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“Uh-oh,” I said. “How’d she take that?”
“She accused me of buckling under the league’s phallocentric tyranny.”
“Wait,” Adam said. “How is it phallocentric tyranny if they’re insisting on people without penises?”
The demon tilted his head down. “Really, mancy? Would you ever say something that logical to Red when she’s emotional?”
I frowned at the males. “I never get that emotional.”
Adam raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. That earned him a light punch to the ribs. “Ouch!”
“Anyway,” I said, getting back on topic, “where does she stand on all this now?”
The door to the locker room opened and a blond head poked out. “Gigi?” Pussy Willow noticed Adam and me. “Oh! Hi, guys!”
“Hey, P-Dub,” I said. “What’s shakin’?”
She laughed, the sound filled with too much bass for a female. “Didn’t you hear? I’m about to make my debut as a color commentator.” Instead of sounding bitter about the change, she seemed excited by the prospect. But before I could comment, she turned to Giguhl. “The refs said it’s time to line up.”
Giguhl snapped to attention. “Oh, gods! I’ll be right there.”
Pussy Willow waggled her fingers in farewell and ducked back inside.
“Um, Giguhl?” I said. “I hate to point out the obvious, but she didn’t seem pissed at all.” I looked at Adam, who shrugged and nodded.
Giguhl crossed his arms. “Don’t let her fool you. She’s all smiles now because I agreed to let her do color commentary for the bout, but later she’ll probably poison my food.”
“Now who’s the drama queen?” I patted him on the shoulder. “Go get ’em, tiger!”
He wiped the sweat from his brow with a claw and disappeared inside the locker room. “Is it just me,” Adam said, “or are those two sounding more and more like a married couple every time we see them?”
“Seriously,” I said. As far as I knew, their friendship was as platonic as one can be between a Mischief demon and a g*y faery transvestite. Still, there was a vein of codependency there that concerned me. “But I seriously do not have the energy to analyze their dynamic right now. Let’s go find our seats.”
A few minutes later, Adam and I located spots between two nymphs and a werewolf couple. We settled in to wait for the bout to begin.
By habit, Adam’s arm came up around my shoulders. I leaned into his side and tried to enjoy my new, more optimistic attitude toward life. But I couldn’t quite relax. Being happy felt like wearing someone else’s shoes.
A few moments later, the lights fell. A cheer rose up from the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Black Light District,” Slade’s voice boomed through the arena. He stood in the announcer’s booth next to Pussy Willow. “Vein is proud to present the first-ever Hell on Wheel’s Roller Derby Night!” Cheers, clapping. “Show some love for our visiting team, the Brooklyn Bloodletters!”
Then the speakers came to life, blaring out “Roller Girls” by the Soviettes. Spotlights flashed back and forth across the rink as the Bloodletters exploded out of their locker room. They wore uniforms that resembled naughty nurse costumes. Only ripped and spattered with blood. The crowd booed the visiting team, which only seemed to egg on their antics as they lapped the track.
Once they’d reached their bench and their coach, a female vampire, the music cut off. Then, over the loudspeaker, Pussy Willow shouted: “Manhattan! Are you ready to fight?”
The audience went wild. Adam and I jumped to our feet along with everyone else to cheer on the home team.
“Stomp your feet for the queens of pain!” the faery screamed. “The mistresses of mayhem! The Manhattan Marauders!”
The hundreds of stomping feet pummeled the aluminum bleachers. AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” boomed from the speakers. The Manhattan Marauders exploded from the locker room. Since Giguhl was their coach, the theme for their uniforms was “slutty.” Baby-doll shirts, pleather bandages masquerading as skirts, and ripped fishnets.
With Giguhl in the lead, the girls zoomed around the track, playing it up for the crowd. Even Mac, who usually accessorized her outfits with a scowl, seemed to be enjoying herself. She and Georgia skated next to each other, smiling and waving at the fans. Pussy Willow announced them by their Roller Derby names—Bitch N. Heat and Eva Fangoria.
When the team reached its bench, Pussy Willow did a quick spiel about the rules. While she spoke, Adam leaned in to me and said, “You seem more chipper tonight.”
I dragged my eyes from the rink. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “Your shoulders are relaxed and you’re actually smiling. It’s nice.”
I laid my head on his shoulder. “Sorry if I’ve been bitchy lately. It’s just been a little stressful.”
He ran a hand over my hair. “I wasn’t complaining. We’ve all been stressed. But you seem… lighter somehow.”
“I guess I just decided to try out optimism for a change.”
He reared back in mock surprise. “You?”
I swatted his arm. “Stop.”
“Just kidding.” He chuckled and kissed my hair. “Seriously. It looks good on you.”
My conscience gave a slight twinge. I’d filled Adam in on the plan to trick Maisie into a dream incubation, but I hadn’t told him everything. Adam would freak if I told him Maisie tried to exsanguinate her maid—not only because it was forbidden by mage law but also because of the issues it would bring up about Adam’s own experience as Maisie’s unwilling blood donor
However, just to be safe, I had suggested he assign a Pythian Guard to her until the Imbolc festival. Adam thought the suggestion was just a better-safe-than-sorry measure. But I just hoped a potential witness might dissuade her from making any more stupid choices. Until we could get this shit settled.
In the meantime, I scooted closer to my man. Tonight was just for us, and I was determined not to let my sister’s drama—or anyone else’s for that matter—ruin it.
The shrill squeal of the whistle. On the track, the players who scored the points for each team lined up. Over the P.A. system, Pussy Willow identified the raven-haired faery for the Bloodletters as Scarlet O’Scare-a. The jammer for the Marauders was one of Slade’s nymphs, Pepper, who skated under the name Stankerbell. The black stars on their helmets identified them as players whose goal was to score points by skating past the defenders from the opposite team. Several feet ahead of them, eight other players—four for each team—bunched up in a group, ready to block the jammers with their elbows, hips, and fists.
