Chapter 27
Edwina
Watching grown men pummel the shit out of each other has never been my idea of fun, and listening to the cacophony of voices is giving me a headache. My nails plunge into my flesh and draw blood. It’s time for me to leave the fray.
My gaze settles on Kragen. The vampire, decked out in a charcoal gray suit and crimson tie, seems to be at ease with the ruckus. He leans toward me. “Edwina, are ya all right?”
“No, I’m not,” I tell him. “I’ll be back.”
His eyebrow rises, and he studies me. Of course, his mind would think I’m about to cause trouble.
“I promise I’m not going to do anything but get some air.”
“Be sure that’s all ya do. I don’t want ta have ta rescue ya. Again.”
The hall outside the ring is just as loud. Too many voices mixing with the insipid lyrics from the latest rapper jar my senses. Scantily dressed females grind shamelessly against uninterested males. Noise. Hormones. Heat. It’s all too much. I glance around the space in desperate need of an exit.
“Perhaps I can help you.” Damien’s voice comes from behind me.
If it hadn’t been for the pandemonium, I would have heard his approach. Swinging around to face him, I say, “Just point me to the exit so I can escape the chaos."
A smile tugs at his shapely lips. “We need to talk, Miss Devereaux. Please follow me.”
Common sense tells me to refuse his offer, but Damien did ask nicely. Reluctantly, I let him lead me through the crowd and down a hall. The incessant racket slips behind us and becomes a dull throb. Our footsteps punctuate the quiet like an odd bass beat. We continue walking until we reach a door tucked into a corner.
Damien opens the door and permits me to enter first. The air in this room is charged with magic. Its darkness slips over my skin like fingers. It takes every fiber of the power I possess to push the offender away from me.
“What the hell was that?” I snap.
The door clanks into its lock. “Sorry about that. I have to protect my office.”
My eyes take in the sparsely decorated room—a simple wooden desk and a few folding chairs—before I lock eyes with Damien. “What’s to protect in here?”
A smile unfurls across his face. “Don’t believe what you see.”
A longer look reveals the lavish office hidden beneath the glamour. Off to one side sits a glass desk with black leather and chrome chairs. Monitors fill a wall and detail the current fight and the outside perimeter of the venue. The painted concrete floor is covered by thick fur rugs. A shudder runs through me as I sense how the creatures who donated their hides died—painful and twisted. Damien extends a hand toward a black, tufted leather sofa along the wall opposite the monitors.
“Why the pretense?” I ask, perching on the cushion’s edge.
“I want my investors to believe I pour all their funds into building the organization. Imagine their chagrin if they saw my office and home.”
That might be the biggest understatement I’ve heard this decade. As much as I’d like to explore Damien’s motivations, I prefer cutting to the chase. “What did ya want to talk about?”
He leans into the cushion and spreads his arms over the back of the sofa. “Lots of things, but let’s start with our shared lineage.”
A sudden coldness—unusual for my kind—hits my core. I’m certain I have nothing in common with Damien.
“I’ve shocked you,” he states calmly. “Allow me to fill in the details for you… I am the son of a Devereaux witch and a shifter.”
“How do I know ya speak the truth?” Damien doesn’t resemble any Devereaux witch I remember.
“Perhaps you recall the witch Seraphine?” Damien’s eyebrow lifts. “She was on the plantation with you.”
My mind drifts back to another time and place. Seraphine, older than my mother, was a field slave. The two of them worked side by side. Seraphine was the one who warned Mama not to use her magic. After I became an orphan, however, it was the old witch who cast me aside without hesitation.
“What of her?”
“I’m a descendant of hers,” he announces.
My muscles tighten as the veracity of his words snags my thoughts. All witches on Granddaddy’s land claimed his name, making us all Devereaux witches. Damien Duchamp may not be blood kin, but he’s family all the same.
Curiosity bates me to ask, “And who is ya mama?”
“Lavinia Devereaux Mercier. My mother never married my deadbeat father though.”
I’m familiar with the Mercier witches. His mother aligned herself with some of the most powerful conjurers in all of Louisiana. “Why tell me this? I don’t give a shit who ya are. I have no love for Seraphine, and Lavinia is a stranger to me.”
“I tell you these things, cousin, because I promised that ancient vampire I would not harm you. However, I owe you for injuring Sheila.”
Lifting my chin, I say, “She had it coming.”
“Be that as it may, I handle my family issues. You had no right interfering,” he points out.
I lean forward and place my elbows on my knees. “Sheila had no right getting involved in the affair between Hank and Elijah. I protect those I care about. And I’m not ya fucking cousin.”
Damien’s mouth twists, and he grins. “Trust me, I have no desire for that type of relationship with you.”
“What do ya want then?”
“I’m willing to let bygones be. I’ll even honor our family ties provided you help me make the PFC legitimate.”
The idea of a lawful fight club for paranormals makes me laugh. “There’s no way in hell I’ll help ya do that.”
“Oh, but I think you can be persuaded,” he says confidently. “My father may have been a no-account snake, but what he was skilled at was shapeshifting. I can become anyone or anything I care to be.” To prove his point, Damien morphs into a reasonable replica of Kragen complete with his walking stick. “Ya not convinced yet, my dear?”
A shiver sneaks down my back as I listen to Damien’s voice take on Kragen’s slow, southern drawl. The image fades and is quickly replaced with Morgan’s doppelganger. “Perhaps you need more convincing, vamp?”
Slowly, Morgan’s hateful echo vanishes and is replaced with an emulation of Hank. “Does this work for you, Angel?”
The fear I felt is gone, displaced by the anger boiling my blood. “That’s enough!”
“Not quite.”
Damien’s final imitation is a glimpse into my past. A man who threatened to rape and kill me. And when the overseer was done with his heinous act, he planned to leave my body in the mud. The memory shakes me. The asshole creating my personal hell simply nods before transforming back into Damien.
“And the purpose of that vulgar display?” I spit out.
“If you don’t help me, I’ll fuck up your world. When you’re with those you care about, you won’t know if you’re with the original or a copy. When they see you, they might be seeing me. Don’t help me, and I’ll drive you insane. The BlackGuard, nor anyone else for that matter, will have the need of your skills, my dear cousin.”
I won’t help Damien, but I can’t let him know the truth. “What are ya plans for the PFC?”
He winks. “Good question. First, I’ll get rid of the AFC.”
“Why?”
Damien clenches and unclenches his fists. “I used to be a fighter. If you ask anyone, they’ll tell you I was a contender for the AFC. But those asses denied me. Claimed I didn’t know how to follow the rules, so I created the PFC. My club. My rules. With your help, I can turn it into a sanctioned organization and set up fights all over the world.”
Damien is delusional. The AFC is too strong to be broken by his underground fight club. “Nice dream, Damien. It won’t happen though.”
“Oh, but it will. Did you see that crowd? It’s not all supernaturals. The PFC will debut as the Premier Fight Club. I’ll bring in fighters from all over. Imagine humans and supernaturals fighting together.”
Unfortunately, I know Damien has a point. Those idiots sitting in the arena will gladly welcome any opportunity to see a fight. The PFC will degenerate into no-holds-barred massacres—a recipe for disaster.
“What do ya expect me to do?”
“Persuade the BlackGuard the PFC is harmless.”
“A little late for that. What happens when fighters die in ya ring tonight?”
Damien glances up at the monitor. “No one’s dying here tonight. See for yourself.”
My gaze shifts to the screens. Every monitor shows the records for this evening. No reports of anyone dying in the ring.
“I’m smarter than you think, cousin. I knew there’d be members from the BlackGuard and the NOLA Council in the audience. I wasn’t taking any chances.” He crosses an ankle over his knee. “There’s one more thing you need to do for me.”
“What?”
“Convince your mate’s brother to fight for me. He needs to give up his dream of fighting for the AFC.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“I guess you could compel him, but that might wear off eventually. If Tyson Richards doesn’t fight for me, I’ll make sure he doesn’t fight ever again.” Damien observes the monitor again.
Tyson has entered the ring with a large guy—the were-lion from South Africa. A nervous smile resides on Tyson’s face.
“All I have to do is deliver a word to ringside, and Tyson will sustain a career-ending injury.”
I clench my jaw. This supposed cousin of mine is working my last nerve. I’ll have to figure a way out of this situation, but for now, I have to save Tyson or Hank will never forgive me.
“Fine. I’ll help ya.”