Kate Daniels 03 - Magic Strikes

was uncalled for.” Doolittle shook his head. “Ungrateful wretch.”
    I pulled a blanket and a pillow from an unclaimed bunk and took myself to an empty corner.
    “What’s wrong with the bed?” Derek asked.
    “I don’t sleep well with others.” I fixed my bed on the floor. “No, I take it back; I sleep well. I just might wake up with my sword in your gut. Of course, if it is you, I’d probably roll over and go back to dreamland.”
    Jim came into the room, approached the beds, tensed, and hopped onto the top bunk from the floor. From there he had an excellent view of the room.
    “Where is Dali?” I asked him.
    “In the hot tub.” Jim shrugged, his face tainted with feline disgust. “There is one adjacent to the locker room. If there is an inch of running water, she’ll crawl into it. Tigers.”
    “I didn’t know jaguars minded water.” I had seen him swim before. He seemed to enjoy it.
    “I don’t mind swimming if there are fish or frogs involved.”
    Jaguar logic for you. “Everyone made it?”
    “Except for the freak.”
    Knowing Saiman, he probably had to hire extra help to carry all his clothes.
    Dali entered the room, modestly wrapped in a towel, which she immediately dropped to wave at me, and began to dress.
    Derek raised his head, suddenly alert. “Incoming. Several people.”
    Rene appeared in the doorway. “Your owner sends his apologies. It seems your original Stone won’t be joining you, but Durand sent in a substitute.” She stepped aside. “In you go.”
    A familiar figure blocked the doorway. My feet froze to the floor.
    “Play nice,” Rene said and departed.
    Funereal silence descended upon the room. Nobody moved.
    “All right,” Curran said. “Let’s talk.”
    He took Raphael by his arm, dragging him off the bench like he was a day-old kitten. He swiped naked Dali with his other hand, brought them both to the bedroom, and shut the doors behind him.
     
     
    ANDREA SAT DOWN ON THE BENCH, FACING THE door. She put one SIG-Sauer on each side. Her face wore a grim expression.
    “If he injures Raphael, I’m going to shoot him. Just letting you know.”
    “You changed your mind about Raphael?”
    “I’m still deciding,” she said. “And I’m not going to let the Beast Lord take it from me by crippling him.”
    “Aim for the nuts,” I advised and left.
    I wandered through the hallway to the Gold Gate. The huge chamber of the Arena lay empty. Nothing but me and the sand.
    I crossed the floor to the wire door and stepped into the Pit. The sand lay placid. In my dreams it was always splattered with blood, but now it was clean and yellow. I crouched, picked up a handful, and let it slide through my fingers. Strange how it was cold.
    The grains of sand fell in a feathery curtain. Memories came. Heat. The taste of blood in my mouth. Flesh sliced, bright red. Dead eyes staring into the sky. Blinding sun. The roar of the crowd. Pain—left shoulder, a werejaguar’s bite, side—a spear thrust, right calf—the razor-sharp tail of a quick reptilian monster for which I had no name . . .
    “Like greeting an old friend, no?”
    I turned to see an older man looking at me through the wire of the fence. Hard lines creased his face, worn and tanned to leather by years spent in the sun. His face was wide. His black hair, pulled back and gathered at the nape of his neck, was liberally salted with gray. He looked familiar.
    “Hardly a friend,” I told him.
    Mart emerged from the Midnight Gate. He crossed the floor, silent like a shadow, in his black suit, and sailed into the air, landing effortlessly on the fence. The man hadn’t heard him.
    “Have you fought here before?” His voice was tinted with a light sprinkling of French.
    I shook my head.
    “Where, then?”
    Where hadn’t I? I chose the first one. “ Hoyo de Sangre. A long time ago.”
    Mart watched me. He had an odd look on his face. It was definitely predatory, but there was a hint of something else to his expression, something disturbing and almost wistful.
    “Ahh.” The man nodded. “Ghastly place. Do not worry. The sand is the same everywhere.”
    I smiled. “Here it’s cold.”
    He nodded again. “That is true. But it will make little difference. Once you hear them clamor”—he gazed at the empty seats—“you will remember. How long has it been?”
    “Twelve years.”
    His eyebrows crept up. “Twelve? Surely not. You are far too young and too beautiful . . .” His voice faltered. “Mon Dieu, je