a landslide. And if the mages had outnumbered them…well, I could see the battle going a very different way.”
“Yes, and that is why shifters are under the thumb of mages right now. But Jessie—and I—teaming with them changes the score card. It’ll make all the difference.”
“I agree.” She was quiet for a moment. “I think you should rethink the way you plan to meet her, Sebastian,” Nessa said as she sat down again, her voice tight with nerves. She clearly hadn’t taken the threat seriously before, seeing what everyone else did—a past Jane, a bunch of animals, plus a few dudes with capes. The reality was beyond what any sheltered mage—and there were a lot of those—could imagine.
“I can’t,” he replied. “It’s been foretold. I will keep my end of the bargain, come what may.”
Twenty
“When is the next battle?” I dried my hair with a towel, wearing workout sweats and a hoodie. Most of my crew lounged in the common space, lazy this morning after dominating in the arena yesterday. Everyone was present except for Austin, who was in the shower, and Edgar, who was drinking some blood in his room so as not to gross everyone out. We’d just barely managed to follow the no-kill rule. I’d had to come back out and heal Noah, plus the guy the basajaun had thrown into a wall.
I’d also seen Elliot Graves up in the stands, and I could tell he was in the flesh. He was there, just out of reach. With everything going on, there was no way I could’ve gotten to him, not without him getting a good shot off at me first.
“This afternoon.” Niamh sat on the couch with her feet up. “We goin’?”
“Yeah, I think we should, don’t you? It’s the two more powerful mages, right?” I slung the towel over my shoulder.
“I’ll have that, miss.” Mr. Tom took it from me. “Are you hungry? Do you want anything?”
“Order from the kitchen,” Cyra called from her position near the fridge. “I like their cooks.”
“I can make whatever they can make,” Mr. Tom replied, puffing up.
“Yes, it just won’t taste as good,” she said.
“Ah, sure,” Niamh answered me, beer in hand. “It’ll just be spells, but we can go if you wan’ta.”
“Maybe I can get some ideas for spells or something.” I plopped down into a chair. “Or we can at least see how they fight.”
“With spells,” Niamh replied. “That’s how they fight. They wave their hands around and largely stand in one place. It’s right boring.” She was annoyed she hadn’t been able to do more in our fight—the other side had given in too fast.
“It’s not boring when you don’t have a mage at your back,” Broken Sue growled. “Not everyone can withstand one of their spells. And even if they can, there’s always a limit. Whether it’s two or three, or more. At some point, it’s too much.”
“I knew a mage that was super scared of shifters,” I said. “And everyone yesterday just froze. Were the mages you…dealt with not afraid?”
Broken Sue crossed his arms over his wide chest. “One on one, yes. Small groups, sure. But when they stood behind the mercenaries, no, they weren’t scared. They had numbers and power. We had a few guarding many. They bulldozed us.”
The room went silent for a beat, everyone clearly processing the pain behind Broken Sue’s words, the raging memories that must be ripping him apart.
“You had to spare fighters to guard the vulnerable,” Nathanial said, leaning against the wall with an apple in hand. “That was not a fair fight.”
“Fair or not—”
A knock sounded at the door. I’d put up Elliot’s ward, after searching it for hidden tricks and finding none, and it vibrated with an unnecessary warning. Mr. Tom came out of the laundry area and headed that way.
“Fair or not,” Broken Sue began again, “they did more than just stand there slinging spells.”
“Are ye sure, now?” Niamh narrowed her eyes. “They brought in mercenaries. Who was actually fighting?”
Broken Sue stilled, eyes on Niamh.
“Hiring mercenaries seems to be their go-to move when they’re up against a wall,” I said as Mr. Tom closed the door. He walked over and handed me a note on plain cream cardstock, which he’d already divested of its envelope in his usual way of helping himself to my mail.
“Money can buy you a victory,” Ulric said, lounging on a chair, his leg thrown over the arm. “It can’t buy you class, but it can buy you a victory.”