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“No thanks.”

He took another hoot. “All right, what’s this favor you mentioned?” he asked, smoke jetting out of his nostrils. “What d’you need?”

“I need you to ask around about any Hobs that have recently been sold through black market avenues,” Darien said.

Casen’s brow furrowed. “Hobs? Why?” He thumped his chair forward and tapped the end of the joint against the edge of an ashtray. “You missing one?”

“Our house was broken into a little while ago, and my Hob was stolen. I’d like to get him back, but to be honest I don’t know where to begin.”

“What’s he look like?” He twisted to grab a notepad and a pen from the pile of junk scattered across the top of a filing cabinet. “Any identifying features?”

Darien exhaled through his nose. “He’s small—only about a foot tall. His eyes are red. He’s got webbed feet, and the bottoms are red.”

“Webbed?” the Butcher echoed, forehead pinching as he slapped the notepad onto the desk and clicked the pen. “Like a duck?” The pen scratched the page as the Butcher jotted everything down.

“Yeah, sure, like a duck. And he loves ice.” His throat tightened, but he cleared it and managed to squeeze out, “Name’s Mortifer.”

The Butcher’s eyes sliced up to meet his, smoke from the joint curling toward the ceiling. “I’ll ask around, but I haven’t heard anything about any Hobs, least not these last few weeks. Usually, when one’s sold through my avenues, I’m the first to know about it.”

Darien tried not to frown. “All right,” he said with a sigh. “Thanks.”

The Butcher was studying his expression. “You look like you could go for a match.”

Darien didn’t deny it. He was already wearing his fighting clothes, his duffel bag dumped at his feet.

Casen glanced over his shoulder, at the clock that hung on the wall among a collection of crude neon signs. “Next one starts in fifteen, if you’re up for a little bloodshed,” he said.

“Always.” He took his feet off the desk, grabbed his duffel, and stood, slinging the strap over his shoulder. “Any rules I should know about?”

Casen smiled, placed the joint in the ashtray, and got to his feet. “Nah. Just entertain me.”

That was exactlywhat Darien did—and he enjoyed the shit out of it. Too many nights had passed since he’d last had the pleasure of ripping someone apart, and he refused to waste one second of this pure fuckingbliss.

He set himself loose upon the other fighters in the caged ring. He was an animal—slashing throats, breaking bones, bashing heads against the chain-link.

Four opponents remained. The crowd was losing their minds.

The air whistled as a spiked bat swung for his head.

He ducked and spun, delivering a roundhouse kick to the side of the guy’s head. As he went down, Darien took the bat out of his hands?—

And whacked it against the man’s head so hard the bat broke in half. Wood splintered, red pulp misting the air. The crowd screamed louder?—

An attack came from behind him.

He spun, punching his fingers through the vampire’s throat—then ripped that throat clean out.

He grabbed another man by the head and twisted.Crunch,went his neck.

One fighter remained. He was cowering in the corner of the ring, gripping a crowbar with white-knuckled hands. On shaking legs, he stepped forward and swung?—

Darien snatched the crowbar out of his grip and whipped it aside.

The man backed away. “P-please.”

He hated when they begged. They were the ones who willingly walked into this ring, for fuck’s sake. If you couldn’t fight, stay in the audience.

“Hit me,” Darien said. He prowled forward, boots thumping as he backed the man into the corner. “If you can hit me,” he continued, heart pumping with adrenaline, “I’ll let you live.” It was an empty promise—this match would crown only one person the victor. And that victor would be him.