TWENTY-SIX
Oz wasn’t sure who to be more pissed at. Vito, for never mentioning he was fucking trafficking slaves to other aliens, aliens who wanted to go outside the legal gray waters of slave auctions; Mugs, for forcing him to assume this shape and roping him into this insane plan; or Benedict, for making him go along with it, for not cluing in and realizing that there was more to it than a notorious mobster wanting a human pet.
He winced as another pebble pressed into the soft flesh of his human foot. He didn’t understand why anyone wanted one of these things—they seemed incredibly breakable. From what Andrew had told him, humans couldn’t shapeshift, so they had no way of defending themselves. They didn’t have claws or armor or poison or sharp teeth or anything, really, and they couldn’t just suddenly sprout those things, not like Oz could.
Maybe the difference was that humans were rare and Vetruvians were, well, everywhere. Plus, their shapeshifting nature made them more difficult to pin down, leading to an intensive dislike of the species …
He almost sighed as Saveur came into view, the neon sign burning in the deepening night.
Then he slowed his step. Something was wrong. All the lights were on, but there were no patrons; instead, two big brutes with machine guns guarded the door. The windows had been shuttered; light escaped only through the cracks.
Benedict’s grip on his arm tightened, the cat’s claws digging into his biceps. “What’s all this?” he asked Vito. He sounded, at once, hollow and betrayed.
Vito grinned at him. “Nothing to worry your head about,” he cajoled. “Just a little extra security for our special guest, hm?”
Benedict frowned at the mobster a moment longer, then turned back to the club. “It’s long after opening,” he said. “The place should be hopping.”
“My client needs complete privacy to finish this transaction,” Vito said, ushering them to the door. The guards saluted to him, and they passed into the foyer.
Shakes was standing at the tiny hostess booth, gripping it with both hands, terror in her eyes. Oz wondered what the hell had happened in the meantime; he’d never seen the normally exuberant girl look so rattled.
“W-welcome,” she stammered, then glanced toward the guards at the door. “This way, please.”
She fumbled with menus, but Vito waved a hand. “No need for those, sweetheart,” he purred. “Just bring us the best champagne you have on hand—courtesy of your boss, ah?”
He grinned over his shoulder at Benedict. Oz had never been more tempted to punch the living daylights out of someone.
He refrained, though; one, he didn’t think it would do much for his cover, and two, he wasn’t quite sure how to go about it while he was tied up. Instead, he let Vito and his goons herd him along to one of the booths, ignoring the slide of velvet against his skin. He was dressed in as little as Mugs had deemed fitting for a human slave, which meant he barely had enough to cover his nether regions from prying eyes, and even that was questionable while he was moving.
He tried not to grimace as Vito slid in beside him, grinning toothily as his gaze raked up and down Oz. “Zeke is gonna like what he sees,” the mobster practically hissed to him, and Oz suppressed a shudder.
He had a moment of panic when Sassa arrived at the table. She didn’t look nearly as shell-shocked as Shakes did, but there was still something distant in her eyes, something that spoke volumes about bad shit having gone down before they’d arrived.
Somehow, she tamped down on it and her expression relaxed into a beneficient smile, pulling on the mantle of gracious hostess. “How can I help you gentlemen this evening?” she purred as she pulled out a tablet, her painted claws glittering under the low lights of the room.
“Champagne,” Vito ordered. “The best of what you’ve got—all of it.”
“Of course,” Sassa said, flashing that same smile before sauntering off like she wanted to impress them.
Oz felt a little sick. Was this always what it was like in the club? He wouldn’t know; he’d always hidden himself behind the bar.
His gaze locked with Benedict’s as he turned to peer across the table. The felid was wedged between a couple of Vito’s goons, and from the look on his face, Oz wouldn’t have been surprised if at least one of them had a gun pressed to his back, daring him to make a move.
Oz tried to swallow his tension and fear, but his mouth had gone dry.
How the hell were they going to get out of this? He knew for fact neither Benedict nor Mugs had banked on Oz being sold to another; they’d thought Vito wanted a human for his own purposes. The idea that Oz could escape was predicated on that.
He guessed he might be able to escape this other buyer—they definitely wouldn’t be expecting a Vetruvian, which meant they wouldn’t take proper security precautions …
Or maybe they would. Humans were incredibly valuable, and if this buyer had had so much trouble getting his paws on one, he might not be willing to take any chances.
No, Oz had to escape, and he had to escape now. He looked at Benedict again and found the same determination on the felid’s face.
The door banged open, and in sauntered a burly alien in a too-tight suit, his purple locks flowing over his shoulders.
Vito rose, holding his hat to his chest. “Ah, Yorip,” he said, voice like oil dripping across water. “A pleasure.”
“Pleasure’s all mine,” the alien returned, glancing at the table. “You got what we asked for?”
Vito smiled and gestured to Oz. Oz resisted the urge to hunch his shoulders as Yorip looked him over, appraising him like a gem.
Finally, the alien turned away. “He’ll do,” he said gruffly.
“Excellent news,” Vito replied, “I’m so glad we’ve found one that suits. Come on, have a seat—we need to toast to this.”
Yorip grunted; he clearly didn’t want to hang around any longer than he needed to, no doubt eager to get back to whatever rock he’d crawled out from under. Oz shuddered to think what he’d do with his … new acquisition.
Finally, Yorip perched stiffly at the edge of the seating. “I’ll toast,” he said, “but I gotta get back to the boss—don’t wanna keep him waiting, you know?”
The words were edgy, loaded. Like a jab at Vito—he’d kept the boss waiting too long, apparently, taken too long to get the goods.
“Of course not,” Vito agreed. “I was hoping he’d come and collect himself, but he’s a busy man. I understand that.”
The lackey grunted, then glanced at Oz again, eyes narrowing. Oz’s heart tripped a little faster, and for a second, he thought the jig was up—this guy could see right through him.
Yorip looked away again, glancing around at the chandeliers. “Nice digs,” he said.
Vito leaned back, the velvet seat squealing under him as his weight shifted. “Isn’t it just? I’m thinking about redecorating.”
Oz turned to him, an eyebrow quirked, just as Benedict made a strange choking noise. Vito grinned again, all teeth as he met the futile fury of Benedict’s gaze.
Yorip was still looking around. “Wasn’t this La Chef’s place?” he asked.
“Ownership’s changed hands,” Vito drawled. “You know how it is.”
“Mm,” the lackey agreed, glancing up at Sassa as she delivered the bottle of champagne in its ice bucket. Shakes was passing around crystal flutes, barely controlling the tremors of her hands, which made the glassware sing.
Yorip grabbed her wrist, hauling her in, evaluating her with a critical eye. “You willing to let this little beauty go too?” he asked, and Shakes tried to pull away.
Benedict cleared his throat. “She’s not his,” he declared.
Vito snorted. “Isn’t she now, cat?”
Benedict glared. “She’s not,” he argued. “Nothing in here is—this is my place.”
Yorip frowned, confused, but Vito looked completely unruffled. “Is it?” he asked.
“Yes,” Benedict replied. “La Chef was my aunt, and she willed everything to me?—”
“And you need to dig your crumbling little empire out from under a mountain of debt,” Vito almost crooned, producing a piece of paper from his breast pocket. “And your accountant was all too willing to sell this dump when he heard about how much it would take off the loan.”
Benedict frowned. “What loan?—”
Vito grinned and let the paper fall open, revealing the deed to the building. Oz’s heart sank. Dismay was plastered all over Benedict’s face, like he couldn’t believe Gwuill had sold them out.
Oz kinda wished he couldn’t believe that, but he could.
He glanced at Benedict. They had to get that deed and set fire to it. Tomorrow, they’d hunt down Gwuill and stomp on them until they canceled the sale, the slimeball.
Before he could say anything, though, the lights cut out, plunging the restaurant into darkness. A siren blared outside, as did a bright light, flashing in through the boarded-up windows, casting an eerie glow over all of them, frozen at the table, eyes wide.
Not even Benedict knew what was going on, apparently.
“Open up!” someone hollered.
“Fucking hell,” Vito spat.
Yorip was on his feet. “If this is a set-up,” he growled.
“It ain’t a set-up!” Vito fired back, stumbling to his own feet, knocking his knees against the table in his haste. He yanked cruelly on Oz’s arm, and Oz stumbled out of the booth behind him.
“The kitchen,” Vito grumbled to Yorip, who grunted in reply. The two of them started for the back door, fumbling through the darkness.
“We got reports of an unsanctioned slave transaction going on here!” the officer outside bellowed. “Come out with your hands up, and no one gets hurt!”
Vito waved to some of his goons just as they reached the door. “Fire,” he hissed, and the lackeys tumbled back toward the windows.
Oz looked frantically around in the dark. Where were Shakes and Sassa? The other hosts? What about Benedict?
Yorip practically kicked him through the kitchen door. “Get a move on,” he growled. “I ain’t going back to Zeke empty-handed.”
Oz spotted Sassa’s glowing gaze underneath the sink, where she and Shakes were cowering.
“Don’t worry,” he called to them, “I’ll help you!”
They both stared at him blankly as machine gun fire opened up in the dining room.
Yorip bashed him on the back of the head, then kicked the back of his knees. “I said move!” he bellowed, then shoved Oz out the door, into the alley behind Saveur.
As he pulled his hand away from the back of his head, frowning at sticky blood, it dawned on Oz that he was still in human form. Sassa and Shakes hadn’t recognized him.
And this bastard didn’t know what he was dealing with.
With that thought filling his sails, Oz drew his molecules together and shrank. His bonds fell away as he tumbled to the ground. Above him, he heard Yorip swearing, and he grinned, thinking about how satisfying it was going to be to clock this guy one.
Maybe Mugs was right about this whole daring escape thing.
Before he could do anything, though, Benedict came barreling out of the dark with a?—
Was that a goddamn brick ?
Whatever it was, it smashed into Yorip’s skull. The alien stumbled, grabbing at the back of his head. “What the?—”
“Let him go!” Benedict roared in a primal tone Oz had never heard before. It sent shivers through him, nearly knocking him off his feet.
Whack ! Benedict landed another blow, and Yorip dropped the gun in his hands. He stumbled a step or two, hand out. “Back off, man,” he growled, trying to regain his balance.
Oz would have taken that moment to size up, except Yorip tried to dodge another enraged blow from Benedict and stepped right on him.
Oz barely had the sense to turn himself into a puddle, springing away as the lackey’s foot landed on him. Pain shot through all of his cells, and he felt sick. A wave of dizziness broke over him, and it took everything he had to drag himself back together, so he could sprawl on the filthy asphalt, gasping for breath.
He heard Benedict roar again, Yorip swearing. The brick went flying, and when Oz looked up again, the two of them were locked by the hands, each trying to push the other, both of them snarling.
Oz was about to yell at them when he heard the click of a gun, and cold steel pressed itself to his temple.
“I should have fucking known,” Vito snarled in his ear.