Bound Guardian Angel (36 page)

“Oh? What’s that?” He loomed over her,
sneering.

She mustered the sweetest smile she could
under the circumstances. “Never touch a lady’s hair.”

“Is that so?” His grip on her hair
tightened. “And just what are you going to do about it?”

This motherfucker was so done. “I don’t
think you understood me.”

He encroached farther into her personal
space. “Then maybe you should spell it out for me, bitch.”

Hell, no. Trace could get away with calling
her a bitch. But this guy? Not happening.

“I said . . .” She made a
fist, and the metal of the brass knuckles bit into her palm.
“Don’t!”
Punch!
“Fucking!”
Punch!
“Touch!”
Punch!
“My!”
Punch!
“HAIR!”
Punch!
With the
last strike to his nose, his head bounced back and smacked the wet
pavement, knocking him out cold.

But at least he no longer had a lock on her coveted
braids.

She kicked his hand away, took a deep
breath, and flipped her hair over her shoulder as she straightened.
“I warned you.”

Applause from behind made her spin around.
The dreck she’d scented earlier stepped into the diffuse light at
the end of the alley. “Well done,” he said, clapping his hands. “I
haven’t been this amused by a run through our gauntlet in
ages.”

From his aristocratic tone, she knew he was
the one who’d spoken through the speaker to Jabba-man a few minutes
ago.

Even in his human form, she could tell he
didn’t mask much more than the color of his skin. He wore his black
hair long, and he had a goatee. For a dreck, he wasn’t half bad
looking. Cordray bet the ladies fell over their panties for this
guy.

He wore an unassuming, untucked white
button-up with the top three buttons undone, which showed off a
hairless but sculpted dip between his pecs. Dark denim trousers, a
silver and black TAG Heuer watch, and black dress boots gave him a
fashionable-bookie-with-sex-appeal look.

“Who are you?” She narrowed her eyes on
him.

“I’m Digon.” He smiled like the perfect
host. “Welcome to Grudge Match, Miss Cordray. Come with me.”

She followed him out the back of the alley
into a dark hall and tried to get a peek inside his mind, but he
stopped, turned, and wagged a finger at her. “No mind sweeping. I
don’t like it. And you already know I’m well-trained in my ability
to block.”

She recalled her earlier mind sweep and how
it had turned up nothing even though she’d known he was standing in
the shadows.

She sighed. “Can’t blame a girl for trying,
right?”

There was that crooked, amused smile again.
“No. I can’t. If I were in your shoes, I’d try to poke around in my
head, too. But don’t, or I’ll kick you out.” He issued her a dark,
warning look that emphasized he meant what he said. Then he turned
and continued to lead her through a maze of alleyways and halls.
“As for the rest of the club’s members, you can try to poke around
in their heads if you want, but if they find out, you’re on your
own.” Without slowing or turning around, he raised one hand and
pointed his index finger straight up for emphasis. “But I can
assure you, I’m not the only one who gets pissed off when someone
tries to traipse through my thoughts uninvited. Remember that
before you go peeking. We’re a loyal bunch, but a private one.”

If only she had Micah’s power to dip in and
out of others’ heads without being detected. She considered herself
lucky if she was able to pull off silent mind sweeps, but Micah was
able to do it without even trying.

Looked like she would have to do recon on
this band of merry underground scrappers the old-fashioned way. By
observation and making friends with them. Going mind spelunking was
too risky. What good would it do if she got kicked out of the club
before she could even find out if there was a connection between
them and Premier Royce or Bishop—or both.

“I take it you’re in charge?” she said,
following him.

“I am.”

They walked in silence for a few
seconds.

“Where are you taking me, anyway?”

“To my office to sign some paperwork. Then
I’ll introduce you to the main floor.” He paused, and Cordray could
almost hear the smirk playing over his lips as he continued. “Then
we’ll see how well you do in the cage.”

She noted that the dark, winding walkways
were on a shallow decline and led below ground level. How low, she
couldn’t figure, though. “The cage?”

“Our version of the octagon.”

Cordray’s footsteps echoed up the high
walls. “So, do I have to sign away my firstborn child or sign a
contract with my own blood to make this official?”

Digon made a soft, amused sound. “We’ll get
to that when we reach my office, but we aren’t
that
archaic.” Silence stretched between them, and then he said, “So,
Miss Cordray, how did you hear about Grudge Match?”

His long, dark hair billowed over his back
as he led her down another passageway. He looked like a walking ad
for hair care products.

“I was at Four Alarm the other night,” she
said, trying to sound nonchalant, “letting my fingers do the
walking through the minds of some of the customers. A couple of
your members were there and I saw Grudge Match in their thoughts.”
She was making this up on the fly, but the story was as plausible
as any other she could think up, and while the story was almost
true, she thought it better to leave out certain details. “It
looked interesting, so . . . here I am.”

Digon stopped and turned around. A frown
creased his forehead as he stepped toward her and shifted into his
dreck form. His blue skin shimmered for the split second it took to
complete the transformation. “
Interesting
, you say? You
thought Grudge Match sounded . . .
interesting
? We are not to be taken so lightly here. Do you
know what you’re about to walk into, Miss Cordray?”

“Just Cordray,” she said. The formal address
was for pussies and was starting to chafe her ass.

His spine straightened and he spurted an
amused breath out his nose. “Well, do you know what goes on here,
Just Cordray
? Exactly
what
goes on here?”

“Drecks and vampires beat the shit out of
each other?” She raised her eyebrows at him, daring him to deny
what she’d read on their Dark Web site.

His eyes narrowed, and it looked as if he
were contemplating how much to tell her. “We don’t just beat the
shit out of each other,
Just Cordray
. The things that go on
here could start another war if King Bain or Premier Royce ever
found out about them.” He stepped closer and angled his handsome
face, studying her. “Those that engage in our fights don’t want
another war. They want a safe place to act out their soldier
fantasies, to expend their frustrations, to battle their
natural-born enemy without repercussions. They are warriors without
a war,
Just Cordray
. Grudge Match
is
their war, and
what they do here is like Vegas. It stays here. Once they leave
these halls”—he gestured elegantly at their surroundings—“once
morning comes and they disperse back to their homes, their
cubicles . . . their plain, ordinary, maple syrup
lives . . . Grudge Match ceases to exist. But then
they return, and the war begins again.”

Digon inflected his speech as if he were a
male of means from a bygone era. A cultured male familiar with the
finer things in life, but in a way that bespoke ages-old discipline
and moderation, not modernity’s greed and gluttony. He came off as
the kind of person who splurged on a twenty-eight-thousand-dollar
bottle of Yamazaki single malt liquor then took a year to
appreciate it before drinking it.

He stepped back. “There is a brotherhood
here,
Just Cordray
. A sisterhood. A camaraderie. Despite the
friction between our two races, members of Grudge Match have found
a way to coexist in an environment where they can beat each other
to within the brink of death and not feel the need to see through
the urge to kill. Some even become friends, or as friendly as our
two races can be. If nothing else, each member has come to respect
the others, as well as what they’ve found here. So, while you find
our little world
interesting
, it is not to be taken
lightly.”

“You make it sound like I’m going to find
Jesus in there,” she said.

He lifted his chin, studying her through
narrowed eyes. “Maybe you will.” His lips pressed into a thin line
then relaxed. “You know, your flippant, lighthearted attitude could
be grounds to ban you from the club,
Just Cordray
, but”—the
corners of his mouth curled upward—“I like you. You made me smile
back there.” He gestured in the direction she assumed they’d come
from. She was so turned around by all the twists and turns she
wasn’t sure which way was north. “You’ve got panache. Flair. And
you passed our background check with impressive commendations. Our
screener gave you high praise as a good fit.”

Background check? She hadn’t realized that
was part of the application process. “Well then, my thanks to your
screener. Maybe you’ll introduce me so I can thank him
personally.”

The way Digon’s blue eyes briefly dazzled
made it clear he’d personally seen the results of her background
check and had found something he liked. “Perhaps I’ll introduce you
next time. He was unable to join us this evening. However, all
things considered, I think you’ll fit in well here. But”—he raised
one hand, his blue-tinted index finger extended in warning—“either
you enter the world I created with the most serious of intent, or I
escort you out now. It’s your choice. Will you respect my rules and
my arena, or are you trouble in the making?”

Digon made Grudge Match sound like some kind
of cult. Like a nonfiction version of the fictional movie,
Fight
Club
. The first rule of Fight Club is you don’t talk about
Fight Club. Insert Grudge Match for Fight Club, and it was the same
goddamn thing, except without that hottie, Brad Pitt. Even Cordray
could appreciate a handsome human like Brad.

All kidding aside, Cordray couldn’t afford
to lose this chance. Grudge Match was her way in. A way to obtain
evidence against Royce. She could feel it.

Despite wanting to reply that she was,
indeed, trouble in the making, she tilted her head in deference and
said, “I promise to respect your rules and your arena. I’m here to
participate, not stir up trouble.”

What Digon didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
After all, he was a dreck. All drecks were guilty until proven
innocent, which gave her leeway to lie to him until she determined
exactly whether he was friend or foe.

“Good.” He uncrossed his arms and spun on
his heel, once more leading her into the bowels of the building.
“So,
Just Cordray
, the rules. If you still want to be a part
of Grudge Match, you have to follow the rules.” He began rattling
them off as she fell in step beside him. “No knives. No blades of
any kind. Nothing that will puncture or cut. No guns. Otherwise,
you’re free to use”—he nodded down at her hands—“brass knuckles,
chains”—his gaze flicked to the chain still wrapped around her neck
like a scarf—“as well as clubs, bats, or anything else you can hit
your opponent with. Most prefer to use only their fists, and there
are fights we call Raw Rage where no accoutrements are allowed. Raw
Rage bouts are bodies only. None of this shit.” He tapped her
chain.

So, Digon
could
use unprovoked
profanity. She had begun to wonder.

“Also,” he said, “just in case I haven’t
already made this point clear, you’re not to talk about what goes
on here with anyone who’s not already a member. The only exception
is if you know someone you think would make a good candidate for
membership. If you think someone would fit in well here, refer them
to the application you filled out on our site. We’ll process them
and determine whether or not we’ll issue them in invitation, but
our decision is final. No second chances. But if anyone you refer
to us sends up a red flag, you’ll be placed on a six-month
probation. If you do it twice, you’ll go before our review board
and face possible removal and could be banned from the club. So,
choose those you refer to us wisely,
Just Cordray
.”

Cordray nodded dramatically, saluting him.
“Yes, oh mighty one. No loose lips about the secret club. And I
will endeavor to send only the best cuts of meat to your
cause.”

Digon gave her a dubiously amused look as
she pressed her lips together and pretended to turn a key and lock
them. He stopped and spun toward her, looking her up and down. For
several seconds, he said nothing, his expression unreadable.
Cordray sighed and crossed her arms as she tilted her head with an
air of annoyance. “Take a picture, Digon. Not only will it last
longer, but it won’t scratch your eyes out. I’ve been known to do
that.”

One side of his mouth lifted, and then he
chuckled. It was a dark, majestic sound, as if Digon knew
tremendous power above his current station. “I like you,
Just
Cordray
.” He shifted back into his human form, and his blue
eyes turned dark brown. “You’re not at all what I expected. You’re
full of verve. Quarrelsome even. But in a witty way that’s a lovely
change of pace among the females in the club, who more often than
not are forcefully emphatic about how tough they are.” He grinned
and teased his goatee with his thumb and forefinger. “You’re
flippant . . . almost whimsical.” He chuckled as he
turned on the ball of his foot and started down the hall again
“It’s refreshing. Stimulating even.”

Refreshing? No one had ever called her
refreshing. Call the makers of Downy fabric softener, because
Cordray Fresh was the new must-have scent.

“I like you, too, Digon,” she said to his
back as she fell in step behind him again. “You’re stodgy. Like an
English gentleman with a broomstick stuck up his ass, wanking off
with one hand while holding a cup of tea in the other.”