“Aww, come on. It’ll be fun,” Calder tells me with a huge grin. “There’s a bunch of new inmates recently—I know we can hustle some of them into arm wrestling.”

“Umm…” I look from her gigantic biceps to my very-much-not-gigantic one and suggest, “Maybe I should sit that game out.”

“Well, obviously, Curls.” She rolls her eyes in a friendly way. “I was talking to the vamp.”

“My mistake,” I say with a laugh as I duck out from under Hudson’s arm. “By all means, hustle away.”

“I intend to,” she says with a waggle of her brows. Just before she slaps Hudson right on the ass. “Move it or lose it, partner.”

And then she dives down the steps.

“Did she…” Hudson looks at me with bemused eyes.

“She did,” I tell him. “I think it was a teammate thing. You know, like how football players smack each other on the ass right before they go into battle.”

“I know. But I think that’s the first time anyone has smacked my bum since I was…” He pauses to think about it, then shakes his head. “No, that’s the first time anyone has ever smacked my bum.”

He doesn’t sound upset so much as contemplative.

“Look at you,” Flint teases as he follows Calder down. “All kinds of new experiences in prison.”

“If it makes you feel better, I can slap the other cheek,” Remy deadpans. “Even you out.”

Hudson rolls his eyes. “I think I’m good. Thanks, though.”

Remy shrugs philosophically. “Your loss, teammate.” And then he, too, disappears down the stairs.

I start after him, but Hudson grabs my hand and pulls me back into his arms.

“Oh yeah?” I ask with a flirty grin as I wrap my arms around his waist. “You want me to slap you on the ass instead of Remy?”

He pretends to think about it, then grins and says, “Anytime.” Right before he lowers his mouth to mine.

It’s a sweet kiss, a quick kiss, and still it has me going all soft and melty inside. Maybe that’s why I slide my hand a little lower and slap the other ass cheek, just like Remy suggested.

Hudson laughs—like, full-on cracks up—and I know I did it because nothing in the world makes me happier than seeing Hudson laugh.

“Let’s go,” I tell him as I head for the stairs. “Last one down has to arm wrestle Calder.”

The fact that he doesn’t even try to beat me to the bottom shows what a gentleman Hudson truly is.

121

It’s Only a Food Fight

if the Food Fights Back

It appears the Hex comes by its name legitimately.

Partly because it’s a huge room, at least two football fields wide, with six sides, and partly because everyone in it is trying to pull some kind of magic to screw everyone else over—without any actual magic, of course, thanks to the bracelets.

The room itself is lit up as brightly as Times Square on a Saturday night. But that’s where the light ends, because everything about this place is dark.

Dark and deadly and devastating—that’s basically how I’d sum it up, and not only because I’m a whore for alliteration.

Guards are stationed every ten feet along the stained and scarred walls—and can I just say that in daylight, the really creepy moose-like things with translucent skin are a thousand times scarier than at night. And I didn’t think that was possible.

“What are those things?” I whisper to Hudson as we pass by the biggest one in the room. He guards the main entrance to the place, and though he’s dressed in a relatively plain olive-green uniform, I can still see the veins and muscles and, in some cases, bone directly under his skin. Add in the really scary teeth and the even scarier claws and I can see why he doesn’t need a weapon. He is the weapon.

“Windigos,” Hudson replies quietly. “You don’t want to mess with them.”

“Yeah, no shit,” I say.

“Seriously. They’re vicious and they eat humans, so don’t get on their radar.”

“They’re not so bad,” Remy says. “I mean, don’t piss them off, but as long as you’re cool, I can almost guarantee they won’t eat you.”

“You know, that ‘almost guarantee’ thing of yours is super effective in calming nerves,” Flint tells him as he side-eyes another guard.

“That’s Bertha,” Remy says. “She definitely won’t hurt you…unless you mess with me.”

“So what you’re saying is that I shouldn’t slap you on the ass, then?” Hudson deadpans.

“That would depend,” Remy says after he stops laughing, “on whether or not you want to have a hand left when you’re done. She’s particularly fond of barbecued finger bones.”

“Everyone’s got a favorite,” Flint agrees, and I can tell he’s forcing it, but I appreciate the effort. “Mine’s chocolate cake, but who am I to judge? I mean, barbecue’s good, too.”

“You really are ridiculous,” I tell him. “You know that, right?”

“How could I not when you keep telling me?” he answers with a wink.

“So what do we do now?” Hudson asks.

“Now we find some people to relieve of their funds,” Calder tells him as she nods toward a group of misfit paranormals sitting together at a couple of tables in the center of the room. Unlike most of the other groups in the cavernous Hex, this one doesn’t seem to be made up predominantly of one kind of paranormal. Instead, there is a mix of species—fairies, dragons, witches, vampires, and a bunch of others I can’t identify in their human forms.

“You’re really going to arm wrestle?” Remy asks, shooting her an amused look as we pass a group of what I’m pretty sure are warlocks, covered from head to toe in runic and other ancient magical tattoos.

Drawn on the ground in front of them is a black pentagram, and inside it they’re rolling dice. I look closer, expecting to see magical symbols on the dice, but instead they’re just the regular, six-sided dice with dots on them that most of the world plays with.

“What’s going on over there?” I ask as a paranormal type I don’t recognize rolls inside the pentagram. She comes up with a one and a two. The warlock running the game laughs and holds out a hand. She rolls her eyes, but she slaps a gold coin into his palm before reaching for the dice again.

“Can’t load magic dice.” Calder sneers. “So unless the person playing demands otherwise, those necrolytes use regular dice and get the gullible and the unsuspecting.”

“Do a lot of people demand otherwise?” I ask.

“Are you kidding? It’s the Hex. No one trusts anyone,” she answers. “Even the good guys.”

“Are there any good guys down here?” I ask while eyeing a bunch of different paranormals I am in no way equipped to identify yet.

“We’re here, aren’t we?” Remy asks.

“And yet Calder is planning on using Hudson to sucker in new bets,” I remind him.

“That doesn’t make me evil,” Calder says with assurance.

“What does it make you, then?” I ask.

“Hey, I simply play on vanity. Those guys cheat—it’s not the same thing,” she tells him, even as she stares at Hudson and says, “Look more pathetic.”

“Excuse me?” He lifts a brow.

“Channel some of that just got out of the Chamber shit you had going on earlier. No one’s gonna believe you can’t kick their ass when you walk around looking like that.” She bats her eyes at him. “Honestly, right now you look almost as good as I do.”

“So why would they believe you can’t kick their ass?” Hudson asks, and though his face is serious, I can tell he’s completely amused.

“Because.” She makes an obviously face at him even as she holds her arms out wide. “Feminine wiles, baby. Feminine wiles.”

“Grace has feminine wiles, too,” Flint says as he nudges me with his shoulder.

“Yeah, but that’s all she has.” She makes a pfft noise. “What’s she going to do? Strangle them with her curls?”

“I didn’t realize I needed to strangle anyone,” I answer mildly.

“Exactly!” she says triumphantly, which leaves me wondering how and why she plans to strangle her arm-wrestling victims. And why she thinks doing so would help her collect her winnings.

It also makes me determined to prove my worth somehow—even if it isn’t in the arm-wrestling arena. If I had my gargoyle, I’d be able to do a lot of things. Without her, I’m merely regular old Grace. But these people are without their powers, too, which means at least I’ve got a shot.

We pass another group of paranormals—fairies, I think, judging by the small wings and multicolored hair. They’re running a shell game with a gold coin, and I watch with interest as they take their mark for way more than what that gold coin he’s chasing is worth.

In the corner is a group of wolves running a blackjack game, and though I don’t wait around to see what they’re doing—or how they’re doing it—it’s obvious they tried something, if the pissed-off player is any indication. In fact, he’s pissed enough that I hurry my group along before—