Chapter Three
It didn't take long for the Weretigers to wake up. Slate had slipped on another slick suit and was just escorting me downstairs when his cellphone began to ring. Usually, Slate communicates with his Gargoyles via 2-way radios, but he doesn't carry one when he's relaxing; it's too bulky for comfort. The Zone has its own cell service since the standard signals don't reach below ground but radios are quicker and can broadcast to several units at once.
Slate pulled out his cell and answered, “Yeah?” He glanced at me as he listened. “We're on our way.”
“The Kaplan woke up?”
Slate nodded as he took my hand. This time, we drove away from the palace in Slate's sports car; a black Maserati. He took us down the main street to the Gargoyle compound. The iron gate waited open for us but rumbled closed as soon as we were through. The compound included Slate's office, which was above the main barracks building, several more barracks, a prison, and an arena—the arena I had once been forced to fight in.
It was how Slate and I had met. He'd received a tip about the big bad spellsinger who needed to be caged for the good of the Beneath and had done his civic duty by apprehending me. He'd caught Cerberus too; a bonus, in Slate's opinion. My Hellhound bestie and I had been imprisoned in the arena cells and forced to fight true Beneather criminals to survive. Several of those criminals had died recently; not in the arena but during the battle with Gargo when they'd briefly been free. If they had made a run for it, they might have escaped entirely but instead, they let their hatred lure them to the battle for some vengeance. Now, those who had survived were back in their cells.
It was toward those same prison cells that Slate led me.
Within the arena prison, there existed a hierarchy. Upon arrival, criminals were put into bare, bleak cells with little privacy and the typical iron bars. The longer they survived, which equated to the more fights they won, the better a cell they got. I guess living wasn't incentive enough. I'd been in one of the “luxury” cells—which meant it had a private bathroom—by the end of my arena stay. But that was before Slate took me out of the prison and transferred me to his apartment on the top floor of the barracks. Romantic, huh? Yes, that was sarcasm.
When we reached the arena's nicer cells, Slate didn't stop but continued past their solid steel doors and down the corridor. He took a few turns and opened a few steel doors that secured sections of the prison. Finally, we came to an area I'd never seen before. The cells were as bare as the basic arena ones, but they were mostly empty and had nicer beds.
“The jail section is reserved for zone residents who break the law,” Slate answered my questioning look. “I keep them separate from the arena fighters.”
“Good idea,” I murmured.
“Hey, Boss!” Jago, the Arena Warden, said brightly as we came down the corridor. “Hey, Diva.” He winked at me from his lounging spot against the wall. “How's this shit, eh?”
“Hi, Jago.” I kissed his cheek and his grin softened. “You in charge of the jail too?”
“Yeah. It's usually empty.” Jago shrugged and pushed off the wall. “Nobody's stupid enough to make trouble in the Zone. Not normally.” He looked pointedly at the cells.
Bars formed individual cages to either side of the long hallway. Only four were occupied; one Kaplan—in human form—in each. The men had been patched up while they were unconscious and wore bandages in addition to confused and panicked expressions. One of them got up as we approached. He was swarthy and handsome if you could look past the bandage taped to half his face.
“Zone Lord,” the man said in a reverent tone, “we are the victims of a curse.”
“A curse?” Slate stopped in his tracks.
Jago snorted. “Now, that's a new one.”
Slate shot Jago a silencing glare.
Jago held up his hands and went back to his wall.
“We were meeting with a delegate of the Bengal Tribe when a strange feeling came upon us,” the man went on in a rush. “A Báalam male walked by and all of us, including the Bengali”—he paused to wave at a man in the cell beside his—“became suddenly and irrationally overcome with anger.”
“The rest of you are Caspian?” Slate asked in his interrogation tone.
“Yes, Zone Lord,” another man answered.
The Kaplan are a tribal race. When they first came to Earth, their people had roamed far—as cats tend to do—and formed communities. These communities became tribes, named after the regions they settled in. The area around the Caspian Sea, however, was the first claimed and that tribe has always ruled the rest; a sort of seat of government. So, there is a Caspian King but also tribal chiefs. Kaplan politics can be complicated and often deadly, which is why Slate asked about their tribal affiliations.
“If I may, Zone Lord?” The Bengali lifted a hand.
Slate nodded crisply.
“I don't believe this had anything to do with the Tribes. Nor am I convinced it was a curse. We were all drinking wine, though; the same vintage.”
“You think you were poisoned?” Slate lifted a brow.
“Not poisoned precisely,” the Bengali amended. “But likely drugged. Perhaps some kind of amphetamine? I don't know.”
“Where were you drinking?” Slate asked.
“Masonry,” the Caspian answered.
Slate slid Jago a pointed look. Jago nodded and headed out; no words needed.
“Describe what happened in as much detail as possible,” Slate commanded.
“We were talking,” the Caspian said. “Discussing tribal matters. We'd had two rounds of drinks and some meat skewers. I felt disoriented at first. Then I looked up and saw the Báalam. Rage overtook me. Rage as I've never felt before. I felt... wronged by him even though I'd never met the man; didn't know his scent.”
“And the rest of you?” Slate eyed them.
“It
