It was as much a request as a challenge. “Glad to. Follow me.”
I didn’t know whether he could handle himself in a fight or whether he’d know what to do if a crazed Halfie charged him with teeth bared. It was a good time to find out. I navigated a path around the leaking, filthy trash heaps to a boarded back door covered in handwritten variations of “Keep Out” and “No Trespassing.” I tested the knob—it turned, opened.
We entered a haze of cigarette smoke and chilly air, swirled with heavy music and the sharp odor of blood. The tiny back room was the owner’s office—I wasn’t sure of his real name, but I knew it wasn’t Mike—and it was cluttered with boxes of belongings. Coats, wallets, baseball caps, boxing gloves, gym bags, shoes, clothing of all sorts for both males and females. Items probably taken off hapless innocents who’d dared to knock on the door and request entrance to the gym.
Once upon a time, that evidence alone would have warranted a Triad cleansing of every Dreg inside the place. Today, I didn’t have the time to be bothered. But I made a mental note to pass the information along to Kismet or Baylor, in case one of them wanted to make an example out of the place later.
Past an overflowing filing cabinet, I pushed through a gaudy beaded curtain into a short hallway that reeked of sweat, mildew, and tepid water. Six feet down on the right was a locker room. Voices trickled out, laughing at a joke about a woman and six vampires. We passed without incident, footsteps absorbed by rubber matting on the floor. Yellowed, peeling posters advertising amateur nights and “survive three minutes for a hundred bucks” matches covered the poorly painted walls.
A few yards farther, the hall bent sharply right, out into the gym area. I licked my lips, adrenaline kicking in and pumping up my heart rate a few notches. I clenched my fists, unclenched, refrained from cracking my knuckles. Vampires have excellent senses of hearing and smell; Halfies less so, but I was still surprised no one had noticed our presence. Yet.
I looked back to check on my shadow. Phin’s face had taken on the sharp, attentive look of a hunter. Hands were curled by his sides, shoulders tense, back straight. His eyes met mine; he tilted his chin in a slight nod. The chilly air seemed to shift. His attention diverted past me, eyes widening just a fraction. Shit.
I turned and ducked. The wind of the missed blow sailed over my head, and I drove my fist up into someone’s bare six-pack. The owner gasped and doubled over, right into my left fist. My underworked knuckles ached. The second hit knocked him sideways into the wall, and the heavy thudding sound announced our arrival.
A dozen male voices shouted. The music was shut off. Leather slapped leather; feet hit the mat. I stepped over the crumpled body of my first attacker and out into the gym itself. And right into view of at least fifteen able- bodied men.
A boxing ring took up the center of the space, its taut ropes the only thing in the place less than ten years old. Bruised and patched heavy bags, an array of rusty weights and frayed ropes, and all manner of sparring mats surrounded the ring. The attendees were scattered around the room, every single one of them sporting similar white-blotched hair and luminous, silver-specked eyes. Halfies, just as I’d hoped.
Phin was behind me and to my left. I wanted Wyatt there, watching my back, not laid up in the hospital. He’d have enjoyed this kind of tussle.
No one attacked. For half a minute, no one moved.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” I said.
Glances were exchanged. Most of them just stared. Not the sharpest crayons in the box.
One finally pushed his way to the front. Thick arms and legs were covered with intricate tattoos that disappeared beneath his shorts and wife-beater T. Even his neck was tattooed. His scalp was shaved clean, all the white-blotched hair relegated to his chin in a thick, bushy beard that looked like it hadn’t been trimmed all year. He cracked taped knuckles and put his hands on his square hips.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked. His voice matched his barrel-shaped body, deep and rumbling from somewhere low in his chest.
“Would you believe I’m a sports agent, out scouting talent?”
“Fuck no.”
“A man after my own vocabulary.”
Thick eyebrows scrunched together. “Like I said, who the fuck are you?”
I cocked my head to the side. “Just a concerned citizen, wandering around town to see who knows why there was a Halfie downtown at St. Eustachius this morning, armed with a .45, a hand grenade, and a bad attitude.”
“Don’t know.”
He was too quick on the draw to be telling the truth. “Yeah? How about your friends?”
“Been here since dawn, bitch.”
“Now was that nice?” I took three steps forward, still out of arm’s reach of any single Halfie, but close to invading Tattoo Guy’s personal space. “After all, I didn’t come in here calling you names, dickwad.”
He growled. “You and your boyfriend looking to join up? That it?”
“Thanks, but I have a gym membership. It’s a nice place. You and your girlfriends should check it out sometime.”
“Not what I meant.” He bared his teeth, showing off a pair of brilliant fangs. He looked up and down the length of my figure, not bothering to hide his appraisal. His leer gave me the skeevies, but I shoved that particular ick into the back of my mind. Had to keep my head in the fight.
It occurred to me then that I’d made a deadly tactical error—no weapons larger than my single knife, which was out of reach in my ankle sheath.
Some flash of apprehension must have made its way into my expression, because Tattoo roared, and the gathered Halfies descended on us in a crush.
“Don’t let them bite you,” I shouted, and slammed an approaching boxer in the throat with the V between my thumb and first finger. His eyes bugged and he backpedaled, gasping.
Someone tackled me from behind, sending us both to the mats. I tucked and rolled, dislodging the parasite from my back. Everything was moving so quickly—air, hands, fists, smells, sounds—I could only react. Swept two pairs of legs out from under unbalanced bodies. Knocked a few teeth loose. Split the skin on my knuckles punching someone in the chin. Snapped at least one neck. I was moving on mental instinct, if not quite physical instinct, stretching unpracticed muscles and tottering on unsure footing.
It was times like these I really missed my old body.
I’d lost track of Phin and had no time to look for him. Pressure struck the small of my back. I dropped to my knees, stunned by the blow. Metal glinted. I snatched up the weight bar, no weights yet attached, and swung it in a wide arc. It vibrated in my hands as it struck flesh time and again. Voices howled. Bone snapped. Adrenaline pumped through my veins, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. Anger further fueled my movements.
Bar tucked close to my chest, I rolled again, twice, and then came up on my knees. Wobbled. Pulled the bar back, ready to swing it like a bat. Tattoo stood in front of me, one eye cut and bathed in blood, growling like a dog in a barn fight.
“Come and get me, motherfucker,” I snarled.
Tattoo laughed and quirked one eyebrow.
Shit. My head was ringing before I felt the blow. I dropped the bar, palms hitting the mat before I fell face- first into it. My lungs froze; they didn’t want to inhale. My vision blurred.
A battle cry erupted across the room, like nothing I’d ever heard before. Shrill and piercing, like the screech of a furious bird. Challenging and angry, it filled every empty corner of that crusty old gym.
Air whooshed. Skin splatted against mats and walls. Men grunted and cried out. Someone grabbed my hair by the chopsticks knot and yanked. Oxygen screamed into my lungs as I was hauled upward, backward. Against someone’s sweaty chest. An arm snaked around my middle and held me tight, pinning my arms to my sides. The other arm was hard against my throat. The scratchy beard gave Tattoo away.
Mesmerized by the sight in front of me, I didn’t struggle at first. Phineas charged a pair of Halfies, his mottled angel wings expanded to their full width, the black polo hanging in shreds off his corded shoulders. He spun as he gained ground, using those wings to knock both Halfies ten feet away. One struck a wall, the other the corner of the boxing ring. Neither got back up. No one was getting up.
Phin pivoted, wings arched high and close to his body, and set his sights on me and Tattoo. He didn’t move, just stared—the perfect hunter observing his prey. I watched him, breathing carefully, waiting for a sign. Any
