by Amy Sumida
Binx made a screeching turn into a section of the Zone I hadn't been in before. The Oregon Zone is enormous, bigger than any of the cities on the surface above it, and even though I'd spent a lot of time there, I barely knew my way around. I could get from the arena to the shopping district and then to the palace, which was pretty much a straight shot. Beyond that, I hadn't ventured. There had been no reason to. Even the battle with Gargo had stayed in the main streets of the Zone.
Now, we were heading into one of the neighborhoods that branched off from the central zone, driving between structures that had been formed of stone; created by Gargoyle magic when the Zone had first been carved out of the earth. Which is pretty much all structures in the Zone. Except, in the main part of the Zone, the buildings been painted in muted tones to give a unified appearance while here, the homes were embellished to express individuality. Paint was brighter, gardens blossomed before the tall buildings, and the stone walls were accented by iron, wood, and plaster flourishes.
Balconies such as you might find in the French Quarter of New Orleans stood out starkly against butter-yellow backgrounds, moldings from Italy grandly crowned doorways and windows, vibrant tiles formed paths to Moroccan arches, and marble fountains bubbled serenely. I know that sounds like a jumbled mix of styles but these features were seen over long stretches. It quickly became apparent that the architectural elements served as unifying aspects just as much as the simplicity of the Zone's central streets did. Neighborhoods were defined by their ambiance and it extended to the people who walked their streets. Gorgons in vibrant headscarves strolled before Mediterranean abodes while Vanaras in garish tunics congregated on the sidewalks near homes with a distinctly Indian flare.
We left a Tengu neighborhood with a subdued Asian atmosphere and drove into a bolder region of geometric designs and bright colors. The gardens there had a lush feel to them, with palms and banana trees, helped along by misters that hung from the roofs. The humidity went up several notches, and I knew it was a necessary comfort for more than the plants. This had to be the Báalam's neighborhood. The Jaguar-Shifters originally settled in America, mainly the Southern region, because they preferred more moisture in the air.
A whining roar confirmed it; catfight ahead.
A crowd gathered in the street, blocking our way. Most of them were shifted into a were-form; something part animal. They drew back as our Jeep screeched to a halt, and I was able to spy some gargoyles standing beyond the onlookers. They were in their Gargoyle forms; thick-bodied, gray-skinned, horned, and winged. And not feather wings either but leathery ones tipped in deadly barbs. Usually, a few Gargoyles would have been enough to subdue any fight but these didn't appear to be making headway. In fact, they were milling around as if they had no idea what to do.
Slate strode through the crowd, his shoulders stretching and hands clenching into fists. Binx lumbered eagerly behind him—practically frothing at the mouth—and I took up the rear. We cleared the line of Gargoyles, several nodding to Slate in relief, and the scene was finally revealed to us.
“Sweet stones,” I whispered.
No one heard me; it wasn't possible over the cacophony.
Or cat-cophony, RS suggested and laughed.
Okay, no one could hear me except the entities living in my head. One of which possesses an annoying sense of humor.
Stay out of this, my love, Kyanite, the jewel I was magically aligned with and the non-annoying entity, advised; also speaking inside my mind.
No shit, Sherlock, RS, short for Rooster Spell, immediately shot back in my voice.
Yes, my voice. It's yet another annoying aspect of her personality, but I've gotten used to it.
The RS had been cast upon me by a dying Witch; one last act of vengeance for killing him and for all the crimes he insanely convicted my family of committing. RS had begun as a curse but we'd found a way to coexist and now, because of her, I had the love of several incredible men, including Slate Devon. RS and I had formed an understanding and had reached a harmonious state of existence; if you can call her yammering in my head, arguing constantly with Kyanite, harmonious. All that being said, we were having some issues lately. Issues forgotten in the light of cat carnage.
Several Kaplan and Báalam fought each other in full-shift and that alone was an awesome sight to behold. I'm not sure who was more beautiful; the striped Kaplan or the spotted Báalam. Both bore regal visages—sleekly furred and sharply toothed—and muscular limbs ending in wicked claws. Elegant tails lashed behind them as they leapt for each other in astounding maneuvers that any Cirque du Soleil performer would envy. I had a moment of comparing the Kaplan to Tigger—he of the bouncy, trouncy, flouncy, pouncy fame—before my mind registered the blood.
Lots of it.
Claws tore and teeth rent. Fur bristled. Predators tumbled and launched themselves so gracefully that the fight took on aspects of a dance. Except that this number wasn't choreographed and would likely end with several members of the company dead. Cat hides showed long gashes and limbs dangled uselessly already. But despite the damage, no one looked ready to surrender.
Slate strode to the edge of the catfight and roared. It wasn't like a lion's roar or even a dragon's; it was all Gargoyle. An echoing, grating rumble of sound that implied death would come to whoever disregarded it.
The cats fought on.
“Oh, hell no, they didn't,” Binx muttered. “They're fucking dead now.”
Kyanite— I started.
I'm telling you; stay out of this, my love, Kyanite reasserted cutting off my request for music. This is Zone business and Slate's pride has already suffered from recent hits. He will not thank you for your help.
Recent hits. Ky meant the battle with Gargo and the fight within the battle that Slate had lost. In the end, it had been Lucifer who exorcised Gargo's spirit from Poseidon. Slate had attacked Gargo and been knocked unconscious, which was bad enough but Lucifer coming to my rescue while Slate was down for the count undoubtedly stung. Kyanite was right; Slate needed this win. He needed to show his zone that he was still strong enough to rule it. And to prove it to himself.
I decided to stand down.
Slate shifted into Gargoyle form, destroying his clothes in the process. Shreds of fabric clung to his dark gray skin before fluttering to the ground. He stretched his shoulders again—now twice as broad—and his wings lifted with the movement. A powerful leap took him into the air. His barbed tail lashed out and down, chiseling a piece of stone from the street as he took flight.
Slate landed in the middle of the catfight.
Cat eyes of gold and green blinked as both Kaplan and Báalam drew back warily; not from each other but the Zone Lord. Slate roared again; his shoulders hunching in fury and his horns slicing through the air in warning. His claws extended—one arm stretching toward each faction—and his wings closed in along his back, preparing for attack.
The Báalam all took a knee and set a paw to the ground; a signal of surrender. Slate swung his head toward the Kaplan, baring his teeth as he did. But that brief moment of distraction had cost him.
“Slate!” I shouted.
Slate crouched with my warning and two Kaplans went sailing over his head. They tumbled upon impact and rolled upright, focusing on Slate instead of the Báalam behind them. The Báalam gaped at the complete idiocy of the Kaplan and drew back into the safety of the crowd. Slate's men—including Binx, who had shifted when Slate did—landed beside the Zone Lord, wings settling after their brief flight. They faced off with the Kaplan as the onlookers backed up, stumbling upon each other in their haste to make room. Their entertainment had just become more deadly but also, ironically, safer for them. With the Gargoyles replacing the Báalam, the ending was assured to come rapidly and with the least amount of bloodshed possible.
More Gargoyles came in for a landing, no doubt called in by Binx, but they weren't needed. The Kaplan were quickly subdued by Gargoyle fists. Even a Weretiger can't remain standing after being hit in the j
aw by something equivalent to a sledgehammer. It took only a few moments for the Kaplan to be felled then the newly arrived Gargoyles set to work on cuffing the comatose men.
“Put them in a cell and let me know when they wake up,” Slate ordered as he headed back to me. “I'll leave you the Jeep, Binx.”
“Thanks, Bro,” Binx called after him. “That was fun! Good, quality, family time!”
Slate's lips twitched briefly into a smile then his stare settled on me. “Thank you for the warning.”
“Anytime, Zone Lord.” I grinned at him.
His thick arms slid around me and pulled me close. “Care to take a flight across the Zone?”
“A show and sightseeing? Will we be having dinner too?”
“Anything you want, sweetheart.” Slate swung me into his arms, crouched, and then took us into the air.
His leathery wings cracked open and caught the manufactured currents. I trailed a hand over the bulging muscles of his shoulder and back, laying it just above the joint of a wing so I could feel each powerful beat. This was Slate's song—this tribal pounding of wings that announced his dominance over the very air—and that made it one of my favorite melodies. Below us, the neighborhoods blended, losing their individuality until it all became one. Slate headed toward the end of the roughly rectangular cavern, and I glanced over my shoulder in the direction he took us. The Crystal Palace waited up ahead for its Gargoyle King and Spellsinger Queen.
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 was the same for me,” the Bengali said.
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.
