“Bankers, council members, some fat cats from town—they’re all in on it,” he hisses quietly, his voice barely audible over the ensuing chaos. “They keep this hellhole running smoothly.”
Just fucking fabulous. What the hell shady shitaren’tthe people who run this town doing?
Fiadh’s face contorts with fury, but before she can vent her anger, a new combatant is hauled into the ring—a monstrous aberration that silences the rowdy throng. Its skull-like head swivels, an exposed heart pulsating grotesquely amidst matted fur, each movement promising death.
“What the fuck is that?” Fiadh whispers, her voice tinged with a fear that mirrors the crowd’s sudden stillness.
My eyes coast over it, not recognizing the creature but knowing with every fiber of my being that we need to get far away from it. It exudes malevolence like we breathe air and Fiadh shouldn’t be in the same fucking zip code as this damn thing.
Who the fuck brought it and what it is?
“Evil,” Dezi says, his pallor ghostly. “An abomination. That... thing shouldn’t exist here—or anywhere. It’s forbidden.”
Fiadh frowns. “What’s forbidden? Is that… created, not born?”
Dezi shakes his head, unwilling to say more in our current location. If it spooks the ancient vampire, its presence is not okay. This bullshitfight club is bigger than we thought—its tied to something darker and more powerful. Whatever it’s hiding, it’s sinister and dangerous.
“Time to go,” I say, urgency lacing my words. I pull out my phone, snapping a quick photo of the creature for evidence. Then, with a firm grip, I take Fiadh’s arm, and we turn to leave. We need answers, and Dezi’s about to give us a masterclass in forbidden lore or I’ll strangle him myself.
Not that doing would kill the bloodsucker, but it might annoy him enough to loosen his tongue.
Whatever game we’ve stumbled upon, it’s clear we’re playing with fire—and it’s time to figure out who’s stoking the flames.
The metallic taste of blood still lingers on my tongue as we shuffle back to the bus, our recent discovery at the fight club a stark contrast to the opulence awaiting us. I rub my fingers over where I bit my lip to keep from punching the dickhead council people in the VIP section, and the sinking dread of the upcoming charity dinner settles in my stomach like a stone.
I hate shit like this and I’m going to be part of so much of it for months on end—kill me now.
“Can’t wait for this dinner,” Dezi drawls, his voice dripping with sarcasm while he eyes me from across the narrow aisle. His deadpan humor does little to lighten the mood, and I sigh, leaning heavily against the cold metal cabinets.
“Maybe I’ll just get sloshed,” I mutter, eyeing the row of Fae spirits tucked away for special occasions—or emergencies, depending on how you look at it. “Might make the evening bearable.”
“Fiadh, you know that’s not an option,” Tiernan chides gently, easing himself between me and my liquid escape. “You’re too honest as it is; alcohol would only sharpen your tongue.”
He knows me way too well, and it makes my skin itch sometimes.
I shoot him a glare that’s half-hearted at best and slump onto the couch. The leather creaks under my weight, a comforting sound amid my internal turmoil. He’s right, of course. Drunk Fiadh at a high-profile event is a recipe fordisaster.
Without a word, Tiernan presses an energy tonic into my hand, the cool glass vial a silent reminder of my responsibilities. He pairs it with a snack—something small and protein-packed, knowing it’ll help clear my head. I’m a right bitch when I’m hangry and again, he’s read me like a book. Damn mates.
“Revelin will be here soon,” he says, sitting down next to me with a soft thump. His presence, usually so calming, does little to assuage the gnawing anxiety. “We can discuss everything after the dinner. Just us.”
“Great,” I grumble, turning the vial over in my hand. “An entire night playing dress-up for nothing.”
“Fiadh,” he starts, his tone taking on a lecturing quality that makes me want to groan. “Having stylists handle our looks means any criticism can be deflected to them. It’s strategic.”
“Because I care so much about what they think,” I say, rolling my eyes.
I know he has a point. Personal attacks are harder to dodge than critiques on wardrobe choices. And I’m not exactly kind to people who criticize me—especially with appearances. It’s vain and shallow, not worthy of my time, but I can’t stop myself from rising to the bait.
“Plus,” Tiernan adds with a knowing look, “it prevents you from throttling someone who comments on your outfit.”
“Fine,” I concede, unscrewing the cap of the tonic with more force than necessary. I toss back the contents, feeling the rush of energy flood my system, bracing myself for the chaos that awaits. “Let’s get this over with.”
The door to the bus swings open with a flourish that’s pure Revelin, and he steps in, trailing a comet’s tail of fashion emergency aid—Tanya Windwalker, her floating hair already a sign of her magic at work, flutters beside him. Orchid and Basil Tangleberry, with their ethereal beauty and near-identical features, follow, their eyesscanning the space like they can already envision the transformations they’ll weave.
“Showtime, folks!” Rev announces, and it’s all high-octane charisma.
I watch from my spot on the couch as he slips into his public persona, a mask as glittering and false as the outfits he’s about to parade before us. The crew doesn’t need to know that beneath that sparkle is a man who’d rather be anywhere but under the council’s thumb.
