A small smile twitches at the edges of Dylan’s mouth. “You didn’t tell her?”
“No. Not yet.”
He laughs and the sound echoes off the marble floors. “Good luck, brother.”
I leave him to his humor without another word because I know he’s right. When Morgan finds out where I’m taking her she just may kill me.
Chapter Six
Morgan
Clinton’s preferred vehicle is a massive black pickup truck that sticks out on the streets of New York like a sore thumb. It’s top of the line, with every bell and whistle offered in a custom package. The truck is a beast—just like him.
I press the buttons on the dash, adjusting the warmth of my seat. Who knew there were seat coolers? Not me.
“Were does all this money come from?” I ask. “You know, for the cars and weird spell ingredients and everything else.”
“It comes with the house.” His eyes remain on the road. They better. These narrow streets were not made for a monster like this one.
“And who pays for the house?” The question brings out a tic in his jaw and when he doesn’t answer I stop pressing. For now.
I look out onto the street and I recognize a bodega and then an electronics store. So much of the city looks the same to me but when I see a kid with baggy pants and a gold tooth hanging on the corner I say, “I’ve been here before. Today. Are we going back to the Magic Shop?”
“No, but we are nearby.” He drives past the stairway that leads to Tran’s shop and turns a corner. There he directs the car into an underground garage and parks. Opening his door, he nods at the floor and says, “Get that bag.”
I’m already dressed for a workout. Athletic tights. Hoodie with a workout tank underneath. My hair is pulled back into a ponytail and I have trainers on my feet. I grab the bag off the floor and sling it around my shoulder.
On the way out of the garage Clinton finally explains. “You’ve made a lot of progress in our sparring sessions, but if the Darkness crosses what you’ll encounter will be a totally different situation. You’ll not only fight physically but mentally and against magical forces. A simple punch won’t kill anyone.”
“Kill?” I ask following him across the street.
“This isn’t about getting the upper hand. It’s about stopping the apocalypse. The Darkness will not stop—not this time. It’s hungry.”
On the sidewalk, I stop Clinton with my hand. He turns and looks down at me. “Aren’t you afraid you’re just teaching the Morrigan how to be a better fighter?”
He shakes his head. “The Morrigan already knows how to fight, sweetheart. She’s the Goddess of War. This is about me teaching you how to fight back. If you’re serious about separating away from her you’ll need to be strong and ready.”
“But who am I supposed to kill?”
“You’ll know when the time comes.”
I hate him for being vague but I know he doesn’t care. This whole thing is crazy. Apocalypse. Goddess of War. Sometimes I’m sure I’ve lost my mind. That this is just another fantasy I’ve slipped into like my books and writing.
But the smell of the asphalt is too strong and the smarmy skin of the guy at the door is a little too memorable. And when we step into the gym there’s no need to pinch myself. My imagination isn’t this creative.
There’s a crowd packed around the square ring in the middle—much like a boxing ring, with ropes bordering the edges. Seats are on an incline for better viewing and the stench of alcohol is strong. Curiosity licks at my brain and a strange energy pulses behind it.
“Clinton—what is this?”
“The fights.”
“And we’re here to watch?”
A thin line appears on his forehead. “No, you’re here to fight.”
I spin on my heel. No freaking way. I’ve barely made it three feet toward the door when I feel a huge hand wrap around my upper arm. Clinton has stopped me in my tracks. “You can’t make me go out there.”
“No, but it’s what you need to do. Take it to the next level.”