Dangerous Creatures

by Kami Garcia

  Lennox Gates was there, standing at the railing of a raised industrial platform. His eyes were as intense—and as gold-flecked—as she remembered. Something about them reminded her of what Dark Fire looked like.

  Pure power.

  Ridley couldn’t see past what he wore under the leather jacket, but it was clear that whatever it was concealing included a compact, athletic build. His golden hair fell around his face and almost curled in places, especially near his neck. He looks like ambition, she thought.

  He looks like danger.

  Ridley didn’t take her eyes off his face. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he had impressed her with his little magic show.

  Anyone could—what? Evaporate a room full of heavily Charmed and powerfully protected Supernaturals? Throw down a Temporal Distortion like that? Not really.

  No one could, except maybe Lena. Even then, it wouldn’t be easy.

  Ridley had to admit that. Her heart was pounding, and she wondered if he could hear it, which only made it pound harder.

  Get it together, Rid.

  She spoke first. Not broke first, she thought. Keep playing the long game. Focus on how you will destroy this person. “You must be really proud of yourself for pulling that one off.”

  His eyes didn’t waver from her face. “I’m almost never proud. They say it goes before a fall, and I’m not planning on falling.”

  “That’s funny, since I’m not planning on caring. Now what did you do with the nice people in the club, Mr. Gates?”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “They’re still there. Having the night of their lives. Or so they think.”

  Condescending jerk. “You’re talking about my sister and my boyfriend,” Ridley said. “Put them back or you’ll wish you never met me.”

  “How do you know I don’t wish that already?” Now he was smiling.

  “What’s it to me, either way?” Ridley smiled back. “Whatever your problem is with me, I guarantee you it’s about to get a thousand times worse. Ask around. I’m sort of famous for that.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.” He snapped his fingers and the noise, the chaos, the wild adrenaline of the club instantly returned. He raised his voice over the noise. “Who said I had a problem with you? I’ve missed you since our little encounter at Suffer.”

  He snapped his fingers again, and the people disappeared for a second time.

  “See? Everyone’s happy as a soft-shell clam.” He gestured toward her. “But this is me time. You and me time. What’s that in your hand?”

  Ridley looked down at the black envelope Ryan had given her. It only took a moment before the room around it went even blacker.

  CHAPTER 17

  Runnin’ with the Devil

  Ridley’s head was spinning. Then the darkness gave way to light. But it was no better, because the lights were too bright for her to see. Slowly, as the room began to solidify around her, she realized she was staring into a candle.

  “Something sweet? You seem a little light-headed.” Lennox’s voice cut through the light.

  Ridley looked up. She was sitting across from Lennox Gates, at what appeared to be a private table for two. Transportation provided. She had forgotten she was holding the damn invitation.

  She winced. He’d gotten the better of her twice now. It was more than embarrassing. It was infuriating. “How did you manage to use a Rip letter inside the club, when a whole posse of Blood Incubuses had to Rip outside and walk in the door like everyone else?”

  “I Bound the club myself. I can come and go as I like.” He looked pleased with himself, which only made Rid more irritated.

  “Just you?”

  “Just me, and anyone I hand that invitation to.” Lennox smiled. “Nectar of the Gods?” He lifted a decanter—a bottle so tall and thin that it looked like the neck of some poor dead goose. Golden bubbles rose to the surface of a thick, syrupy drink. Ridley sniffed and smelled sugarcane, the essence of sweetness in its purest form.

  Siren catnip. He’s good.

  “Go to Hell, Lennox Gates.” It was all she could manage to say.

  He nodded pleasantly. “Please. Call me Nox. And I’m sure I will. You could say it’s a family tradition. But until then, perhaps we should toast to our joint venture?”

  Ridley dropped the black envelope like a hot coal. “No. And no more cheap party tricks. Please.”

  She was beginning to get her bearings. This room was nothing like the rest of the club. Quiet darkness was reflected everywhere—in the vintage-looking black velvet curtains, the black leather booths that curved like shells against the low, vaulted walls, and the massive black stone fireplace that dominated the far end of the chamber.

  “Hungry, then? Even a Siren has to eat.” A series of black leather triangles covered the polished metal disc of the tabletop. A silver goblet sat on a crystal plate in front of Ridley. When she looked at the goblet it was empty.

  “Perhaps something from the Grand Bazaar? Do you like Istanbul?”

  Ridley looked again, and the goblet was full of sweet honeycomb, dribbled with a golden syrup that smelled like wild honeysuckle. A fat bee buzzed lazily over the top wedge. Triangles of what looked like fresh pistachio baklava and Turkish Delight mounded up against the goblet, on the crystal plate.

  So he can Manifest, too. Great. He’s got some kind of Shifter blood in there.

  Shifting. A Temporal Distortion. Ripping. His powers seemed to cross every conventional Supernatural distinction. Her debt to Lennox Gates was only getting more and more worrisome.

  She tried not to panic. She willed her heart to beat more slowly.

  There is nothing to be afraid of.

  He’s just another bully.

  You’ve seen worse. You’ve beaten worse.

  Ridley collected herself and looked up at Lennox Gates, shaking her head. “No, thanks. I’m not hungry. I’ll pass.”

  On this. On you. On all of it.

  “More of a Paris girl? A little je ne sais quoi from La Maison Angelina? For la petite Sirène?”

  Now the plate was covered with dark chocolate truffles and a delicate teacup filled with rich, steaming hot chocolate.

  Show-off.

  Ridley stood up. “You’ve made your point. You grabbed my sister. You forced me to hand over my boyfriend. It’s clear you’re set on destroying my future.”

  “And?” Nox looked interested, as if he was actually enjoying himself. Which only made her hate him more.

  “And on top of all that, I’m certainly not going to flirt with you.”

  “Flirt with me? Is that what you think this is about?” For the first time, Lennox started to laugh. It almost made him seem like a real person, which Ridley found more disturbing than she could explain.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Little Siren.” He poured some bubbling liquid into his own glass. “Sit down.”

  She did, against her better judgment—and what irritated her more was that she honestly couldn’t tell if he was compelling her to or not. He can’t be, she told herself; she hadn’t seen a single Siren, and she’d know if there were one in the club.

  Wouldn’t I?

  No one had ever turned the tables on her like this. Rid had no idea what it would feel like to be compelled, but the more she thought about it, the more she imagined it might feel remarkably like this.

  “To Sirensong.” He held up his glass. “Long may they rock.”

  She didn’t hold up hers. “Siren what? Do you mean the Devil’s Hangmen?”

  “I’ve renamed the band for my new club. Catchy, isn’t it?”

  “Not really.”

  Nox clinked his glass against her untouched one and drank anyway. “Fine. Let me be perfectly clear. This is about business. You beat my drummer in that game and left him completely powerless. I had no way of knowing the drummer you offered up in return was your boyfriend. I admit, that’s awkward for you.”

  “Why do I have the feeling you had every way of knowing that my
boyfriend was a drummer?” She looked around. “And we both know I owe you more than that.” She finally looked him in the eye.

  “Ah, yes. You do owe me two markers, don’t you? As you know, your drummer boy only settles the first one. But don’t worry. I’ll tell you when I need to collect the second.” Lennox smoothed the gold hair from his eyes. “House marker, paid on my call.”

  Ridley shivered. She didn’t need to be reminded of it. She thought of it as she lay in bed every night. How I’ve lost so much more than a game.

  “I’m not in a rush. You’ll know what I want, when I want it. And I assure you I will.” He looked at her. “Want it, that is.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “I have an exceptional memory.” He smiled. “Especially when it comes to my markers.”

  Ridley faltered. For once, she had nothing in her arsenal. No clever comeback, no snappy insult—nothing was going to change the fact that she had lost the one thing she prized above all.

  Power.

  Power was her freedom.

  Mine, and Link’s.

  Lennox raised an eyebrow, sipping again from the fluted glass. “Speaking of which, how does the hybrid boyfriend feel about your trading in his future for your own?”

  “It’s not like that.” Ridley winced.

  “What’s it like, then, Sugarplum?”

  The sound of Link’s pet nickname for her was too much. “Leave Link out of this.”

  “Wesley Lincoln? The worst student in the entire fake freshman class of Georgia Redeemer? You know I can’t do that.” Lennox sighed. “But I have to say, I’ve enjoyed getting to know him.”

  “You don’t.” She felt a new cold, coiling in her gut. “Know him, I mean.” Or me, for that matter. Otherwise, you wouldn’t dare.

  “I keep an eye on all my investments. Your near-Mortal mistake will play in my band and work for my club and do whatever I want him to do, whenever I want it. Like all my employees.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “Careful, now. You don’t know how many people would line up for the chance to help you out with that.” He held up his glass. “I, on the other hand, do. And congratulations. I honestly don’t know how you managed to make so many people so angry in such a short time. So angry, and so impatient.” He shook his head. “You’re a gifted girl.”

  Ridley faltered no more. She grabbed her drink and splashed it at Lennox’s face.

  “What the—” He was spluttering now.

  “Screw you, Lennox Gates. Screw your giant Caster ego and your poser Siren club and your loser band. I don’t know what’s really going on here, but I know that none of this is about what happened during that card game.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Little Siren.”

  “I’m talking about your rigged game and your creepy markers. I’m talking about you spying on my family and my boyfriend.”

  “Spying on you?” His dark eyes shone as he put down his glass. “You know what I see when I look at you, Little Siren? Flames. Smoke and fire. It’s all over your future. I don’t know what it all means, but I can translate some of it for you.”

  “Be my guest.” Great. He’s a Seer, too?

  “How about, your future’s going up in smoke?” He wasn’t smiling.

  “Screw with me and you’re going to get burned.” Ridley’s eyes were deadly.

  “You know, there are so many things I want to say to that.” Nox winked.

  “Here’s one. You mess with my friends, and I will come for you.” She stood up. “And if you ever speak to my sister again—any of my sisters—you better get yourself one hell of a bigger bouncer. Smoke that, Lennox.”

  Lennox held up both hands, including the black envelope—a sign of surrender.

  “I think I’m happy to stay out of your future.”

  “Believe me. You were never in it.”

  “Duly noted. Here, give this back to your sister. She’ll be home the second she touches it.”

  Ridley grabbed it out of his hand. She walked away in a huff without so much as a glance back at him, even though she had no idea where they were or where she was going.

  “Stairs on your left. Can’t miss them.” She heard a chuckle from the table behind her. He really did seem to be enjoying this, and it only made her more furious.

  She had almost made it to the door when she heard the unmistakable sound of music from the club below. The thumping bass. The screeching lead guitar. The drums. God, the drums.

  She knew this melody. She’d been listening to him rehearse it last night, when he thought she was sleeping.

  “Sweet Meatballs.” That’s “Sweet Meatballs.”

  Link is playing with the band.

  What did Lennox Gates call them? Sirensong?

  All of a sudden she could feel it. Lennox was standing right behind her. His voice was quiet and—if she had to pick a word to describe it—dangerous. “Your boyfriend has bigger problems than just me, Little Siren. But I bet you know that, since we’re both Dark Casters.”

  Ridley didn’t answer for a long moment. When she did, she didn’t look at Lennox. “Know what?”

  Lennox pulled a matchbook from his pocket, fingering it idly. “That they’ll come for him. That he’s a walking dead man. That there’s no happy ending, not when you’re the idiot who took out Abraham Ravenwood.” He took a step closer to her. “As I said, Casters have long memories. Incubuses, even longer. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”

  Ridley could feel his breath on her neck.

  He continued. “Look around. Half of them are here. It’s a Dark club. I’m a Dark guy. Who do you think my clients are?”

  “Shut up.” She couldn’t look at him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t I? Why do you think we wanted him to play his little drums here? Right here?” Nox shrugged. “And why not? I’m in the business of giving the people what they want. It’s what I do. If someone wants me to deliver a hybrid Incubus, why should I ask why?” Ridley’s heart was pounding, but Nox didn’t stop. “And if they wanted his friends? What then?”

  What then?

  Ridley didn’t want to think about it. This was a risky conversation, for her and for Link. Risky, and potentially deadly. Lennox Gates could strip her of her powers, or he could exploit them. He could make her life a living hell, or end it.

  But he could not—could not—mess with her Shrinky Dink.

  Enough.

  Ridley turned, slowly, and when she did her eyes were blazing. “Two markers. That’s between you and me. Leave Link out of this.”

  “How honorable of you.”

  “I’ll pay my debts, and you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

  Nox shrugged. “Tell him or not. They’ll come either way.” He tossed her the matchbook. “They always do.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Metal Gods

  “She was so juicy, her name should be Lucy.

  She was so tender, I loved her like my Fender.

  Even when she had sauce, I knew she was my boss.

  When she was in a toasted bun, I knew I’d get my meatball fun.”

  Sweet Meatballs” was Link’s magnum opus as a songwriter—a tragic ballad composed for a meatball sub he didn’t get to eat anymore. Which was no different than his singing about a broken heart, Ridley guessed. Or a hamburger Patty.

  Love was love.

  But it wasn’t everything. The night was ruined for Ridley, and as she made her way back to the main floor of the club, she felt like all she could see were Incubuses moving toward her in the shadows, and Dark Casters staring at her from behind gold eyes.

  Ridley and Link—and Ryan, oh god, Ryan—had to get themselves out of Sirene.

  But Sirensong was still playing, and the crowd was still listening. The set was going well—better than it should have, in Rid’s opinion. Which only made it take longer. When the chorus hit (“Roll me in bread crumbs, I know you can’t be all thumbs”), th
e crowd even sang along.

  That’s a first.

  As soon as Ridley spotted Ryan in the crowd—jumping up and down in front of the stage, yelling, “Roll me! Bread crumbs!”—Rid made a beeline in her direction.

  But when she got there, Ryan was following Link with her eyes as if she’d never seen him before. As if he was someone from the cover of a teen magazine, rather than just another guy who refused to throw out his old car magazines.

  Not you, too.

  It was almost hard to watch.

  Link was center stage, bending over the mic, dipping it backward on the stand as if they were slow dancing. It was his audition. They were letting him do whatever he wanted. That was clear by the way they were all watching him.

  Link as lead singer? Were they setting him up to fail?

  Either way, it didn’t seem to matter much to Link. He looked like he was having the greatest night of his life.

  “You know I love you, Saucy Bossy Girl,” he crooned to his imaginary meatball. The mic crackled enthusiastically—and the crowd screamed.

  That mic will probably make a better girlfriend than I ever will, Ridley thought, feeling guilty.

  She sighed.

  Downstage, Necro’s blue faux-hawk was flying in every direction over the enormous keyboard, like it had a mind of its own. Sampson stood next to Link, singing into a mic—with the tattooed arms and hypnotic presence she remembered from the night she first met him at Suffer. His hands sped across the strings of an über-modern electric guitar. The body curved into a wide U shape, like a harp. Behind Sampson, Floyd jammed on a bass as big as she was. Ridley couldn’t tell if the guitar was part of her body or not.

  A red plaid hipster drum kit sat waiting for Link in the center of the stage. As the crowd screamed, Link threw down the mic and picked up the sticks, sliding back behind the drums. The drums had always been the one instrument you could safely hand him. At best, it was a loud banging. At worst, it was also a loud banging. There was something reassuring about that.

  The crowd screamed louder. “Roll me! Bread crumbs!”

  Sirensong was rocking the house.

  She’d had enough.

  “Ryan—”