Killian released me. “Thank you for hosting this fine event, Crowe,” Killian said, and offered his hand. “Looks like you all have done a great job.”
Crowe stepped to my side. His fingers clamped over my shoulder, making me jump. Staring coldly at Killian, he raised his other hand and curled it into a fist while muttering under his breath.
Smoky-sweet skeins of venemon magic wended through the room, and everyone slumped in their chairs, their eyes closed. The only people still standing were Killian, Crowe, Hardy, and me. Even my father had succumbed to the spell.
Venemon magic could manipulate the human body, but I’d never seen anyone put an entire room to sleep. If Crowe had wanted to, he could have done it to me, too. I wasn’t sure why he hadn’t. And looking back and forth between the presidents of these two rival motorcycle clubs, I sort of wished he had. The tension was almost painful, and the sight and smell of their magic turned my stomach into knots.
“You think you can put me on the spot in public?” Crowe’s lip curled. “Think again.”
Killian clasped his hands behind his back. “I do believe this is entirely against the rules. Even if it is an impressive display of power.”
“So is mind-fucking one of my Devils,” Crowe said, jerking his head toward Hardy. “Would you like me to let him show you his magic?”
“He means no harm, Crowe,” Hardy said, but as he did, Killian’s magic shrank away from him. Hardy blinked. “But I could tear off his head and use it as a basketball if you want.”
“Touch him again with your power and I’ll let him,” Crowe said to Killian.
Killian gave Crowe a small, cold smile. “I was trying to be sociable. Just ask Jemmie.”
“Leave me out of this,” I grumbled.
“Oh,” said Killian, eyeing Crowe’s hand on my shoulder, “I think it’s too late for that.”
Crowe let go of me. He took a step forward, putting half his body in front of mine like a shield. “What the fuck do you want?”
“I was just inviting Jemmie to have a conversation with her father and me. In fact, you should all join us.” His eyes scanned the room. “My omnias seer, Ilya Vetrov, warned me that something was afoot. She didn’t say what, but she did say it would transpire at the festival.”
Crowe and Hardy exchanged looks over my head. “So you thought you’d come in here and stir shit up?” Hardy asked. “Make the prediction come true?”
Killian watched Crowe. “Should I be worried? The Deathstalkers are here for a peaceful gathering, just like almost everyone else. We have absolutely no desire to go to war with the Devils or any of the clubs—we came with the best of intentions, hoping to continue to mend fences and forge new alliances.” He gestured at the tentful of sleeping people. “But now I’m wondering if you lured us here to finish what the Devils started seven years ago when your father’s club nearly wiped us out of existence.”
Crowe’s gaze could have cut diamonds. “Don’t play the innocent with me. We both know what you did to my father last year.”
“My condolences on the loss of your father,” Killian said. “But I had nothing to do with it, as I explained to Agent Carmichael when he interviewed me last year.”
My eyebrows shot up. “What?”
“Your father was assigned to investigate the allegations that Michael Medici’s death was foul play,” Killian explained. “He closed it for lack of evidence. Didn’t he tell you?”
I looked over at Dad, who was slumped over a table, snoring softly. “No,” I murmured. Because he never told me anything. Then again, we rarely spoke at all.
“Or maybe you screwed with his head a little,” Crowe snarled. “That’s what you love to do, isn’t it?”
“If you’re trying to provoke a fight, it’s not going to work,” Killian said. “The Deathstalkers are straight, and we’re not here to seek revenge. It took us years to rebuild, and I’m not going to endanger my people.”
“You’re so full of shit,” Crowe muttered. “And if any of you put even a toe out of line over the next three days, you will answer to the Devils.”
“I’ll do what’s necessary to protect my club.” Killian’s voice was harder now, and he looked bigger, more dangerous. “If you’re planning something, we’ll be ready.”
The air was charged, like lightning might strike at any moment. My nose burned with barely restrained magic, including the minty sting of my own. I put a hand on my stomach as Crowe leaned forward and Killian stood up straighter, both prepared to meet the other’s power with wrath. “Please,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure what I was actually asking for.
The tent flaps opened again, and Darek walked in. The sight of him standing next to Crowe made me feel like I was walking a tightrope across the Grand Canyon.
“Whoa,” he said, looking around the room. “Did someone spike the punch?”
“Who the hell are you?” asked Crowe.
“That’s Derwood,” said Hardy at the same time Killian said, “Darek.”
“Derwood?” Darek asked. “Ouch.”
“Darek,” Killian continued without taking his eyes off Crowe, “go tell Ford, Ren, and Quincy that we’re meeting an hour earlier, and I’m sure you’ll find Brenda, Dallas, and Armand right outside.”
“Yeah,” said Darek, giving Crowe a nervous look. “Out cold.”
Killian’s lips pursed in apparent annoyance. “Get them back to our tent as well, as soon as Mr. Medici here sees fit to rouse them.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Darek said, his eyes meeting mine for a brief moment before flicking away.
It didn’t escape Crowe’s attention, though. His eyes narrowed as he watched Darek slip back through the tent flaps.
“Remember that the Syndicate is watching you, hmm?” said Killian. “What would they think of what you’re doing right now? Wake the babes, Crowe, and let them drink. It seems we have nothing more to say to each other.”
Crowe scowled, stuck his hand through the tent flaps, presumably to wake the Deathstalkers he’d sedated outside, then turned to the room and broke the spell with a simple flick of his fingers. People’s heads snapped up, shaking off the effects of the magic. Murmurs swept through the tent as everyone tried to figure out what had happened.
Crowe leaned in to Hardy. “Spread a rumor. I don’t care what it is. Just make the suspicion go away so people stop asking questions.” To me he said, “You’re coming with me.”
He grabbed my hand and yanked me out of the tent, shoving past Killian and into the cool night air. Three members of the Devils’ League stood at the tent entrance, watching Darek and the other Deathstalkers march up the path toward their tent in the northern section of the field.
“Jackson, come. The rest of you, stay,” was all Crowe said to his men, and they obeyed.
In the amount of time I’d been inside the beer tent, the festival numbers had swelled. Magic hovered in the air like a dust cloud, sparking and glittering. My head swam and my nose itched. Alcohol buzzed in my veins, dulling the intensity but also making it hard to discern one type of power from another.
Maybe it was the added heat of the night, or the escalating tension, but right now I felt like I was about to explode with too much stimulation. Or maybe it was Crowe’s hand in mine, turning my insides out. Venemon blood had the ability to amplify a kindled person’s own magic, but did skin-to-skin contact have the same effect?
Crowe dragged me to the parking area, away from the gathering. We wove through the parked cars, to the back of the field, where a second driveway was hidden in the trees. Crowe’s car sat parked beneath an oak tree, facing the exit, prepared for a quick escape should he need one.
He dug the keys from his pants pocket and tossed them at Jackson, who caught them. “Drive Jemmie home.”
“What?” I wrenched my hand out of his grip as Jackson unlocked the car and slid into the driver’s seat. Probably knowing we didn’t want to be overheard, he shut himself inside.
“You’re in no condition to drive, but it’s time for you to go home,” Crowe said as soon as the car door closed. “I’ll make sure Owen knows you’re safe.”