Worth the Fight

by SF Benson

“Fine. I’ll check my tongue.” The poison in his dagger won’t kill a vampire. It will, however, hurt like a burning arrow flung at the chest. I’ve seen how it has incapacitated other vampires. Once brought to his or her knees, the vampire is easily staked and buried. Not something I want to experience.

  “Glad we had this talk,” Kragen says and offers me his arm. “Now, be a good girl and let me escort ya back inside. We need ta be sure this were-lion loses the fight.”

  Chapter 27

  Edwina

  Watching grown men pummel the shit out of each other has never been my idea of fun, and listening to the cacophony of voices is giving me a headache. My nails plunge into my flesh and draw blood. It’s time for me to leave the fray.

  My gaze settles on Kragen. The vampire, decked out in a charcoal gray suit and crimson tie, seems to be at ease with the ruckus. He leans toward me. “Edwina, are ya all right?”

  “No, I’m not,” I tell him. “I’ll be back.”

  His eyebrow rises, and he studies me. Of course, his mind would think I’m about to cause trouble.

  “I promise I’m not going to do anything but get some air.”

  “Be sure that’s all ya do. I don’t want ta have ta rescue ya. Again.”

  The hall outside the ring is just as loud. Too many voices mixing with the insipid lyrics from the latest rapper jar my senses. Scantily dressed females grind shamelessly against uninterested males. Noise. Hormones. Heat. It’s all too much. I glance around the space in desperate need of an exit.

  “Perhaps I can help you.” Damien’s voice comes from behind me.

  If it hadn’t been for the pandemonium, I would have heard his approach. Swinging around to face him, I say, “Just point me to the exit so I can escape the chaos."

  A smile tugs at his shapely lips. “We need to talk, Miss Devereaux. Please follow me.”

  Common sense tells me to refuse his offer, but Damien did ask nicely. Reluctantly, I let him lead me through the crowd and down a hall. The incessant racket slips behind us and becomes a dull throb. Our footsteps punctuate the quiet like an odd bass beat. We continue walking until we reach a door tucked into a corner.

  Damien opens the door and permits me to enter first. The air in this room is charged with magic. Its darkness slips over my skin like fingers. It takes every fiber of the power I possess to push the offender away from me.

  “What the hell was that?” I snap.

  The door clanks into its lock. “Sorry about that. I have to protect my office.”

  My eyes take in the sparsely decorated room—a simple wooden desk and a few folding chairs—before I lock eyes with Damien. “What’s to protect in here?”

  A smile unfurls across his face. “Don’t believe what you see.”

  A longer look reveals the lavish office hidden beneath the glamour. Off to one side sits a glass desk with black leather and chrome chairs. Monitors fill a wall and detail the current fight and the outside perimeter of the venue. The painted concrete floor is covered by thick fur rugs. A shudder runs through me as I sense how the creatures who donated their hides died—painful and twisted. Damien extends a hand toward a black, tufted leather sofa along the wall opposite the monitors.

  “Why the pretense?” I ask, perching on the cushion’s edge.

  “I want my investors to believe I pour all their funds into building the organization. Imagine their chagrin if they saw my office and home.”

  That might be the biggest understatement I’ve heard this decade. As much as I’d like to explore Damien’s motivations, I prefer cutting to the chase. “What did ya want to talk about?”

  He leans into the cushion and spreads his arms over the back of the sofa. “Lots of things, but let’s start with our shared lineage.”

  A sudden coldness—unusual for my kind—hits my core. I’m certain I have nothing in common with Damien.

  “I’ve shocked you,” he states calmly. “Allow me to fill in the details for you… I am the son of a Devereaux witch and a shifter.”

  “How do I know ya speak the truth?” Damien doesn’t resemble any Devereaux witch I remember.

  “Perhaps you recall the witch Seraphine?” Damien’s eyebrow lifts. “She was on the plantation with you.”

  My mind drifts back to another time and place. Seraphine, older than my mother, was a field slave. The two of them worked side by side. Seraphine was the one who warned Mama not to use her magic. After I became an orphan, however, it was the old witch who cast me aside without hesitation.

  “What of her?”

  “I’m a descendant of hers,” he announces.

  My muscles tighten as the veracity of his words snags my thoughts. All witches on Granddaddy’s land claimed his name, making us all Devereaux witches. Damien Duchamp may not be blood kin, but he’s family all the same.

  Curiosity bates me to ask, “And who is ya mama?”

  “Lavinia Devereaux Mercier. My mother never married my deadbeat father though.”

  I’m familiar with the Mercier witches. His mother aligned herself with some of the most powerful conjurers in all of Louisiana. “Why tell me this? I don’t give a shit who ya are. I have no love for Seraphine, and Lavinia is a stranger to me.”

  “I tell you these things, cousin, because I promised that ancient vampire I would not harm you. However, I owe you for injuring Sheila.”

  Lifting my chin, I say, “She had it coming.”

  “Be that as it may, I handle my family issues. You had no right interfering,” he points out.

  I lean forward and place my elbows on my knees. “Sheila had no right getting involved in the affair between Hank and Elijah. I protect those I care about. And I’m not ya fucking cousin.”

  Damien’s mouth twists, and he grins. “Trust me, I have no desire for that type of relationship with you.”

  “What do ya want then?”

  “I’m willing to let bygones be. I’ll even honor our family ties provided you help me make the PFC legitimate.”

  The idea of a lawful fight club for paranormals makes me laugh. “There’s no way in hell I’ll help ya do that.”

  “Oh, but I think you can be persuaded,” he says confidently. “My father may have been a no-account snake, but what he was skilled at was shapeshifting. I can become anyone or anything I care to be.” To prove his point, Damien morphs into a reasonable replica of Kragen complete with his walking stick. “Ya not convinced yet, my dear?”

  A shiver sneaks down my back as I listen to Damien’s voice take on Kragen’s slow, southern drawl. The image fades and is quickly replaced with Morgan’s doppelganger. “Perhaps you need more convincing, vamp?”

  Slowly, Morgan’s hateful echo vanishes and is replaced with an emulation of Hank. “Does this work for you, Angel?”

  The fear I felt is gone, displaced by the anger boiling my blood. “That’s enough!”

  “Not quite.”

  Damien’s final imitation is a glimpse into my past. A man who threatened to rape and kill me. And when the overseer was done with his heinous act, he planned to leave my body in the mud. The memory shakes me. The asshole creating my personal hell simply nods before transforming back into Damien.

  “And the purpose of that vulgar display?” I spit out.

  “If you don’t help me, I’ll fuck up your world. When you’re with those you care about, you won’t know if you’re with the original or a copy. When they see you, they might be seeing me. Don’t help me, and I’ll drive you insane. The BlackGuard, nor anyone else for that matter, will have the need of your skills, my dear cousin.”

  I won’t help Damien, but I can’t let him know the truth. “What are ya plans for the PFC?”

  He winks. “Good question. First, I’ll get rid of the AFC.”

  “Why?”

  Damien clenches and unclenches his fists. “I used to be a fighter. If you ask anyone, they’ll tell you I was a contender for the AFC. But those asses denied me. Claimed I didn’t know how to follow the rules, so I created
the PFC. My club. My rules. With your help, I can turn it into a sanctioned organization and set up fights all over the world.”

  Damien is delusional. The AFC is too strong to be broken by his underground fight club. “Nice dream, Damien. It won’t happen though.”

  “Oh, but it will. Did you see that crowd? It’s not all supernaturals. The PFC will debut as the Premier Fight Club. I’ll bring in fighters from all over. Imagine humans and supernaturals fighting together.”

  Unfortunately, I know Damien has a point. Those idiots sitting in the arena will gladly welcome any opportunity to see a fight. The PFC will degenerate into no-holds-barred massacres—a recipe for disaster.

  “What do ya expect me to do?”

  “Persuade the BlackGuard the PFC is harmless.”

  “A little late for that. What happens when fighters die in ya ring tonight?”

  Damien glances up at the monitor. “No one’s dying here tonight. See for yourself.”

  My gaze shifts to the screens. Every monitor shows the records for this evening. No reports of anyone dying in the ring.

  “I’m smarter than you think, cousin. I knew there’d be members from the BlackGuard and the NOLA Council in the audience. I wasn’t taking any chances.” He crosses an ankle over his knee. “There’s one more thing you need to do for me.”

  “What?”

  “Convince your mate’s brother to fight for me. He needs to give up his dream of fighting for the AFC.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “I guess you could compel him, but that might wear off eventually. If Tyson Richards doesn’t fight for me, I’ll make sure he doesn’t fight ever again.” Damien observes the monitor again.

  Tyson has entered the ring with a large guy—the were-lion from South Africa. A nervous smile resides on Tyson’s face.

  “All I have to do is deliver a word to ringside, and Tyson will sustain a career-ending injury.”

  I clench my jaw. This supposed cousin of mine is working my last nerve. I’ll have to figure a way out of this situation, but for now, I have to save Tyson or Hank will never forgive me.

  “Fine. I’ll help ya.”

  Chapter 28

  Hank

  Ace and I prowl the jam-packed parking area behind the venue. We picked up Ryder’s trail on the other side of the building, but we have yet to lay eyes on him. My beast, angry to be held back for so long, is clawing its way to the surface, but I fight against the pending change. It’s too soon for his appearance. Once Ryder shows his ugly-ass face, then we strike.

  “You sure he’s out here?” I ask. My beast is distracting me. I can’t focus long enough to sense anything.

  My new companion, or maybe he’s more like my partner, sniffs the air and makes a face. “I’m sure. The air reeks of his foulness. Motherfucker needs a goddamned bath.”

  I stifle the laugh threatening to explode. For once, I’m thankful my nose isn’t as sensitive as a wolf’s. Ryder’s one of those old-school cats who doesn’t believe in regular bathing. A dip in the pool simply doesn’t replace soap and water. I shudder at the thought. Getting rid of Elijah Ryder won’t just be good for the Falls Creek Police Department. It might be considered my contribution to cleaning up the atmosphere, at least the one surrounding the stinky cat.

  An empty tin can rattles in the distance. Sharp claws click over the pavement. Instantly, my hand goes to my holster. I remove my weapon and check to make sure it’s loaded. From the corner of my eye, I see the first hint of fur sprouting over Ace’s flesh. The scent of wolf musk ignites my beast. He rattles his cage wanting out.

  Wait. Not yet.

  Ace, now a large gray wolf, stops by my side. His hackles go up and he races, full speed, into the dark. I crouch low. A decision needs to be made—permit my beast to take down Ryder, claw against claw, or do this myself in human form. I’m sure I’ll be happy with either choice, but part of me wants to be fully cognizant when the light fades from Ryder’s silvery eyes.

  Snapping jaws and growling come from the edge of the parking lot. Sprinting through the maze of cars, I move toward the sound. A bloodstained, hulking cat with glowing, ghost-like eyes cuts me off. The scent wafting off him lets me know the identity of the fucker on the inside.

  “Fight me like a man, Ryder,” I command.

  He responds with a death stare. Its coldness threatens and challenges me at the same time. Thick, viscous saliva drips from his wide mouth. The impureness coming from the creature dissolves the asphalt as it connects. My hand tightens around my Glock.

  “We can do this the hard way or the easy way.” Lifting my arm, I aim the weapon. “It’s totally up to—”

  In a blur, all four feet leave the pavement. Ryder growls. Intense pain rips through my wrist. Filthy fangs clamp down and break the skin. Bones crack. Blood drips down my arm. Yelling, I sink to my knees. I struggle with the old cat, but I can’t yank my arm free from his strong grip. Ligaments, tendons, and muscle shred as Ryder shakes his head. My breath saws in and out as I try, once again, to extricate my useless shooting hand.

  Out of the darkness, the large gray wolf emerges and pounces on Ryder’s back. The wolf’s fangs sink into the flesh. The pressure lessens on my wrist. Ryder’s jaws release, and a deep whimper fills the night.

  Moaning, I collapse to the asphalt. My good hand cradles the mangled, throbbing wrist as the two beasts tangle, rolling around like a couple of wild dogs. The gnashing of teeth and tearing of flesh calls to my beast. Honestly, the transformation would speed my healing but erase any advantage I might have as a man.

  You can’t shoot him. Change!

  I rock back and forth, biting back the pain. A strange sensation, like heat, passes through my hand. Little by little, ligaments and tendons knit back together. The muscle grows stronger, and the limpness disappears. The pain fades as I’m able to flex my fingers. My wrist is solid again.

  How the hell did that happen so fast?

  “Hank?” The voice is shaky and full of concern.

  I swing around and find Edwina standing behind me. What the fuck is she doing here? “Go back inside, Edwina! It’s too dangerous for you out here!”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she yells. “Ya need to change so ya can kick his ass.”

  Edwina shouldn’t be out here, especially if I need to change. Ace runs up to my side, panting. Blood drips from his mouth.

  Change, dammit!

  His wolf echoes my beast’s sentiment. If I don’t obey him, my beast is going to take over. It’s dangerous when we allow the animal inside to do our thinking. They’ll start believing they’re in control and will present themselves in any situation. That’s the problem—not being able to regulate their transformations—with common werewolves. Reluctantly, I holster my weapon.

  “What do ya need?” Angel is at my side. “If ya need me, I can help.”

  “Just hold this for me,” I say and pass her the sheathed gun. “I’d rather you not see this.”

  Ace growls. The wolf has no patience for decorum.

  “Just do it and get it over with.” Edwina turns her back, giving me a semblance of privacy.

  My beast is so close to the surface the transformation is almost painless. Just before I succumb to the dark wall surrounding my mind, I see Ryder’s ghost-like stare.

  It’s on…

  Chapter 29

  Edwina

  Respecting Hank’s wishes, I don’t turn around. Bones break and reconstruct. Heavy breathing fills my ears. I swing around when I hear the growl and his claws scratching the concrete.

  The two beasts—one a huge black panther and the other, a mostly gray one—face off. Snarling, they circle one another. Elijah decides enough is enough and lunges for Hank, wrestling him to the ground. His teeth poise over Hank’s neck. I close my eyes unable to watch.

  A pair of unfamiliar hands encircle me and pull me against a bare chest. I glance up into Ace’s face. I’m grateful the alpha wears a pair of jeans. Wolves usually have no prob
lem with nudity.

  “Do yaself a favor and don’t watch,” he suggests. “My wolves are nearby. Ryder won’t leave here alive.”

  Growling and flesh ripping send shivers down my spine. “I’m not concerned about Elijah’s life. I should help Hank.”

  Ace’s grip tightens. “No, Edwina. It has to be a clean kill for there not to be any retaliation from NOLA Council. Let’s get ya inside.”

  With great effort, I walk back inside the venue with Ace’s hand on my lower back.

  The first person we run across is Kragen. His forehead, creased with worry, smooths out when he sees me.

  “She’s fine,” Ace informs Kragen. “Just keep her inside. She doesn’t need to interfere with male business.”

  And that’s one huge reason nothing ever happened between us. I refused to submit to Ace. Morgan, on the other hand, never had a problem obeying. I listen to the big oaf lumber off. He’s undoubtedly going back to join the fight.

  “Edwina, what do ya need ta tell me?” Kragen asks.

  “Damien Duchamp is going to be a problem.”

  “How so?”

  “He wants the BlackGuard to support the PFC,” I tell him. “And he wants me to convince ya to do it.”

  “Why did he ask for ya help?”

  “Because he can manipulate me, Kragen. He’s a distant cousin—a Devereaux witch. I have to help him.”

  Kragen purses his lips. “We’ll deal with it. Do whatever ya need ta do for now.”

  For the first time in years, I feel helpless. My past threatens to take over and destroy my happiness. I shake my head. “I don’t know what to do. Damien threatens me because of our shared lineage. It’s not right.”

  “I agree with ya. And feasting on ya bad memories is even worse. Here’s the thing ‘bout memories, though. Ya can’t get rid of bad ones, but ya can always make better ones. Like I said, we’ll handle this. Ya need ta go see ta ya mate. The fight between Hank and Ryder is over.”

  The cheers from inside the ring signal the end of that fight as well. I have to hurry.