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He wore only pants now, having tossed his ring-fighting shorts, a sort of uniform for the fights here, into the laundry chute set into the wall of the shower room.

He was still in the fight pit, but it felt quiet down here now.

He’d been the headliner, so he’d been the last fight of the night.

Farlucci might be wandering around here somewhere, or locked up in his enormous office with a lot of alcohol and possibly one of his women, but the other trainers and fighters who worked for the promoter had already cleared out.

Nick suspected at least one, likely two, of the beefed-up, bodyguard types would be waiting for him in the staging room when he got back out there. They would insist on escorting him out to a Farlucci car, likely a limousine, which would drive him out of Brooklyn and over the bridge back to Manhattan and then, likely, all the way up to the River of Gold.

For the same reason, he answered the summons in his headset without thought, figuring it would be Wynter, wondering where he was. She had to have gotten back from work by now, and she usually checked in with him after a big fight.

And, funnily enough, thishadbeen a big fight.

Bigger than usual, anyway.

Nick hadn’t really thought about it when he got here, or even when he walked out into the ring, but he knew from the size of the crowd and the lack of other events in the enormous arena, that it had been one of his biggest fights to date.

Now he couldn’t even remember the name of the vampire he’d beaten.

Was that exhaustion? Depression?

He didn’t really want to know.

Whatever it was, it made him feel strangely listless, and uninterested in anything but getting back to his mate. Maybe that’s why he didn’t notice the red light pulsing in the corner of the screen.

“Tanaka,” he said absently, as he felt the connection open.

“I thought it was the White Wolf,” a familiar voice said dryly. “Or is it the Death Angel? Aren’t you reveling in your victory? It’s all that’s on the fucking feeds right now…”

Morley waited for Nick to answer.

When he didn’t, the old man chuckled wryly, “You always sound so damned depressed after a fight? You just kicked the crap out of some jacked-up bloodsucker with gold teeth. Where's the pride in workmanship?”

Nick fought a number of reactions.

Annoyance. Relief to hear the other’s voice.

Amusement.

More annoyance.

“Someone dead?” Nick asked Morley, just as dryly. “Already?”

“Indeed, yes,” the old man said, a touch primly. “Someone is dead. Thus me calling you in the middle of the night to come do yourotherjob. You know, the thankless one.” Another pause. “You coming? Or you going to make me hunt down some other Midnight?”

Nick lowered his foot into his first boot.

He hit a pressure-point on the side, and the organic laces shortened until the boot fit snugly around his foot, ankle, and calf.

He heard the faint warning in Morley’s voice.

He knew the old man was right.

He needed to take this.

The sooner he convinced the H.R.A. he was a law-enforcing, law-abiding Midnight, and a firmly-leashed killing machine that did whatever it was told, even when he really didn’t fucking want to, the better.

Wynter would have to wait.