“You’ve got to let this go, Garreth,” Munro said, taking a deep drink. They swilled it straight from the bottle, each one with his own, the Lykae version of Gatorade. The only bad thing about playing with demons-one of the few species in the Lore that could contend with the Lykae in a physical contest-was their continual “brew breaks.” Only seemed fair that Garreth and his kinsmen shoot copious amounts of whiskey to mitigate their advantage. The demons took the opportunity to take a timeout and drink demon brew. While Uilleam and Munro stayed with him, the other Lykae on the team made their way to the sidelines to mingle with the “cheerleaders.” Garreth spat blood in Caliban’s direction before letting the two lead him away to cool off. As other demons steered Caliban away from the scuffle, Munro said, “Save it for the game, friend.”
He launched himself at Caliban, but Munro and Uilleam heaved him back. Of all the sore subjects to bring up, Garreth’s kingship was the one most infuriating. “Nothing new-you Lykae go through kings like I piss demon brew.”
“You’re raring to fight for an heirless king,” Caliban, the Ferines’ leader, sneered. The demons responded to the goal with trash talk and shoving. The beasts inside them loved to fight, to play. His brothers-in-arms were strong and ruthless contenders, as was he. The swift Ferines surrounded him, so he tossed the ball to Uilleam, Munro’s twin, who took it in to score. The exertion and the aggression were both so welcome, he wanted to beat his bare chest. He feinted left, then sprinted right around two colossal Ferine demons, shoving his hand in their faces, stiff-arming them.Īs he ran, with his heart pounding in his ears, he could forget. The leather was coated in grit, mixing with the filth covering Garreth’s bared chest. Munro flipped him off but did finally sling him the ball. Rain pounded in strengthening intervals, turning this abandoned grassy airstrip in bayou country into a mire of muck and turf. Garreth was barefooted, wearing only jeans and no shirt. Tonight was their yearly skins-versus-demons rugby match-a tradition for Garreth and his clan, meant to take his mind from the anniversary this day marked. “Munro, you daft git, pass the ball!” Garreth MacRieve yelled at his kinsman over the thunder and howling winds.
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