The beauty of Zevi’s honesty was that there was never any guessing as to his thoughts on anything, but there were times that his bluntness was less than encouraging. His doubts were as freely verbalized as his hopes. Sol was likely to kill Kaleb, especially in the shape Kaleb was in now. Flynn was the fighter likely to win the entire competition. Aya wasn’t as good a fighter as Sol or Flynn, but she’d had the strength to stand against the untrained, the strategy to defeat the cagiest of the contestants, and the ruthlessness to resort to means that were as unsportsmanlike as a daimon could get. She had more total kills than anyone left in the running.

Except me.

His, however, were mostly from years of fighting and from wearing the black mask. Very few of those kills were ones that anyone knew about. There were rumors, murmurs crediting a few particular kills to him. Rumors were useful tools in establishing a reputation. Most of the stories were the ones he’d allowed to leak. His true kill count was known only to him.

Kaleb forced himself to sit upright and offered the only reassurance he could speak with reasonable honesty. “I’m not going to lose to Aya.”

“Maybe not in a ring,” Zevi muttered as he walked away. He said nothing more as he gathered his needles and knife and dropped them into his postsurgery water basin. He remained silent as he collected the remains of Kaleb’s ruined trousers and several bits of cloth that were on the floor beside Kaleb. He dropped them into another, much larger bucket.

Kaleb waited as Zevi paced and put away everything that he could possibly put away. Zevi always liked to keep things orderly, but when he was stressed he was obsessive about tidying up. Right now, he was about as stressed as he got.

“She’s not like us,” Zevi blurted. His hands moved like a conjurer creating a storm as he ranted. “You only fight or kill for a reason. She doesn’t need to, but she does. If you’re going to have to fight and kill without contract or competition, we should just go home.”

The younger cur ducked his head when he realized what he’d said. It had been seven years since Kaleb had found Zevi in the Untamed Lands and brought him to The City, but that place was still “home” to Zevi. It wasn’t, had never been, Kaleb’s home. Sometimes, Kaleb thought that what he feared most about the Untamed Lands was that it would take Zevi from him. Before Zevi, he hadn’t been afraid of the overgrown wilderness that encroached on The City, but being a cur meant needing to find and form a pack. Kaleb had only ever found one cur who felt like home to him—and in that way that he now knew as uniquely Zevi’s, the cur in question understood their bond long before he did. Zevi didn’t question what was obvious to him. When Zevi found and tended to the then-wounded Kaleb, he knew that they were to be connected. Kaleb had taken longer to figure it out, but now that he had a pack, the terror of losing Zevi was what woke him at night. Winning the competition meant Kaleb could protect Zevi—and find other curs who fit with their small family.

“It’s okay,” Kaleb reassured him. “Everything will be okay.”

He was too injured to get up and follow Zevi. He waited for several minutes until Zevi paused, and then he said, “Zevi? Be still. Z?”

Zevi looked at him, and Kaleb asked, “What’s really wrong?”

“Aside from you’re hurt again?”

“Yes,” Kaleb said as patiently as he was able.

Zevi came and sat on the ground beside him. “I don’t understand her. I don’t trust Aya. What if she just kills us?”

Calmly, Kaleb told him, “There’s no reason for her to kill you.”

“There was no reason for her to kill Verie either,” Zevi muttered.

And there it was: Verie had been one of Zevi’s friends. The truth was that Kaleb wasn’t convinced Aya had made the kill. He’d listened to what she had and very carefully had not said on Judgment Day. Of course, he also understood that Aya did have a reason to attack Zevi. His packmate’s injury or death would affect his ability to fight, and Aya was devious enough to know that. She took advantage of opportunities. It was why she was a likely candidate to win—and why he was all but certain that she hadn’t actually killed Verie and that Verie hadn’t illegally aided anyone. Aya was merely taking advantage of the situation. He’d watched her throughout the whole competition. She was practical, but not unnecessarily violent.

She looked like she was everything that Marchosias respected. If she weren’t female, Marchosias would have offered her a choice position in the government, but no female had held such positions during Marchosias’ reign. Aya would be the first, but only if she won. If she lost, she’d still have a cossetted place in the palace. Marchosias had very clear taste in breeding: admirable traits or good alliances. Aya’s family was among the highest in the ruling caste, and she had demonstrated superior skill as a fighter.

Kaleb put a hand on Zevi’s forearm. “I have no intention of letting Aya or anyone else stand between me and the future we deserve. I’ll take care of us, Z. I promise.”

CHAPTER 10

KALEB HAD WAITED UNTIL Zevi was asleep before leaving their home. He wasn’t ready to talk about Mallory. The options weren’t vast: either he chose to stand by the contract—accept the payment and kill Mallory when Haage determined it most advantageous—or he violated his contract and went to Marchosias. He wasn’t sure if admitting to finding the missing daughter would overcome the fact that he’d hidden that information. Marchosias could reward him as easily as condemn him. The dilemma was the one he’d been wrestling with more and more as he got to know Mallory.

He crept through The City, only upright due to willpower and the medicinal skills of his packmate, and went to the gate that he’d paid for not long after the competition began. Before this contract, he’d been to the human world periodically. Something about them fascinated him. As a child, he’d followed a mark over there, and when the situation got out of hand, he’d been taken into custody and placed with what they called a foster family. Years later, he’d honed the skills he’d learned in those weeks and felt relatively able to blend into the human world. That didn’t mean, however, that the twinge of sheer panic ever faded when he crossed through the gate.

A flicker of fear of being trapped again, away from his Zevi, assailed him as he stepped into the other world. If not for the desire to protect his packmate, he would bring Zevi here, but the younger cur already had trouble coping with The City. Kaleb wasn’t sure how he’d deal with a third set of rules, so unless it was essential, Kaleb’s trips would be solo excursions.

He took a moment to calm his nerves, and then he made his way to Mallory. He’d never been to her home with her knowledge; like any daimon on the run, she hid her den. Still, he knew where it was, had known before he’d ever spoken to her, and it was to that home that he now went. For the first time, he stood on her porch and knocked on a side door to her house. It was shadowed, unlike the front door, which would leave him exposed and standing with his back to the street.

Moments passed before she opened it. He could smell the sharp tang of metal, of gun, that he now associated with her. It wasn’t a scent that existed in The City; it was of the human world, the world Mallory thought of as hers. In The City, guns were forbidden. Death was to be an act of closeness. That was the law: “If you cannot touch the person you are ending, you can’t kill them.” Guns made death impersonal.

She opened the door only partway. At first, she simply stared at him, a pistol clutched in the hand she kept out of sight. “Kaleb?”