I’d asked Gil that question approximately ten minutes ago, shortly after he’d shoved me back out through the beaded curtains. We had to leave because Damien was busy doing one-armed pushups in the back room. Maybe he was going to drink a smoothie made from bald eagle eggs and bullets, too. I don’t know.
A blood trial was basically a glorified fistfight, meant for settling disputes, or as in this case, probably as an excuse for Damien to crack my head open. Fine, it’s more serious than that, with a scoring system that looked to me like a watered-down version of fencing. The first person to draw blood three times was the victor. It’d have to be from three wounds. It didn’t matter how small or how life-threateningly serious said wounds were, as long as they bled at all.
“And it’s just about the most dangerous game you can play with an alpha,” Gil said, practically spitting at me out in the parking lot. “Jesus, Sterling, just what were you thinking?”
“I guess I wasn’t.” I shrugged, reaching for my pocket, looking for a cigarette. Gil swatted at my hand. I drew it back, rubbing at the sting. “Ow. Okay, you’re pissed, I get it.”
Asher came jogging up to us, his shoes scraping at the asphalt. “What the fuck is going on? There’s all these people coming out of the bar and they’re hooting and hollering. Is there going to be a fight? Is this my first bar fight?”
“Something like that,” Gil said. “You’re not going to be involved. Don’t worry.”
“Oh, Jackie said that, too. She said that some dumb idiot pissed off the alpha, and there’s going to be a – what did she call it again – a blood trial?” He paused for a moment, then stared directly into my eyes. “Oh no. Sterling. Are you that dumb idiot?”
“Listen. You guys, listen. This’ll be fine. I’ll score three points, then we get to ask our questions. Okay? Big deal. Whatever happens, I’ll heal up by morning. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Gil bared his teeth at me, his fists shaking. “The last guy Damien faced in a blood trial was disemboweled. They had to put his insides in a duffle bag. See if you can heal out of that, you stupid, stupid moron.” He mussed up his hair and stalked off, muttering.
I shook my head, watching as Gil talked to Jackie about something that looked important. “I think he’s pissed. You think he’s pissed?”
“Take this seriously, Sterling. You could get hurt.”
“Sure,” I said, patting Asher on the cheek. He flinched at the cold of my hand, but kept frowning at me. “So how did it go with Jackie? Did she introduce you to all the wicked ways of women?”
His eyes lit up. “Actually, we had a really interesting conversation about the town. She says we should stop by the local graveyard if we’re trying to sniff things out. That Uriah Everett you mentioned, I think he’s buried there. We can get some answers.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s my boy, meeting girls and nerding it up.”
“Bloodsucker. Ten minutes are up.”
Damien’s voice echoed across the parking lot, gravelly and dark as he led the last of his pack out of the Dead Dog. The excitement was palpable, and I tried not to let the fact that the werewolves were arranging themselves into a circle around us bother me.
I couldn’t tell you where the antipathy between werewolves and vampires really began, or when, for that matter. It was just something that had always been there. I’ll be the first to admit: we vampires are stuck so far up our own asses that we don’t really need coffins to hide from the daylight.
Vampires in general consider themselves an elite species: noble, calculating, and supremely intelligent. Werewolves, as my brethren like to believe, are feral, uncouth, and disorganized. Which is a load of crap, anyway. Pack hierarchies existed, for one thing, and they had all these clans and tribes all over the place. And again, I’d never deny that vampires are just as capable of being violent killers. We’re probably worse.
But Gil and I were past that
. It’d never been a problem. Gil’s only issue with me was my mouth, and fine, maybe my occasional abuse of cologne and body spray. My only real issue with him was how he never adequately cleaned up after trimming his goddamn beard over the sink.
Damien sniffed at the air, then growled. “The jacket comes off. I smell the stink of magic on you, bloodsucker. Play fair, for once in your corrupted life.”
He wasn’t wrong, though as a point of pride, I tried not to rely on enchantments and artifacts too much. I only owned two magical items. Three, if you counted my amazing face.
“I’m taking it off because I want to,” I said. “Not because you asked me to.” The chorus of boos that went up from the circle was predictable, and maybe slightly hurtful.
I shrugged off my jacket, handing it to Asher. The black tank I was left wearing underneath could work to my advantage. If nothing else, maybe my undead pallor would end up blinding Damien. And fine, I wanted to expose all that skin because it was basically bait. If Damien believed that he’d have an easier time scoring points, then he’d be a little overeager in the fight. Better chance of him slipping up.
But really, it was for mobility, and to avoid any mishaps. Explosive ones, like Gil had suggested. The jacket was custom-made, designed by a pair of drag queen enchantresses. Specific, I know. Metric and Imperial Fuck-Ton were literal wizards when it came to creating enchanted garments, and this one in particular was designed with a bunch of hidden pockets.
Each pocket led to a different compartment within the same miniature dimension, letting me carry all sorts of things. Extra cartons of cigarettes, hairstyling products, and maybe there was a car battery in there somewhere, too, just in case. But the real prize was a sword I’d won in a duel. Pity I couldn’t use it in the blood trial.
The main point of taking it off, though, was to avoid an incident. Severe physical damage could rupture the delicate dimensional barriers sewn into the leather. I could already tell that this fight was going to get pretty damn ugly, and while I trusted the Fuck-Tons’ craftsmanship, I didn’t want to risk the effects of dimensional collapse. It could probably blow the parking lot, the Dead Dog, and all of our stupid corpses right off the face of the earth.
Damien’s chuckle drew my attention. He was assessing me, and not-so-subtly dissing me to his subordinates. “Scrawny little runt, isn’t he?” Cue derisive laughter, multiplied by however many wolves had gathered in the parking lot.
I rolled my shoulders, relishing the popping of my joints. “Wiry’s more like it. Slender. Svelte.”
Damien narrowed his eyes. “Irritating, more like.” He curled his hands into fists, then stretched out his fingers, groaning. Blood trickled from his nails as they extended longer, and longer, and shit, still longer, until they’d grown into glistening talons. He saw the surprise in my eyes, then grinned. “Ready when you are.”