Rise of the Gryphon (Belador #4)(7)
That might be worth getting bloody.
Hiding his smile, Storm turned back toward the raucous crowd surrounded by bright lights and kept coaching her as they moved toward the battles. “Think superior attitude, because in this circle sponsors are power brokers. I’ll enter ahead of you as if I’m doubling as your bodyguard. When we find the Domjon, just say you’re requesting a fight.”
“What’s a Domjon?”
“The ringmaster, man in charge who pockets the buy-in stakes. His word is final on anything that happens in a Beast Club, even an altercation between sponsors. Once he takes your stake, we move around and check out the competition. The minute we locate Imogenia, we’ll scope out her demon for a challenge. That’ll give you a chance to cut your deal with the witch.”
“Sounds too easy.”
And anything that sounded easy was usually far from it, but Storm wasn’t through giving her instructions. “The Domjon will throw out anyone who abuses power in his arena, but even so, remember not to let the witch touch you, and tell her nothing personal about yourself.”
“My friend Nicole has warned me about dealing with witches.”
“Nicole isn’t a dark witch.”
“No, but she’s not your average witch either.” Evalle shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket and fell silent. “Don’t take this wrong, but what’s the best way to gain an easy match?”
He could use the concern playing through her words to motivate her for pulling off this role. “Do what I told you. Bring plenty of attitude. The more arrogant you are, the better shot you’ll have at getting your choice of who I fight.”
That brought her chin up with a bold jut. “No problem.”
Had he said she was hot? Smoking body, exotic eyes and legs that went on forever, but he found her confidence sexy as hell. It also kept him constantly worried for her safety.
She whispered out the side of her mouth, “Anything else before we’re too close to talk?”
“I’ll get us to the Domjon. Once a deal is made, you take the lead when we walk around looking for a fight. That’s a clear statement that I’m your muscle and you call the shots.” Storm slowed when they reached the perimeter of the fighting zone and he noticed flashes of green and blue lights flickering in a halo that circled the valley. “There’s a ward protecting the event.”
“We can’t get in?”
“I’ll know in a minute.” When Storm reached the outer mist circling the area, he pushed his hand into the halo. Light sparked across his dark skin, and tiny fireworks of white and blue burst away from him until an arch formed above his head wide enough for two people to pass through.
Just to keep humans out and probably prevent them from seeing any of the fight or attendees as well.
He nodded at Evalle, then stepped in ahead of her, holding his hand up to keep the arch open.
The thud of fists and legs hitting bodies had been evident as they’d drawn near, but inside the warding the sounds were painful and rocked the air between shouts from the jeering crowd. Something in the ring released a high-pitched squealing sound. Bodies pressed close, blocking their view of the fight.
Striding a step ahead of Evalle, Storm recognized the familiar smell of sweat, alcohol, incense and unusual nicotine odors as he entered the fight camp.
Some days he wished his olfactory senses weren’t so sharp and his memory so close to the surface.
He slapped a look of threat back at the curious gazes, warning them he was just as deadly as he looked, and off the leash.
Evalle strolled close enough behind him he could scent her. Good. The less he checked on her, the more convincing a team they would be, since this crowd would assume he had some ability to keep track of her without requiring her to be in sight, or better yet . . . that she might be just as deadly as he was.
As he scouted the jumble of faces for the Domjon, Storm caught a whiff of something that could be smoke and licorice. A smell that belonged to some who practiced witchcraft on demons, like the witch doctor from South America.
Storm followed the scent, angling through the crowd until he found the origin of the smell.
An old woman wrapped in a blanket covered with Asian symbols sat on the ground with several incense burners in front of her that pumped out the sharp smell. She waved a red-tipped incense stick in the air. “Pure Fenghuang at special Beast Club price.”
An opiate. Now he understood the licorice smell.
Rolling his eyes, Storm muttered, “Vendors,” and led Evalle back toward the area of congestion, where he should find the Domjon. He spotted the Beast Club host standing an easy head taller than the crowd. Upon closer inspection, Storm realized the little round man wearing a red wool sport coat with yellow collar and cuffs was perched on the back of a massive tortoise. Curly brown hair fringed beneath a black bowler hat. Nickel-sized earrings with laughing skull carvings stretched and distorted each earlobe. Piles of necklaces of rare metals adorned with flashy jewels hung around his neck.
The Domjon called out in an auctioneer’s voice, “Demons two, quads one, unknown are playing the edge, step up, step up, step up and take a mad chance, no challenge too small, no death too fast, but we love ya when you make it last.”
Storm stopped in front of the squawker. He spread his feet apart and crossed his arms, waiting for Evalle to sidle up beside him. When she did, she sniffed and wrinkled her nose in distaste.