“Are you sick?” Wyatt asked.
He fumbled with the pill, nearly dropping it in the dirt. He took a breath, popped it into his mouth and swallowed. “I’m fine.”
“He’s right behind you,” Rufus said. His voice was distant, but Wolffey didn’t glance back to see where the fey settled himself.
He turned to face Wyatt. The werewolf watched him so closely, that he felt a new anxiety creep over him.
“Pallid skin, elevated heart rate, tremor in your hands. You have a peculiar way of exhibiting your stress,” he countered.
Wolffey went stoic, refusing to give anything away to this beta. He started around him. “Excuse me.”
“Is it a common practice for the fey to steal werewolves?” Wyatt asked. He kept his distance, but that space was filled with authority.
Wolffey stood straighter so he didn’t favor his injured side. The conversation wasn’t heading in a direction he liked. “I wasn’t stolen.”
“So you’re a traitor to your species?” Wyatt asked. His eyes narrowed.
His questions, though pointed, weren’t aggressive. Still, Wolffey wasn’t about to tell him what he wanted to know. He didn’t immediately answer and Wyatt tilted his chin ever so slightly, quietly thinking and trying to figure something out.
“Rephrase your question if you want an answer,” Wolffey said.
Wyatt’s jaw tightened. “Did you see other werewolves with the fey?”
“Are you looking for someone?” Clearly he was, but he wanted to hear it. At the same time, he wished the beta would let it go.
“I’m looking for a werewolf. He would’ve been twelve when he was taken to the fey. Small and very thin for his age. He had heart issues as a baby. He has a tattoo over his pectoral.” Wyatt brushed a hand over his left pectoral. “Right here.”
“A tattoo on a twelve year old. He sounds like a delinquent,” Wolffey said. There was a tiny part of him that wanted to itch that very tattoo. The faeries had taken it off once. He had it put back on.
“Have you seen him?” Wyatt asked. Apparently there was no room for humor.
“The fey wouldn’t keep something sick. He’s not in the Hill.”
Wyatt’s brows rose. The beta’s breathing was shallow and his jaw ticked. “What do you mean?”
“He’s dead. Bury it and move on,” he answered.
Wyatt’s shoulders broadened. “My brother is alive.”
“Word to the wise, howler, those who mourn too long will be escorted into the world of the dead. I’ve seen it firsthand.”
Wyatt lifted his chin. “We should get to the fight.”
The beta let him lead the way. A small part of him said to drag his feet. He needed to get his hands on weapons that would force the werehyenas to keep their dance.
“Ye could’ve handled that better,” Rufus lectured, just over his shoulder. “Ye aren’t immune to emotions. I’ve seen ye flustered a many times in Aire’Si’s company.”
“Leave it,” Wolffey warned under his breath.
There were at least a hundred people present at the Pound, all fighting for seats in the small arena. Heat rushed over Wolffey’s skin as he neared the gate where the betas waited with Mercer. Akili stood on the other side of the pit with a werehyena that was broader in the shoulders and had a few inches of height in its legs.
Akili nodded at him, before taking a seat on the spectator benches away from the blood splatter. Two of her female betas stood on the outside of the fence waiting. When the directions were given, they opened their side of the fence and Rider opened his. Mercer padded in with his head low and teeth exposed.
Mercer’s betas silently stood on his side of the gate, watching. Their full attention was on the ring, giving Wolffey a chance to study them. Rider was a good choice for second.
Wolffey turned his attention back to the chicken wire fence. Tufts of hair and chunks of flesh were caught in the three inch thick barbs. The dirt ground was slick with congealed blood and balls of hair caught in thicker matter. Pervious fighters left vomited and a few had released their bowels. The stench burned his nose.
“What are ye go’in to do if he loses?” Rufus asked, wrapping his feet into a hole in the wire and making himself a seat. His hands were carefully wrapped around the thin metal circlet to hold him in place.
“He won’t lose,” Wolffey said. His conviction was strong.
“Ye sound certain, tis true, but you can’t know,” Rufus said. “Ye must have another plan.”
“I’ve seen him fight. He won’t lose this,” Wolffey repeated. His voice was dry. His throat was tight. He could barely breathe around the constriction.
He wasn’t a stranger to violence, thanks to his assignments. It never made him dizzy. He felt remorse, but never sickness. Right this moment, he felt ill.
The bell rang and the two clashed hard with their snarling jaws. There was no timing, no pacing. They went straight for legs, underbelly and throat. It was difficult to breath. The cheering became a throbbing wave of white noise clashing against his too sensitive ears. The edges of his sight started to darken and sweat beaded his skin.
Someone yelped. Fresh blood filled the air with metallic heat. The crowd went wild. Wolffey stood so close to the fence, aware that every time the two crashed against it, the barbs rocked outward close to his face. He couldn’t tell who was bleeding. Both of them had dark fur and the movement was too erratic.
Wolffey flinched, caught between the current fight and the one he witnessed a lifetime ago, back on his home turf between Dryer and his alpha. Dryer, who was only a couple of years older than him, stood between him and their aggressive pack alpha. Run, was Dryer’s last word to him. Since then, he never ran from a fight. Honor bound, there was nothing he could do for Mercer and that drove his inner warrior insane. He felt helpless. He hated feeling helpless.
The gate shuddered with the dueling shifters combined weight. The werehyena had Mercer smashed against the fence, trying to get his eyes caught in the barbwire, but
the werewolf wouldn’t back down. Their aggression grew as the smell of blood became stronger.
“Easy now,” Rufus cooed in his ear. “Ye look ready to faint.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” he admitted to the spirit.
Rufus tsked. “A warrior who gets sick over violence?”
This was different. He tried to bury his violent childhood with the werewolf pack. Witnessing the flash of teeth, the smell of blood and the malicious deep throated growls made bile rise to the back of his throat. He took slow, careful breathes to keep from vomiting. The skeletons of his past had to stay buried.
There was a great deal of unwavering energy boring against his psyche. He turned to meet Wyatt’s unwavering gaze. The man’s intellectual gaze took everything about him in. The young doctor was going to be trouble if he had to spend more time with the betas.
“Ye’r alpha is bleeding ruthlessly bad,” Rufus said.
His attention was drawn to the ring. Blood plastered Mercer’s fur to his narrow frame. The hyena couldn’t put his full weight on his left back leg that hung together by strings of muscle. They were both exhausted and badly injured.
“Is there anything I can do without getting caught?” Wolffey whispered.
Rufus’s wings metaphysical fluttered through the gate. “Nay. Akili is watching ye closely. It’s too dangerous to forfeit this fight.”
The growls in the pit were desperate now. Exhaustion was winning on both ends and the fighters knew it. Jaws met jaws, snapping at faces and limbs. He held his breath, watching as the werehyena got Mercer turned over. His stomach and throat were exposed. The werehyena went in for the kill, but Mercer was quicker. Jaws clamped onto the werehyena’s soft throat. Wolffey turned away, but he couldn’t block the werehyena’s startled death cry. Better him than Mercer.
The werehyena went quiet. The fight was over and Mercer was the champion. The relief was instant. Tension drained from his shoulders and upper spine. A deep rooted thrill bubbled in his stomach, dangerously close to arousal. It was primal, excited by the show of alpha exertion and not at all remorseful to his fey upbringing, so he pushed it down.
Axel handed Rider water and Wyatt followed the second in command through the gate. Mercer panted and licked at his blood speckled maw. Those intelligent, dark eyes regarded him beyond his second’s shoulder. Fierce movement on the other side of the pit drew Wolffey’s attention.
The crowd dispersed from the rafters. The winners crowded the bookies, arguing their wins. Akili’s pack was everywhere and though they kept their distance, their scent dominated his space.
She met him halfway around the pit, pulling the necklace over her head. She kept a vice like grip on the chain daring him to take it. “Congratulations to your alpha.”
“He’s nary my alpha,” Wolffey answered.
Her eyes never left his. “A deal is a deal, assassin, but it was only for the necklace. I won’t let you walk out of here.”
Akili held the key by the twine it was laced to. A hand reached around him and snagged it, swinging it out of his quick reach. He spun to tell Rider to leave it, but it was Mercer’s deep, brown eyes that he met. Seeing the alpha in his human form was unsettling. No one could transform that quickly, but Mercer was a Skin Walker, a different breed of werewolf. It made his belly flip flop.
Mercer’s eyes never left his. “Thank you, Akili, for keeping your end of the bargain,” Mercer said.
Wolffey's eyes trailed to Mercer’s injured shoulder. The skin was taut despite the few areas still pink and raw from the healing wounds. He smelled like the ring. Blood, dirt and fur clung to his sweaty body. His shoulder length hair was slick with the gunk. Wolffey’s eyes stopped on his corded shoulder muscles and broad chest before he forced himself to look back at the alpha’s eyes. Mercer’s expression didn’t change, though he felt the werewolf must’ve known the direction of his thoughts.
“Remember what I promised, Wolffey,” Akili said. She left the pit as men carried off the dead body.
He was left alone with Mercer’s small pack, but privacy was an illusion. “Give me the key.”
The alpha’s eyes burned with adrenaline and though his mouth was clean, this close, he could smell blood on his breath. “You aren’t in a position to give me orders,” Mercer said. “I’m exhausted and I can’t stand my smell, I’m going home. You’re welcomed to meet me there if you want to continue this conversation.”
Mercer took the clothes Dax offered and got dressed, gunk and all. Wolffey gritted his teeth and looked skyward, in need of patience. This was ridiculous.
“The key means nothing to you,” Wolffey said.
Mercer threw his shirt over his shoulder. “I proved my loyalty to you. At some point you’re going to have to inform me on how this is going to work. When you’re ready to trust me, you know where to find me.”
Trust? The werewolves wanted him to trust them. It was a simple request. Pack was loyal to pack, yet they forgot, in their laws, he was rogue. Trust wasn’t easy. The faeries had very little trust towards each other. The life of an assassin afforded no trust at all. One’s closest friend was also one’s worst enemy.
“I’ll be waiting,” Mercer said.
He walked out the compound with his betas. Wolffey circled where he stood, glancing at the pit and then back at the cabanas. The muggy air did little for clarity and the tremble under his skin was dangerous for an assassin who needed a steady hand.
“May I suggest we nary linger,” Rufus said. His orange light burned yellow at the center like a flame. He was nervous.
There was no reason to linger since Mercer had the key. “I could kill him.”
Rufus huffed. “Ye should be more worried about getting out of here alive. Akili means good on her word.”
The spirit flew higher, keeping an eye on the compound. Akili’s people lingered within view, but no one approached. There were too many witnesses. They allowed him past the gate without incident.
“Three lassies are following ye,” Rufus warned.
Wolffey stopped at the top of the hill. His fingers itched with the throwing knives in his fingers, but he didn’t have the force for a fight. He needed to conserve his energy for Chancellor. She was the real enemy.
The breeze by the forest was pure. He used the earth magic, pulling it up around him like a blanket. His third eye opened, showing him the location he wanted. The forest disappeared, leaving Akili’s people behind.
FOURTEEN
Chancellor leaned back in her web. The wires came to life, vibrating under her sensitive feet. The metal shell was a challenge. A magi couldn’t perform magic if their entire being wasn’t involved, mind, spirit and body. The sensory, a fragile line of thin wires, easily manipulated into a pulse, drew a rhythm up her veins and into her mind. As much as it ached, it brought a great deal of pleasure. There was so much to sense now that her human self could never process.
Her bug stopped a few feet from her and started clicking. Its little tongue moved around in its mouth as it tried to imitate the sounds and gestures of the humans. Chancellor walked past it, climbing down from the web to stare at the ebbing ball of gas that rolled in numerous colors over a wire nest.
Her little bug kept chirping and clicking its tongue, but sighed when she walked away. Little claws tapped as others crawled from holes in the wall to watch her. Each one had a name. Each one, though similar had very different personalities.
The orb flared a gallant deep plum hue, a shade that came to symbolize the one who got away. Noise filled the room, hard to separate in the chaos of its structure. There was a stew of sounds, and for a brief second the hue faded into crimson with swirls of melon in shade. She was losing the aura that her sphere had pulled.
The smoke vanished, but not the sentiment. The personal effects of numerous people she wanted to keep watch over were tucked under the wire nest. One of those items was a wisdom tooth her bugs had stolen from another magi. The assassin was usually better at leaving nothing behind, b
ut her bugs had transmitted the quick escape the lycan made.
He was thinking about her. Wolffey had spoken her name out loud. That’s why his aura brightened in her bin, but it had been a decade since the fey had visited and just as long since anyone had mentioned her name. What did the assassin want?
The bugs started clicking as they followed her through the massive arch doors to visit with her werewolf. The Mission Leader had excellent control, but no shifter could withstand the moon.
oOo
Aire’Si stood on the second floor of a dilapidated motel. The heavy smell of cooked cabbage, hung in the air. The pool was drained, filled with graffiti walls and litter. There was light behind some of the curtains, but most of the rooms were not occupied. The room in question had a door hanging weakly on broken hinges.
With his blade in hand, he stepped over the threshold into the room. The air held a number of pungent smells, some of which he couldn’t place. A hint of orange blossoms clung to the air, along with the smell of coal. His hand tightened on his blade, though he knew the vampires weren’t present. Only Bohu used coal during his ceremonies.
The hairs on the back of his neck rose. What did Bohu want with Wolffey? Until now, the information from the few fey able to track Wolffey, stated the assassin was nosing around and causing problems for the fey sectors. Bohu shouldn’t be involved.
There was no sign of struggle. Dirt and rock sat on the wrinkled comforter, darkening the cream shade. He drew his hands through the dark, wet spot and rubbed it between his fingers, grateful it wasn’t blood. He brought it to his nose. It smelt sour, but it wasn’t vomit. He wiped his fingers clean on the edge of the bed.
There was one more door in the simple room and it lead to a bathroom. The tub was filled to the rim with brackish water. There was bandages and blood on the counter. He doubted it was Bohu’s men bandaging themselves, since vampire blood didn’t have the same consistency and color as the living.
“You’re making this difficult, Wolffey,” he grumbled, picking up an empty bandage wrapper. It was wide and flat for large wounds.
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