She laughed. God, she was being so silly. It was just a door — probably led to the restrooms. Running her hand over her forehead, she stepped through the doorway and right back into the room she had left.
What the hell. She looked around. The door was now behind her. How did that happen? Mumbling to herself, she turned around and rapped her fist on the door frame. The solid sound of her knuckles knocking against wood assured her she wasn’t completely losing it. Or was she?
She stepped back to analyze the doorway again. Hairs on the back of her neck stood up, accompanied by the crawling feeling of someone watching her. As casually as she could, she cast a glance over her shoulder. Studying her from behind a half-smoked cigarette was the creepy little man in the stained hoodie.
Kara resisted the embarrassed laugh that tickled the back of her throat.
So some vagrant, probably lit up on heavens knew what, saw her talking to herself, walking through a door that led nowhere. No reason to be embarrassed. Probably an hourly occurrence for him. Still, she was feeling a little uncomfortable in the Guardian’s Keep right now. Not that it was ever welcoming.
And she had learned some things. The bartender definitely knew something about witches and their disappearances. Then there was his odd comment about a hellhound. That certainly warranted at least an Internet search — and chatting with Risk.
And she didn’t think the bartender was coming back anytime soon. She peered past the doorway into the darkness. No sign of anything — just a murky blackness. She should check again, though, right? She should. She really should.
Balling up her fists and screwing up what courage she had, she took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway again. This time she landed on the front step of the bar.
Damn. She glanced up, her heart pounding loudly in her chest. The blue-gray sign of the Guardian’s Keep swung above her head suspended by two chains. The creak of the metal links against each other and the damp feel of air laden with unshed snow assured her she was truly back outside.
She spun, her hand on the cold metal doorknob before her rational mind caught up with her. That doorway beside the bar was taking her nowhere. Or worse, it might take her anywhere.
A sudden gust hit the sign above; the chain let off a squealing complaint. Kara jumped, falling forward and knocking against the closed front door. She leaned there for a second, her breath escaping in quick huffs.
That door could take her anywhere. The thought seeped into her brain. She pressed her forehead against the cold wood. Believing these things wasn’t easy. But she had to — if she blithely walked through that doorway again, she might land anywhere — northern Siberia, Mars, hell…She rapped her head against the door softly. Point was, it could most certainly be someplace she couldn’t easily escape.
Right now, her Honda was parked a short walk away, waiting to be coaxed into life. A lot smarter choice than tempting whatever had control of that doorway. Even knowing the logic of leaving, she hesitated. Leaving felt like failure. She was fed up with failure.
She curled her fingers into her palm and shook her head. Time to pack it in and go find Risk. Standing out here would get her nowhere. There was no shame in getting help to sort it all out.
Her arms wrapped around her for warmth, she gazed across the parking lot where she’d encountered the dogs before. The sun blared down on her providing little heat, but plenty of cheerful light.
No sign of any dogs today, she assured herself. Just a few empty feet of asphalt and snow, then she’d get in her Honda, say a few mantras and cajole the machine into taking her home.
Nothing bad could happen in the face of such glorious sunshine. After one last glance around, she trekked toward her car.
Risk fell to the ground with a grunt, Venge’s arms wrapped around his waist. Lusse, still on the dais above them, waved the bloody bandage like a hanky.
The bitch.
Risk muttered an oath and shoved his hands onto Venge’s shoulders, trying to push him away. The boy wouldn’t budge.
His heels dug into the mud, Risk fought for leverage. Venge held tight. Without changing, Risk doubted he could break his son’s hold. And he wouldn’t change — too much was riding on him now. Kara, her sister, and his son, whether Venge realized it or not.
Muscles straining to keep Venge from shifting his grip from Risk’s waist to his neck, Risk addressed his son. “This is what she wants. You. Me. All of us fighting. It only strengthens her control. She feeds off it. Steals our energy to use against us later.”
Venge wedged his legs back underneath himself and burrowed his head into Risk’s rib cage, pushed them forward through the mud. The oily, bloody gunk caked into Risk’s hair, and chunked over his shoulders onto his stomach. But Venge’s change in posture also gave Risk a new opening.
Forcing the back of his head deeper into the gunk, Risk curled his feet toward his body, catching Venge in the gut and sending his son flying over his head to land with a splat in the mud.
Shaking the goo from his body, Risk stood up. Venge lay on his back for only seconds before flipping himself upright — into a crouch. Rage poured out of him.
Risk’s own anger peaked in response. Clenching his fists, he tamped down the emotion and looked around for the other males. All five stood behind the power grid that separated spectators from participants. For the first time, Risk noticed the viewing area was full. All of Lusse’s hounds had turned out for today’s little event.
Satisfied that at least the fight was solely between him and his son — at least until Lusse decided to interfere — Risk lowered into a fight stance.
“You are playing into her hands. You’re smarter than that — or should be.” He flicked his hand, sending a black glob soaring into the crisp blue sky.
Venge snorted, and took a step closer.
Risk matched his move, his feet slogging sideways through the mud. His foot hit something solid. Without letting his gaze drop from Venge, he ran his bare foot over the object, round and hard. Sigurd’s staff.
“Why so angry?” he asked, moving again until he was centered over the stick.
Venge lowered his eyebrows, his hands curling closed in front of him.
A sharp breeze cut through the ring, shooting the evidence of Venge’s emotions straight at Risk. Anger, determination and the first whiffs of power.
Risk was losing him. Venge was on the verge of changing.
There was only one way to stop him. Defeat him first.
Mumbling words of regret that his son wouldn’t appreciate, Risk dropped to the ground, yanked the staff through the inches of mud that covered it, and bits of muck flying like a swarm of locusts, pole-vaulted across the fifteen feet that separated them. With a roar he landed an arm’s reach from his son.
Venge stared back at him, his eyes turning crimson. Before Venge’s change could go further or Risk’s own hellhound nature could manifest, he raised the pole and cracked it across his son’s face.
Venge crumpled to his knees, his face frozen in disbelief. Blood streamed from where Risk’s staff had struck, making a trail down Venge’s forehead into his eyes. Eyes that glimmered red for one second. Then noiselessly, Venge dropped into the mud unconscious.
With a growl, Risk flung the staff across the rink and into the grid. The pole exploded, sending chunks of wood and mud splattering around the arena. The hounds behind the grid stood silent, all eyes filled with assessment.
Had Risk helped Venge or just endangered him more? The other males knew Risk’s trick. Knew he could have killed Venge outright or simply allowed him to change — a death sentence by forandre rules. Would they now see Venge as an easy mark? Realize his tie to Risk?
Risk strode to his son’s unconscious body. Time to add to the act. Confuse them if nothing else. Arms raised to signal his victory, he lifted his bare foot and used it to smash his son’s face firmly into the mud.
With a roar, Risk stepped around his son’s prone body and stared up at Lusse. She leaned over the railing, the bandage in her hand waving in the breeze. Her eyes sparkling, she dropped the bloodied cloth. A flick of her
