These Cages We Build for Ourselves

Chapter 9

Tuesday rolls around, and when Nash arrives for work at the club, he's already itching to get back home and dive into Mythic Frontiers with Aster until the early hours of the morning. He knows Aster would probably block him for good if he realised how invested Nash is. It's probably not healthy to be this fixated on someone who barely talks to him, but it doesn't feel wrong.

Tarsha, a vampire who's way more dangerous than her small frame lets on, is handling the door tonight. That frees Nash to roam around, keeping an eye on things. He prefers it this way, especially on chill nights like this one.

They turn a blind eye to a lot of stuff that's not strictly legal. A werewolf—or a vampire like Tarsha—could easily sniff out drugs, but they only step in if someone's drink is getting spiked. Same goes for prostitution; they don't interfere unless there's a consent issue.

By now, Nash knows all the regulars who sell their services. His sharp hearing means he picks up more than most, but honestly, it wouldn't be hard to figure out even without werewolf senses. Take Daisy, for instance. A woman that hot wouldn't be all over a guy with no money, charm, or looks unless she was getting paid. The dude she's attached herself to tonight's not hideous or anything, but his hair's a greasy mess and he's rocking cargo shorts and a baggy graphic tee. Despite all this, he somehow manages to look less interested in her than she is in him even as he leads her out of the club.

As Nash passes the bar, Aura slides him a shot glass filled with amber liquid. She rests her chin on her fist, watching as he downs it. Nash feels the whiskey burn his throat, considers the flavour, then grimaces. "Too sweet."

Aura clicks her tongue, grabbing the empty glass. "Fuck, I was worried about that. Walk it off and I'll take another crack at it."

Nash nods and continues his rounds. He's allowed to drink on the job—within reason—since his metabolism's so fast he'd have to really try to get drunk. Aura, a fairy barely over four feet tall who needs a stepstool to see over the bar, doesn't have that luxury.

Passing the bathrooms, Nash keeps an ear out for trouble. He hears rapid breathing and a groan from the men's room, but after listening closer, he concludes it's consensual and moves on.

As he approaches the back exit, something thumps loudly against the door leading to the dumpsters. Nash freezes, listening. He barely catches a sharp, fearful exhale from the other side. He bolts for the door.

The moment he opens it, a body that was pressed against it falls backward. Nash barely catches Daisy under her arm before she hits the ground. That split-second distraction costs him—a blade slashes at him, cutting through his shirt from chest to shoulder.

Nash drops Daisy harder than he'd like, but manages to grab his attacker's wrist before he can strike again. Shit—it's the guy she left with just a few minutes ago. He should've known something was off about him.

As Nash wrenches the man's wrist to make him drop the knife, he feels the urge to shift ripple under his skin. Too late for that now. Fights don't exactly pause while you strip down and change forms.

This shouldn't be a tough fight anyway. The guy seems completely ordinary. He smells human, dresses plainly, and there's nothing memorable about him at all. When he backs further into the alley, Nash follows.

Nash is already planning how to restrain the guy as they circle each other. As much as he deserves a beating, Nash knows it's smarter to avoid unnecessary damage. Especially since Daisy, his only witness, will be long gone before any cops show up.

The guy makes a break for the club door as soon as Nash isn't blocking it. Nash isn't worried; the hallway's empty, and he'll have the guy pinned before he clears it. Nash lunges, fingers just brushing the back of the guy's shirt. But as the guy crosses the threshold, he vanishes in a crackle of electricity.