Kate Daniels 03 - Magic Strikes

on our table.
    Excellent balance—didn’t slide at all when he jumped, landed on his toes, the table barely moved.
    Mart looked straight ahead, presenting me with a carved profile. Very light eyes, blue, rimmed in darker gray, but undeniably human. Good bone structure, masculine, without obvious weakness. Compact frame, narrow, corded with lean muscle. Long limbs, providing for good reach. No odd scent. Looked human to me, but I’d never known Saiman to be wrong. Something had to have given him pause, but what?
    When in doubt, poke the beehive with a stick to see if anything interesting flies out. I clapped my hands. “I had no idea Pit teams had such pretty cheerleaders. Can you do it again, but with more spirit this time?”
    Mart turned to me and stared, unblinking. It was like looking into the eyes of a hawk: distance and the promise of sudden death.
    I pretended to think and snapped my fingers. “I know what’s missing. The pom-poms!”
    No reaction. He knew I had insulted him, but he wasn’t sure exactly how.
    Saiman chuckled.
    Mart still stared at me. His skin was perfect. Too perfect. No scratches. No cuts. No imperfections, no pimples, no blackheads. Like alabaster polished to light gloss.
    “What brings you to our table, gentlemen?” Saiman’s voice was relaxed. Not a shadow of anxiety. I had to give it to him—Saiman had balls.
    The tattooed man crossed his arms. His frame was lanky, his limbs very long in proportion to his body. Definition showed on his arms, but his muscle was long rather than thick. He fixed Saiman with an unblinking stare.
    “You will lose.” He pronounced the words very distinctly, his deep voice tinted with an accent I couldn’t place.
    I reached over slowly to touch Mart’s face. He grabbed my hand. I barely saw his hand move and then my fingers were clamped in his. Grip like a steel vise. Fast, too. Possibly faster than me. This should be interesting. I kept my fingers limp. “Oh, you’re strong.” He was strong. He also left himself wide open. I wondered if he would be fast enough to block a champagne glass if I broke it and shoved it into his throat. That would be a very tempting theory to test.
    “Mart!” Saiman’s voice snapped like a whip. “You break her, you buy her.”
    Mart swiveled his head toward him. It was a very odd gesture: only his head turned. Like an owl. Or possibly a cat. He released my fingers. He had probably discounted me because I was a woman in a brightly colored dress.
    A dark-haired woman entered the deck. She was young, barely eighteen if that. Her features would’ve made her at home on the streets of Delhi: deep dark eyes, round, full face, sensuous lips, dark hair that streamed behind her. She wore plain jeans and a dark long-sleeved shirt, but the way she walked, rolling her hips slightly, shoulders held back a little to showcase her breasts, made me want to picture her in a sari. An exotic Indian princess. Men watched her move. Three to one, this was Livie, the intended recipient of Derek’s note. I had no trouble seeing how she would inspire a young male werewolf to lose all common sense.
    She reached our table and halted a couple of feet away, keeping her gaze down. “Asaan,” she murmured to Mart. “Mistress wants you.”
    The tattooed man bared his teeth. She had interrupted their intimidation routine.
    The woman bowed her head in submission.
    In a moment the Reapers would leave and my chance to pass Derek’s note would leave with them. What to do?
    Across from me two women excused themselves and headed to the corner of the room, where a small sign pointed toward bathrooms.
    “I need to go to the ladies’ room!” I announced a bit too loudly, got up, and stared at the dark-haired woman. “Come with me. I don’t want to go by myself.”
    She looked at me as if I were speaking Chinese. You stupid idiot girl.
    “I don’t want to go by myself,” I repeated. “There might be weirdoes in there.”
    The tattooed man jerked his head toward the bathroom and she sighed. “Okay.”
    As we departed, I heard the tattooed man’s voice. “When you die, your woman will scream.”
    “Is that a threat?” Saiman chuckled.
    “A promise.”
    We stepped into the bathroom. The moment the heavy door closed behind us, she turned around. “There you go, all set. Unless you want me to hold your hand until you sit on the toilet, I’ve got to go.”
    “Are you Livie?”
    She blinked. “Yes.”
    “I’m Derek’s friend,” I