by Emma Savant
“Alpha,” I finally said. “I told him his alpha would be upset if he hurt me.”
Brendan barked out a laugh and stepped back from the table, holding out his hands.
“Well, touché, Scarlett,” he said. “You’re a hell of a detective.”
“There’s more than one werewolf pack in this area,” Alec said.
I frowned at him. “Who else?”
“There’s the Buckley pack, the Blackthorns, the Lindens,” he said. “The Holmwoods. The Lowells, although their alpha moved them toward the coast a year or so back. I’m sure there are more.”
I pulled out a chair and dropped into it. “How many werewolves are there in this city?”
“More than just mine,” Brendan said.
He glared at me, and I realized, a moment too late, that I probably deserved it.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered at the table. “I guess maybe I jumped to conclusions.”
“You think?” he said. “I can’t believe you think one of us would do this. Or that we even could, given that most of my pack are still recovering from what your psycho cousin did to us.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
He kept glaring at me. I stretched my leg out under the table and kicked the chair nearest him. It skidded across the den’s hard-packed floor.
“Sit down,” I said. “How do I figure out which pack this guy was from?”
He flipped the chair around and leaned forward against its back. “Smell,” he said.
I shuddered. “He stank.”
“Yeah, but did he stink like a Buckley or a Holmwood?” he asked. Then he rolled his eyes. “Never mind; it’s not something a witch nose could figure out.”
“What was his fur like?” Alec asked. “Any distinctive markings we might recognize?”
I shook my head. “It was dark.”
“We could just go around to every pack in town and start flinging accusations,” Brendan said under his breath.
I cut my eyes at him.
“Hey, chill,” Alec said to Brendan. “We’re all tired. Don’t make it worse.”
I glanced at my watch. It was almost three in the morning. I’d scouted the whole area around Straw for clues and turned up nothing, then waited for Celine to get safely in her car before I’d come home to shower and ask Brendan what his wolves were thinking.
My body felt tired, but my mind couldn’t stop racing.
We sat in silence for a long moment, and it was incredible how quiet the den was in the middle of the night. Aside from our breathing, there was no noise—no cars driving by outside, no clocks ticking, no old mansion creaking as it settled.
Alec broke the silence.
“You think this could be one of the wolves Cate was telling us about?”
I looked over at him, but he was watching Brendan.
“What wolves?” I said.
Neither of them answered me. Brendan furrowed his brow. Finally, he nodded at Alec.
“We need more details. Go wake Cate up.”
11
Cate sat on the table, the mellow lamplight doing its part to obscure the bleary look in her eyes. Her short brown hair stuck out at odd angles, and she had on an old band T-shirt and pajama pants printed with cartoon penguins.
“You’d better have a good reason for this,” she said, aiming her grumpiness in Brendan’s general direction.
I wondered, not for the first time, exactly what her relationship was with him. She was his beta, the second-in-command of the pack, but their personal relationship seemed closer than that of a boss and assistant. They were close enough for teasing, and she was curt with Brendan in a way none of the other wolves seemed to dare be.
A tiny flicker of jealousy stirred inside me.
“You mentioned some werewolves in the city who’ve been acting differently than most,” Brendan said. “Do you remember?”
She rubbed her eyes and leaned in.
“Did you really wake me up for that?”
“It’s important.”
“If you say so.” She yawned and shook out her arms, as if that might magically transport her to the land of the living. “Yeah, I remember. What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” Brendan said. “I just remember you said there are some wolves in the city who actually live downtown.”
“What about them?”
“What else have you heard?”
She blinked at him, clearly at a loss, and I cleared my throat. I quickly explained my encounter with the werewolf outside Straw. By the time I was done, she seemed a little more awake and a little less confused at our intrusion on her sleep.
“It sounds like it could have been one of them,” she said. “Especially tonight. Full moon’s coming, and most wolves head to the forest. Even weres who don’t live in packs tend to go camping at the full moon if they can. Everything feels better in the woods.” She waved a hand, like she was trying to explain something to me that didn’t fit into words. “Like, the feeling of being a werewolf is more somehow. You’re more of a wolf, you’re more wild, you feel stronger and faster and just better.”
I glanced at the others. “Speaking of, why aren’t you guys out running right now?”
Alec snorted at the idea. “Too tired,” he said. “We’ve been working on this den nonstop, and my entire body is killing me. Last thing I want to do is go for a run, even in wolf form.”
“And we haven’t fully explored the new territory,” Brendan said, more seriously. “I don’t like to send my wolves out until we’ve figured out how big our space is and what’s safe. Especially here, where we’re at the edge of a residential area, we need to know where we can run without being seen.”
“You must feel cramped,” I said. “Sorry, I didn’t realize.”
“Better to be cramped on the Stiletto’s property than free on public lands,” Brendan said grimly. “Your cousin wasn’t the first to attack us, just the most successful.”
“These wolves you’re talking about, though?” Cate said. “They don’t seem to be interested in being in the forest. Word is, they stay in the city all the time. They stick together like a normal pack, though, and they’ve been buying up Glim clubs and forming underground gambling rings, at least according to my faerie friend who used to go to one of those clubs before the pack got hold of it. She’s pretty pissed at the changes they made.”
“Like what?” I said.
She shrugged. “Different vibe. They attract a different kind of customer. You know faeries, they don’t like anything that’s not kind of sparkly and green. And this pack doesn’t seem sparkly. They’ve got the same pack instinct the rest of us have, but the way they operate—it feels more like a gang than anything else.”
“What’s the timing on this?” I said. “Like, when did they start buying clubs?”
“Few months, maybe?” she said. “At least that’s the impression I get. Who knows? They could have been around for years, and this is just the first I’m hearing of them.”
“There’s been an uptick in the number of murders in the city over the past few months,” I said. “Nothing the Daggers have gotten called in on, but we keep tabs on that sort of thing.”
“You think it’s related?” Alec asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve just always been taught to not dismiss coincidences. There might be a connection.”
Cate frowned. “That would match up with what I’ve heard of the alpha. Sounds like he’s pretty violent, at least to people he catches cheating at the games. I heard a magician got beat up pretty badly and banned from the club.”
“Are you going to investigate?” Alec asked me.
I wrapped my hands around one of my knees and thought. Technically, I knew I should report everything I’d learned back to Grandma and let her take it from there. But everything I had so far was just rumor, and wouldn’t Grandma be more impressed if I came back with solid information?
Brendan took one look at my face, and the corner of his mout
h quirked up a little.
“I’ll go with you,” he said.
“I didn’t say I was going,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, so anyway, I’ll go with you.”
“I’d rather do it on my own.”
“I’ll still go with you.”
I sent him a glare that I hoped would make him think better of it. When he didn’t budge, I sighed in irritation. “All right, fine.”
He leaned back and folded his arms with a smile. “Okay, then,” he said, and gave me a brisk nod.
12
By the time I rode out of Carnelian’s parking tower, the sun had already set and the city streets were lit by streetlamps and traffic lights and glowing neon signs. It had rained during the day, and the asphalt still reflected every light in puddles filled with shimmering streaks of red and green. I zipped up my jacket as far up as it would go and hunched over the handlebars of my motorcycle as I navigated through the streets to the address Brendan had given me.
The club didn’t seem like much from the outside. It didn’t even resemble a club so much as the kind of seedy bar that was only sustained by regulars. A neon beer light flickered under a faded sign reading The Hideout, and the door looked like it had needed a new coat of paint several years ago.
Once inside, I stopped and did a double take. I’d expected some kind of dramatic change, like the ones that usually came when magical spaces were set inside the ordinary Humdrum world, but this place was a dingy bar on the inside, too. It was small, holding only a few grimy tables. The bar was lined with dilapidated bar stools, their faux leather seats cracked with age.
A single bartender stood in front of an uninspiring display of bottles, staring vaguely at the TV in the corner, and three men sat playing cards at one of the tables.
I approached the bar and was about to get the bartender’s attention when a hand closed around my arm. I tensed, ready to attack whoever had touched me, and then relaxed again as I realized it was just Brendan.
“I think you gave me the wrong address,” I said under my breath.
He shook his head and jerked his chin toward the faded Restrooms sign near the back. I shrugged and followed him. No one seemed to notice us as we walked into the narrow hallway under the sign, or maybe they just didn’t care.
Brendan stopped in front of a restroom door with a big Out of Order sign duct-taped to the stained white surface and tapped the words three times, once in the middle of each O.
The door swung open on unexpectedly silent hinges to reveal total blackness. Brendan took my hand and led me into the darkened room.
The instant we were through, loud music and strobing blue and purple lights swarmed my senses. The warmth of hot bodies and the sharp, sweet bite of perfume and alcohol filled my nose and clung to my skin.
Brendan pulled me through a crush of dancing people toward a bar illuminated by fireflies in elf glass jars. The fireflies’ tiny bodies crawled around as their luminescence flickered on and off, and the enchanted glass made them appear brighter and more dazzling than usual.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked. He had to be an elf; his voice was low and musical but still carried perfectly through the cacophony of music and voices.
“We’ll have—” Brendan started, and I cut him off.
“I’ll have club soda with a pinch of fairy dust,” I said loudly. I turned to Brendan. “I ended up in jail last time you got my drinks at a club, remember?”
He grimaced and ordered a Pixie Stinger. I raised an eyebrow at him.
“What?” he said.
“Didn’t realize you drank on duty.”
“Some of us can hold our liquor,” he said.
I snorted at him. “Yeah, I’ll bet.”
Alcohol wasn’t restricted in the Glimmering world the way it was in Humdrum society. We had far more potent substances available, and it was up to the proprietor of each establishment what sorts of rules they wanted to enforce for their patrons. But except for the first time I’d met Brendan—which had been a very bad day—I’d always followed the Hum guidelines and avoided alcohol. All the underage Daggers did. We were always busy training and studying, which meant no one had time to risk a hangover.
I paid for my drink and followed Brendan toward the back of the club. A set of shallow stairs led us into a space filled with gaming tables, and the pulsing club music instantly faded. It was replaced by the upbeat crooning of a live musician on a corner stage; I couldn’t quite make out his face through the haze of sweet smoke that coiled through the air.
We walked slowly through the room, and I sipped my drink and tried to act like I belonged. A group of mountain dwarves in an intense game of poker huddled over their cards, and a cluster of elves and witches lingered at a roulette wheel.
Most of the people, though, were clustered around a velvet-topped table that held piles of gold-backed tarot cards and silver dice. A pair of snakes, one white and one black, lay coiled together in a silver moat embedded into the center of the table around a central bowl filled with coins.
My heart fluttered with an uneasy feeling of recognition.
“Whoa,” I breathed. “Is that…?”
Mesmer was a game that had been all but banned in the Glimmering world. It was too dangerous, the Faerie Court claimed, and too few people were properly equipped to train and handle the snakes at the center of the game.
Mesmer had originally been invented by witches and used the tarot cards, but I’d never seen a game in person. I leaned forward to get a better look over the shoulder of the water sprite in front of me.
“Careful,” Brendan said. He put a hand on my shoulder.
I didn’t like him telling me what to do, but I did like the weight of his warm hand. I let it stay there as I stood on tiptoes.
The dealer shuffled out a fresh hand of cards and gave a single card to each of the three players at the table. They all turned expectantly toward one of the men. He surveyed his cards, then narrowed his eyes and surveyed the other stacks on the table.
He tossed a silver coin into the bowl at the center of the table, then picked up one of the dice and rolled it. It had more sides than a usual gaming die, and turned up an eight.
The man threw another silver coin into the bowl.
“Was the Eight of Cups in the previous hand?” the player asked.
The dealer searched through what I assumed was a discard pile and pulled out the Eight of Cups. She set it faceup on the table.
The man was thoughtful for a long moment, and the tension of the people around us built.
“The Eight of Pentacles,” he said.
He flipped the card over onto the table. The people around us groaned and exclaimed in either disappointment or exultation, depending on where they’d placed their bets.
“The Eight of Wands,” the dealer said for the benefit of the audience. “Roll.”
The man’s hand was stiff as he threw the die. A six.
“Even,” the dealer announced. “Fire.”
From within the silver moat, the white snake stirred. It lifted its head, and its forked tongue flicked at the air. The elegant creature slithered out of the moat and along the table toward the man.
They stared at one another, man and serpent, for a long, silent moment. The witch next to me hissed in through her teeth when the snake’s tongue flicked out again.
The man didn’t blink.
Finally, the snake turned and slithered back to the bowl. The people around me let out a collective sigh, and I did, too.
I’d never been bitten by an ignis serpent, but tales of the fiery pain that burned through its victim’s veins were legendary.
The dealer nodded to the woman on the first man’s right. She tossed a coin into the bowl and rolled her die. It came up as an eleven.
“That means the card in her hand is in the minor arcana,” Brendan whispered into my ear.
I glanced over at him—why did he know so much about this game?—and quickly turned
my attention back to the woman. She put a thoughtful finger to her lips, then tossed another silver coin.
“Additional card,” the woman said.
The dealer laid a card faceup on the table in front of the woman. The Seven of Cups. I winced a little inside; it was a card of indecisiveness and too many options. If my guess was correct, the card was warning the woman that she didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell at guessing the card in her hand.
She pursed her lips and tossed another coin into the bowl.
“Additional card.”
The Knight of Wands. A risk-taker who follows adventure.
“The King of Pentacles,” the woman said.
She flipped over her card.
“The Nine of Cups.”
Finally, the woman rolled the die, and it came up as—not a number. I squinted, and Brendan leaned over to me.
“The star,” he said. “It means she doesn’t have to confront a snake this round.”
The crowd sighed, some in relief, some in disappointment, and the game moved on. The third man rolled his die, then requested a card from the discard pile, then a fresh card. He made his guess, wrongly, and rolled an odd number.
The white snake slithered toward him, and I held my breath. He stared at the snake, and the snake stared back. It was a contest of wills, or so I understood from the few times I’d heard people talk about the game.
The snake shifted, and the crowd tensed. A moment later, though, the creature appeared to relax. It turned around, ready to go back to its moat.
In a flash, it spun around and struck, sinking its fangs deep into the man’s cheek.
He screamed, and the crowd around us erupted into screams and cheers and expletives and laughter. A look of agony took over the man’s face, and he shrieked and clawed at the serpent.
The dealer waved her hand sharply, and he froze, his eyes wide with pain but the rest of his body unable to move. She calmly stepped around the table and unlatched the snake from the man’s skin. Blood poured down his face.
The dealer scratched the snake on top of the head, and the creature closed its eyes, apparently unaware of the damage it had just caused. She set it carefully back in the moat, then snapped her fingers high above her head. A large bouncer—at least part troll, by the looks of it—came and hoisted the snake’s frozen victim up from under his armpits. The dealer waved her hand again, releasing the binding charm, and the man fell limply into the bouncer’s arms as his eyes rolled up in his head.
