own exit door, which, if our particular door was any indication, opened to the wide corridor. The
management was trying to minimize the chances of a stampede if things went sour.
The walls plunged lower than the ground level. Sunken underground, the bottom floor had no
balconies or seats. Bare concrete sloped gently to the center, where an oval arena of sand lay. A
heavy-duty chain link fence defined it, anchored by numerous steel posts. The Pit. Our balcony
protruded from the wall much farther than the rest, and if I took a running start, I could have
jumped to the fence.
The sand inside the fence drew my gaze. I looked away. «Special seats?»
«The best in the house. Despite our proximity to the Pit, we're quite safe.» Saiman pointed above
us. A metal portcullis waited above us, obscured by a velvet curtain. «I can drop it with a pull of the
lever. And then of course, there are additional precautions.» He pointed to the bottom floor.
To the left of us on the concrete sat an E-50, an enhanced heavy machine gun, mounted on a
swivel base and manned by two Red Guards. Guns weren't my thing, but I knew this one: it was the
Military Supernatural Defense Unit's weapon of choice when facing a loose vampire.
The E-50 fired .50-caliber ammo at more than three thousand feet per second. At two thousand
feet, a round from this gun was deadly. At a hundred yards, it would rip through solid steel like
tissue paper. At a maximum rate of fire, an E-50 spat out half a thousand bullets a minute. Of
course, at a maximum rate of fire, it also melted the barrel after a few thousand rounds, but if you
didn't take down a vampire within the first few seconds, you were dead anyway.
An identical gun waited across from us at the far right. Whatever was caught between them
would be dead instantly. Unfortunately, even the best gun was only as strong as the guys manning
it. If I wanted to cause trouble, I'd take the gunners out.
Just in case the tech failed, two additional teams of Guardsmen bided their time in the opposite
corners: one with an arrow thrower and the other with an assortment of weapons.
«I see you don't want a repeat of the Andorf accident.»
If Saiman was surprised at my knowledge of Games-related trivia, he didn't show it.
«We don't. But I assure you, we still get plenty of shapeshifter participation.»
«How? Didn't the Beast Lord veto it?»
«We import shapeshifters from outside the Pack's boundaries. They fight and we pull them out
before the requisite three days are up.»
All visiting shapeshifters had three days to approach the Pack for permission to stay within its
territory, or it would approach them and they wouldn't like it. «Sounds expensive.»
Saiman smiled. «It's well worth it. The price of tickets alone covers most fighter-related
expenses. The real money comes from betting. On a good fight the House takes in anywhere from
half to three quarters of a million. The highest intake on a championship fight was over two
million.»
With hazard pay, I made just above thirty grand a year.
I stared at the sand of the Pit. In my head, the building vanished. The fence, the concrete, the
guns, Saiman, all dissolved into the blazing sun, blindingly bright and merciless. I heard the noise
of the crowd in the wooden stands, the quick staccato of Spanish, the high-pitched laughter of
women, and the hoarse cries of the bookies calling out numbers. I felt my father's presence behind
me, calm and steady. The reassuring weight of the sword tugged on my hand. I smelled my skin,
scorched by the sun, and blood fumes rising from the sand.
«Shall we sit down?» Saiman's voice intruded upon my reverie. Just as well.
We took our seats. Huge rust curtains slid aside on the far left and right of the chamber,
revealing two entrances: the one on the right painted garish gold and its twin on the left in a cheery
shade of solid black.
Saiman leaned to me. «The fighters enter through the Gold Gate. Corpses leave through the
Midnight one. If you 'walk out gold,' you've won the match.»
A long, deep bellow of a huge gong tolled through the Arena, calling the spectators to silence. A
slim woman in a silver dress stepped out of the Gold Gate.
«Welcome! Welcome to the house of combat where death and life dance on the edge of the
blade.» Her voice was deep for a female and it carried through the Arena. «Let the Games begin!»
«Sophia,» Saiman said. «The producer.»
The woman disappeared back into the Gold Gate.
A huge scoreboard suspended on chains slid down from the ceiling and stopped just above the
Midnight Gate. Two names written on white paper in beautiful calligraphy sat in twin wooden
frames: RODRIGUEZ VS. CALLISTO. The odds beneath it said –175+200. Rodriguez was a slight