watching a werewolf throw down money in challenge to two stags. “I’d hate to see the customer service department.”
Revenance snorted.
The sudden sound of wood striking on concrete caught everyone’s attention. Lord Buckhead struck his staff twice more upon the rock, then raised it. “Hear me, Man Herds and Packs of Upper Georgia,” he cried. “I am Buckhead, fey Lord of the Hunt, whose magic runs through and binds you all. All who wish to run under my protection abide by my rules.”
The great hall remained silent as Buckhead spoke, and I took a moment to look around. The “man herds” and “packs” were rough, surely, but I started to notice designer jeans, Members Only jackets, even glittering watches and cellular phones. With the exception of a few monstrosities like the Bear King and lifer weres like the Marquis and the feral girl, most of the crowd was starting to look… normal.
OK, some of them had wolf heads, yes, but otherwise… normal.
Suddenly the hidden meaning behind Calaphase’s mention of ‘blackmail’ sank home. Most of this crowd probably weren’t wild dogs, running free on the edge: they were old-school magickers, living normal lives, magic carefully hidden under the old rules and ways, coming here in secret to release the curse of their beasts safely.
“These people,” I said. “They didn’t contract with you to protect their lives… but their identities? So that no were-whatevers would be needed to guard the perimeter, where they could be seen and exposed?”
“Smart girl,” Calaphase said, “she can color between the lines.”
“I feel like a shit now,” I said. I’d been so pissed off by the hoops I’d gone through to get through the security of the werehouse, it had never occurred to me that the security was in place for a legitimate reason. “I didn’t realize how much everyone here has to lose—”
“Why are you apologizing?” Calaphase asked. “Transomnia had no excuse to treat you the way he did, and as for the Marquis… well, werekin can be aggressive.”
“You mean they’re going to try to take a piece out of me?”
“No, I mean a lot of them are successful lawyers and businessmen,” he said, breathing in my ear, expanding his aura ever so slightly. “Count the Rolexes. Twenty-eight days out of the month, these cats and dogs are living in the lap of luxury.”
“They have even more to lose then,” I said, dreamily. He was trying to roll me.
“But they know how to fight to keep it,” he responded. “Fortunately… I can protect you.”
The smooth syllables of his voice poured over me like liquid. Or maybe like water over a cat. “Oh, Cally, your warm breath feels so good. And if you could just take a take a bite out of me, right there, I’ll be so grateful that I’d punch you clear into next week.”
He leaned back with a laugh. “Can’t blame me for trying.”
“Actually I can, and usually will,” I said.
“Thank you, Lord Buckhead,” the Bear King said. “Little One. You came to us for help, not knowing our rules, and were treated unconscionably. Calaphase, you and your fangs are on your third warning. I expect that those responsible will be… punished.”
“Yes, my Lord,” he said. I heard a sudden movement behind me, but did not bother to look back to see Transomnia’s reaction. “I will make an example of him.”
“Good,” the Bear King snarled. “See that you do. See, Little One, we do have rules. And one of those rules is that no one may ink magic upon a wolf or werekin unless they have proved that they have the skills to do it properly.”
He paused, and I realized I was expected to speak. “I understand, and approve.”
He nodded gravely. “Then you will accept this trial to prove your skill. If you pass, the Marquis will advise you honestly and fairly. If you fail, you will give this wolf to the Marquis… or pass upon doing the tattoo entirely. Do you agree?”
“I agree,” I said, then under my breath, “Not like I have a choice.”
“You are correct,” the Bear King said. “You do not have a choice.”
“Never underestimate a werekin’s hearing,” Calaphase said.
“Help me out here,” I said. “What will this trial entail?”
“I have no idea,” Calaphase said. “I’ve never seen a magical tattooists’ duel.”
“So, girl,” the Marquis said, “think you can ink magic? Where’s the proof?”
“My work speaks for itself,” I said, dropping my coat into Calaphase’ hands, better exposing the vines, butterflies and jewels adorning my arms, shoulders and upper back.