Women of the Otherworld 10.5 - Counterfeit Magic by Kelley Armstrong Page B

couldn’t do what Ethan had done. But I’d have been tempted.
     
    I had to admit, though, that it was different with Tommy. Being state champ meant he did have the talent to go pro. He might not have become a star, but he could have made a living at it for a while. Was that what Ethan feared? A short-lived career? Retiring young, bitter and disillusioned, with nothing to fall back on? Had he set Tommy on a different path to spare him that fate? As someone in a similar position—raising a younger “sibling”—I could understand that urge to protect. I just wasn’t sure I agreed with it.
     
    Thinking of retired fighters reminded me of the scene I’d witnessed at the ring, Tommy talking to that former boxer. Had the man been trying to lure Tommy into a bigger arena? What had he said that had alarmed Tommy? Made him look over at Ethan and move the conversation to the office?
     
    “Okay, you’re thinking something,” Savannah said. “What’s the plan, boss?”
     
    “We need to speak to the Gallante brothers again. Separately this time.”
     
    * * * *
     
    Finding an address for the Gallantes was easy enough. Nichols said they’d lived in the same house all their lives. A simple property search gave us a location on the other side of Santa Cruz.
     
    While Savannah drove, I worked on theories. From Nichols, we’d confirmed that Jared hadn’t fought in the ring the night he died, which meant that when the Gallantes talked about another fighter’s death, they didn’t mean him. Which left us with a problem.
     
    I could see Tommy Gallante going after Jared and beating the crap out of him. I’d spent enough time around werewolves to understand that in some subcultures, violence was the language everyone understood. As even-tempered as Tommy seemed, he was a fighter.
     
    So Tommy beats up Jared, who accidentally dies. Then they have a fighter who also accidentally dies, another who accidentally almost dies and another who dies last night… again, accidentally.
     
    “Either these guys aren’t nearly as clean as they seem,” Savannah said. “Or I really hope all their insurance is paid up, because someone’s put one hell of a curse spell on them.”
     
    * * * *
     
    We found the house—a small, Southwestern-style ranch in an older neighborhood. The Mercedes was under a carport, but there was no sign of the truck.
     
    “Ethan’s in; Tommy’s out,” Savannah said. “Good enough?”
     
    I nodded.
     
    We parked a couple of doors down and were walking toward the house when the front door swung open. I cast a quick cover spell. Savannah did the same.
     
    It was Ethan grabbing the mail, shirt untucked and half-buttoned, feet bare. He stepped halfway out, and propped the door open with his back. Then he stayed there, flipping through the mail with his back to us. I broke my spell and motioned that we’d continue our approach.
     
    We were close enough to call a greeting when Ethan’s cell phone rang. He answered, still sorting mail. Then he stopped.
     
    “Who is this?” he said, voice loud and harsh enough to reach us.
     
    We vanished under fresh cover spells.
     
    “Either you give me your name or—” Pause. “Absolutely not. Anything you have to say to me, say it in the next thirty seconds or—” Pause. His shoulders went rigid, then he spat. “Fine,” and hung up.
     
    He tossed the mail inside and tucked in his shirt as he stepped in after it. The door didn’t even get a chance to close before he was striding out again, shoes and keys in hand. Seconds later, the Mercedes roared from the drive.
     
    “Follow?” Savannah said as she broke her spell.
     
    “Absolutely.”
     
    * * * *
     
    Ethan went straight to the club, fast enough that I was glad I’d let Savannah take the wheel. We parked where we had after last night’s match, then cut through the wooded field again. Ethan’s car was there, alongside an old Camaro, complete with an eagle on the hood and big-breasted women on