Women of the Otherworld 10.5 - Counterfeit Magic (4 page)

The First Rule of Fight Club

We flew to San Francisco, then rented a car and drove to Santa Cruz. On the way, I read over everything Savannah had compiled on fight clubs.

Unlike the movie, the first rule of our fight clubs was not “don’t talk about it.” Most supernaturals plugged into the seamier side of our world knew about them. Even finding one wasn’t all that tough, if you knew who to ask. Our records named organizers in over a dozen cities. Find them and, theoretically, you’d find a fight club. In the case of the Santa Cruz one, the owners had been running it in the same location for years.

While Adam was right that fight clubs were anti-Cabal, again, the truth wasn’t so simple. While outwardly they professed independence of Cabals, our records showed that about half were underwritten by a Cabal. That didn’t include the Santa Cruz one, which
was
known to shun all Cabal overtures.

A supernatural fight club is exactly what it sounds like.
Supernaturals—usually young, usually male—work off pent-up frustration and energy by fighting.
People bet on the outcome.

If there are rules to our fight clubs, the first would be “don’t permanently maim or mutilate or murder your opponent.” Our files hinted at underground clubs where anything went, but most were very strict about the rule. They had to be. No kid would get into the ring knowing he could be up against a werewolf capable of snapping his neck with a single twist.

Inflict serious damage and the fight would be called at your forfeit. Kill your opponent—even accidentally—and you’d be banned from every fight club for life. Too many deaths could kill a club, so the owners didn’t take any chances.

* * * *

The address in our files led us to a house in the country.
An abandoned house that was past ready to be condemned, every window and door gone, the roof collapsing, the house listing to one side.
The surrounding field was so overgrown I wasn’t even sure we could
get
to the house.

Savannah
idled
the car on the road as we looked around.
“Looks about right.”

“Have some experience with these places?”

“No, but if I was running an illegal supernatural fight club, this is where I’d put it.”

“It doesn’t look like there’s a neighbor in sight, but wouldn’t someone notice if there were cars lined up and down this road? If there’s a parking lot, I sure don’t see—”

She swung the rental car toward the ditch. The tires found a pair of ruts that led past the wire fence and behind a thick patch of trees. There the lane opened into a lot surrounded by grass higher than my head. A vintage Mercedes and a gleaming new pickup were parked at the far side.

“Great, we found the right place,” I said. “Now let’s get out of here before—”

“No one’s around,” she said as she finished casting a sensing spell. She got out of the car, walked over to the vehicles and peered inside.

We might have found the club, but Savannah couldn’t just walk in and say, “I want to fight.” It was invitation only. Ava had provided us with the name of the half-demon friend who’d
wrangled
her invitation, and said he’d be happy to give one to us, too, but we had to be a little more discreet than that.

I rolled down the window. “We’ll come back tonight and scout around. In the meantime, we’ll run those license plates and—”

Savannah strode toward a path leading from the lot.

“Hey!” I whispered, as loudly as I dared. “Don’t—”

She disappeared into the long grass.

* * * *

By the time I caught up with Savannah, she was heading toward a barn that looked as rundown as the house. I picked up my pace and joined Savannah as she passed through a small door.

Once inside, I heard the
twackity
-thwack-thwack
of someone hitting a boxer’s speed bag. We were in a small room with a coat rack and a sign warning that the management wasn’t responsible for stolen articles. Underneath, someone had written—“I’m not either” and signed it “Rico.” The bouncer, I guessed. Fortunately, he wasn’t around now.

From there, we walked though a second door and straight into the fight club. It wasn’t a state-of-the-art gym cleverly disguised as a crumbling barn. If it was, I’d have known the Cabals were involved. Still, the place was a lot nicer than you’d expect from the outside.

A professional boxing ring dominated the large, open area. Bleachers stretched along two sides. The third was an empty space for bystanders, with a betting window to the rear. The fourth side was the staging area, where a guy in his early thirties was pummeling a speed bag, dancing in place, sweat dripping down his bare back, wavy dark hair plastered to his forehead and neck.

Savannah paused to admire the view while my gaze moved on to a second man, tapping away on a laptop just inside a tiny office at the back. He was also dark-haired, bearing a strong resemblance to the fighter, but his hair was military short, his physique hidden under a golf shirt and pressed trousers.

The fighter ducked to avoid a hard swing-back, and caught sight of us. He said something to the other man, who rose, frowned and stepped out of his office.

“May I help you?” he said.

“I hope so,” Savannah said, mimicking my Boston accent. “I want to fight at your club. Only thing I’m missing is the invitation.”

The man’s frown deepened. He was older than the boxer by at least a few years, and looked like he’d be more at home in a corporate office. I was going to hazard a guess at his name.
Ethan
Gallante
, club owner along with his brother, Tommy—the speed-bag boxer.

“This isn’t how it’s done,” Ethan said.

I stepped forward. “I know, but Georgia here is new to the circuit. We knew where you were, but don’t have any contacts to get an invitation from. Our only other option was to hang around the parking lot tonight, find a gullible-looking guy and convince him to invite us.”

“Which could be fun,” Savannah said. “But I thought you’d rather we didn’t stalk your patrons.” She flashed a smile. “And I was really hoping to start fighting tonight.”

Ethan walked over and circled her. It was a cool appraisal. Not rude, just disinterested in anything but her potential as a fighter. Tommy was the one giving her a more personal once-over, grinning as if he liked what he saw. Most men do. Savannah looks like she belongs on a runway. Six feet tall, long-legged and willowy with straight dark hair that stretches to the middle of her back and huge eyes so blue she’s often accused of wearing color contacts. Her features are strong, severe even, but it only makes her more arresting, paired with those innocent, wide blue eyes.

Savannah looks strong and forceful, direct and confident and men like that… until they realize that the packaging promotes the product accurately. I’d never tell her to tone it down, though. She just needs to find a partner who’s confident enough in himself to accept and appreciate her. Like Adam.

The once-over Ethan gave Savannah was more critical than the ones she usually got from men. I could tell he approved of her height, but the rest of the package was a little too fashionable.

“How much fighting experience do you have?” he asked.
“Real fighting, without your powers.”

“I don’t go looking for bar brawls, but I can hold my own.”

His expression said he doubted it. “Well, Georgia, I’d love to give you a chance to test that, but I don’t see a gym bag, and that outfit definitely isn’t—”

Savannah unbuttoned her blouse and tossed it aside, revealing a sports tank in place of a bra. Then she kicked her boots aside and peeled off her jeans. Underneath, she wore spandex exercise shorts.

Ethan took a closer look now. Savannah was in excellent shape. She worked out with Adam, and they were into every outdoor sport imaginable.

“All right, then.” He pointed to the ring. “Tommy will give you a few rounds. Save your supernatural powers for an audience. This is strictly hand-to-hand combat.”

Tommy grinned. “
Which keeps the playing field level for me.
”

I knew from my files that the
Gallantes
were a family of necromancers. Unlike witches and sorcerers, necromancy powers hit only a few members every generation. Ethan had them; Tommy didn’t.

Tommy and Savannah went into the ring. It was more a test than a fight. Tommy was clearly a pro and he didn’t want to show her up, just put her through her paces, see whether she could throw a punch and block one.

When they finished, Tommy congratulated her. Ethan only eyed her for another minute,
then
said, “Do I know you from somewhere, Georgia?”

“Not unless you hang out at Harvard,” she said.

“You look familiar,” Ethan said. “But I don’t think we’ve ever met.
A relative maybe.”

Without waiting for an answer, he walked over to his laptop, typed something in,
then
said, “You’re on the list. Doors open at ten. You’ll fight your first round at eleven.”

Round One

When we returned at ten-thirty, the small parking lot was already filled, with a young man directing cars to a second one. Although it was just as well hidden, I suspected people living along the road couldn’t help but notice the increased traffic. I suppose as long as the brothers kept things quiet, they were willing to look the other way.

And the
Gallantes
did keep things quiet. Two more young men in the yard directed patrons, making sure they quickly got into the barn. While the brothers hadn’t spent a fortune on the gym, they’d obviously splurged on soundproofing. I could barely hear a murmur as we approached the barn.

When we stepped into the bouncer’s room and gave our names to Rico, I could make out cheers and boos from within, along with the occasional dull thump of fist hitting flesh. But it wasn’t until we opened the inner door that the full cacophony hit us, the cheers becoming shouts, grunts and groans punctuating the thump of the blows.

There were two fighters in the ring. Both were young men. That went for most of the combatants milling around the staging area. The clientele was older, averaging fifty, mostly male. All the women seemed to be attached to a man, and while a few avidly watched the match, more were avidly checking their watches.

Heads turned when we walked in. Then more heads, as people nudged their neighbors. Patrons leaned over to ask Ethan who we were, while the fighters asked Tommy in the staging area. Their gazes swung to Savannah as the brothers presumably said she was fighting tonight. After they checked Savannah out, they asked another question—
who
was she fighting? When they got the answer, they streamed to the betting window.

“Now that’s a rousing show of support,” Savannah said. “One look at me, and they’re slapping down their life savings.”

When I didn’t answer, she rolled her eyes. “I know they aren’t betting on
me
.”