Page 180 of The Wild Charge

NO. He clamped down on it. Clamped down hard.

He took a slow breath and pushed it back out. “No.”

Fox dropped his hand to his good shoulder and squeezed. It felt approving.

Somewhere below them, a door banged open, and a symphony of running feet floated up.

Fox turned him and pushed him toward the next bend in the stairs. “Go. Keep going.”

Devin ran point this time, and Tenny went hot on his heels, shoulder throbbing slow and painful in time with his pulse.

Forty-Six

Evan pulled a soda from the minibar fridge and pressed the cold can to his forehead. He held it there a moment, trying to catch his breath; he was panting like he’d just run a race. As bad as it had been in the private lounge with Kaylie kneeling at his feet, somehow the auction itself was worse. Girl after girl dragged out on stage, all of them swaying, drugged to the gills and insensate.

Behind him, Jensen let out a braying laugh at something someone else had said, in their private viewing box full of cigar smoke and the smell of alcoholic boy-sweat. He wanted to puke.

“Sir,” a voice inquired right behind him, and he jumped and whirled with a yelp.

He was met with a frown – an annoyed frown – and it took him a moment, given the man’s waiter ensemble, his black apron and the tray tucked under his arm, to realize that it was a familiar frown. A familiar face.

He blinked, panic bleeding out of him, replaced by shock. “Wa–”

“Sir,” Walsh repeated, sharply. “Are you well? Can I get you anything else?”

Evan could only gape like a fish.

Walsh darted a subtle glance over his shoulder, reached forward, and shut Evan’s mouth with a single fingertip beneath his chin. He whispered, “I’m going to need you to pull yourself together.”

Evan swallowed. “Right,” he whispered back. “How did you get here?”

“Ian sent his jet down for us. Evan,focus.”

“Right,” he repeated, stupidly, and opened his soda to have something to do.

“Go sit back down. It’s happening soon.”

“What is?”

“You’ll see.”

~*~

The waiter who’d come for Ian bowed him through an open door, and withdrew. The guards seated in the antechamber didn’t bother looking up from their card game: nothing dangerous happened here. It was a closed ecosystem, carefully curated and free of risk for its members.

Ian walked through into the viewing box, which was twice as large and more lushly-appointed than the one he’d come from. Rather than theater seats, there were several leather sofas, and a collection of plush armchairs with tufted ottomans.

He clocked the Morettis, and Nikola.

And Waverly himself, ensconced in a chair, cigar smoking in a tray by his elbow, meaty hand curled loosely around a sweating tumbler. He turned his head lazily away from the window, and toward Ian. Looked away and motioned him closer with an offhand wave.

Ian motioned behind his back to Bruce, who’d followed him into the box. As he wound his way between the couches, he heard the soft click of the door shutting. He sent up a silent prayer that the others were where they needed to be. He knew he had only a matter of seconds before Waverly realized that Ian wasn’t the same Shaman he’d met the day before, and then the plan had to roll forward, no matter everyone else’s readiness.

He took one last, steadying breath, and arrived at Waverly’s chair – the far side of it, so he had a view of the rest of the box, and the auction through the window, and the rest of his detail, Albie and Pongo included, in the antechamber. “Good evening,” he greeted. “You wanted to see me?”

Waverly took a long drag off his cigar and turned toward Ian on the exhale. “Yeah,” he drawled. His gaze slid upward from Ian’s gator-skin belt to his face. “You–” He paused, as the smoke dissipated, and in an instant, his indolent posture gave way to tension. His eyes widened, a brief pulse of surprise, and then narrowed. “Who the fuck are you?”

Ian grinned. “Mr. Shaman, of course.” He gripped the shaft of his cane in one hand, the head in the other, and drew the narrow, wicked-sharp sword hidden within it in one fast movement. In a blink, he had the tip resting against Waverly’s fat throat. “TherealMr. Shaman,” he added. “I think it’s time you and I had a chat.”

---