Chapter 7
SEVEN
There’s no such thing as fighting dirty.
CELINE
My whole body itches.
Anika’s appearance, Ciprian asking Luca about the dead demon. It’s getting to me. If I don’t do something to distract myself, I’m going to stab someone.
“Let’s go to the fight tonight,” I say, unzipping my thigh-high boots and tossing Imani my most winning smile. We’ve been rehearsing a new duet routine, and it’s starting to come together.
She thinks about it, her eyebrows arched, shaking her head when I pout. “Fine,” she groans. “It’s not my first choice for a night off, but why the hell not?”
“That’s the spirit.” I check the mirror and adjust my high ponytail until it sits evenly on the crown of my head, then point at her. “But you can’t use your magic to fuck with the fighters.”
Imani frowns. “But that’s the most fun part. Why else would I want to watch sweaty, shirtless dudes writhe around in a cage?”
“They hit each other. A lot.”
“That’s true,” Imani says. “I guess it has its moments.”
I rub my hands together, getting more excited about a real night out the more I think about it. “I’ll buy you a beer and kidney punch anyone who tries to feel you up in the crowd.”
“Oh baby,” she coos. “Talk dirty to me.”
We both laugh, and I check the time on my phone. If we stop rehearsing and relax awhile, we’ll have plenty of time to get ready and be there in time for the bigger fights.
“Meet me there at nine?” I ask.
Imani nods. “It’s a date.”
“Damn,” I crow, dragging the word out as Imani giggles and spins, then blows me a slow-motion kiss.
She’s wearing the hell out of her black mini dress, fishnet tights making her long legs appear endless.
With her corkscrew curls blown out into an afro and her lips painted a deep magenta, she’s holding up traffic.
I laugh out loud as one guy walks directly into a parked car while staring at her.
“You’re going to end the night satisfied,” I say.
Imani smiles, a hint of her siren nature peeking through. “Yeah, that’s the plan. Especially if you won’t let me play with the fighters.”
“Something tells me you’ll make do.” I chuckle, linking my arm with hers, and pull her down the street in the direction of the warehouse.
There’s a slight stiffness in her normally fluid gait that wasn’t there when we rehearsed earlier.
It adds another itch to my growing collection.
“Imani . . . You’d tell me if it was getting bad again, wouldn’t you? ”
She inhales. The sound is weary. It belongs on someone far older and more jaded than my beautiful best friend. “The nightmares are back,” she admits. “It’s been hard to handle the soaks, but I’ll manage.”
I tighten my grip on her arm, anger stirring in my bones. It takes a lot to make a siren afraid of water. If I could get my hands on the people who drove Imani to flee to a literal desert climate, I’d be happy to provide them with some payback phobias, free of charge.
“You’ll let me know if I can help,” I say, my tone making it clear this isn’t optional.
Imani rolls her eyes. “Yeah, you can punch the water in my bathtub to your heart’s content.”
“Can I kick it, too?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “That would make too big of a splash. I want my deposit back if I decide to move.”
We turn the corner, and the wide, dented door of the Mouth of Hell comes into view.
It’s old, battered, and easy to overlook most days.
Tonight, though—with a line of supernaturals forming outside—there’s no missing it.
Unless you’re a human who wandered onto this street by mistake .
. . then all you’d see is a filthy wall before being overcome by an urge to turn around.
My heart rate picks up, but it’s excitement, not fear.
The supernatural fight club is rough. The kind of place you don’t step into unless you can handle yourself, which makes it wildly popular in a fringe community like ours, where it’s every creature for themselves.
I doubt the enclave would approve, but since they haven’t bothered to shut it down, business is booming.
“It’s packed,” we say in unison. Imani sounds as if someone just told her she has six days left to live, and I sound like I won the lottery. We look at each other and giggle.
Imani rolls her shoulders back, tilting her chin up. “You owe me for this.”
“Anything you want,” I promise, unlinking our arms and guiding her slim fingers to the waist of my leather pants. “Hold on tight; you’re in for a bumpy ride.” This is my favorite part.
With a devious smile on my face, I carve a path through the crowd, creating space for us to pass through with a few dozen well-placed elbows.
Skipping the line entirely, we make it inside with only a handful of curses and glares thrown our way.
All of which fade to sappy, besotted grins when the idiots catch sight of Imani.
The Mouth of Hell used to be an abandoned warehouse—now it’s the most notable Vegas fringe destination I know. Every time we come, the magic and showmanship get more impressive while maintaining the grungy charm it’s known for.
Exhibit one: the stacks. Made of splintery piles of pallets, haphazardly lashed together by gods know what, the stacks poke up from around the dusty warehouse floor like termite mounds in the desert. They give spectators a good vantage point and a better opportunity to brawl over the best ones.
I stop by my favorite, annoyed when I see two drunken shifters are already sitting there. “Our seats are taken,” I groan, my shoulders slumping. I could yank them off, but—
“Hey boys, do you mind if we borrow those seats? I can’t see a thing.” Imani’s voice is coaxing, melodic, and utterly mesmerizing.
The pair of shifters practically climb over each other in their hurry to get down. When one trips and falls flat on his face, I almost feel sorry for him. The other blinks at Imani with wide-eyed adoration. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he declares.
“That’s correct,” I say. “Thank you for vacating our seats.” I pat him on the shoulder with a cheery grin, then step over his friend’s prone body to leap up on the stack. It lurches to the right but doesn’t collapse. That’s why it’s my favorite.
“Fucking rickety ass, piece of—”
“Hey, it never lets us fall,” I interrupt Imani’s rant to defend the makeshift platform and give her a hand up.
Perching on one of the crates, she primly crosses her legs. She has to raise her voice to be heard over the grungy rock music pumping into the warehouse from the speakers lining the walls. “With all the magic in here, you’d think we could get some better seating.”
“Permanent spells are expensive.” I shrug. “And there’s room up here for me to let out my wings.”
Imani whips her head around. “Are you sure you should? With that kid popping up out of the blue and Luca seeing your runes . . . Maybe you should keep a low profile.”
“But . . .” I scowl, the itch capturing my attention again. “I hate that plan.”
“It’s not forever, Celine.” Imani pats my arm. “Only until we know which direction to aim you.”
“You make me sound like a weapon.” I grin, cheered by the thought, and check out the caged ring in the center of the floor. “They’ve made it bigger since the last time we came. The support beams are level now too.”
“If you say so,” Imani grumbles. Hovering off the ground, the ring is surrounded by a metal cage. Similar to the platform we’re sitting on, it looks unsafe, but I can practically taste the enchantments woven into it from here.
“Do you miss it?” Imani asks, drawing my attention away from the cage. I consider pretending not to know what she means, then shrug. I don’t keep secrets from her. Not anymore.
When I got a job at the Fang six years ago, I had no clue how to dance.
Imani taught me, patiently ignoring my prickly attitude and slipping past my barriers so gradually I didn’t realize it was happening until it was too late to push her out.
I worry about the risk, but I can admit to myself that I would be lost without her.
“Only on the days that end with y,” I sigh.
“Celine.”
“I wanted to come out tonight to get my mind off everything,” I say, gesturing to the bloodthirsty crowd and grinning when a guy gets tired of trying to push his way through the bodies and howls like a beast. “Even I can admit it would be a horrible idea for the angry-but-fuckable angel to paint a bigger target on her back by fighting in public.”
“That makes me sad, babe.” Imani’s tone is soft, but matter-of-fact. No minimizing my emotions or giving me solutions we both know are a waste of time.
I shrug, flexing my shoulder blades and ignoring the complaints from my pinned wings. “I’ve lived more than long enough to learn life isn’t fair.”
“You’re only twenty-seven.” Imani laughs, then sobers. “I would give you fair if I could,” she vows.
My heart clenches, and I squeeze her hand. “And I love you for it. Now, quit being sweet and scope the crowd out. Is there anyone here you want me to play wingwoman for?”
“That was a horrible pun.” Imani groans, bumping her shoulder against mine. Despite her whining, she accepts my subject change with a knowing smirk, then scans the sea of people. Her eyes stop on a tall woman with a simple braid and an intricate tattoo sleeve. “Have I hit on her before?” she asks.
“I don’t think so.” I squint to get a better look at the sexy blonde. “Do you want to go over?”
Imani grins and pushes to her feet, shooting me a wink. “No help needed. I seem to remember you owing me a beer, though.”
“Oh, she’s cocky,” I say.
“Thirsty,” she corrects me.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m on it. Race you to see who’s back first?”
“These things shouldn’t be rushed, babe.”
Rolling my eyes, I hop off the platform and muscle my way through the crowd to the bar. One guy grabs my ass, and I break three of his fingers. His scream of pain throws some attention my way, but what am I supposed to do? Low profile can’t mean doormat, at least not for me.