The Den, as the hunters refer to it, looks like a low-end poker club. Misty windows glow with faint light from inside the dingy bar. We’re patted down for weapons and asked a password to enter. Hiram whispers it so Zach and I don’t overhear.
The establishment is murky and sticky from the alcohol spilled on the floor who knows how long ago. Groups of hunters play cards, throw darts, or shoot pool in the different corners. The music is loud enough to mask over their individual conversations but not too intrusive for them to have important discussions.
Hiram heads straight for the biggest of the three poker tables. There’s little doubt who among the players could be Oggy, the local hunter bidding to fill the leadership position Vaughn left empty. He has a high forehead, a shaved head, and a thick reddish beard, which he scratches almost constantly. But it doesn’t seem to be his tell.
The players around the table all fold. Oggy throws his cards on the table, face down, and gathers all the chips at the center.
Only once he’s finished piling them into little towers does he turn to us. “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
“Brought you some fresh meat for the grinder,” Hiram jokes, but his eyes remain cold. “Fellas, meet Oggy—the Hunters’ Guild’s new head.”
At that, Oggy raises his index finger as if to object.
“Come on, you know Vaughn always had you in mind,” Hiram says. “It’s only a matter of time before the others accept that.”
Oggy smirks, but the flattery doesn’t seem to wash away his predatory expression. “You must be Fowler’s boy.” He doesn’t give me time to confirm. “I heard you have a soft spot for the banshee?”
The blood in my veins freezes. “She lied to me.”
Thankfully, the short statement goes nicely with a stony expression.
“You should always assume they’re lying.” Oggy’s gaze flicks to Hiram. “The ones in Elmwick, at least.”
My throat bobs like it’s about to burst, but I force myself to nod.
“That’s why we’re here,” Zach jumps in. “Mason has been beating himself up about that blunder.” He elbows me, like he’s used to giving me a hard time about my past. “I thought, who better to get him on the straightened arrow than you, right?”
That statement is based on Oggy’s reputation and influence rather than any personal experience Zach has with him. He warned me that he didn’t have the slightest idea what we’d be walking into. As Vaughn’s son, he would have always been treated as a spy here due to the simmering rivalry between Oggy and Zach’s father.
“Ready to stay the course, boys?” Oggy grins wide. “No offense to your old man, Zach, but he was entirely too focused on old rumors, hunting other hunters, that sort of thing. We do things differently.”
Zach’s eyes seem to darken, but he keeps his British-accented voice smooth. “He may not have been perfect, but he trusted you to take over. The other so-called heads will see that soon, like we have.”
Silently, Oggy evaluates us and the validity of Zach’s praise. “Come now. Come into the world of the true hunters.”
He rises from his seat and with a heavy step leads us to a back door I never would have noticed under the dim lighting. It’s only once we’re through that I become aware that Hiram hasn’t followed us. Perhaps he’s here to maintain his relationship with the hunters, or he prefers playing cards to whatever happens downstairs. Or he’s not allowed in, a quiet voice echoes inside my head.
The rotting metal staircase creaks under our steps. Despite that, Oggy descends it in a brisk pace until we reach another door. Access is restricted with a keypad and two security guards. They move away at the sight of Oggy and enter a code into the keypad, too fast for me to memorize it.
We slip into the dark corridor, but as soon as we turn the corner, we’re looking down at a fighting ring a level below us. Bright lights flash, drawing attention to the empty ring. A voice, magnified on a speaker, rumbles over the buzzing of the crowd consisting of hunters lounging at the tables sporadically sprinkled around the main attraction.
“A solid wall of muscle,” the male voice says on the speaker. “He’s not once been defeated.”
My attention flits to the crowd of hunters. They’re younger than the folks upstairs, casually dressed in T-shirts, drinking beer right out of the can. I have the nagging suspicion that some of them might not be old enough to order it. Whether they sneaked it inside or the bartenders turn a blind eye, I couldn’t guess.
We follow Oggy to what seems to be his private viewing box, allowing him a bird’s eye view of the ring.
“So, fellas, who’s up for a fight?” The manic glint in Oggy’s eyes tells me he means for us to go beyond the role of guests and observers.
I can’t help but glare at Zach with a warning. We’re being tested for our viciousness, and I’m not sure how far he’s willing to go to keep his cover.
But Zach’s ability to remain cool under pressure shines through. He claps me on the shoulder and faces me with a smile and one eyebrow slightly quirked, drawing my attention to a door further back. It’s not guarded, and if Oggy had a secret hunter-business study, it would likely be around here.
“I’m in,” I say, afraid to let the pause last too long.
We can’t let him see us sweat. I clap Zach’s back once, hoping it will convey what I want to say to him right now.
I’ll be fine. Go find what we came here for.
Oggy summons two hunters with the wave of his hand. “Can’t wait to see you in action, Mr. Fowler.”
The two hunters echo his throaty chuckle, then signal me over after them. We go down to the lower level where my opponent has already taken his place in the ring. He’s a bare-chested giant. About my age, I believe, but so seriously jacked that I wonder if my own experience would mean anything against him.
“Does he live to fight?” I try to play my gut-wrenching discomfort as mockery.
“You’re nervous,” one of the hunters says. “Good.”
The other laughs when I blanch. He holds out a pair of boxing gloves for me but signals me with a hand to take off my shirt first. I obey and let him help me put on the gloves.
“It’s what happens to many of the wolves we have an agreement with.” He carefully spies for my reaction, but I keep my face impassive. “Many of them don’t want to undergo the pain of shifting, to be slaves to the moon. They come to us and offer to refuse the call of their powers. They lose their sense of smell in the process. But the temper? The blood-boiling temper that makes a wolf so dangerous... Well, it rarely goes away, even without their powers. We give them a way to blow off some steam.”
The other hunter smiles with vicious glee. “And test how good our guys are in the process. Hold your own, Fowler. Show us what you’ve got.”
What I’ve got is a stiff jaw and even stiffer shoulders as I climb into the ring. My opponent grunts at me—the only welcome I’ll get from him, if we count out the challenging look in his dark-brown eyes. The veins in his bulging arms pulse, but he doesn’t even lift his fists to protect his face. Enough said about his confidence level.
With a simmering sense of discomfort, I take a defensive stance. Bryar often used my mass and strength against me when we trained. I’ll just have to copy her moves.
My gaze flicks to the viewing box where Oggy watches with a satisfied, foxy expression. Zach, however, doesn’t spare me a glance. His bright green eyes roam the space, counting guards, timing their rotations, gathering intel from inside the belly of the beast.
I focus back on my task. I’m the entertainment. The distraction.
The wolf and I lock eyes on each other, at the ready. A bell announces the beginning of the match, and it only now occurs to me that I didn’t ask about the rules. Perhaps there are none.
I jump in place, warming up, keeping agile for his first attack.
My rock of an opponent paces to the left, arms still down, like he’s not bothered enough by my presence to lift them in front of his fac
e in defense. We circle, gauging the best plan for attack. I’m not stupid enough to make the first move, though. The second he has the chance to grab me, I’ll end up slammed around like a rag doll. Not the image I want to project.
Someone in the audience shouts for us to get into it, but I don’t spare a sideways glance to see who. The wolf staggers toward me, the mat vibrating with each heavy step, but I’m quick on my feet. I whirl out of reach, then stop when I’m at his side and throw the first punch, right at his temple.
He grabs for me, but I’ve moved out, putting space between us again. That’s not a trick that would have worked if he had his wolf powers. He would have sensed my move before it happened.
The wolf looks as angered as his lupine nature would suggest. Arms whipping in quick succession—left, right, left—he barges toward me again. I duck to block, but realize it was a bad idea at once.
Despite his staggering size, my opponent is not as slow as I hoped. He doesn’t miss his opening, pushes my neck down, then loops his arms under me. One swift grunt is all it takes for him to send me flying. Up is down and down is up, then I hit the side ropes with my back, bouncing toward him before I can bring my movements under control.
His right hook is quick and merciless, hitting me right in the jaw with force that sends spittle spraying out of my mouth. The second time I feel the ropes against my back, I steady myself with one hand, grasping them. I refuse to let the wolf in front of me turn this into an easy win.
The next time he lunges for me, I drop down, punch him in his exposed, very well-toned abs, then slide around him on one side and kick my heel right at the fold of his knee. I jump on my feet as he loses his balance, unable to whirl around to face me fast enough. From behind him, I snare him into a grip, my biceps tight around his neck to restrict his movements. I’m hoping I can get him to pass out.
But my mountain of an opponent won’t go down so easily. Fingers clawing their way up my arms, he grabs my shoulders and with an arch in his back, tips my balance. I fly over him, landing heavily on my back, and worst of all, with my throat exposed for his punch. It knocks the air out of me and quite possibly fractures my larynx.
I want to stand up, but he leans heavily onto my stomach, pinning me down, his massive knee and strong thigh pushing against me with crushing strength. I pant as the memories flood my mind. Lying curved on a ball on the ground as the hunters kick me from all sides, knowing that all I can do is try to block, knowing I’ve blown my cover, knowing I can’t help Cami.
The image of her swims in my watery vision. Honey blond curls, pale pink lips, and those ocean-blue eyes that always had the capacity to mesmerize me, swirling like a deep current.
I’ve been so angry at her for what happened at The Ravenna, for the deal she made with Jester, that I’ve tried my hardest to block out any thought of Cami. Even the occasional text from Bryar seems to remind me of home and, therefore, of Cami.
But at this moment, all I want is to be able to see her once again. Just once more. To hold her and let all the madness around us fade.
My vision spots black and red when the wolf presses his knee a little higher on my chest, making it harder to breathe. In spite of the realization that I’ve lost this fight, the stubborn anger inside me rises like a sudden lick of a roaring fire. Without thinking about it, I crunch up, pushing against his knee, bruising my ribs in the process, and punch the wolf right in the nose.
He may be tough, but I’m raging. Wolves aren’t the only ones with a temper issue. Or perhaps we fire drakes have inherited that from them through the bite. It doesn’t matter.
I repeat the punch three times in quick succession, crushing my ribs against his knee, until he can’t take it anymore. His grip on me loosens, and I finally throw him off. Rage alight inside me, I punch him until his nose bleeds. Still standing, he staggers toward me. I swerve out of the way and get behind him to kick him. He falls face first.
As the referee comes to raise my hand in victory, I watch the wolf’s muscled body twist so he can look up at me. Bitterness swims in his gaze as he rests on the ground until the hunters’ cheers subside—a detail they probably don’t even perceive, but I do.
With a hand on my painfully bruised ribs, I climb down from the ring, fully aware that if the wolf had wanted the win, he would have had it. But instead, he chose the quiet act of rebellion. They may have prevented him from claiming his powers, they may pit him against whomever they choose, but only he decides how much of himself to put into each fight.
I accept the enthusiasm of each hunter clapping a hand on my sweat-slicked back and shoulders, barely restraining myself from looking back at my opponent.
I wish I knew his name. I wish I could get him out.
Chapter 14. Mason
Thanks to the pain slicing my mid-section, I limp up to the viewing box. As I breathe through it, I become aware of my minor injuries, like the split corner of my mouth oozing blood and my bruised cheekbone.
“You really are something, Mr. Fowler.” Oggy watches me with the predatory intensity of a hawk.
I reply with a tough-guy nod, though my gaze darts to Zach. What is he still doing here instead of sneaking through The Den for clues? If I got my butt kicked for nothing, then he’s next.
“That bit at the end,” Oggy says, as I sway, unsure if sitting or standing would hurt more, “that anger. What fueled it?”
I steel my facial muscles from betraying the lie. “Just thought back to what happened at The Ravenna.”
He nods with what passes for sympathy but looks more like approval. “I see.”
Zach stands with a sigh. “What do you say I take this poor bastard, help him get cleaned up?”
Oggy grins wide, a gold tooth glinting in his mouth. “Be my guest.” He points down the corridor to the door next to his study.
A warm wave washes over me when I see Zach’s play. He has done some recon.
He motions to help me walk over there, but I stop him with a hand gesture. My ribs hurt at the mere thought of hooking my arm around his shoulders for support.
As we move out, other hunters surround Oggy to discuss the fight. Zach and I exchange a look and quick, twin nods. This is our chance.
The study door isn’t guarded, but there’s a keypad. As we walk over, my limp slows me down again.
“I don’t suppose you have a way of unlocking that door?” I ask him.
Zach dashes ahead, then casually leans against the wall, his hand right by the keypad. “Why do you think I let you eat mat in the ring. A strategic sacrifice.”
“Glad to be of service.”
I catch the warning in his eyes and limp over, my body blocking the keypad from view for anyone behind me. Four quick beeps, and Zach pushes the door open. I don’t dare glance over my shoulder at the viewing box. As quickly as my aching body allows, I slip inside the room after him.
Unless someone was keeping an eye on us, the hunters could have easily missed us sneaking in here. That, however, doesn’t seem to slow down my heart’s nervous thumping.
The study is small, packed with boxes upon boxes of folders and documents, like Oggy just moved in and hasn’t gotten properly settled in yet. We only see by the pointed light of the desk lamp, which faintly illuminates the cramped space.
Before we begin our search, Zach and I take note of the exits, should we need them. A vent grille close to the floor is our only way out if we don’t manage to exit through the door. That realization makes me swallow hard.
Zach must be way more accustomed to pulling off stunts like this. He has already switched his focus to the desk and rummages through the drawers.
“What are we looking for exactly?”
The sense of déjà vu is overwhelming, but I don’t protest. This is what I signed up for, perhaps the only option I’ve had since birth, whether I knew it or not. Double agent. Spy.
“Oggy mentioned Vaughn left him instructions.” Zach’s use of his father’s name doesn’t strike me as odd. They never wer
e truly close. “That would be a start.”
I open the top box in the nearest pile. Its contents are so chaotic that I suspect it’s a strategy. Perhaps Oggy keeps all the documents stuffed in these boxes so no one else can find their way around in the mess.
The first folder is a long list of names. Suspected legacies? Legacies under their protection? Hunters in their forces?
Not a single name on the list is familiar enough to clue me in, so I dive into the next folder. It’s a sketch of a skyscraper. There’s no address or name attached to it, but the sketch should be enough to find this building one day if we need to.
Then, I’m on to the next folder. The first page reads “Ice Spire”. The paper opens up like a map, but instead of a location, it shows a blueprint of a large place on multiple levels. Whatever Ice Spire is, it’s a grand project.
I fold both the sketch and the blueprint before tucking them into my back pocket. They might come in handy.
“Check this,” Zach says.
After going through the drawers and apparently coming up empty-handed, he has moved on to the computer.
“Like many people, Oggy uses the same code for everything.” Zach lets out a quiet laugh. “Same digits as the keypad, just had to enter them twice.”
Zach’s fingers fly over the keyboard as he dives into Oggy’s documents. Most of the sub folders look like files on legacy families, either ones on the run or those in agreement with the hunters. The temptation to search for my family or even Zach’s is strong.
I’m grateful he’s much cooler under pressure. Zach doesn’t stray from the mission we have but keeps scrolling, hoping to find anything on the hidden legacies. He slows down when we reach the letter L in the alphabetically sorted files. Before we spot anything about long-forgotten legacy secrets, my gaze falls on a folder titled “Last Words”.
Zach’s thinking is as quick as mine. He double-clicks to open the file, which contains a single document—a photo from a journal page. We zoom in to read the handwritten letter.
Oggy,
Those closest to me are all well-aware that I’d trust no one but you to keep the honest fight going strong. If you’re reading this, then I’m gone, and the time has come for you to step up and be the next head of The Hunters’ Guild.
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