Hutch shows it to Caleb, who nods.
“You heard him, boys.” Caleb says. “You can see me fight when you’re a little older.”
The triplets deflate.
“But you’re retired,” Hutch says mournfully.
“Officially. I’ll talk to Jared and Trey and schedule something for two years from now.”
“You would do that?” Canyon asks. “For us?”
“Yep. You’re my biggest fans.” Caleb jerks his chin in my direction. With one last slap on Canyon’s shoulder, he heads off into the gloom.
In the center of the ring, Jared calls for the first two fighters to take their places. Spectators press close to the ring.
“Come on, we gotta go,” I say.
“Can we just see one fight?” Hutch pleads. “Please?”
I hesitate. What will one little fight hurt? But something tugs in me, so I don’t pause. “Your brothers want you back. They said you’ve been acting suspicious for weeks. Drinking giant protein shakes and streaming Rocky movies nonstop.”
“That’s not suspicious.”
“Yeah, we always do that.”
In the ring, two fighters circle each other. One’s a cheetah shifter, I can tell by the way his pack–or coalition in cheetah-speak--presses close to the ropes and shouts encouragement. Jared and another lanky wolf shifter, a tall guy with a mohawk and big ear gauges, keep telling the cheetahs to move back.
“First fight is Speed Ballz versus Benny the Biter,” Hutch says, pointing to a big chalkboard over by the bookies. Speed Ballz is such a cheetah biker name.
My eye catches on the names scrawled in a fight lower down. “The Kilted Killers?” I read, and the triplets freeze. “Does that mean what I think it does?”
Hutch and Bern hang their heads.
“We wanted to fight,” Canyon says. “Some guy challenged us.”
“He said if we lost, we’d owe him a favor,” Hutch pipes up.
“What the fuck? That’s not how shifter fights work. What guy?”
The triplets shrug in perfect unison. Their movements are so similar, it’s like they choreographed them.
“Enough of this.” I point to the warehouse door. I’ll have to herd them through the crowd. “Start walking.”
Canyon mutters something I don’t catch, but the three obediently turn and tromp towards the door. I direct them along a path on the periphery of the warehouse. The fight is in full force, and the warehouse shakes with shouts. Then Benny the Biter gives into his nickname and tries to eat his opponent and is disqualified. The crowd deflates, except for the cheetahs, who carry their hero on their shoulders out the door.
“Hang on,” I order the triplets. We’re almost to the door, but the cheetahs are swamping it. “Let’s wait a second.”
Got the package, I text Deke. We’ll be out in five.
10-4. He texts back. Any hostiles?
No.
Jared steps into the ring, announcing the next match. The cheetahs are almost all out of the door. The triplets wait beside me, their eyes glued longingly to the chalkboard. Calebs’ fight is last. Too bad. It’s tempting to allow the Terrible Threes to stay and watch him. Jared’s right, teens need role models.
We’re close enough I can read the name on the giant chalkboard opposite the “Kilted Killers.” Some guy named Hannibal. Not a fighter I’ve heard of before.
I signal to the gray-headed bookie and point to the Kilted Killers’ fight. “Can you remove that match? These guys are forfeiting.”
The bookie nods and signals his tall, feathery friend to cross out the fight.
“Next time, guys,” I tell the triplets, who look mournful. “By the way, what's with the kilts?” I ask Hutch.
“Our mother is a MacDonald,” Hutch informs me glumly.
The way to the door is clear, so I signal them to keep moving. We step out into the night air. More cars have filled the parking lot. Beyond them, the cheetahs have built a big bonfire in the center of their assembled bikes.
“Hey,” Canyon asks. “Are you on your bike?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“How are we getting home if you’re on your bike?” Bern asks.
“How did you get here?” I return.
“We hitchhiked,” Hutch pipes up. His two brothers shoot him a dirty look.
“You hitchhiked.” I shake my head. I’ll have to tell Teddy. He’ll shit a brick.
“We can steal some bikes and ride with you.” Canyon’s looking longingly at the cheetah’s crotch rockets. “We know how to hotwire–”
“No stealing. No bikes. We’re not riding. Come on, Deke is waiting in the van.”
The Terrible Threes stop as one. “The creeper van?” one asks.
“Uh, yeah.” I hide a smile.
“Awesome,” says Bern. Hutch and Canyon exchange high fives.
“Wait,” I say. “Are you excited to ride in the back of the creeper van?”
“Yeah!”
“Duh.”
“Stoked!”
I shake my head. Teenagers. No use trying to understand them. “Let’s go,” I order. Deke is parked in the same place. I could text him, but he can’t pull the van up much closer than he is now. To the right are a bunch of parked cars and more shifters on Harleys beyond that. To the left is the forest. “We have to pass the cheetah pack.”
“Coalition,” Hutch says. “A group of cheetahs is called a coalition.”
“Right. We’ll have to pass the coalition. Keep your eyes averted. Hide your fangs. No posing, no challenging.”
We’re almost to the bonfire when a giant steps out from a set of parked cars and blocks our path. Beefy dude with black shades. The giant stands between us and the cheetah bonfire. I can’t tell because of the flickering firelight, but the skin outside of his sunglasses looks scarred up. Weird. It takes a lot of effort to get a shifter to scar like that. The only way I know to scar a shifter is to use vampire blood.
Who is this guy? I take a big sniff and end up getting a noseful of clove cologne. The scent numbs my nose to the point my sense of smell is useless. Asshole.
Behind me, the triplets have gone still.
“Hey man,” I say. “Not to be rude, but you’re wearing sunglasses at night.”
The triplets titter behind me, but the clove-scented poser in front of me gives no answer.
“No? Okay, I respect your fashion choices.”
“They promised me a fight,” the man rumbles, pointing a finger at the werebears behind me.
“Hannibal?” I ask, guessing his name from the fighter listed as the Kilted Killers opponent. The giant nods. “They’re too young. And they’re not in your weight class.”
“I know,” Hannibal tilts his head and cracks his thick neck. “Was gonna fight three on one.”
I shrug. “Too bad. Wait a few years and these kids–” I toss a thumb over my shoulder, “–can do whatever they want. But tonight, it’s not happening.”
The party at the bonfire is heating up. More cat shifters have shown up on their crotch rockets. A few pass us, smelling of weed and grain alcohol. Two wereleopards–I can tell they’re leopards because who the fuck else would wear a leopard print leather jacket?–head over with jugs of gasoline. The cats pour the liquid on the flames, and yellow-blue plumes shoot up to the sky. Whoops and hollers echo around the parking lot. Sounds like there’s a werehyena or two in the mix.