The other men nodded in agreement.
“And then?” Slate demanded.
“We got up and chased the poor guy out of the bar.” The Caspian shook his head. “I'm ashamed to even admit this, but we hunted him through the Zone to his home where other Báalam came to his defense.”
“Not very many of them,” Slate noted.
“No.” The Caspian glanced at the others. “The Báalam would never send more warriors into a fight than their opponents had. It's a pride thing. They believe it makes them look weak to use numbers instead of strength to win.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Do you think they're behind this? That they lured us there?”
“I don't know what to think,” Slate growled. “But for now, the four of you will remain here.”
“I swear to you, Zone Lord, we are not savages,” the Caspian said. “We did not intend to attack them.”
“You certainly don't appear so now,” Slate agreed. “But something brought forth your inner beasts, and I will discover what it is before I allow you the freedom of my zone.”
The men bowed their heads in acceptance.
Chapter Four
“Masonry is a Gargoyle favorite,” Slate said to Jago. “There had to be at least one of our people present when the fight broke out.”
We were in Slate's office; a darkly masculine space divided in half by a fireplace with a floating flue that resembled a sword. The Zone Lord sat behind his desk, a picture window showcasing his zone behind him. I sat nearby, in a chair he'd dragged over for me so I wouldn't have to do the girlfriend-lean on his desk. Jago stood before us, hands in his pockets and shoulder set against the wall, casually giving his report.
“There was,” Jago said. “Two, in fact. They said the same thing that Jeanette, the waitress, said; the Kaplans were eating and drinking, completely calm, then the Báalam walked by and they went nutso. I had the guys pack up all the dirty glasses in the back and grabbed a pitcher of wine to test for drugs. No results yet.”
“Very well,” Slate grumbled. “Tell Aaro I want to—”
“Boss, we got more fighting!” A voice came through the intercom on Slate's desk.
“Where?” Slate demanded as he hit a button then stood and shrugged out of his jacket.
“Gypsum; near the end.”
“That's the Kar neighborhood,” Jago noted with a scowl.
Slate kicked off his shoes as he unbuttoned his shirt. “Who's fighting?”
“Kars and Dumas.”
“Fucking cats!” Slate snarled. “What the fuck?!”
“I don't know, Boss, but it's bad.”
“On my way.” Slate hit the intercom button again and finished getting undressed. He strode to the door buck-naked. “El, I may need your help before the day is done.”
“I got you, babe.” I headed downstairs behind him, perhaps appreciating the view just a bit. Slate has a phenomenal ass.
The corridor was too narrow for Slate to shift; he had to wait until he got outside to do that. He stepped into the courtyard confidently, as comfortable in his birthday suit as in any other. A few arena inmates were working out in the exercise yard nearby but no one hooted at him or made any commentary at all. They knew better than that.
“Get them inside!” Jago shouted at the Gargoyles guarding the prisoners.
“Yes, Sir!” One of the guards said then waved the inmates indoors. “You heard him; let's go!”
Meanwhile, Slate had shifted back to Gargoyle and grabbed my waist. He took us into the air while Jago was still getting out of his clothes. He'd undoubtedly follow; Jago may be the Arena Warden but he was also Slate's right-hand man. You'd think it would be one of Slate's brothers, but I had the impression that Binx and Aaro were partial “owners” of the Zone. They weren't its ruler, but they were founding fathers; Princes to Slate's King.
I clung to Slate's thick shoulders as we flew across the Zone once more, heading toward yet another section that I hadn't been to before. The Kar are Wereleopards and the Duma are Werecheetahs. It was odd enough that cat-shifters were fighting again but these particular cats shared no violence in their history, no past grievances between them at all, making this even more strange. Strange enough to eliminate the possibility of a coincidence.
“Someone is targeting cats,” I spoke into Slate's ear.
“It seems so,” his voice was lower and raspier in this form.
“How many races do you have here?”
“All of the Felinae are represented.”
All of them. Fuck.
How many types of cat people are there? RS asked.
Obviously a lot. Do you need an exact number? Kyanite asked derisively.
Yes, I do.
I don't fucking know the number! I shouted in my head. Now, help me come up with a song to soothe cats.
Do not worry, my love. I will think of one, Kyanite said soothingly.
Do not worry, my love. I will think of one, RS mocked, imitating Ky's voice like a six-year-old might.
You are a child.
Compared to you, yeah.
Song! I shouted.
Yes, of course, my love.
But Slate and I were already descending, coming down on the outskirts of a battle. There were no onlookers this time; the Zone residents had smarted up and ran for the safety of their homes. Probably because there weren't only Kars and Dumas rending each other to bloody strips but also Simbas. And all while a bunch of Gargoyles tried to smack them into unconsciousness. Oh, just to be clear, the word “simba” means “lion” in Swahili—a word adopted in honor of the Lion-Shifter race who had settled in Africa a very long time ago. It's not just the name of a Disney character. Although the Simbas—one of the more peaceful of the Felinae races (because they were so badass that they didn't have to fight)—thought the use of their name in a cartoon to be fantastically funny.
They weren't laughing now.
As Slate broke away from me to break some predator cat noses, I panicked and launched into the first song I could think of; one inspired by the Simba, no
