Sword of the King
Dec. 8th, 2006 07:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrSection I, since LJ hates me and my long stories.
Probably needs beta'ed, but I believe they're all busy or sick so I will harass them later. Still not convinced this didn't turn out boring as fuck, but I guess we'll see. Tygs assures me I'm just paranoid (and probably whining).
Rick shook his head in disbelief for what must be the millionth time.
Of all the places to received a random invite – a formal request even, not just a simple phone call, but stationary and hand delivered and everything – he would never in a million years have guessed the Tantalus.
Not even the lower levels. No, his invite had included instructions and a special card.
All the way to the top floors.
No one ever saw the demon lord in his lair. Those with appointments saw him in the lower offices; no one was dumb enough to bother him without an appointment.
Sable Brennus was remarkably laid back for a demon, or so the rumors went, but he was still a demon.
He pulled the invite from his pocket as he reached what was clearly a reception room, holding it out as he approached the desk where some sort of abnormal answered phones and did the sort of paperwork that looked mysterious and exotic to outsiders but was really more boring than watching grass grow.
The woman didn’t even look at it, just flicked him the barest of glances, a brief but pretty smile, and mashed a button on her phone. “Mr. Brennus, Mr. Cross is here.” She smiled again, and Rick caught a hint of fangs. “Please go right in – the second door to the right.”
“Thank you,” Rick murmured, daring a smile of his own, not used to doing it – but she didn’t look horrified by the effort, her own smile brightening, so maybe he wasn’t completely out of practice.
Feeling moderately better, Rick turned and walked down the wide hallway, doing his best to relax and not gawk at the expensive paintings, vases. This one hallway cost more than his entire house – and his house wasn’t cheap. Why in the world was he being called here of all places?
He suspected he knew, at least to a degree, though he wouldn’t have thought the D-Pits the sort of the thing to interest a demon. Never mind that he’d said a hundred thousand times to anyone dumb enough to bring the subject up that he wanted no part of the D-Pits ever. Not their scene. Hadn’t been when they were young and stupid, certainly wouldn’t be now that they’d more or less matured.
At the second door on the right, Rick hesitated. Did one knock in situations like this?
The problem was solved for him when the door suddenly opened, and Rick found himself greeted by a startlingly handsome man – his clothes were old, worn, the leather jacket clearly well past its last legs, but for all that the man looked good. Early thirties? Classic blonde hair and blue eyes, slender but fit build.
Something about him was abnormal, but without Cal Rick couldn’t tell what. “Ah—I’m here to see—“
“Come on in,” the blonde man said. “I was just coming out to greet you.” He stepped aside to let Rick in. “You’re Aldrick Cross.”
“Rick, please.”
The man nodded. “I’m Chris White.” He closed the door and pointed across the office – more of a sitting room or lounge or something, nothing but sofas and chairs and a long coffee table – to a man standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. “That’s Sable.”
Yeah, Rick hadn’t needed to be told that. Even without Cal, he’d recognize a demon lord. Everyone in the territory had heard about the man – how didn’t you hear about the one that kept neighboring wolves and vamps and other problems out of the area? He was as good-looking as the rumors went, and cliché as it sounded those eyes really were the color of storm clouds.
“I’m actually the one who wanted to speak with you,” Chris said, motioning for him to sit. “Want a drink or anything?”
“No, thanks,” Rick said. “What’s this all about? Usually when someone receives an invite from the demon in residence, it’s not a good thing.”
Sable chuckled and moved to on the sofa opposite the one Rick had taken. “If I dislike someone, I go get rid of them or have Christian do it. They would not be invited here.”
“That’s what I was hoping,” Rick said, hoping his abject relief didn’t show. He fought the urge to rake a hand restlessly through his hair, knowing the black strands didn’t need the added help looking messy. “So what did you want?”
“I’m sure you already have a good idea,” Chris said, leaning back in the armchair he’d taken, situated between the two long sofas. He braced his elbows on the arms rests and steepled his fingers.
“Why on earth would a demon lord and his consort give two fucks – pardon my language – about the D-pits. Only reason anyone ever wants to talk to me.”
Chris shook his head. “It is and isn’t about that.”
Rick quirked one brow. “Do explain.” He might be nervous as shit about this, but damned if he’d let anyone try and fuck with Cal.
“I have been hired to find a particular dragon. For the past two months I have been looking and the only clues I can find all point to the D-Pits. Unfortunately—“
“You can’t get in,” Rick interrupted. “You’re abnormal though I can’t tell how – maybe that’s just the demon magic.”
Sable snickered as Chris glowered. “In part my magic, but Christian is…special.”
“Be quiet,” Chris snapped. He turned back to Rick. “As you say, I and my associates are all abnormal to some degree. So we can’t get in as spectators, and we’ve no chance of finding a dragon and joining the fights.”
Spectator being the polite word for anyone who wanted to bet on the fights. Scum of the earth, Rick preferred. The only people he hated more were the Owners, though D-Pit lords were a damned close second.
Christ drummed his finger tips together as he spoke. “I could force the issue as Sable’s consort since the Pits bleed into his territory but creating that kind of stir does no one any favors and won’t guarantee I’ll get the dragon before his Owner bolts with him. Anyway, I never could figure out which D-Pit exactly he’s located.”
He knew where this was going. “You want me to go in and find this dragon for you.”
“It’s a young one,” Chris said. “Turned fifteen about a month before he was kidnapped. Frost. Pure blood.”
Rick winced. Frost dragons were rare; they were also damned hard to beat. Few things were as formidable as a pure blood frost dragon. Of all the high elements, they were the most tenacious and vicious. “Where’d they get it?”
“He was kidnapped right from his house in the dead of night. That was four months ago. I was only hired two months ago. Motive I don’t yet have – I’ve been putting all my effort into simply finding him.”
“Gotcha,” Rick said, nodding in thought. He knew the D-Pits because he wanted nothing to do with them – ‘know thine enemy’ and all that. “A PB Frost? No one would waste time with the outer Pits. I’d hazard to say he’s at the Shatter Spine, the Snap Neck, or the Broken Heart. Who’s the ‘Owner’?”
Chris glowered at some unseen annoyance. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t have to drag you into this. All I hear are rumors of a young frost dragon slowly making a name for himself. No wins yet, but it’s only a matter of time. No one is willing to cough up who owns him.”
That was unusual, but not unheard of. Owners were usually as well known and spoken of as their dragons. To know the dragon but not the Owner was to know the weapon but not the wielder. It could mean only a couple of things – either no one knew the Owner’s identity, which had happened; some people just didn’t like it known they played in the D-Pits. Other times…the Owner was high enough up the chain no one dared say his name without express permission.
Which meant he probably used a shadow Owner to do the in-Pit work while he watched from above and covertly passed on his orders. If that was the case, and it every well could be with a PB Frost involved – and one technically too young to be thrown into the Pits – then this could get ugly fast. Rick shook his head. “Sounds like you’re in a nasty tangle. I’m sure I don’t need to explain what’s likely going down.”
“I’m sure hearing the finer points couldn’t hurt,” Chris replied, “however I do sense this is probably running deeper than any of us likes to think about. If you’re willing, though, find him and get him out.” He made a face. “If it starts to look too dangerous, just tell me where he is and I’ll say to hell with keeping things quiet.”
Rick frowned in thought. “I have to talk to Cal before I can tell you for certain, but I will be honest and say I don’t like the idea of a kit being thrown in the Pits. Not even sure how that would have slipped by – even the D-Pits have that much of a standard. Never heard of a child being thrown in, which makes me nervous about the Owner. I’m willing, but I have to speak with Cal. How can I get in touch?”
“Call this number,” Chris said, and pulled a business card from his pocket. It was plain white with a band of black across the top and the words White Detective Agency above that. Below that was Chris’s name, then the name Douglas, and lastly a phone number. “Ask to speak to me or Doug.”
Rick stood up and tucked the card away in his jeans. “Will do.”
“Thank you,” Chris said.
“I haven’t agreed yet.”
“You listened. That’s more than most in your position would do.”
Rick shrugged. “I figured it was better not to tell a demon lord to kiss off. Anyway, Cal said I should at least check it out. I’ll show myself out.” He turned and strode out the door, back down the hall, waved to the secretary and then took the elevator down to the lobby.
It was cloudy but not quite raining when he hit the streets. An attendant pulled up with his motorcycle as Rick reached the bottom of the stairs. He took his keys and thanked the man, the entire situation from the invite to the conversation to having a valet take care of his bike still completely surreal. He was thirty-five. Shit like this didn’t happen to thirty-five year olds.
Now he had to go tell Cal that because he was a fucking soft touch that they might finally have to go down into the Pits they’d avoided their whole damn lives.
Home was an overblown “cabin” deep in the mountains, on a road only someone desperate and foolish enough to want to get the fuck away from people would travel. Getting shit to the cabin had been a damned nightmare, but worth it in the end.
Out here, he and Cal would know people were coming. Precious few thought the trip worth it, after he’d already turned down more offers than he could count – of the polite and not so polite kind. Luckily, he’d managed to take care of them without dragging Cal into the fight. If they saw Cal fight, then they’d never leave him alone.
Worse, they’d try to take him.
He’d risk that if they did this for the demon lord’s consort…though he wasn’t exactly sure how he was supposed to tell a demon lord’s consort no.
Not that Chris or Sable had seemed particularly evil or demonic. Hell, he was referring to them by first name. He’d heard of demon territories where they had to use honorifics and shit.
Driving the twisting road was difficult enough on a good day – never mind a bad night. The rain had finally hit and it was only his bike and knowledge that kept him from taking a long, nasty spill back down to the bottom of the mountain.
The lights of the cabin finally came into view and Rick relaxed slightly. As he approached, the garage door opened and he was able to drive right inside – Cal must have been watching for him, the bike didn’t have an auto-opener.
Tearing his helmet off, Rick set it aside and started stripping out of his wet clothes, shivering in the cold air and hustling inside to throw the clothes in the laundry room before he padded through the kitchen into the hall, then up the stairs to their bedroom.
He smiled as he heard the shower running, laughing as steam washed over him as he opened the bathroom door. “It’s a shower, not a sauna, Cal.”
“I can try,” Cal grumbled laughingly, peeking around the wide glass wall that separated the shower from the rest of the massive bathroom. He was soaked from head to foot, water beading and streaming down his fair skin, the fine-toned muscles. His hair, dark chocolate brown, was plastered to his skull, all but covering his pale amber eyes. “Especially since you won’t give me a sauna.”
Rick rolled his eyes. “I gave you the hot tub.”
“Still not a sauna,” Cal replied with a sniff, but he grinned and reached out to tug Rick into the shower with him, looping his arms around Rick’s neck. “Get in here before you catch a cold. The weather’s been miserable all day.”
Rick wrapped his arms around Cal’s waist and rested his head a moment against his lover’s chest. “You feel good.”
Sharp teeth nipped his ear, making him shiver. “You too. Glad you’re back.”
“Is that why you’re trying to steam me?” Rick asked with a breathless laugh as his back met slick tile.
“Mmm, steamed Ricky. My second favorite,” Cal replied, then pressed up against him and covered Ricky’s mouth with his own, teasing his tongue over Ricky’s lips for a minute before parting them and taking claim of his mouth. Knowing hands roamed Rick’s body, knowing exactly where to touch, tease, how to elicit all the gasps and moans Rick fed into his mouth, before he finally ceased tormenting and reached down to stroke them both together, hard and fast until they both came calling each other’s names.
“Second favorite?” Rick asked when he could finally speak again. Absently he reached out to find the soap, nearly dropping it twice before he finally started soaping them both up.
Cal grinned wide, displaying his too sharp to be human teeth. “I will always be most fond of chocolate Ricky.”
Rick made a face and ignored the heat he could feel in his cheeks. “You’re spoiled rotten, lizard.”
“By you,” Cal said, stealing the soap and washing Rick as Rick washed him. He stole a kiss and then suddenly rubbed his soap-covered hands all over Rick’s face, back up against the glass as Rick tried to retaliate – then caught him up and shoved them both back into the spray, rinsing them off quickly. Rick turned off the water as Cal snagged a couple of towels, then they dressed quickly – him in an old pair of sweats, Cal in a ridiculous pair of PJ pants – dark red with little blue and black cartoon dragons.
Rick smiled fondly, shaking his head at Cal’s ever amusing choice of lounging attire, and led the way back downstairs and into the kitchen. “Hungry?” he asked, snagging a longneck from the fridge and twisting the cap off, pitching it into the trashcan on the far side of the kitchen before taking a long swallow.
“Only for you,” Cal said with a wink. “I ate already. We’re running low on steak.”
“Damned lizard,” Rick replied. “Why can’t you eat crickets like the cute little lizards in the pet stores?”
Cal sniffed. “I give you sex. I get steak.”
“I suppose you have a point,” Rick said with a grin before taking another swallow of his beer. He followed Cal out of the kitchen and across the hall to the living room, setting his beer on the table before allowing the dragon to drag him down onto the couch – brown suede, nearly big enough to be a bed. He lay along the edge, back to Cal’s chest, their legs tangled together.
“So what did the demon lord want?”
“It was his consort that wanted to see me, actually,” Rick said, good mood fading as he explained all that Chris had told him, what he’d asked.
Cal was quiet for several long minutes after he finished. Rick twisted around to watch him, knowing his own green eyes were just as intense as the pale amber that stared back. Then Cal leaned down and kissed, long and slow and sweet. “We can’t let a kit stay in the Pits. If he’s still alive, it’s only because he’s a frost and damned lucky.”
Rick nodded in agreement and leaned in for another kiss. “You know I love you.”
“Of course,” Cal said, nuzzling against him. “Love you too.”
It was impossible to tell a dragon type by looking at the untransformed human. No matter what the experts said, no matter how many people claimed that talent. A blonde man with green eyes was just as likely to be a black dragon as a green dragon as a white dragon. Anyone who could claim to tell on sight was lying through his fucking teeth or already knew.
Rick knew this for a fact. Every last one of the bastards who’d ‘stopped by for a little chat’ had immediately pegged Cal as a black dragon. Which was very nice of them, as black dragons were prized – not rare, exactly, but certainly a little more than merely respectable.
“Smells awful,” Cal said quietly, his voice reaching Rick’s ears in the din but only just. Rick tightened his grip on Cal’s hand and wrestled them through the crowd of gawkers and wannabe spectators.
The real money would already be inside. Later a few of the wannabes might be allowed inside, though only so the vets could wring them dry.
“It’s going to be a long night,” Rick said with a sigh as he approached the fighter table.
Eyes widened in shock as he and Cal approached.
“Cross,” greeted a man who looked as though he’d once lost a fight with a grizzly bear. That he could see at all was a miracle. Tank was his name, or what he went by anyway. “Never thought we’d actually see you here.”
“Things change,” Rick said shortly.
Tank stood up from where he’d been sitting on the edge of a table. He put out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray and then approached them. All around, the gawkers and workers backed away to give him room. He walked slowly around Cal, looking the dragon up and down. Rick tolerated it until Tank reached out a hand – he grabbed it just as Cal started to growl and his pale eyes began to warm to a deep gold.
“He’s not for you to touch,” Rick said, holding Tank’s wrist tight.
“All right, man. Chill.” Tank tore his wrist free and gave Cal another once over. “Fine piece of dragon, Cross.” He leered. “Keep this one in excellent shape, don’t you?” Rick said nothing and Tank rolled his eyes. “I keep forgetting you got no sense of humor, man. Signing him up? Where do you want to start?”
Rick had considered this question carefully on the drive up.
The Pits were broken up into a dozen types – A through D, with three grades of each. The A-Pits were for pussies; it was where the gawkers and the wannabes went when they realized they’d never be good enough for a real Pit fight – for either playing or watching. Lesser abnormals were fought there – gremlins, goblins, faeries, most of them taken right off the streets.
The B-Pits were a bit tougher, given over to those creatures from the A-Pits and from wherever else in the abnormal world worthy fighters could be coerced in one way or another. It was also where real money started to enter the scene – five hundred dollars just to get in, and from there people bet like crazy. Hellhounds, ogres, trolls – all these were common in the B-Pits.
Anyone with real interest in a fight, and in making serious money off a fight, went for the C-Pits. A thousand dollars cover, and betting was all but mandatory. Here the real abnormals fought – minotaur, werewolves, imps. It was the only Pit where fights to the death took place , though only at the highest of the three levels, and it was decided on a fight-by-fight basis. For that reason alone, the C-Pits were often considered by many to be the most brutal.
That was only because those who said so couldn’t get into the D-Pits. Five thousand was the cover charge to see a D-Pit fight, and here betting was mandatory. If you couldn’t afford to play…well, you didn’t get in. High rollers hung in the D-Pits – though only normals. No abnormals were allowed in the D-Pits. Paranormals that had an interest sent a normal rep.
So far as participation went – if you had a dragon strong enough, you were allowed to try.
Strong enough mostly meant age, fitness, fighting ability. Dragons were strong and capable naturally – they were made for combat, bred for it, and those who went into the D-Pits were given a workout regimen that would kill any other creature.
Within the D-Pits the three levels were entry, master, and special.
Entry and master would be far too easy for Cal. Special would provide a bit of a challenge, maybe, but they weren’t here for Cal. The kit’s name was Nevada Montserrat. He was the reason they were here. As powerful as a frost dragon was, especially a young one, he would not have the experience that came with age. That meant he wouldn’t be in special, which meant to put Cal there would be a waste of time.
Rick almost felt bad for the dragons that would take a beating, going up against Cal. He wouldn’t hurt them too much, but he had to keep in it until they found Nevada. Hopefully it wouldn’t take them days and days to do it. “Master.”
Tank quirked a brow at him. “You sure? He’s never fought in a Pit before; there are some real toughs that will hold his being new against him.”
“I said Master, Tank.”
“Okay, okay. Just looking out for your dragon, man. I’d hate to see such a fine black go to waste.”
Rick barely kept from laughing in his face.
Tank held out two chips, each one stamped with a ‘14’. “He stays with you until his number is called. Hand over his chip to the ref, keep yours on the off chance you win.”
“Thanks,” Rick replied, taking the chips and tucking them away in his black leather jacket.
“Fight well,” Tank told Cal. “Don’t disappoint your Owner.”
Cal said nothing, though his eyes darkened at what he perceived as an insult.
“Come on, Cal,” Rick said, turning and leading way into the Pits.
D-Pits were kept strictly apart from the others, which often occupied the same building if they didn’t outright share fighting space. This was because magic was frequently used to cheat, and depending on the species certain dragons were more susceptible to magic than others.
So no abnormals. Anyone with a dragon didn’t need extraneous abilities anyway.
“Stop smirking, Cal,” Rick muttered as they entered the Pits. “You’ll give your game away.”
Cal snorted softly.
“You’ll give away you have nothing to fear,” Rick corrected with a warning look.
“We’re not here to win anything.”
Rick just gave him a look.
Cal grimaced. “All right, all right. So maybe it’s getting to me. I can’t help it. Much.”
“Try,” Rick said, but nodded in understanding. The air was saturated with a fighting lust. All around him in the brightly lit hall were dragons waiting to fight. Some were dreading it, others were panting for it. More than a few unethical owners kept their dragons in a state of sexual frustration days before a fight to make them that much more vicious in the Pit.
Most were still in human form, though he could see about half a dozen or so in dragon form, holding perfectly still but obviously wanting to pull at the chains holding them and pick an early fight. Teeth and scales glistened in the light of the chandeliers.
Packed together, the scent just stirred the dragons further. Even Cal could not help but feel it a bit, which stirred his urge to fight. This was why dragons made such excellent Pit fighters.
“Fourteen,” Cal murmured, amber eyes panning the room, picking out the ones that would precede him, the ones he would be fighting, no doubt also looking for the kit. “I don’t see him,” he said a couple of minutes later, voice barely audible.
Rick nodded, but motioned him to silence as they reached the bar. He ordered a beer then turned to look out over the crowd.
In jeans, sweater, and a leather jacket he was glaringly out of place – except for the six one dragon standing beside him. Cal was dressed just as simply as Rick, in loose jeans and a tight white t-shirt, a brown corduroy jacket.
“You suppose we should have dressed fancy?” Cal asked with a wink.
“I’d prefer to be at home in my sweats.”
“I’d prefer naked myself.”
Rick grinned. “You have a point.”
Cal dipped his head and planted a quick kiss on his lips. “You taste like beer. What do I get if I win? Do I get a prize just for fighting?”
“You’re spoiled,” Rick said, rolling his eyes, fighting a fond smile. “Of course you’ll win. No prize for that.” He took a long pull of his beer. “If you behave, I’ll let you hunt a few deer.”
Amber eyes flared with pleasure. “If we do you know what in one night?” He leaned in closer. “If I’m a good little dragon and not only behave but save the day?”
Rick closed the space between them and kissed Cal briefly, but with force. “You can have chocolate.”
“On you?” Cal asked, eyes all but glowing.
“If you insist, lizard.”
“I insist.”
Rick started to reply, but the sound of a gong announced the beginning of the fights and slowly the mingling crowd began to move out of the hall and into the arena. “Make the calls,” he said. “I’ll go with whatever you decide.”
Cal’s hand curled briefly over his, holding it tight, an acknowledgement of the trust Rick was placing in him – redundant to mention it, really, they trusted each other implicitly. Anything could happen in the Pits though, especially since they were trying to take another dragon out. In the heat of a fight, Rick would still trust Cal and move according to what the dragon decided.
Precious few Owners trusted their dragons to that degree. Most dragons were born as humans and lived for years that way, but once their dragon genes were activated thinking of them as human was stupid and quite possibly dangerous.
That would be why the already transformed ones were chained, especially if their Owners had them exclusively for Pit use.
The arena was simple, straightforward. Amphitheatre style for the seating in a full circle around the actual fighting ring – which was completely sealed off by specially made glass so that the fight could be seen clearly without spectators getting unintentionally injured. The seats themselves were all movie theatre style, high backs and plenty of padding, with plenty of leg room. Before each fight spectators would place their bets; participants weren’t allowed to bet.
All the lights but those in the ring itself went out as numbers one and two were called.
Rick grunted. “Not too bad, I guess. That black has survived more than a few.” He snickered at Cal’s low growl. “I’m not praising him. Just an observation. That green dragon…I would bet on the black.” Cal growled louder and Rick rolled his eyes. He grasped Cal’s chin and made the dragon look at him. “Cal. I’m yours.”
Amber eyes flared, then settled to their usual pale color. Cal nodded and settled back in his seat. “It’s hard resisting. If it was jut a few…but there’s what, almost fifty here? I hope I don’t have to go through all of them…”
“I doubt it,” Rick replied. “Some of these are probably from the entry level, their Owners wanting them to observe, learn to control themselves with so much fight lust in the air.” He slid Cal an amused glance. “A few are from Master level.”
Cal snorted and said nothing.
All around them a hush fell as everyone finished placing their bets and a bell rang to start the fight.
It was fast and brutal – Rick had been right about the green. Probably fresh from entry level, not used to a nasty like the black, which had obviously been worked to a frenzy pre-fight.
The black lasted the next four fights, but fell to number six, which was a red dragon. Also known as a fire dragon. Blue was water, green was earth, white was wind. Basic elemental dragons. Black was hybrid – at least two elementals, sometimes more.
Everyone thought Cal was a four-hybrid black – a black dragon that had bits of all four basic elements. If that were true, it would draw close in power to the high elementals – inferno, frost, rock, and gale.
High elementals were rare; even harder to find was a pure blood – someone who was more dragon than human. At best, most dragons were fifty-fifty. To count as pure blood – PB – the count had to be 75-25 dragon to human.
Rick watched as the red dragon beat down the black, then blazed his way straight through to twelve. Number twelve was a rock dragon, which meant things were finally heating up.
It also meant Tank had been fucking with him, as the bastard would know good and well which dragons had which numbers. He was setting up Cal to take a fall to a fresh rock, since any high elemental worth his scales would beat down a red. No doubt the red’s owner was just trying to see how far he could push his fire dragon.
Well, Tank was about to learn just how stupid he was. Even if it wasn’t the reason they were here, Rick didn’t appreciate being fucked with – especially for something as stupid as money. Nor did he like that someone was trying to set Cal up to take a beating. A fair fight was one thing…
Beside him Cal growled low, leaning forward to examine his pending opponent as the rock quickly beat an unfortunate white.
“Fourteen!”
“Come on,” Rick said as the lights went up. The ring reeked of blood, sweat, and excited dragon. He handed his chip to the ref at the door, then walked into the fighting ring.
The owner of the rock was a tall, thin man that Rick immediately felt like punching. Just because his mustache was so goddamn ugly. He sneered as Rick and Cal entered. “I’ve heard about you. Cross, isn’t it? Is this your black everyone whispers about?”
Rick finally allowed himself to laugh, throwing his head back and positively shaking with mirth. “It’s funny, you know? Everyone keeps saying Cal is a black. No one ever fucking asked me if that was correct. I don’t believe I caught your name.”
The man bristled. “Buckley. What the hell kind of dragon is he, then?”
“I guess you’ll see.”
Buckley ignored the taunt and continued with his condescension. “You haven’t changed him yet? That’ll slow him down. You’re more amateur than I thought.”
Around them the lights flashed. Rick ignored Buckley in favor of leaning up to kiss Cal. “Love you.”
Cal grinned. “Love you too.”
Buckley’s sneer worsened. “Amateur,” he reaffirmed. “What’s the cute little dragon’s name?” He stroked the head of his own dragon, which was snarling and growling impatiently. “This is Gargoyle.”
“Excalibur,” Rick replied, then stole one last kiss before darting from the ring and back up to his seat. A second later the lights went out.
Probably needs beta'ed, but I believe they're all busy or sick so I will harass them later. Still not convinced this didn't turn out boring as fuck, but I guess we'll see. Tygs assures me I'm just paranoid (and probably whining).
Rick shook his head in disbelief for what must be the millionth time.
Of all the places to received a random invite – a formal request even, not just a simple phone call, but stationary and hand delivered and everything – he would never in a million years have guessed the Tantalus.
Not even the lower levels. No, his invite had included instructions and a special card.
All the way to the top floors.
No one ever saw the demon lord in his lair. Those with appointments saw him in the lower offices; no one was dumb enough to bother him without an appointment.
Sable Brennus was remarkably laid back for a demon, or so the rumors went, but he was still a demon.
He pulled the invite from his pocket as he reached what was clearly a reception room, holding it out as he approached the desk where some sort of abnormal answered phones and did the sort of paperwork that looked mysterious and exotic to outsiders but was really more boring than watching grass grow.
The woman didn’t even look at it, just flicked him the barest of glances, a brief but pretty smile, and mashed a button on her phone. “Mr. Brennus, Mr. Cross is here.” She smiled again, and Rick caught a hint of fangs. “Please go right in – the second door to the right.”
“Thank you,” Rick murmured, daring a smile of his own, not used to doing it – but she didn’t look horrified by the effort, her own smile brightening, so maybe he wasn’t completely out of practice.
Feeling moderately better, Rick turned and walked down the wide hallway, doing his best to relax and not gawk at the expensive paintings, vases. This one hallway cost more than his entire house – and his house wasn’t cheap. Why in the world was he being called here of all places?
He suspected he knew, at least to a degree, though he wouldn’t have thought the D-Pits the sort of the thing to interest a demon. Never mind that he’d said a hundred thousand times to anyone dumb enough to bring the subject up that he wanted no part of the D-Pits ever. Not their scene. Hadn’t been when they were young and stupid, certainly wouldn’t be now that they’d more or less matured.
At the second door on the right, Rick hesitated. Did one knock in situations like this?
The problem was solved for him when the door suddenly opened, and Rick found himself greeted by a startlingly handsome man – his clothes were old, worn, the leather jacket clearly well past its last legs, but for all that the man looked good. Early thirties? Classic blonde hair and blue eyes, slender but fit build.
Something about him was abnormal, but without Cal Rick couldn’t tell what. “Ah—I’m here to see—“
“Come on in,” the blonde man said. “I was just coming out to greet you.” He stepped aside to let Rick in. “You’re Aldrick Cross.”
“Rick, please.”
The man nodded. “I’m Chris White.” He closed the door and pointed across the office – more of a sitting room or lounge or something, nothing but sofas and chairs and a long coffee table – to a man standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. “That’s Sable.”
Yeah, Rick hadn’t needed to be told that. Even without Cal, he’d recognize a demon lord. Everyone in the territory had heard about the man – how didn’t you hear about the one that kept neighboring wolves and vamps and other problems out of the area? He was as good-looking as the rumors went, and cliché as it sounded those eyes really were the color of storm clouds.
“I’m actually the one who wanted to speak with you,” Chris said, motioning for him to sit. “Want a drink or anything?”
“No, thanks,” Rick said. “What’s this all about? Usually when someone receives an invite from the demon in residence, it’s not a good thing.”
Sable chuckled and moved to on the sofa opposite the one Rick had taken. “If I dislike someone, I go get rid of them or have Christian do it. They would not be invited here.”
“That’s what I was hoping,” Rick said, hoping his abject relief didn’t show. He fought the urge to rake a hand restlessly through his hair, knowing the black strands didn’t need the added help looking messy. “So what did you want?”
“I’m sure you already have a good idea,” Chris said, leaning back in the armchair he’d taken, situated between the two long sofas. He braced his elbows on the arms rests and steepled his fingers.
“Why on earth would a demon lord and his consort give two fucks – pardon my language – about the D-pits. Only reason anyone ever wants to talk to me.”
Chris shook his head. “It is and isn’t about that.”
Rick quirked one brow. “Do explain.” He might be nervous as shit about this, but damned if he’d let anyone try and fuck with Cal.
“I have been hired to find a particular dragon. For the past two months I have been looking and the only clues I can find all point to the D-Pits. Unfortunately—“
“You can’t get in,” Rick interrupted. “You’re abnormal though I can’t tell how – maybe that’s just the demon magic.”
Sable snickered as Chris glowered. “In part my magic, but Christian is…special.”
“Be quiet,” Chris snapped. He turned back to Rick. “As you say, I and my associates are all abnormal to some degree. So we can’t get in as spectators, and we’ve no chance of finding a dragon and joining the fights.”
Spectator being the polite word for anyone who wanted to bet on the fights. Scum of the earth, Rick preferred. The only people he hated more were the Owners, though D-Pit lords were a damned close second.
Christ drummed his finger tips together as he spoke. “I could force the issue as Sable’s consort since the Pits bleed into his territory but creating that kind of stir does no one any favors and won’t guarantee I’ll get the dragon before his Owner bolts with him. Anyway, I never could figure out which D-Pit exactly he’s located.”
He knew where this was going. “You want me to go in and find this dragon for you.”
“It’s a young one,” Chris said. “Turned fifteen about a month before he was kidnapped. Frost. Pure blood.”
Rick winced. Frost dragons were rare; they were also damned hard to beat. Few things were as formidable as a pure blood frost dragon. Of all the high elements, they were the most tenacious and vicious. “Where’d they get it?”
“He was kidnapped right from his house in the dead of night. That was four months ago. I was only hired two months ago. Motive I don’t yet have – I’ve been putting all my effort into simply finding him.”
“Gotcha,” Rick said, nodding in thought. He knew the D-Pits because he wanted nothing to do with them – ‘know thine enemy’ and all that. “A PB Frost? No one would waste time with the outer Pits. I’d hazard to say he’s at the Shatter Spine, the Snap Neck, or the Broken Heart. Who’s the ‘Owner’?”
Chris glowered at some unseen annoyance. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t have to drag you into this. All I hear are rumors of a young frost dragon slowly making a name for himself. No wins yet, but it’s only a matter of time. No one is willing to cough up who owns him.”
That was unusual, but not unheard of. Owners were usually as well known and spoken of as their dragons. To know the dragon but not the Owner was to know the weapon but not the wielder. It could mean only a couple of things – either no one knew the Owner’s identity, which had happened; some people just didn’t like it known they played in the D-Pits. Other times…the Owner was high enough up the chain no one dared say his name without express permission.
Which meant he probably used a shadow Owner to do the in-Pit work while he watched from above and covertly passed on his orders. If that was the case, and it every well could be with a PB Frost involved – and one technically too young to be thrown into the Pits – then this could get ugly fast. Rick shook his head. “Sounds like you’re in a nasty tangle. I’m sure I don’t need to explain what’s likely going down.”
“I’m sure hearing the finer points couldn’t hurt,” Chris replied, “however I do sense this is probably running deeper than any of us likes to think about. If you’re willing, though, find him and get him out.” He made a face. “If it starts to look too dangerous, just tell me where he is and I’ll say to hell with keeping things quiet.”
Rick frowned in thought. “I have to talk to Cal before I can tell you for certain, but I will be honest and say I don’t like the idea of a kit being thrown in the Pits. Not even sure how that would have slipped by – even the D-Pits have that much of a standard. Never heard of a child being thrown in, which makes me nervous about the Owner. I’m willing, but I have to speak with Cal. How can I get in touch?”
“Call this number,” Chris said, and pulled a business card from his pocket. It was plain white with a band of black across the top and the words White Detective Agency above that. Below that was Chris’s name, then the name Douglas, and lastly a phone number. “Ask to speak to me or Doug.”
Rick stood up and tucked the card away in his jeans. “Will do.”
“Thank you,” Chris said.
“I haven’t agreed yet.”
“You listened. That’s more than most in your position would do.”
Rick shrugged. “I figured it was better not to tell a demon lord to kiss off. Anyway, Cal said I should at least check it out. I’ll show myself out.” He turned and strode out the door, back down the hall, waved to the secretary and then took the elevator down to the lobby.
It was cloudy but not quite raining when he hit the streets. An attendant pulled up with his motorcycle as Rick reached the bottom of the stairs. He took his keys and thanked the man, the entire situation from the invite to the conversation to having a valet take care of his bike still completely surreal. He was thirty-five. Shit like this didn’t happen to thirty-five year olds.
Now he had to go tell Cal that because he was a fucking soft touch that they might finally have to go down into the Pits they’d avoided their whole damn lives.
Home was an overblown “cabin” deep in the mountains, on a road only someone desperate and foolish enough to want to get the fuck away from people would travel. Getting shit to the cabin had been a damned nightmare, but worth it in the end.
Out here, he and Cal would know people were coming. Precious few thought the trip worth it, after he’d already turned down more offers than he could count – of the polite and not so polite kind. Luckily, he’d managed to take care of them without dragging Cal into the fight. If they saw Cal fight, then they’d never leave him alone.
Worse, they’d try to take him.
He’d risk that if they did this for the demon lord’s consort…though he wasn’t exactly sure how he was supposed to tell a demon lord’s consort no.
Not that Chris or Sable had seemed particularly evil or demonic. Hell, he was referring to them by first name. He’d heard of demon territories where they had to use honorifics and shit.
Driving the twisting road was difficult enough on a good day – never mind a bad night. The rain had finally hit and it was only his bike and knowledge that kept him from taking a long, nasty spill back down to the bottom of the mountain.
The lights of the cabin finally came into view and Rick relaxed slightly. As he approached, the garage door opened and he was able to drive right inside – Cal must have been watching for him, the bike didn’t have an auto-opener.
Tearing his helmet off, Rick set it aside and started stripping out of his wet clothes, shivering in the cold air and hustling inside to throw the clothes in the laundry room before he padded through the kitchen into the hall, then up the stairs to their bedroom.
He smiled as he heard the shower running, laughing as steam washed over him as he opened the bathroom door. “It’s a shower, not a sauna, Cal.”
“I can try,” Cal grumbled laughingly, peeking around the wide glass wall that separated the shower from the rest of the massive bathroom. He was soaked from head to foot, water beading and streaming down his fair skin, the fine-toned muscles. His hair, dark chocolate brown, was plastered to his skull, all but covering his pale amber eyes. “Especially since you won’t give me a sauna.”
Rick rolled his eyes. “I gave you the hot tub.”
“Still not a sauna,” Cal replied with a sniff, but he grinned and reached out to tug Rick into the shower with him, looping his arms around Rick’s neck. “Get in here before you catch a cold. The weather’s been miserable all day.”
Rick wrapped his arms around Cal’s waist and rested his head a moment against his lover’s chest. “You feel good.”
Sharp teeth nipped his ear, making him shiver. “You too. Glad you’re back.”
“Is that why you’re trying to steam me?” Rick asked with a breathless laugh as his back met slick tile.
“Mmm, steamed Ricky. My second favorite,” Cal replied, then pressed up against him and covered Ricky’s mouth with his own, teasing his tongue over Ricky’s lips for a minute before parting them and taking claim of his mouth. Knowing hands roamed Rick’s body, knowing exactly where to touch, tease, how to elicit all the gasps and moans Rick fed into his mouth, before he finally ceased tormenting and reached down to stroke them both together, hard and fast until they both came calling each other’s names.
“Second favorite?” Rick asked when he could finally speak again. Absently he reached out to find the soap, nearly dropping it twice before he finally started soaping them both up.
Cal grinned wide, displaying his too sharp to be human teeth. “I will always be most fond of chocolate Ricky.”
Rick made a face and ignored the heat he could feel in his cheeks. “You’re spoiled rotten, lizard.”
“By you,” Cal said, stealing the soap and washing Rick as Rick washed him. He stole a kiss and then suddenly rubbed his soap-covered hands all over Rick’s face, back up against the glass as Rick tried to retaliate – then caught him up and shoved them both back into the spray, rinsing them off quickly. Rick turned off the water as Cal snagged a couple of towels, then they dressed quickly – him in an old pair of sweats, Cal in a ridiculous pair of PJ pants – dark red with little blue and black cartoon dragons.
Rick smiled fondly, shaking his head at Cal’s ever amusing choice of lounging attire, and led the way back downstairs and into the kitchen. “Hungry?” he asked, snagging a longneck from the fridge and twisting the cap off, pitching it into the trashcan on the far side of the kitchen before taking a long swallow.
“Only for you,” Cal said with a wink. “I ate already. We’re running low on steak.”
“Damned lizard,” Rick replied. “Why can’t you eat crickets like the cute little lizards in the pet stores?”
Cal sniffed. “I give you sex. I get steak.”
“I suppose you have a point,” Rick said with a grin before taking another swallow of his beer. He followed Cal out of the kitchen and across the hall to the living room, setting his beer on the table before allowing the dragon to drag him down onto the couch – brown suede, nearly big enough to be a bed. He lay along the edge, back to Cal’s chest, their legs tangled together.
“So what did the demon lord want?”
“It was his consort that wanted to see me, actually,” Rick said, good mood fading as he explained all that Chris had told him, what he’d asked.
Cal was quiet for several long minutes after he finished. Rick twisted around to watch him, knowing his own green eyes were just as intense as the pale amber that stared back. Then Cal leaned down and kissed, long and slow and sweet. “We can’t let a kit stay in the Pits. If he’s still alive, it’s only because he’s a frost and damned lucky.”
Rick nodded in agreement and leaned in for another kiss. “You know I love you.”
“Of course,” Cal said, nuzzling against him. “Love you too.”
It was impossible to tell a dragon type by looking at the untransformed human. No matter what the experts said, no matter how many people claimed that talent. A blonde man with green eyes was just as likely to be a black dragon as a green dragon as a white dragon. Anyone who could claim to tell on sight was lying through his fucking teeth or already knew.
Rick knew this for a fact. Every last one of the bastards who’d ‘stopped by for a little chat’ had immediately pegged Cal as a black dragon. Which was very nice of them, as black dragons were prized – not rare, exactly, but certainly a little more than merely respectable.
“Smells awful,” Cal said quietly, his voice reaching Rick’s ears in the din but only just. Rick tightened his grip on Cal’s hand and wrestled them through the crowd of gawkers and wannabe spectators.
The real money would already be inside. Later a few of the wannabes might be allowed inside, though only so the vets could wring them dry.
“It’s going to be a long night,” Rick said with a sigh as he approached the fighter table.
Eyes widened in shock as he and Cal approached.
“Cross,” greeted a man who looked as though he’d once lost a fight with a grizzly bear. That he could see at all was a miracle. Tank was his name, or what he went by anyway. “Never thought we’d actually see you here.”
“Things change,” Rick said shortly.
Tank stood up from where he’d been sitting on the edge of a table. He put out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray and then approached them. All around, the gawkers and workers backed away to give him room. He walked slowly around Cal, looking the dragon up and down. Rick tolerated it until Tank reached out a hand – he grabbed it just as Cal started to growl and his pale eyes began to warm to a deep gold.
“He’s not for you to touch,” Rick said, holding Tank’s wrist tight.
“All right, man. Chill.” Tank tore his wrist free and gave Cal another once over. “Fine piece of dragon, Cross.” He leered. “Keep this one in excellent shape, don’t you?” Rick said nothing and Tank rolled his eyes. “I keep forgetting you got no sense of humor, man. Signing him up? Where do you want to start?”
Rick had considered this question carefully on the drive up.
The Pits were broken up into a dozen types – A through D, with three grades of each. The A-Pits were for pussies; it was where the gawkers and the wannabes went when they realized they’d never be good enough for a real Pit fight – for either playing or watching. Lesser abnormals were fought there – gremlins, goblins, faeries, most of them taken right off the streets.
The B-Pits were a bit tougher, given over to those creatures from the A-Pits and from wherever else in the abnormal world worthy fighters could be coerced in one way or another. It was also where real money started to enter the scene – five hundred dollars just to get in, and from there people bet like crazy. Hellhounds, ogres, trolls – all these were common in the B-Pits.
Anyone with real interest in a fight, and in making serious money off a fight, went for the C-Pits. A thousand dollars cover, and betting was all but mandatory. Here the real abnormals fought – minotaur, werewolves, imps. It was the only Pit where fights to the death took place , though only at the highest of the three levels, and it was decided on a fight-by-fight basis. For that reason alone, the C-Pits were often considered by many to be the most brutal.
That was only because those who said so couldn’t get into the D-Pits. Five thousand was the cover charge to see a D-Pit fight, and here betting was mandatory. If you couldn’t afford to play…well, you didn’t get in. High rollers hung in the D-Pits – though only normals. No abnormals were allowed in the D-Pits. Paranormals that had an interest sent a normal rep.
So far as participation went – if you had a dragon strong enough, you were allowed to try.
Strong enough mostly meant age, fitness, fighting ability. Dragons were strong and capable naturally – they were made for combat, bred for it, and those who went into the D-Pits were given a workout regimen that would kill any other creature.
Within the D-Pits the three levels were entry, master, and special.
Entry and master would be far too easy for Cal. Special would provide a bit of a challenge, maybe, but they weren’t here for Cal. The kit’s name was Nevada Montserrat. He was the reason they were here. As powerful as a frost dragon was, especially a young one, he would not have the experience that came with age. That meant he wouldn’t be in special, which meant to put Cal there would be a waste of time.
Rick almost felt bad for the dragons that would take a beating, going up against Cal. He wouldn’t hurt them too much, but he had to keep in it until they found Nevada. Hopefully it wouldn’t take them days and days to do it. “Master.”
Tank quirked a brow at him. “You sure? He’s never fought in a Pit before; there are some real toughs that will hold his being new against him.”
“I said Master, Tank.”
“Okay, okay. Just looking out for your dragon, man. I’d hate to see such a fine black go to waste.”
Rick barely kept from laughing in his face.
Tank held out two chips, each one stamped with a ‘14’. “He stays with you until his number is called. Hand over his chip to the ref, keep yours on the off chance you win.”
“Thanks,” Rick replied, taking the chips and tucking them away in his black leather jacket.
“Fight well,” Tank told Cal. “Don’t disappoint your Owner.”
Cal said nothing, though his eyes darkened at what he perceived as an insult.
“Come on, Cal,” Rick said, turning and leading way into the Pits.
D-Pits were kept strictly apart from the others, which often occupied the same building if they didn’t outright share fighting space. This was because magic was frequently used to cheat, and depending on the species certain dragons were more susceptible to magic than others.
So no abnormals. Anyone with a dragon didn’t need extraneous abilities anyway.
“Stop smirking, Cal,” Rick muttered as they entered the Pits. “You’ll give your game away.”
Cal snorted softly.
“You’ll give away you have nothing to fear,” Rick corrected with a warning look.
“We’re not here to win anything.”
Rick just gave him a look.
Cal grimaced. “All right, all right. So maybe it’s getting to me. I can’t help it. Much.”
“Try,” Rick said, but nodded in understanding. The air was saturated with a fighting lust. All around him in the brightly lit hall were dragons waiting to fight. Some were dreading it, others were panting for it. More than a few unethical owners kept their dragons in a state of sexual frustration days before a fight to make them that much more vicious in the Pit.
Most were still in human form, though he could see about half a dozen or so in dragon form, holding perfectly still but obviously wanting to pull at the chains holding them and pick an early fight. Teeth and scales glistened in the light of the chandeliers.
Packed together, the scent just stirred the dragons further. Even Cal could not help but feel it a bit, which stirred his urge to fight. This was why dragons made such excellent Pit fighters.
“Fourteen,” Cal murmured, amber eyes panning the room, picking out the ones that would precede him, the ones he would be fighting, no doubt also looking for the kit. “I don’t see him,” he said a couple of minutes later, voice barely audible.
Rick nodded, but motioned him to silence as they reached the bar. He ordered a beer then turned to look out over the crowd.
In jeans, sweater, and a leather jacket he was glaringly out of place – except for the six one dragon standing beside him. Cal was dressed just as simply as Rick, in loose jeans and a tight white t-shirt, a brown corduroy jacket.
“You suppose we should have dressed fancy?” Cal asked with a wink.
“I’d prefer to be at home in my sweats.”
“I’d prefer naked myself.”
Rick grinned. “You have a point.”
Cal dipped his head and planted a quick kiss on his lips. “You taste like beer. What do I get if I win? Do I get a prize just for fighting?”
“You’re spoiled,” Rick said, rolling his eyes, fighting a fond smile. “Of course you’ll win. No prize for that.” He took a long pull of his beer. “If you behave, I’ll let you hunt a few deer.”
Amber eyes flared with pleasure. “If we do you know what in one night?” He leaned in closer. “If I’m a good little dragon and not only behave but save the day?”
Rick closed the space between them and kissed Cal briefly, but with force. “You can have chocolate.”
“On you?” Cal asked, eyes all but glowing.
“If you insist, lizard.”
“I insist.”
Rick started to reply, but the sound of a gong announced the beginning of the fights and slowly the mingling crowd began to move out of the hall and into the arena. “Make the calls,” he said. “I’ll go with whatever you decide.”
Cal’s hand curled briefly over his, holding it tight, an acknowledgement of the trust Rick was placing in him – redundant to mention it, really, they trusted each other implicitly. Anything could happen in the Pits though, especially since they were trying to take another dragon out. In the heat of a fight, Rick would still trust Cal and move according to what the dragon decided.
Precious few Owners trusted their dragons to that degree. Most dragons were born as humans and lived for years that way, but once their dragon genes were activated thinking of them as human was stupid and quite possibly dangerous.
That would be why the already transformed ones were chained, especially if their Owners had them exclusively for Pit use.
The arena was simple, straightforward. Amphitheatre style for the seating in a full circle around the actual fighting ring – which was completely sealed off by specially made glass so that the fight could be seen clearly without spectators getting unintentionally injured. The seats themselves were all movie theatre style, high backs and plenty of padding, with plenty of leg room. Before each fight spectators would place their bets; participants weren’t allowed to bet.
All the lights but those in the ring itself went out as numbers one and two were called.
Rick grunted. “Not too bad, I guess. That black has survived more than a few.” He snickered at Cal’s low growl. “I’m not praising him. Just an observation. That green dragon…I would bet on the black.” Cal growled louder and Rick rolled his eyes. He grasped Cal’s chin and made the dragon look at him. “Cal. I’m yours.”
Amber eyes flared, then settled to their usual pale color. Cal nodded and settled back in his seat. “It’s hard resisting. If it was jut a few…but there’s what, almost fifty here? I hope I don’t have to go through all of them…”
“I doubt it,” Rick replied. “Some of these are probably from the entry level, their Owners wanting them to observe, learn to control themselves with so much fight lust in the air.” He slid Cal an amused glance. “A few are from Master level.”
Cal snorted and said nothing.
All around them a hush fell as everyone finished placing their bets and a bell rang to start the fight.
It was fast and brutal – Rick had been right about the green. Probably fresh from entry level, not used to a nasty like the black, which had obviously been worked to a frenzy pre-fight.
The black lasted the next four fights, but fell to number six, which was a red dragon. Also known as a fire dragon. Blue was water, green was earth, white was wind. Basic elemental dragons. Black was hybrid – at least two elementals, sometimes more.
Everyone thought Cal was a four-hybrid black – a black dragon that had bits of all four basic elements. If that were true, it would draw close in power to the high elementals – inferno, frost, rock, and gale.
High elementals were rare; even harder to find was a pure blood – someone who was more dragon than human. At best, most dragons were fifty-fifty. To count as pure blood – PB – the count had to be 75-25 dragon to human.
Rick watched as the red dragon beat down the black, then blazed his way straight through to twelve. Number twelve was a rock dragon, which meant things were finally heating up.
It also meant Tank had been fucking with him, as the bastard would know good and well which dragons had which numbers. He was setting up Cal to take a fall to a fresh rock, since any high elemental worth his scales would beat down a red. No doubt the red’s owner was just trying to see how far he could push his fire dragon.
Well, Tank was about to learn just how stupid he was. Even if it wasn’t the reason they were here, Rick didn’t appreciate being fucked with – especially for something as stupid as money. Nor did he like that someone was trying to set Cal up to take a beating. A fair fight was one thing…
Beside him Cal growled low, leaning forward to examine his pending opponent as the rock quickly beat an unfortunate white.
“Fourteen!”
“Come on,” Rick said as the lights went up. The ring reeked of blood, sweat, and excited dragon. He handed his chip to the ref at the door, then walked into the fighting ring.
The owner of the rock was a tall, thin man that Rick immediately felt like punching. Just because his mustache was so goddamn ugly. He sneered as Rick and Cal entered. “I’ve heard about you. Cross, isn’t it? Is this your black everyone whispers about?”
Rick finally allowed himself to laugh, throwing his head back and positively shaking with mirth. “It’s funny, you know? Everyone keeps saying Cal is a black. No one ever fucking asked me if that was correct. I don’t believe I caught your name.”
The man bristled. “Buckley. What the hell kind of dragon is he, then?”
“I guess you’ll see.”
Buckley ignored the taunt and continued with his condescension. “You haven’t changed him yet? That’ll slow him down. You’re more amateur than I thought.”
Around them the lights flashed. Rick ignored Buckley in favor of leaning up to kiss Cal. “Love you.”
Cal grinned. “Love you too.”
Buckley’s sneer worsened. “Amateur,” he reaffirmed. “What’s the cute little dragon’s name?” He stroked the head of his own dragon, which was snarling and growling impatiently. “This is Gargoyle.”
“Excalibur,” Rick replied, then stole one last kiss before darting from the ring and back up to his seat. A second later the lights went out.
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Date: 2006-12-09 02:57 am (UTC)2) Rick and Cal are awesome XD I love how you intersperse info about the dragon fighting here and there. I can't wait to see what kind of dragon Cal is.
3) I had horrible cramps and now they're starting to feel better :D You should market your awesome stories as pain relief. Almost as good as alcohol. Amaretto for the soul. Deep, yeah? j/k
Now to the second part for me :P I love this. You're awesome. *glomps*
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Date: 2008-02-16 10:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-09 03:44 am (UTC)Loving this totally.
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Date: 2006-12-09 05:22 am (UTC)I love them so much.
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Date: 2006-12-09 07:19 pm (UTC)I love their chemistry. ^_____^ Their trust in each other really shows, and now I must zip off to see the dragon fight because I just know that's gonna be awesome. ::grin::
Oh, and as a last note, I love the 'everyone thinks he's a black dragon but he's not' thing. ^____^ Makes me happy.
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Date: 2006-12-10 12:35 pm (UTC)*_*
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Date: 2007-01-14 05:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-17 08:44 pm (UTC)Now I'm dying to know what kind of dragon Cal is.
On to the next part!