Page 81 of Golden Eagle

He seemed to know it, too. He gave his new opponent – shoved into the ring by the emcee – only a cursory glance, and his gaze kept darting toward her, wild-eyed in a way he hadn’t been before. He and the other fighter squared off, and Lanny wasn’t even paying proper attention, his wrapped fists at half-mast.

“Who wrapped his hands?” Trina asked.

Ashamed, Alexei said, “Me.”

A stranger sat on the other side of him, a tall, lean guy with sunglasses and a shiny jacket.

“Who’s your friend?”

“Oh.” He was blushing. “This is Dante.”

The guy – Dante – leaned around the tsarevich and waved at her, smiling. “Hello!”

Nikita elbowed her in the side, and she refocused on the fight.

What was left of it.

Lanny didn’t bother to play around with his opponent this time, no longer worried about putting on a show for the crowd. He felled the poor man with a swing that bunched up every muscle in his torso, turned them to sculpted bronze. The impact hit with the terrible sound of bone breaking. Trina swore a shock wave moved through the cracked pavement underneath.

There were some cheers, and a few boos.

“C’mon, that’s gotta be cheating,” one guy called through cupped hands.

“He’s terribly strong,” she heard Dante say, suddenly with a British accent for some reason.

“He’s a beast,” Alexei agreed, happily.

The opponent didn’t get up, and two guys went in to take him under the arms and drag him out. The rat-faced emcee went in to gloat and proclaim Lanny the winner. “…trying to clean out all your pockets, folks…”

“Now the real show,” Nik said, low and near, and she followed his gaze toward the towering, shirtless vampire waiting his turn to fight.

His turn had come, apparently.

“He doesn’t have anyone with him,” she observed, scanning the area around him for a trainer or a friend or an idiot Alexei-equivalent who could wrap hands and bullshit your confidence a little. No one trailed along after him as he strode toward the cage; no last-minute advice or a water bottle. A quick look at the benches where the other fighters prepped revealed buddies and wannabe trainers holding bags, and Gatorade. One fighter was getting a shoulder massage; a grizzled man with a flashlight was doing a pupil check on Lanny’s last opponent.

“You guys smell any other vamps?” she asked.

“No,” Nikita and Sasha said in unison.

Sasha added, “And he doesn’t smell like any other immortals, either.”

“Just a loner who likes to fight,” she surmised.

“Maybe.” Nik didn’t sound convinced.

“Not everything’s a conspiracy,” she said, biting back a sigh.

“You can take the Chekist out of the Soviet Union,” Sasha started, and his laugh was muffled when Nik pressed a hand over his mouth.

She glanced away from them, feeling suddenly like she was intruding on a moment, even if she loved seeing them be relaxed enough to be easy with each other in front of the whole pack like this.

The whole pack.

Herpack, even if that still sounded strange.

And even if she currently wanted to strangle one of its members.

Furious or not, her gut clenched and her pulse accelerated as the other, much bigger vampire stepped into the cage. Lanny stood in the center of the ring, stretching out his neck, shaking out his arms.

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