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“No.” Holt shook his head. “I’ve told them you’re human. They know you’re trustworthy. They’re actually really excited to meet you.”
Oh god, that made me nervous. They were probably expecting some totally chill, free-spirited person whose life was already so interesting that finding out about the existence of supernatural beings was no big deal.
I shifted anxiously in my loafers. “Wh-why are they excited to meet me?”
“Because you’re cool, bro.” Larkin rose from his seat and stretched, his wings fluttering behind him. “I’ll come with. Hopefully Vince is still playing video games in just a towel.”
“Which one’s Vince?” I asked as Holt threaded his fingers through mine and led me to the door.
“Rolling Rimmer,” he told me.
“Ghoul with the long, sexy tongue,” Larkin added, waggling his brows at me as he joined us at the door. “Hey, Seb, wanna come? Taylor’s going to meet all the wrestlers.”
Seb glanced at him as we stopped in the corridor, then slid his gaze over me and Holt. I got the feeling he wasn’t particularly eager to see Larkin flirting with all the wrestlers.
“I’ll stay here. If that’s okay, boss,” he added to Holt.
“Sure.” Holt waved his hand. “Go sit down. We’ll order dinner soon.”
Seb pulled the small crossword book from the back pocket of his pants as he turned to amble into the room. Holt started leading me down the corridor again, Larkin trailing behind us. We passed the door to his private box and kept going down the long corridor, eventually turning a corner into a hallway lined with doors.
I scanned the signs on each one as we passed, realising these were the wrestlers’ dressing rooms. B. Were’s door was plain except for his name. Lady Victoria Venom’s had a snake drawn on it, while Nunhallowed Pound’s had a big upside down cross painted in red. There was a beautifully drawn swan and raven on Val Kyl-More’s, above and below her name sign, and a comically long dick spraypainted in yellow on Frank and Beans’ door, which was covered in dents and gouges and scuffmarks. I eyed that one nervously.
The sign on the Tasselled Tussler’s dressing room door was different from all the others—bigger and framed in gold, the words etched into the plaque. The door had also been painted bright pink, and the handle was covered in rhinestones.
“Corey paid for a new sign for his,” Holt told me in a mutter as we passed it.
I could hear sounds from up ahead, echoing down the bare corridor. The heavy clink of weights being lifted, someone barking out orders over the sound of flesh smacking against flesh and feet scuffling over a mat. A microwave dinging. Video game music and jovial yelling competing with the faint thud of heavy metal music.
I clutched Holt’s hand tighter, my palm sweating, as he pushed open a set of double doors and revealed a cavernous room. It had been roughly split into thirds, the far end overflowing with top-notch gym equipment. I could see The G.O.A.T. lying on a bench, lifting an enormous amount of weight over her chest as her goat legs bulged with the strain, while Val Kyl-More hovered by her head, ready to grab the barbell if needed.
High Lord Crossbody was running gracefully on a treadmill, his long golden hair tied back into a ponytail and his mauve skin glistening with sweat. He was only wearing a pair of tiny shorts. I tried not to stare at his flexing butt.
In the centre of the room was a training ring. The Optometrist and a huge, hulking werewolf—I was guessing that was B. Were—were practising a double leg takedown over and over while being barked at by a squat, pig-faced man standing beside the ring. He was wearing a purple tracksuit, cloven hooves poking out from the pants and a round belly straining against the half unzipped top. A heavy gold chain was nestled in the thick, curly grey chest hair on full display above his crossed arms, and a fat cigar was clamped between his stubby teeth.
The closest third of the room was a living area of sorts. Kitchen cabinets stretched along the back wall, about eight blenders strewn over the counter alongside giant tubs of protein powder and a sink overflowing with empty containers and dirty shaker bottles.
A huge sectional couch formed a horseshoe in the centre of the space, facing an enormous wall-mounted TV currently displaying an old-school street-fighting game. There were several hunky wrestlers lounging around in various states of undress.
I could feel my face turning pink as my gaze swept over them. Bedrock Biff Clawstin was relaxing in the corner, one thick arm along the back of the couch and the other draped over the shoulders of Nunhallowed Pound, whose head was on Biff’s chest as he mashed at the controller in his hands, eyes glued to the TV. He was in a pair of tiny black shorts and nothing else, burgundy skin highlighting every bulging muscle in his body. Biff was in a pair of grey sweats that were almost the exact same shade as his rock-like skin, and he looked only half-interested in the game on the TV as he absently played with the silver barbell piercing Nunhallowed’s nipple.
I’d never seen the Rolling Rimmer, but I guessed he was the one holding the other controller, because a freakishly long tongue was poking out of his mouth in concentration as he jabbed at the buttons. He was—probably much to Larkin’s delight—dressed only in a towel slung low around his hips. His skin was an off-grey, more sickly looking than Biff’s stony tone, and his features were gaunt but still kind of elegant. He wasn’t as bulky as some of the others—more sinewy and lean, but still muscular.
Lady Victoria Venom was wearing dark sunglasses and reading a magazine. The head of every single snake that made up her hair was turned toward the magazine too, tiny eyes trained on the page. Her long legs were stretched along the couch and her feet were in the lap of Blood Suckapunch, who was yelling at the TV, his chest on full display above his loose shorts.
It took me a second to realise there was another person sitting on the section of the couch that faced away from us, because there was no head between the thick, muscular arms draped casually along the back. Just a neck with a dark, gaping wound. I stared at it in disbelief for a long moment, then jumped when Holt cleared his throat beside me.
“Everyone, this is Taylor.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Goliaths
There was a clang from the far end of the room as Val helped The G.O.A.T. drop the barbell into its holder. High Lord Crossbody’s head whipped around, ponytail swishing majestically through the air, as he kept running on the treadmill. Someone paused the game, cutting off its fast-paced soundtrack as all heads swivelled toward us. The Optometrist and B. Were stopped grappling for a moment, their chests heaving with panting breaths as they looked over, until the pig-faced coach snorted and barked, “Again!”
Blood Suckapunch pushed Mads’ feet off his lap and vaulted over the couch, his long legs swinging directly over the empty space above Dullahan Dan’s neck hole. I clutched Holt’s hand tighter as Blood Suckapunch approached, his gait seductively predatory and his red eyes trailing down my frame.
Behind him, I saw a severed head with long, dirty-blond hair pop up from the couch, held between the hands of its owner, Dullahan Dan. It was pretty unsettling to think of a severed head as handsome, but he was. He had a strong jaw, a crooked nose and blue eyes that crinkled at the corners as he grinned mischievously.
