“Fuck off, Quentin,” I throw over my shoulder, turning back to the tap and running a rag under the cool water. He chuckles behind me as I swipe the wet rag over my face, wincing slightly as the crisp temperature of the water stings my open wounds. They should have taken only minutes to heal, but the shifter had some serious power in his veins.
“I’m serious,” he concedes, coming up behind me and smacking me across the back. I jolt forward, tensing. “It’s been a minute since you’ve given us an entertaining match. Andras has been setting far too easy competitors for you, if you ask me.”
“Andras,” I bite through gritted teeth, “is going to have my fucking head for almost losing his earnings.”
Quinn bobs his head back and forth as he crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the next sink over, the pucker of his lips making the stubble on his jaw twitch. “You’re not wrong. He sent for you.”
I groan, shakingmy head. “Where?”
“At the garage,” Quinn answers easily, letting his eyes roam over the decrepit room. He runs a hand through his slicked back sandy hair.
I nod slowly, taking a deep breath and pushing myself off the sink. “Let me get cleaned up. I’ll meet you there.”
“Don’t bother." He puts a hand up, stopping me from walking towards the showers. “It’s going to be a messy one.”
The lot for the garage is abandoned, aside from a few bikes parked out of sight. I have a pit in my stomach as I pull my bike up beside them and make my way towards the garage. Quinn follows suit, the ever-present shadow beside me.
The rolling doors of the oversized garage are closed, leaving only the side entrance open. I walk into the stream of light painting the concrete, letting the harsh brightness wash over me. Perhaps it will chase away the darkness, cleanse me of my sins. But it is only an exposed bulb hanging inside the garage—not a miracle sent by the gods—and I pass through the doorway unchanged.
I furrow my brow as my eyes adjust to the stark lighting. Andras leans against a support column in the middle of the garage, between various lifts for the motorcycles we oftenservice in here. He’s picking at his nails in the annoying way he does when he’s losing his patience. Which I expect.
What I don’t expect to find is Zeke and Sterling, the other two members of my small crew, waiting for us as well. Or the mysterious fourth body seated and bound in the middle of the empty garage. My boys are leaning against the far wall beside the work benches and meticulously organized tools, exchanging glances with each other that seem to communicate how uncomfortable both of them feel being called here to wait for me. It only sets me more on edge.
“What’s this?” I ask, stopping just in front of the seated figure.
“Ah,” Andras’ voice boasts, his hands clapping together as he straightens from his spot. “It’s so nice of you to finally grace us with your presence, Aamon. I feared your injuries would keep you from your duties tonight.”
I grimace, the soreness in my features only slightly noticeable still. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.” I meet his gaze, holding it steady and refusing to back down from the challenge.
He watches me for a moment, his lips eventually tipping up into a smirk. “No, of course not. I wouldn’t have let you work your way up my ranks this far if something like a little serpent shifter could take you down.”
He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Andras is leader to all of our kind, the Alpha of not just the vampires, but all of the ungoverned district. But things between us havealways felt deeper. I was exiled so young, the Arcane taking root in me when I was little more than an infant. He took pity on me and accepted me into his fold, raising me in this life and training me as a fighter in his rings. It was through him alone that I was accepted into the Blood Order at an uncharacteristically early age.
I earned my keep as well as his respect, rising in the ranks all the way to second in command.
But lately he’s been keeping me at arm's length, deliberately leaving me out of Order business and running me ragged in the rings. As if he sees something untrustworthy in me, something he no longer likes.
I return the hollow smile and he pulls me in, an arm around my shoulders, turning our attention back to their captive.
“Unfortunately," he says slyly, "duty calls nonetheless.”
“Who is he?” I ask, staring down at the slumped form before us. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him, not with the old cloth sack covering his face. He’s large, but appears to be unconscious. I haven’t heard him utter a single noise since I walked in, and even now as I nudge him with my boot, he's unresponsive.
“Tyge,” Andras answers as he lets his arm drop from my shoulder, circling around the motionless body. I stifle my shock at the name. Tyge is not part of the Blood Order but a reaper who's worked closely with us for years. His connections have helped us barter illegal goods through theMidLands—necessities like medical supplies that are often cut off from the ungoverned district.
The Alpha’s hand darts out suddenly, clinging hard to a wound on Tyge’s chest I hadn’t noticed before. I stiffen as I watch Andras’ nails grow sharp and dig into the wound, making the stain on his dingy white shirt go from a rusty red to a deep, wet crimson as fresh blood oozes.
Andras’ actions serve their purpose as Tyge is awake in an instant, gasping for air and screaming through the sack still secured over his head. Andras nods to Quinn behind us, who turns to close the garage’s side door, bolting it with a deafening thud. Zeke and Sterling haven’t moved, both of them taking in the scene carefully as they wait to see how Andras wants to let this play out.
“Tyge here"—Andras’ voice raises as he releases his body, pulling a bandana from his back pocket and wiping his hands of the fresh blood—"has decided to start dealing a little business on the side.”
Andras’ eyes flick to Zeke, a silent command. Zeke moves forward without argument and tugs the sack off Tyge's head. Tyge is trying to hide his panic, but it’s clear to see how terrified he is with the way his eyes are darting around the room for an escape. He’s coated in grime and sweat, his dirtied skin now streaked with the newfound tears streaming down his face.
“Isn’t that right?” Andras leans in, a hand braced on the back of Tyge’s chair.
“I’m sorry, Andras,” Tyge pleads. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t know.”
“Bullshit,” Andras sneers, spitting on the floor before Tyge. “You saw an opportunity to make money, to gain power. And you took it without thinking about the consequences of such actions. Of what bringing something like that into the ungoverned district might do to our society.”
