Rise of the Gryphon (Belador #4)

by Sherrilyn Kenyon

  “My friend Nicole has warned me about dealing with witches.”

  “Nicole isn’t a dark witch.”

  “No, but she’s not your average witch either.” Evalle shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket and fell silent. “Don’t take this wrong, but what’s the best way to gain an easy match?”

  He could use the concern playing through her words to motivate her for pulling off this role. “Do what I told you. Bring plenty of attitude. The more arrogant you are, the better shot you’ll have at getting your choice of who I fight.”

  That brought her chin up with a bold jut. “No problem.”

  Had he said she was hot? Smoking body, exotic eyes and legs that went on forever, but he found her confidence sexy as hell. It also kept him constantly worried for her safety.

  She whispered out the side of her mouth, “Anything else before we’re too close to talk?”

  “I’ll get us to the Domjon. Once a deal is made, you take the lead when we walk around looking for a fight. That’s a clear statement that I’m your muscle and you call the shots.” Storm slowed when they reached the perimeter of the fighting zone and he noticed flashes of green and blue lights flickering in a halo that circled the valley. “There’s a ward protecting the event.”

  “We can’t get in?”

  “I’ll know in a minute.” When Storm reached the outer mist circling the area, he pushed his hand into the halo. Light sparked across his dark skin, and tiny fireworks of white and blue burst away from him until an arch formed above his head wide enough for two people to pass through.

  Just to keep humans out and probably prevent them from seeing any of the fight or attendees as well.

  He nodded at Evalle, then stepped in ahead of her, holding his hand up to keep the arch open.

  The thud of fists and legs hitting bodies had been evident as they’d drawn near, but inside the warding the sounds were painful and rocked the air between shouts from the jeering crowd. Something in the ring released a high-pitched squealing sound. Bodies pressed close, blocking their view of the fight.

  Striding a step ahead of Evalle, Storm recognized the familiar smell of sweat, alcohol, incense and unusual nicotine odors as he entered the fight camp.

  Some days he wished his olfactory senses weren’t so sharp and his memory so close to the surface.

  He slapped a look of threat back at the curious gazes, warning them he was just as deadly as he looked, and off the leash.

  Evalle strolled close enough behind him he could scent her. Good. The less he checked on her, the more convincing a team they would be, since this crowd would assume he had some ability to keep track of her without requiring her to be in sight, or better yet . . . that she might be just as deadly as he was.

  As he scouted the jumble of faces for the Domjon, Storm caught a whiff of something that could be smoke and licorice. A smell that belonged to some who practiced witchcraft on demons, like the witch doctor from South America.

  Storm followed the scent, angling through the crowd until he found the origin of the smell.

  An old woman wrapped in a blanket covered with Asian symbols sat on the ground with several incense burners in front of her that pumped out the sharp smell. She waved a red-tipped incense stick in the air. “Pure Fenghuang at special Beast Club price.”

  An opiate. Now he understood the licorice smell.

  Rolling his eyes, Storm muttered, “Vendors,” and led Evalle back toward the area of congestion, where he should find the Domjon. He spotted the Beast Club host standing an easy head taller than the crowd. Upon closer inspection, Storm realized the little round man wearing a red wool sport coat with yellow collar and cuffs was perched on the back of a massive tortoise. Curly brown hair fringed beneath a black bowler hat. Nickel-sized earrings with laughing skull carvings stretched and distorted each earlobe. Piles of necklaces of rare metals adorned with flashy jewels hung around his neck.

  The Domjon called out in an auctioneer’s voice, “Demons two, quads one, unknown are playing the edge, step up, step up, step up and take a mad chance, no challenge too small, no death too fast, but we love ya when you make it last.”

  Storm stopped in front of the squawker. He spread his feet apart and crossed his arms, waiting for Evalle to sidle up beside him. When she did, she sniffed and wrinkled her nose in distaste.

  Nice touch.

  The Domjon noticed her with the speed of a rattlesnake picking up the heat of a prey. His beady eyes lit with interest that had nothing to do with money.

  Storm thought about shoving the yellow diamond down the Domjon’s throat—with his fist attached. But he had a role to play, too.

  “Okay, okay, okay, fresh meat,” the Domjon chortled, grinning at Evalle. “Whadda ya want, little lady?”

  Evalle smiled right back at him and expelled a sound of sinister amusement. “Your throat if you call me little lady again.”

  That took a notch off the Domjon’s leering. “No insult, none a’tall, gotta go with the flow, have a sense of humor, don’t be gettin’ mean ’lessen you’re inside the ring. Whadda ya have?”

  “I request a fight.”

  “Buy-in’s high, but lower than the sky. Show your flash for a chance at a mash.”

  Withdrawing her fingers from her coat pocket, Evalle flipped the sparkling yellow stone to the Domjon as if it was no more than a coin she’d found.

  He snagged the jewel from the air. Holding the rock up to his moon-shaped face, one eye ran out on a stem and studied the gem all over before sucking back into his eye socket.

  The crowd had quieted to a low rumble. Some turned from the fight going on to find out what new meat had entered the fray.

  Storm had a momentary concern the Domjon might try to pull a fast one and declare the gem not worth enough for an entry spot, but the mouthy little turd told Evalle, “He’s in.”

  “Rules.” Evalle gave that one word as an order.

  “Fight to the death, no draws allowed, unless your opponent’s sponsor accepts a trade. A deal’s a deal, without a will.” The Domjon swung his beady eyes to Storm. “Declare yourself.”

  Decision time.

  Declaring himself as anything other than Skinwalker, which meant in his case that he could shift and had majik in his arsenal, was reason for disqualification if caught. Fighting as a shifter allowed for no majik in the ring, but he shouldn’t need it to win against most were-animals. Bring majik into the picture and the odds of winning went up significantly in favor of those who wielded far more majik than he did.

  Besides, he only needed one fight to give Evalle time to talk to the witch. Getting disqualified or forfeiting after that would work in their favor to offer a quick exit.

  He took the gamble and said, “Dual form. Animal.”

  “Shifter?” the Domjon asked.

  “Yes.” Storm’s chest tightened with a quick twist of pain he barely kept from betraying with his expression. A mild reaction to lying, since he was technically correct about shifting into animal form and the Domjon had not specifically asked, “Are you a shifter?   ”

  An “ah” floated through the crowd.

  The Domjon snapped his fingers three times. “All right, all right, all right, go find yourself a fight.”

  He flipped a silver disc that Storm caught in the air and lifted into view. A skull with two horns had been carved into the center, and a clip dangled from a hole at the top. Storm clipped the coin on one of his belt loops, declaring himself a contender.

  Tension sparked off Evalle, but when he took in her face she released a sigh born of boredom for those watching her.

  As if everyone wasted her time.

  He was proud of her, but he enjoyed a moment of ego satisfaction that she had eyes only for him.

  When she swung around to walk away, Storm followed, sweeping his gaze over everyone they passed and sending a silent message that the safest place was as far away from her as they could get.

  The area had a dogfight atmosphere wi
th sponsors either cutting deals or sizing up fighters for a mash. One woman had a two-headed Keelter demon that hissed in stereo.

  Evalle had been strolling along calmly until Storm noticed a hesitation in her next step.

  He swept the crowd, searching until he found a man up ahead whose gaze had locked on her. He had maybe two inches on Storm, which would put the guy at six feet four inches. A thick mat of inch-long, lemon-yellow hair carpeted his head, and he had a face the color of saffron, with a hooked beak nose center stage. Nothing remarkable that would cause Storm concern, until he took in the predator-black eyes, empty as two holes in a skull.

  Having tightened down his empathic senses to pick up only Evalle’s emotions, Storm opened them wider now to reach out to the man. Anger simmered beneath the blank face, and power coiled around his slender body.

  Witch. Maybe a wizard or a mage.

  Evalle paused as though considering a mash.

  With one look at Storm, the wizard ignored her interest. In a moment, Evalle would notice the shiny red disc hanging from a black cord around the neck of the woman standing next to the wizard, her head shoulder high to him. This fighter would have to wait for a majik mash. She was bald except for a chin-length strip of violet hair hanging off one side of her head, heavy kohl-black eyes, thick lashes, purple lipstick and body cut with muscle. She posed, moving slowly so the soft-looking leather that crisscrossed over her breasts and shorts of the same material showed off cinnamon-colored skin that shone. She didn’t look the least bit cold in this chilly temperature.

  Must have plenty of majik if she wasted it to keep herself warm.

  When the punk-haired wizard ignored Evalle, she dismissed him right back and walked on. They’d covered several yards when a loud snarl erupted from Storm’s left.

  Evalle slowed her step at the sound, taking in the creature making that noise at the same time Storm did.

  That thing stood eight feet if an inch, and had a head covered in spiked horns and a jaw wide enough to snap a man’s leg in half. Dull skin the color of dried mud and dotted with pink warts the size of Storm’s thumb sagged on its body. Thick legs ended at feet with opposing joints, similar to a monkey’s. But Storm had never seen a monkey or ape with curved claws like that or fangs as long as his fingers.

  Or the batlike wings that just flapped into view.

  Two arms hung past the creature’s waist. It lunged against some invisible leash, long arms stretched out with the razor-sharp claws. All it had to do was get something in its grasp to slice off the head and win a match.

  His master was an average-height man who had the unassuming look of a bland office worker, with his thinning hair and a beer gut stuffed inside a pale gray business suit.

  But he controlled the thing without an obvious show of power. Another mage or wizard? Was that thing on the invisible leash some type of golem? The master waved a silver disc in his hand and called to Evalle in a surprisingly deep voice, “You have dual form. I have dual form. Only three here so far. We should talk. I’m Zymon.”

  Unease fingered along Storm’s neck.

  What the hell did that thing shift into? Storm had yet to fight something he couldn’t kill if he didn’t face majik more powerful than his. If this thing had the benefit of a mage or wizard’s majik, Storm might lose. Zymon would be disqualified if he was found out, but if that thing on the leash was a golem, Zymon would just make a new one.

  And Storm would be dead, leaving Evalle’s back unprotected.

  In direct conflict with the couldn’t-give-a-shit mask she’d dropped into place, anxiety shot off Evalle like lightning bolts that Storm gritted his teeth against. She had to be thinking along the same lines as he was, but she stressed over his possibly dying.

  Zymon prodded harder, his strange accent coming through. “Come, come. We must deal or Domjon will choose a match. Hard to find fight and I need win tonight.”

  Evalle put a finger to her cheek, studying. “I’ll need plenty of incentive to waste getting mine dirty killing yours.”

  That’s my girl.

  Stepping out of the shadows, Zymon studied her with a glimmer of appreciation in his flat gray eyes. “Confident, eh? Tell you what. I will sweeten pot. You win, I will throw in a demon.”

  Ah, hell. If Evalle turned her nose up at a bonus wager, she’d look suspicious. Storm began assessing Zymon’s beast more closely, preparing to fight the thing.

  Evalle laughed, clearly buying time to figure a way out of their situation. “A demon? That’s your best offer?”

  A woman called out, “Don’t be so hasty when you haven’t seen all the dual form competition.”

  Storm and Evalle turned in unison to find Imogenia standing twenty feet away with her chained fighter.

  To Evalle’s credit, she didn’t show the relief that Storm felt coming from her. She gave Imogenia a look of disbelief. “What does it turn into? A badger? Mongoose?”

  “Nothing quite so attractive, but he’s a strong fighter.”

  Now there was a stroke of luck.

  He’d take Imogenia’s skinny bastard over Zymon’s creature that very likely harbored majik or poisons in its claws.

  Evalle cocked her head with the arrogance he’d told her to exude and studied the witch’s fighter. She gave a dismissive snort. “I won’t insult mine by expecting him to fight . . . that.”

  What? Now would be a great time to have the telepathic ability Evalle shared with her Belador friends.

  Storm’s fault. He should have coached her better, because he had no way to tell her to accept this fight without blowing their covers. If Zymon was right, Evalle had only two options, and she had just shot down Storm’s best chance at a win if Imogenia walked away.

  THREE

  Watch Storm get ripped to pieces by one beast or stomp a puny one into the ground?

  Either way, Evalle couldn’t see this evening ending well. If Storm fought the witch’s guy and Storm held back, he’d raise suspicions. If he fought too hard, he’d maim or kill the guy.

  But she didn’t want him fighting Zymon’s beast either.

  Imogenia’s lips curled, tightened, then with some effort softened back into a taunting smile, as if the witch struggled to hold back her reaction. Short-fuse temper?

  Evalle had blown off the witch’s offer in order to buy time to figure out a move and because accepting too quickly might not look good. Right? But irritation had wicked off Storm, meaning Evalle had probably just screwed up by refusing the witch.

  Could she change her mind?

  Imogenia shook off the anger that had appeared to grip her and cocked her head at Evalle with a smile. Light from the torches ignited a glow on the golden mask hiding her forehead, cheeks and nose. She nodded toward Zymon’s howling beast. “If your pet wins our fight, you’ll be able to raise the ante with Zymon for a match.”

  Pretty determined to have Storm fight her guy. Did she really think Storm would lose?

  If he did, the witch’s demon would still face Zymon’s . . . thing.

  Zymon’s monster roared.

  Evalle gave him one more glance in time to see blood drool from his lips. Sold.

  She shrugged at Zymon. “I’ll entertain your offer while I let my fighter warm up on hers.” Then she swung what she hoped was a haughty look at Imogenia. “I accept.”

  Imogenia’s teeth sparkled when she smiled. Too confident.

  Evalle scrutinized the witch’s fighter more closely. His hand trembled.

  Was she missing something about those two?

  With the mash set, Evalle walked over to stand outside the circle of torches marking off the fight ring. Storm stepped up on her left, jaw as rigid as his body, eyes focused on the fight starting between a nine-foot-tall troll and the orange lizard-body guy.

  Imogenia stepped up on the other side of Storm and tugged the chain hooked to her fighter, pulling him to stand behind her. She leaned forward, speaking across Storm to Evalle. “How many do you own?”

  “One.”
Evalle snapped that out too quickly, but she detested the idea of owning anyone.

  “One?” Imogenia chuckled derisively and murmured, “Amateur.”

  Was the witch putting up a good front or trying to psyche her out? Evalle figured Imogenia had pressed for the fight with Storm rather than risk her little guy getting eaten by the crazed beast that belonged to Zymon.

  She looked down her nose at the witch, who was a good five inches shorter, and considered several scathing replies until she caught herself. The better I play my part, the safer for Storm. Plus, she had to figure some way to talk to Imogenia, which wouldn’t go well if Storm killed her fighter.

  Staying in character, Evalle lifted a finger, which she stroked along Storm’s cheek in a proprietary way as she loaded her voice with what she hoped sounded seductive for Imogenia’s benefit. “If you had one like him at your beck and call, you’d understand why one is all I need.”

  Storm cut his gaze over to Evalle, and the heat that flared in those dark eyes turned her stomach into a circus act of backflips. He gave her a wink that promised he’d remind her of the suggestive comment later. Evalle gave him a “behave” look, and he just smiled until he returned to watching the fight again, stone mask still in place.

  “Oh, really?” Imogenia asked with catty sarcasm. Her fingers curled halfway with a slight tremble as if she fought to keep from fisting them. She drew a long breath and that phony smile popped up on her face again. “In that case, if I can keep mine from killing yours, I may use this one”—she paused, stroking a slow glance over Storm—“to stud if we can reach an agreement.”

  It took all Evalle’s will not to lunge across Storm and choke Imogenia for daring to think she’d ever own him. Or touch him.

  Too bad the sponsors couldn’t have a go in the ring.

  Storm was doing his part, not showing a flicker of interest over Imogenia’s comment, so Evalle arched an eyebrow at the witch. “Enjoy your fantasy for the few minutes it lasts.”