I catch sight of some other wolves in the crowd, as well as some humans—maybe hunters or witches, being as I can’t sense magic at all—and I don’t know if they’re lone wolves or if they belong to one of the London packs. That doesn’t matter, either. If I shouldn’t be here, then neither should they.
And I am under no illusions: I should not be here. Sparrow made it clear, too, that I was taking my life into my own hands if I followed their advice. I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone who sent me here. They only want to help.
This is what I need.
Two fae are in the ring. I recognise one as a selkie—Spectra mentioned them—and her coat sits in one corner, a corner neither of the fae approaches. I don’t know what the other is, but he’s taller, all strangely long-limbed, with nails sharp as knives on the tips of his fingers.
She is fast, movements fluid, but he has a better reach and rakes those nails across her back when she moves aside. Shecries out, and the fae around me are shouting—cheering and booing and yelling bets…
I gulp in a breath. The crowd is pressed together, air smoky above my head, and I don’t know where I need to go to get myself inside that cage.
I drag my eyes away from the fight—the long-limbed fae will win, I think, though the selkie still has a lot of fight left in her—and scan the rest of the room. There is a booth to my right, with two large fae standing guard. The crowd is not as close there, and I don’t know if there’s a magical barrier making them keep their distance or if they just want to keep away from whoever’s inside.
Either way, I wade my way over, pausing only when the selkie finally loses, falling to the mats, and a great cheer goes up around me. Another fae goes into the cage and kneels down to wake her. She rouses enough to grab her own coat, and no one helps her out. The other fae struts around and does not leave.
Apparently, whoever is up next will face him. I eye those nails again. I wouldn’t want to.
One of the big fae grunts at me when I reach the booth, muscles flexing as he crosses his arms over his chest. I draw myself up to my full height, more than a little dismayed to see he has a couple of feet on me—but fuck, how could I possibly compete with that?
“I’m here to fight,” I say. “I don’t know where to go.”
The shadows shift and disperse, and I blink when two fae appear in the booth. I can’t tell either of their gender, or their species, though they look similar enough that whatever kind of fae they are, I think they’re the same. One has their head in the other’s lap. The one sitting up straight blinks at me, blood red hair cut in a sharp line just below their jaw.
“A new fighter?” They eye me with no little disdain. “You’ll be killed in your first match.”
“I won’t,” I say.
None of the crowd is paying us any attention. They cheer as someone else enters the cage, and I hear the door slam shut.
“Silly little wolf,” says the one lying down. Their hair is a venomous green, lips painted to match. “A fae would gut you in a second.”
“I’m a good fighter. I want to fight.”
They exchange a look, and then the green-haired one sits up and budges over. Both wave for me to sit down, which I do, my spine rigid.
“You have to promise us you won’t die,” the green-haired fae says. They tap their finger against their lips. “At least ten matches. That’s what we ask from all your kind.”
Ten…? That’s a lot, but then, what did I expect?
Of course the answer is obvious. I haven’t thought this far ahead at all. But ten fights sounds like it’s guaranteed, which is better than waiting aroundhopingto be chosen.
“All right,” I say, “I can do that.”
“Whenever we want, you’ll be here,” the one with red hair says. “No questions asked. You drop everything.”
“Yes.”
“And we need… collateral,” the green-haired fae adds. When they smile, their teeth are small and pointed—like the vast majority of the fae in here, they’re not wearing a glamour at all. “We need a promise from you, in case you decide not to show up.”
My mouth goes dry. “What do you want?”
Their eyes flash, expressions suddenly greedy. Oh, I’ve made a mistake somewhere, but maybe it was when I listened to Sparrow in the first place. Nothing to be done about it now. I hear one of the fae in the ring groan, and the crowd shouts again, and violence itches under my skin.
They look at each other and lean in, and despite the fact that I’m not even sitting a foot away, I can’t make out a single wordthey say. I turn my attention back to the crowd instead. I don’t know the species of either fae in the cage now, but the one with sharp nails is losing, taking blow after blow from a fae who’s shorter than me but twice as broad.
I can see how I might win. Or might not lose, at least. The broad fae isn’t quick, and his blows are heavy enough to break bone, for sure, but if he can’t hit… And the long-limbed one? Stay inside his reach. I know that; it’s a way we learnt to kill vampires. Werewolf blood kills vampires, so they do their best not to bite us. Get inside their reach, and they’ve no way to defend themselves.
I glance down at my hands. Of course that was back when I could shift. Claws in, tear out their heart. But I’m still strong, and I’m still fast, and I still knowwhatto do.
