Rise of the Gryphon (Belador #4)(8)
Nice touch.
The Domjon noticed her with the speed of a rattlesnake picking up the heat of a prey. His beady eyes lit with interest that had nothing to do with money.
Storm thought about shoving the yellow diamond down the Domjon’s throat—with his fist attached. But he had a role to play, too.
“Okay, okay, okay, fresh meat,” the Domjon chortled, grinning at Evalle. “Whadda ya want, little lady?”
Evalle smiled right back at him and expelled a sound of sinister amusement. “Your throat if you call me little lady again.”
That took a notch off the Domjon’s leering. “No insult, none a’tall, gotta go with the flow, have a sense of humor, don’t be gettin’ mean ’lessen you’re inside the ring. Whadda ya have?”
“I request a fight.”
“Buy-in’s high, but lower than the sky. Show your flash for a chance at a mash.”
Withdrawing her fingers from her coat pocket, Evalle flipped the sparkling yellow stone to the Domjon as if it was no more than a coin she’d found.
He snagged the jewel from the air. Holding the rock up to his moon-shaped face, one eye ran out on a stem and studied the gem all over before sucking back into his eye socket.
The crowd had quieted to a low rumble. Some turned from the fight going on to find out what new meat had entered the fray.
Storm had a momentary concern the Domjon might try to pull a fast one and declare the gem not worth enough for an entry spot, but the mouthy little turd told Evalle, “He’s in.”
“Rules.” Evalle gave that one word as an order.
“Fight to the death, no draws allowed, unless your opponent’s sponsor accepts a trade. A deal’s a deal, without a will.” The Domjon swung his beady eyes to Storm. “Declare yourself.”
Decision time.
Declaring himself as anything other than Skinwalker, which meant in his case that he could shift and had majik in his arsenal, was reason for disqualification if caught. Fighting as a shifter allowed for no majik in the ring, but he shouldn’t need it to win against most were-animals. Bring majik into the picture and the odds of winning went up significantly in favor of those who wielded far more majik than he did.
Besides, he only needed one fight to give Evalle time to talk to the witch. Getting disqualified or forfeiting after that would work in their favor to offer a quick exit.
He took the gamble and said, “Dual form. Animal.”
“Shifter?” the Domjon asked.
“Yes.” Storm’s chest tightened with a quick twist of pain he barely kept from betraying with his expression. A mild reaction to lying, since he was technically correct about shifting into animal form and the Domjon had not specifically asked, “Are you a shifter????”
An “ah” floated through the crowd.
The Domjon snapped his fingers three times. “All right, all right, all right, go find yourself a fight.”
He flipped a silver disc that Storm caught in the air and lifted into view. A skull with two horns had been carved into the center, and a clip dangled from a hole at the top. Storm clipped the coin on one of his belt loops, declaring himself a contender.
Tension sparked off Evalle, but when he took in her face she released a sigh born of boredom for those watching her.
As if everyone wasted her time.
He was proud of her, but he enjoyed a moment of ego satisfaction that she had eyes only for him.
When she swung around to walk away, Storm followed, sweeping his gaze over everyone they passed and sending a silent message that the safest place was as far away from her as they could get.
The area had a dogfight atmosphere with sponsors either cutting deals or sizing up fighters for a mash. One woman had a two-headed Keelter demon that hissed in stereo.
Evalle had been strolling along calmly until Storm noticed a hesitation in her next step.
He swept the crowd, searching until he found a man up ahead whose gaze had locked on her. He had maybe two inches on Storm, which would put the guy at six feet four inches. A thick mat of inch-long, lemon-yellow hair carpeted his head, and he had a face the color of saffron, with a hooked beak nose center stage. Nothing remarkable that would cause Storm concern, until he took in the predator-black eyes, empty as two holes in a skull.
Having tightened down his empathic senses to pick up only Evalle’s emotions, Storm opened them wider now to reach out to the man. Anger simmered beneath the blank face, and power coiled around his slender body.
Witch. Maybe a wizard or a mage.
Evalle paused as though considering a mash.
With one look at Storm, the wizard ignored her interest. In a moment, Evalle would notice the shiny red disc hanging from a black cord around the neck of the woman standing next to the wizard, her head shoulder high to him. This fighter would have to wait for a majik mash. She was bald except for a chin-length strip of violet hair hanging off one side of her head, heavy kohl-black eyes, thick lashes, purple lipstick and body cut with muscle. She posed, moving slowly so the soft-looking leather that crisscrossed over her breasts and shorts of the same material showed off cinnamon-colored skin that shone. She didn’t look the least bit cold in this chilly temperature.
Must have plenty of majik if she wasted it to keep herself warm.
When the punk-haired wizard ignored Evalle, she dismissed him right back and walked on. They’d covered several yards when a loud snarl erupted from Storm’s left.