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entertaining, either personally or for business clients. Cuelebre Enterprises had taken over the arena’s new “supersuite” that had the capability of entertaining up to three hundred people, with comfortable lounge-style furniture, stylish decor, kitchens, full bars and fireplaces.
    For the duration of Dragos’s use, however, the supersuite was currently furnished as a mobile working office, with secure laptop systems that had been personally couriered over by his assistants, office desks and chairs and a lounge area by the windows. It was fully plugged in, with high-speed internet, phones, and fax, print and scan capability. After several months of hard work and negotiations, they were finally at the end stages of some critical business deals. The office would allow Dragos to maintain a presence at the Games without losing a full week of work he could ill afford to lose.
    One of his assistants, Kristoff, was already present and hard at work, talking on his phone while he typed on his keyboard. No matter how well dressed Kristoff was, he always appeared to be slightly shaggy and shambling. Kristoff was an ursine Wyr whose untidy, self-effacing demeanor disguised a sharp, quick wit and the kind of sturdy disposition needed to work around Dragos on a daily basis. Not only that, Kris was a Harvard-educated MBA who thrived on aggressive corporate maneuvering. Dragos paid him well for those traits.
    Nodding to Kris as he strode in, he went immediately to the window look out over the arena. The sand on the combat floor was pristine, all footsteps raked smooth.
    The door slammed open. Dragos looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. One of his sentinels exploded into the suite. The harpy Aryal’s furious gray gaze fixed on him and she stormed toward him. In her human form, she was a six-foot-tall, powerfully built woman with dark hair that was tangled more often than not, and she had a strange, gaunt beauty that had nothing to do with dieting. In the harpy’s Wyr form, both strangeness and beauty were accentuated.
    Naturally it would be Aryal who dared to storm and seethe around him that day. Chick was crazy, but no doubt that was axiomatic. All harpies were.
    Dragos turned back to the arena, which was mostly full and still filling. Fifteen minutes to showtime. He said, “What is it?”
    “I just saw the final list, and I cannot fucking believe my eyes.” Aryal stopped at his side and glared at him. “Quentin Caeravorn is PART WYR ?”
    “Yes.”
    “How can he be Wyr without any of us knowing it?”
    “His dampening spell was just that good, Aryal. And recruiters saw him change. If his Wyr side is strong enough for him to change, he’s eligible to enter the Games.”
    “He’s a goddamn criminal!” she snapped. “You know he is!’
    “I gave you six months to close down an investigation on him,” Dragos said, “and you’ve not been able to pin anything on him. His qualifications and references are impeccable. The law says he can compete.” Besides, he was extremely interested in what Caeravorn’s possible motives could be for competing. Those motives would surface eventually, if Caeravorn was given enough time. And rope.
    “Screw the law!” she shouted. “ You’re the law. You can disqualify him, for crying out loud—or won’t you do that because he’s Pia’s former boss and special friend ?”
    He pivoted to stare at her with a molten gaze and cold face. He growled, “I created that law, and I will abide by it. So will every other Wyr in my demesne. And so will you, or I will take you down myself right now, so hard you will need much more than a week to heal.”
    They stared at each other. Aryal’s fists were clenched, the muscles in her jaw leaping with furious tension. If Dragos put her out of commission, she wouldn’t be able to fight, which would disqualify her from the Games—and that meant she would not be considered as one of the final seven.
    Dragos waited a pulse beat. He said