Page 7 of Knot Playing Fair 2

I sighed and started walking. The vacant lot being used for parking was off an alley that ran from the next block over to the back of the Spivey Building. The towering twelve-story structure didn’t have a single pane of glass left in it, and no one cared enough to spend time or money boarding it up. Graffiti covered the back wall, stretching as high up as an angry kid with a spray can could reach.

The action seemed to be taking place in a squat, white-painted structure adjacent to the main building. It was maybe two stories tall—just a big, square, ugly white box.

“This used to be the city newspaper building,” Zalen said in a monotone, as we trudged toward the back entrance. “My grandfather worked here for nearly thirty years.”

Not for the first time, I was struck by the surreality of growing up in a place that had once been a regional economic powerhouse, but was now little more than the rotting skeleton of dead dreams.

“Wonder what your grandpa would think about the place now?” I muttered.

“I suspect it’s just as well that we’ll never know,” Zalen replied.

We joined the short line of men in dark hoodies and gold chains, and women in short dresses with far too much makeup. Two alphas flanked the metal door. When we reached the front of the queue, the nearest one eyed us up and down.

“Don’t recognize you two,” he said, challenge in his tone.

“And this is our problem... why, exactly?” I couldn’t help asking. If I was extra lucky tonight, maybe he’d turn us away so I could go home and sleep for thirty-six hours straight.

“We’ve got a packmate in the fights,” Zalen said, in a much more reasonable tone. “We’re here to put some money down on him.”

“Yeah? What’s his name?” demanded the bouncer.

“Emiel,” Zalen said.

“Never heard of him.”

“Emiel Hamilton,” Zalen added.

The bouncer’s face went still for a beat.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. Um, you’d better go in.”

And... okay. Something about that interaction had my hackles prickling with disquiet.

“Thanks,” Zalen said flatly, and slipped through the door.

I followed. “What the hell was that about?” I asked, once we were inside.

“No idea,” Zalen said in the same tone.

The building was just a big, open factory floor. No machinery remained, and while a basic attempt had been made to clear the area of debris, the sheer amount of shredded insulation, shattered bricks, and broken wood that had been shoved against the walls spoke to the building’s decrepit condition.

It smelled like sweat, alpha musk, mildew, and concrete dust. I had a nasty feeling we were going to need one of those TV law firms that specialized in class action suits for mesothelioma after breathing in the asbestos-laden air.

Unsurprisingly, the space was dominated by a chain link cage set on a raised platform. Someone had hauled in a generator, and several spotlights shone down on the main attraction of two alphas pummeling each other inside.

From the back of the jeering crowd, I could only make out one of the combatants—a tawny-skinned female built like a proverbial tank, with blood running down the side of her face and a massive bruise blooming across her back. She had someone pinned on the mat beneath her—one dark brown, muscular arm held twisted in her unforgiving grip—and a leg braced as though she was standing on her opponent to keep them down.

A bellow of rage sounded from the unseen alpha on the mat, and something shivered up my spine—some strange flicker of recognition, even though I’d never heard that sound before.

“Shit,” Zalen cursed over the noise of the excited crowd. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Come on!”

He started elbowing his way toward the front before I could point out what an incredibly stupid idea that was. We were in a crowd where every other person was probably packing a semiautomatic handgun, and the ones who weren’t almost certainly had switchblades. With little choice in the matter,I followed him, trying to ignore the way my skin crawled whenever a hand pushed or grabbed at me.

Somehow—because while Zalen wasn’t what you’d call an aggressive alpha, he could still muster the dominant aura when it really counted—we ended up shoving through the last line of sweaty bodies to get a clear view of the cage floor.

“Goddamn it,” I grated, as the female alpha hauled off and kicked a familiar figure in the back of the head. Emiel’s angry roar cut off abruptly, and the woman dropped the arm she’d been twisting in a submission hold. It fell to the mat, completely limp.

Quick as a flash, the referee—who was safelyoutsidethe cage, I couldn’t help noticing—came over and started the count.

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