Bound Guardian Angel

by Donya Lynne

  But this fucker was a strong SOB. He grabbed the chain, pulled himself to a crouch, and then flung himself forward. She flew over his head and landed on her back. Pebbles of pocked pavement scuttled past her as he reached down and grabbed her by the hair. With a severe yank, he pulled her to her feet so she faced him.

  “So you came to fight, huh?” he said, breathing in her face.

  He needed a mint.

  “You’re about two IQ points shy of a genius, aren’t you? Isn’t it called the gauntlet? We are supposed to fight here, right?” She did not like this guy pulling on her braids one little bit. Little Aiden had worked hard on them tonight before falling asleep, and this asshole was messing up her mad styling skills.

  “I think you want Old Navy or the GAP,” he said. “This place isn’t for dainty things and little women.”

  “Then what are you doing here, dick face?”

  For a split second, she thought he might laugh, but instead he scowled and pulled her hair harder. “That’s some mouth you’ve got there, pretty thing.” He gave her braids a sharp tug.

  She’d had just about enough with the hair. “Since you’re so keen on thinking I’m too much of a sissy to be here, let me clue you in on a little something,” she said.

  “Oh? What’s that?” He loomed over her, sneering.

  She mustered the sweetest smile she could under the circumstances. “Never touch a lady’s hair.”

  “Is that so?” His grip on her hair tightened. “And just what are you going to do about it?”

  This motherfucker was so done. “I don’t think you understood me.”

  He encroached farther into her personal space. “Then maybe you should spell it out for me, bitch.”

  Hell, no. Trace could get away with calling her a bitch. But this guy? Not happening.

  “I said . . .” She made a fist, and the metal of the brass knuckles bit into her palm. “Don’t!” Punch! “Fucking!” Punch! “Touch!” Punch! “My!” Punch! “HAIR!” Punch! With the last strike to his nose, his head bounced back and smacked the wet pavement, knocking him out cold.

  But at least he no longer had a lock on her coveted braids.

  She kicked his hand away, took a deep breath, and flipped her hair over her shoulder as she straightened. “I warned you.”

  Applause from behind made her spin around. The dreck she’d scented earlier stepped into the diffuse light at the end of the alley. “Well done,” he said, clapping his hands. “I haven’t been this amused by a run through our gauntlet in ages.”

  From his aristocratic tone, she knew he was the one who’d spoken through the speaker to Jabba-man a few minutes ago.

  Even in his human form, she could tell he didn’t mask much more than the color of his skin. He wore his black hair long, and he had a goatee. For a dreck, he wasn’t half bad looking. Cordray bet the ladies fell over their panties for this guy.

  He wore an unassuming, untucked white button-up with the top three buttons undone, which showed off a hairless but sculpted dip between his pecs. Dark denim trousers, a silver and black TAG Heuer watch, and black dress boots gave him a fashionable-bookie-with-sex-appeal look.

  “Who are you?” She narrowed her eyes on him.

  “I’m Digon.” He smiled like the perfect host. “Welcome to Grudge Match, Miss Cordray. Come with me.”

  She followed him out the back of the alley into a dark hall and tried to get a peek inside his mind, but he stopped, turned, and wagged a finger at her. “No mind sweeping. I don’t like it. And you already know I’m well-trained in my ability to block.”

  She recalled her earlier mind sweep and how it had turned up nothing even though she’d known he was standing in the shadows.

  She sighed. “Can’t blame a girl for trying, right?”

  There was that crooked, amused smile again. “No. I can’t. If I were in your shoes, I’d try to poke around in my head, too. But don’t, or I’ll kick you out.” He issued her a dark, warning look that emphasized he meant what he said. Then he turned and continued to lead her through a maze of alleyways and halls. “As for the rest of the club’s members, you can try to poke around in their heads if you want, but if they find out, you’re on your own.” Without slowing or turning around, he raised one hand and pointed his index finger straight up for emphasis. “But I can assure you, I’m not the only one who gets pissed off when someone tries to traipse through my thoughts uninvited. Remember that before you go peeking. We’re a loyal bunch, but a private one.”

  If only she had Micah’s power to dip in and out of others’ heads without being detected. She considered herself lucky if she was able to pull off silent mind sweeps, but Micah was able to do it without even trying.

  Looked like she would have to do recon on this band of merry underground scrappers the old-fashioned way. By observation and making friends with them. Going mind spelunking was too risky. What good would it do if she got kicked out of the club before she could even find out if there was a connection between them and Premier Royce or Bishop—or both.

  “I take it you’re in charge?” she said, following him.

  “I am.”

  They walked in silence for a few seconds.

  “Where are you taking me, anyway?”

  “To my office to sign some paperwork. Then I’ll introduce you to the main floor.” He paused, and Cordray could almost hear the smirk playing over his lips as he continued. “Then we’ll see how well you do in the cage.”

  She noted that the dark, winding walkways were on a shallow decline and led below ground level. How low, she couldn’t figure, though. “The cage?”

  “Our version of the octagon.”

  Cordray’s footsteps echoed up the high walls. “So, do I have to sign away my firstborn child or sign a contract with my own blood to make this official?”

  Digon made a soft, amused sound. “We’ll get to that when we reach my office, but we aren’t that archaic.” Silence stretched between them, and then he said, “So, Miss Cordray, how did you hear about Grudge Match?”

  His long, dark hair billowed over his back as he led her down another passageway. He looked like a walking ad for hair care products.

  “I was at Four Alarm the other night,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant, “letting my fingers do the walking through the minds of some of the customers. A couple of your members were there and I saw Grudge Match in their thoughts.” She was making this up on the fly, but the story was as plausible as any other she could think up, and while the story was almost true, she thought it better to leave out certain details. “It looked interesting, so . . . here I am.”

  Digon stopped and turned around. A frown creased his forehead as he stepped toward her and shifted into his dreck form. His blue skin shimmered for the split second it took to complete the transformation. “Interesting, you say? You thought Grudge Match sounded . . . interesting? We are not to be taken so lightly here. Do you know what you’re about to walk into, Miss Cordray?”

  “Just Cordray,” she said. The formal address was for pussies and was starting to chafe her ass.

  His spine straightened and he spurted an amused breath out his nose. “Well, do you know what goes on here, Just Cordray? Exactly what goes on here?”

  “Drecks and vampires beat the shit out of each other?” She raised her eyebrows at him, daring him to deny what she’d read on their Dark Web site.

  His eyes narrowed, and it looked as if he were contemplating how much to tell her. “We don’t just beat the shit out of each other, Just Cordray. The things that go on here could start another war if King Bain or Premier Royce ever found out about them.” He stepped closer and angled his handsome face, studying her. “Those that engage in our fights don’t want another war. They want a safe place to act out their soldier fantasies, to expend their frustrations, to battle their natural-born enemy without repercussions. They are warriors without a war, Just Cordray. Grudge Match is their war, and what they do here is like Vegas. It stays here. Once th
ey leave these halls”—he gestured elegantly at their surroundings—“once morning comes and they disperse back to their homes, their cubicles . . . their plain, ordinary, maple syrup lives . . . Grudge Match ceases to exist. But then they return, and the war begins again.”

  Digon inflected his speech as if he were a male of means from a bygone era. A cultured male familiar with the finer things in life, but in a way that bespoke ages-old discipline and moderation, not modernity’s greed and gluttony. He came off as the kind of person who splurged on a twenty-eight-thousand-dollar bottle of Yamazaki single malt liquor then took a year to appreciate it before drinking it.

  He stepped back. “There is a brotherhood here, Just Cordray. A sisterhood. A camaraderie. Despite the friction between our two races, members of Grudge Match have found a way to coexist in an environment where they can beat each other to within the brink of death and not feel the need to see through the urge to kill. Some even become friends, or as friendly as our two races can be. If nothing else, each member has come to respect the others, as well as what they’ve found here. So, while you find our little world interesting, it is not to be taken lightly.”

  “You make it sound like I’m going to find Jesus in there,” she said.

  He lifted his chin, studying her through narrowed eyes. “Maybe you will.” His lips pressed into a thin line then relaxed. “You know, your flippant, lighthearted attitude could be grounds to ban you from the club, Just Cordray, but”—the corners of his mouth curled upward—“I like you. You made me smile back there.” He gestured in the direction she assumed they’d come from. She was so turned around by all the twists and turns she wasn’t sure which way was north. “You’ve got panache. Flair. And you passed our background check with impressive commendations. Our screener gave you high praise as a good fit.”

  Background check? She hadn’t realized that was part of the application process. “Well then, my thanks to your screener. Maybe you’ll introduce me so I can thank him personally.”

  The way Digon’s blue eyes briefly dazzled made it clear he’d personally seen the results of her background check and had found something he liked. “Perhaps I’ll introduce you next time. He was unable to join us this evening. However, all things considered, I think you’ll fit in well here. But”—he raised one hand, his blue-tinted index finger extended in warning—“either you enter the world I created with the most serious of intent, or I escort you out now. It’s your choice. Will you respect my rules and my arena, or are you trouble in the making?”

  Digon made Grudge Match sound like some kind of cult. Like a nonfiction version of the fictional movie, Fight Club. The first rule of Fight Club is you don’t talk about Fight Club. Insert Grudge Match for Fight Club, and it was the same goddamn thing, except without that hottie, Brad Pitt. Even Cordray could appreciate a handsome human like Brad.

  All kidding aside, Cordray couldn’t afford to lose this chance. Grudge Match was her way in. A way to obtain evidence against Royce. She could feel it.

  Despite wanting to reply that she was, indeed, trouble in the making, she tilted her head in deference and said, “I promise to respect your rules and your arena. I’m here to participate, not stir up trouble.”

  What Digon didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. After all, he was a dreck. All drecks were guilty until proven innocent, which gave her leeway to lie to him until she determined exactly whether he was friend or foe.

  “Good.” He uncrossed his arms and spun on his heel, once more leading her into the bowels of the building. “So, Just Cordray, the rules. If you still want to be a part of Grudge Match, you have to follow the rules.” He began rattling them off as she fell in step beside him. “No knives. No blades of any kind. Nothing that will puncture or cut. No guns. Otherwise, you’re free to use”—he nodded down at her hands—“brass knuckles, chains”—his gaze flicked to the chain still wrapped around her neck like a scarf—“as well as clubs, bats, or anything else you can hit your opponent with. Most prefer to use only their fists, and there are fights we call Raw Rage where no accoutrements are allowed. Raw Rage bouts are bodies only. None of this shit.” He tapped her chain.

  So, Digon could use unprovoked profanity. She had begun to wonder.

  “Also,” he said, “just in case I haven’t already made this point clear, you’re not to talk about what goes on here with anyone who’s not already a member. The only exception is if you know someone you think would make a good candidate for membership. If you think someone would fit in well here, refer them to the application you filled out on our site. We’ll process them and determine whether or not we’ll issue them in invitation, but our decision is final. No second chances. But if anyone you refer to us sends up a red flag, you’ll be placed on a six-month probation. If you do it twice, you’ll go before our review board and face possible removal and could be banned from the club. So, choose those you refer to us wisely, Just Cordray.”

  Cordray nodded dramatically, saluting him. “Yes, oh mighty one. No loose lips about the secret club. And I will endeavor to send only the best cuts of meat to your cause.”

  Digon gave her a dubiously amused look as she pressed her lips together and pretended to turn a key and lock them. He stopped and spun toward her, looking her up and down. For several seconds, he said nothing, his expression unreadable. Cordray sighed and crossed her arms as she tilted her head with an air of annoyance. “Take a picture, Digon. Not only will it last longer, but it won’t scratch your eyes out. I’ve been known to do that.”

  One side of his mouth lifted, and then he chuckled. It was a dark, majestic sound, as if Digon knew tremendous power above his current station. “I like you, Just Cordray.” He shifted back into his human form, and his blue eyes turned dark brown. “You’re not at all what I expected. You’re full of verve. Quarrelsome even. But in a witty way that’s a lovely change of pace among the females in the club, who more often than not are forcefully emphatic about how tough they are.” He grinned and teased his goatee with his thumb and forefinger. “You’re flippant . . . almost whimsical.” He chuckled as he turned on the ball of his foot and started down the hall again “It’s refreshing. Stimulating even.”

  Refreshing? No one had ever called her refreshing. Call the makers of Downy fabric softener, because Cordray Fresh was the new must-have scent.

  “I like you, too, Digon,” she said to his back as she fell in step behind him again. “You’re stodgy. Like an English gentleman with a broomstick stuck up his ass, wanking off with one hand while holding a cup of tea in the other.”

  He broke into hardy laughter, pushing open the door to what was a surprisingly elegant office, gesturing for her to take a seat in a burgundy leather chair as he rounded the mahogany desk to what looked almost like a throne.

  “Please, have a seat.”

  She parked her ass in the rich leather as he did the same behind the desk.

  His dark eyes narrowed on her appreciatively. “I have a feeling you and I are going to get along splendidly, Just Cordray.” He flipped open a slender, silver laptop.

  She batted her lashes and forced a smile. “Just keep your hands to yourself, Diggy, and it’ll be all good.” After all, she didn’t want to have to kill her best lead into Bishop’s master plan just because he felt like taking a liberty or two.

  “Diggy. Cute.” He tapped a few keys, and the printer behind him stirred to life. “And there’s no need to worry about my hands. I’m quite innocuous to the female membership, I can assure you.”

  “Why? Are you gay?”

  His eyelids popped upward as his gaze dialed in on hers. Then his lips twisted into a subtle smile. “A valid question, given how I phrased my previous statement.”

  “And will I get a valid answer?”

  He made a contemplative noise in his throat as he rotated his chair to snatch whatever he’d printed. Then he spun back around to face her.

  “Perhaps I will rephrase my statement. I’m quite innocuous to all members, Just Cordray. I
simply emphasized the female members because I am, in fact, unequivocally heterosexual.” He leaned forward, sliding the piece of paper toward her. “I would prove it to you, but as I said, I don’t pursue romantic entanglements with the members, even ones as strikingly beautiful as you.” He bowed his head in dramatic deference. Clearly, he was making fun of her, but only because he knew she could take it.

  “Ah, Diggy, you do say the sweetest things.” She dismissed his flamboyantly insincere flirtation and perused the sheet of paper he’d just slid in front of her. “What’s this?”

  “Your contract.” He folded his hands on his desk, back to all business. “It iterates what I’ve already told you about our rules. Read it thoroughly then sign it.” He reached inside the top drawer and retrieved a pen, then placed it in front of her. Montblanc. Of course.

  She reviewed all the points in detail then scribbled her John Hancock on the dotted line. Then she filled in a form with a few pertinent details, including her mobile number, as Digon explained that they don’t use online files, which would be too easy to hack. And since secrecy and anonymity was of the utmost importance, he operated only out of hard files.

  Smart, if not a bit antiquated.

  “Now what?” She pushed the paper across the desk.

  He tucked it into a leather folio, which he locked inside the top drawer.

  He stood and gestured for her to join him. “Now I show you to the floor, Just Cordray.”

  She was in.

  Chapter 18

  Ronan pulled his Yamaha to the side of Montrose Avenue behind Graceland Cemetery and shut off the engine. Once more, he checked his rearview mirror for a tail and found none. Looked like Micah and his buddies still hadn’t caught his scent. Not that he expected they would or even could. He was too good at covering his tracks with the talents he’d learned from his father, which was about the only good thing he’d gotten from ol’ dad other than the requisite sperm required to create him in the first place.