Worth the Fight

by SF Benson

  “I’m retired, Kragen.” Unlike the BlackGuard, I owe Kragen nothing. Years ago, when given the opportunity, he didn’t fight for me. “They didn’t want me here. Let them figure it out themselves.”

  Kragen’s black eyes narrow. “Neva knew ya ta be so selfish. What’s changed, cher?”

  “This isn’t about me. I’m here to support my…” The sentence hangs in mid-air. Just what is Hank to me? My lover? My boyfriend? My companion? All those labels feel wrong somehow. I don’t think I can wrap my feelings for him into a single word.

  “Ya supporting what?” Kragen urges.

  “My partner.” The label is safe, not supplying too much information for those who don’t need to know.

  “And how are ya supporting this pardner?”

  “We’re here to find his missing brother. Hank and I suspect Damien Duchamp is involved.”

  Kragen purses his lips and steeples his fingertips. “That’s why ya asked ‘bout him. Well, ya in luck. I’m hosting a little gathering here this ev’ning. Duchamp is expected ta attend.”

  It doesn’t take a vampire to pick up on Kragen’s thought. “That’s a bad idea. I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Cher, ya know nothing stays quiet in my town. I guarantee ya Duchamp already knows ya here. Make an appearance.” He scrutinizes my leather pants and jacket with a turned-up nose. “Do ya own a respectable dress?”

  “Is it that kind of party?” The last time I attended one of Kragen’s soirees was back in the twenties. Let’s just say it was a different era for women and so-called respectable clothing choices.

  “Just come dressed ta entertain. Ya know the best way ta throw off a being like Duchamp is ta appeal ta his inner beast.”

  Tapping my fingers against the chair arm I ask, “And what kind of beast is Damien?”

  “I checked in ta his background. He’s a hybrid, part sorcerer and part leopard. And ya know what they say ‘bout leopards?”

  “Unfortunately.” I’m praying… Is that a legit endeavor for supernaturals? I’m praying Damien isn’t someone I’ve met.

  “Be here at seven, cher.”

  I step into the bright sunlight, pull out my phone, and tap out a quick text to Hank. He needs to join me for this little shindig of Kragen’s. Although he didn’t mention it, I should probably get the visit to Cash out of the way. I’ll pass by his place and then meet up with Hank.

  Wicked Ink New Orleans is on Frenchman Street in the Vieux Carre. It’s a two-story building situated between Royal and Chartres Streets. The lower level is bright yellow. Upstairs, the exterior is pale yellow with terracotta shutters and a narrow balcony wrapping the front. Cash must be doing well for himself. His previous shop wasn’t nearly as nice or as large.

  The shop bell rings as I open the door. Cash glances up from his station with a smile on his handsome face. It quickly falls when he sees me.

  “Hello, cher,” I drawl.

  “What are you doing here?” A note of contempt is in his voice. He continues cleaning up his work area.

  “Is that any way to greet an ex?” Gliding across the floor, I stop beside him. Notes of patchouli, jasmine, and peach nectar waft off him and captivate me. The fragrance brings back memories of our time together. Lowering my voice, I tell him, “I’ve missed ya.”

  “Feeling isn’t mutual.” He side-glances at me. “What do you want, Edwina?”

  His cold tone makes me flinch. I won’t be deterred so easily though, not when I have a job to do. “Just came to let ya know I’m in town.”

  Cash, dropping his towel on the counter, finally faces me. “Is this permanent?”

  “Yes, dawlin’.” He doesn’t need to know how permanent my stay is. “I’ve been called home. Something’s going on with my former coven. Kragen, the leader, contacted me.”

  “Sounds serious,” he says and takes a seat on a stool. “How does this concern me?”

  My eyes dart around the space. He’s definitely had an upgrade with all the shiny new equipment. I’m about to speak when I notice Qadira’s photograph posted over his station. I look closer and see it’s actually a picture of Cash and Qadira. She’s leaning against him, and he has his arms wrapped around her middle. Their happiness is so evident. My recently healed heart cracks a little. Why the hell does it still bother me? After all, I broke things off with him so he could explore a relationship with the djinniyah.

  I try hard not to shed a tear as I look at Cash. Then I notice the tattoo on his wrist—her name emblazoned on his skin. Damn. I point at the picture and toss his question back at him.

  “Is this permanent?”

  “Yeah, it is.” He glances up at the photo, and a huge smile breaks across his face. It’s obvious he’s in love with her. “You were right. I needed someone in my life on a regular basis. Qadira unlocked my heart and showed me love.”

  My mouth turns down. Frankly, Cash deserved to find someone who would treat him the way he needed. He had no desire to become undead, and I didn’t want to curse him that way. Hell, it’s not even something I would want to do to Hank unless there was no other choice and he accepted it. “Just make sure she doesn’t break ya heart. Member of the djinn can’t be trusted.”

  “Neither can vampires. I made an exception for you,” he quips. “You gonna answer my question?”

  I clear my throat and bury my emotions. “I understand ya now work for Ashmedai. Ya need to meet some of the locals. There’s a young hybrid, part vampire and part sorceress, by the name of Morgan Vladislav. She runs a secret society here.”

  “If it’s so secret, how do you know about it?”

  “I had a run-in with her partner.” Not a complete lie. I ran into Ace at the Bloody Bastard one night, and he ended up telling me, after a little compelling, all I needed to know. “Things ended well, but I now know all about the BGS.”

  Cash leans forward and places his elbows on his knees. “The BGS?”

  “BlackGuard Society,” I explain.

  The space between his eyebrows puckers. “Anyone else I need to meet?”

  “Kragen, of course. Ya should also meet Morgan’s partner, Ace Broussard. He’s an alpha wolf. Ya don’t want to get on his bad side.” My gaze goes back to the picture. Qadira will make a beautiful bride and possibly a loving mother one day. “I can make the introductions for ya. Then I’ll disappear from ya life.”

  Cash nods. “Thank you, Edie. If your number’s still the same, I’ll call you in a few days.”

  “Sure.”

  The front bell chimes, and the djinniyah walks into the shop. Her arms are full of bags. Cash wastes no time running over to her.

  “Are you gonna leave anything in the shops, babe?” he asks Qadira, helping her with the load.

  She kisses his cheek before noticing me. Stepping back, she asks, “Why is she here?”

  I glide over to the couple. “Don’t get ya panties in a bunch. It’s only a courtesy visit. Cash needs to meet some locals, and I offered to make the intros. Nothing more.”

  “I’ll be in touch, Edwina,” Cash says, holding the shop door open.

  No one has to hit me with a brick. I get the message. My eyes sweep over Qadira before I walk out. The harsh click of the lock sounds behind me.

  Time to go meet Hank.

  Chapter 18

  Hank

  “That’s enough!” shouts my nemesis, Elijah Ryder. “We wouldn’t want to kill him before the big event.”

  His stocky cohorts, a group of shady cats, step away from me. Ryder has never been one to do his own dirty work.

  I strain forward, wanting to return the punishment, but the metal collar around my neck cuts into my skin. If it weren’t for the chains holding me tight to the wall, I’m sure I’d be on the floor. My ribs hurt, and the taste of copper fills my mouth. Saliva, blood, or both slides over my lip and down my chin. Inhaling hurts—like someone’s squeezing my damned lungs.

  Ryder paces at a safe distance. A cat with balls would have stepped to me properly. One on on
e. Not this weak ass motherfucker. Ryder has never fought fair. It’s the Ryder family way—hit hard and often but let someone else do the punching. In this case, he’s being smart. I could kick his old ass hopping around on one goddamned leg.

  Snarling I ask, “What big event?”

  Ryder’s heavy footsteps echo across the floor. He gets up in my face, his nose just inches from mine. Stank breath, like an outhouse toilet, brings tears to my eyes.

  “Damn, man.” I squint and struggle to snag some fresh air. “Eat a fucking breath mint.”

  His silvery eyes flicker, and a deeper scowl settles on his wrinkled face. “Fuck. You.”

  “That would have to be a pass for me,” I shoot back. “If I rolled that way, your dick wouldn’t be nearly big enough.”

  Fur and claws collide with my jaw.

  Opening my swollen, painful eyes hurts like a motherfucker. A bluish glow emits from the only light in the room—a bulb hanging askew in a corner. I’m no longer chained to the wall, but the collar still sits around my neck. Fuck this! My beast clamors to come out. Tremors surge beneath my skin but quickly disappear. Bones crack but knit back together. Claws push forth but recede just as fast. Not being able to change hurts more than the actual transformation.

  “What the hell?” I bellow.

  “It’s the collar,” says a familiar voice near me. “You’ll wear yourself out trying to change.”

  “Tyson?”

  “Yeah, it’s me, bro’.” His breath saws in and out. “I’m sorry about this.”

  He’s got nothing to be sorry for unless he was in on this sick ass joke, but I hear the agony in his voice. Maybe I’m being too quick to judgment. Betrayal from someone who once claimed they loved me will do that. Frankly, I don’t know what to think and who to trust at the moment.

  “Are you hurt?” I call out.

  “In a matter of speaking. My beast keeps trying to come out, but the collar prevents it.” Tyson swallows hard. “Each time he tries it’s more painful than the last. Killing me would be better than this fucking torture.”

  What type of metal would prevent transformation? None that I know. It must be spelled. Edwina would probably… Hell, she’s out there alone! I need some way to get to her, or at least let her know I’m okay. I will be okay…eventually. In the meantime, I have to discover what I’m up against.

  Unable to inhale deep, I blow out a short breath. “What’s going on, Tyson?”

  “It’s a long story.” He crawls out of the shadows and bumps into me before hitting the concrete floor. My brother smells ripe, like he hasn’t bathed in a few days.

  “I think we have time for you to tell it,” I point out.

  He grimaces before letting the words spew. “Why didn’t you warn me that Sheila was a high-maintenance bitch? She won’t work for shit. The only thing she does is hold her hand out and remind me of my promises. ‘You said you’d take care of me. You said I wouldn’t want for anything.’ I’m so tired of hearing that shit.”

  I just listen. If I had told Tyson those things, he would have sworn I was lying.

  “An amateur fighter salary ain’t enough for her,” he continues. “The more I made, the more she spent. Bills were mounting up faster than I could pay them. So I started playing cards. I was doing okay for awhile, and then my streak ran dry. Racked up a lot of debt in a short time.”

  A shuddering breath expels. With great effort I draw my legs up, resting my elbows on my knees. “Why didn’t you call?”

  Tyson snorts. “Like you would have helped me. After the shit I pulled, you’d give help to a man on death row before me.”

  “True,” I mutter. “But still… You’re my brother. I’m supposed to have your back.”

  “I’m not mad at you, Hank. I caused this shit, not you.” Tyson pauses for a beat or two. “Tell me how you ended up here.”

  “Sheila. She called and told me you hadn’t come home. She wanted me to come here and find you. Then, my captain told me Sheila reported you missing. He gave me a bullshit story about NOLA PD needing my help. I had my doubts but made plans to come here anyway.”

  “Come on, bro. You’re smarter than that. Didn’t you sense the trap?”

  “I suspected it, but I couldn’t stay in Falls Creek. Ryder’s chief of police now. He would have taken me down one way or another.”

  “So you chose to walk into the trap instead?”

  Thank you, brother, for pointing out the obvious.

  Ordinarily, I would have sent someone else to find my brother. I didn’t get to be a detective by making dumb-ass decisions. With all the shit going down in Falls Creek, maybe this was my way out? An excuse to leave the force?

  “So what’s her name?” Tyson asks.

  The collar cuts further into my neck as I turn my head too fast. “What makes you think—”

  “Hank, who you think you talking to? I may have been gone for awhile, but I still know my big brother. You made a lot of shitty decisions when you fell for Sheila. It’s what you do when you get in deep with a female.”

  “You don’t know her.”

  Edwina is not Sheila. She won’t run off with your brother.

  “Try me,” he urges.

  “Edwina Devereaux,” I mumble.

  “Of the New Orleans Devereaux witches?”

  “How did you know that?” It’s not like Edwina advertises her affiliations. If she hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t know.

  “Duchamp’s been talking about her.”

  My blood boils as my pulse slams in my neck. “Back the shit up. Start from the beginning. How does Duchamp know about Edwina?”

  Tyson holds his hands up to his head, shaking it back and forth. “I shouldn’t be telling—”

  I growl. “You opened the can… Finish the story.”

  He shifts his position on the floor and sighs. “About a year ago, I met Damien Duchamp. He wanted me to fight for him and the PFC. I told the cat that it would mess up my chances with the AFC, but he kept up his pursuit. I didn’t like his hard-sell approach, so I started talking to other supernaturals about him. Found out he took a trip to Falls Creek trying to establish a PFC gym. Duchamp wants a location everywhere supernaturals live. Asshole thinks he can make the PFC mainstream and take out the AFC.”

  “Yeah,” I acknowledged. “We ran him out of town.”

  “Not before he met with some folks.”

  “Like Elijah Ryder?”

  “Yeah. Duchamp also crossed paths with Edwina. She piqued his interest. Since I’ve been in this place, I’ve overheard him talking about the Devereaux witches and Edwina. A lot.”

  If Duchamp lays one finger on my angel, I’ll end his ass. He’ll learn a charmed collar won’t hold me back. Time to get the fuck out of here.

  “Tyson, just where the hell are we?”

  “PFC gym. All I know is it’s in a neighborhood, but I don’t know which one. My best guess is a warehouse outside the city. Duchamp’s favorite type of location.”

  “What are Ryder and Duchamp up to?” I ask. My gaze goes to the collar around Tyson’s neck—a quarter-inch solid steel with what looks like a ring hanging down. It resembles one of those fucking bondage collars. Easy to get off with the right tool.

  “Duchamp will hold us here until fight night. There’s one scheduled for tomorrow. As far as Ryder goes… I’m guessing he’s planning for one of us to die in the ring. Payback for Jackson.”

  Not a fight I plan on participating in. “Lean closer and hold your chin up.”

  Tyson’s eyebrows knit together. “Why?”

  “Just do it.” He moves toward me, and I run my finger beneath the ring. Sure enough, it pops off. Beneath it a small padlock is embedded in the center of the steel. There’s a keyhole on the bottom edge. I just need something to pick it with. Humph. Ryder’s men are stupid pricks. They took my gun but didn’t think to check me for anything else. I lift my ass and pull out my wallet.

  “Keep talking, Tyson.”

  “About what?”<
br />
  My brother has never been the brightest bulb in the house. As kits, I always had to clue him in on things with the other cats. I’m grateful when I discover no one searched my wallet.

  “Anything. Tell me how much you miss your kid.”

  “Kit ain’t mine,” he mumbles.

  I almost drop the paper clip in my hand. “Come again?”

  “I had a test done. Michael’s not mine. Duchamp didn’t know that when he threatened me. He got me to come here on my own by telling me he grabbed the kid. Little Man doesn’t deserve to be saddled with a mama like Sheila. I’ve been taking care of him while she’s been running the streets chasing tail.”

  Thought so. Poor kid.

  Untwisting the paper clip, I snap it in half and create a tension wrench and pick. Tyson finally connects the dots and holds his head so I can reach the lock easier. I shove the tension wrench into the opening and jiggle the pick up and down. It takes a few minutes, but the shank pops up. Once Tyson is freed, he takes the makeshift tools and works on my collar. I’m glad one of the skills I taught him stuck.

  “So who is the kit’s father?” I ask.

  “No idea. Duchamp has been kind enough to bring Michael by each day for me to see him. Makes me wonder if the kid ain’t his.”

  My eyes lock with Tyson’s. He pauses, and we stare at each other for a moment before he returns to the collar.

  That’s something I hadn’t considered. Sheila went out of town a lot when we first started having trouble. I shake the idea from my mind. Must stay focused. Now is not the time to figure that kind of shit out.

  After the collar slips off, I crack my neck from side to side. A burning sensation seeps off the padlocks. Magic. These shouldn’t fall into the wrong hands. I’ll give them to Edwina later. I place them in my pocket and then fit the collar back around Tyson’s neck and insert the ring. It looks passable in the shadows. I slip mine back on and crouch into the corner, ready to take on whichever idiot comes into the room.