Chapter 11: The Wolf's Den
The parking lot behind the bar on Foster Road held thirty cars and a man with a clipboard.
Cole handed over five hundred dollars in cash—the cover charge had been relayed through a contact he'd cultivated over the past week, a bartender who knew people who knew people. The man with the clipboard counted the bills, checked Cole's face against some mental list of regular troublemakers, and jerked his head toward a white van idling near the fence.
"Leave your phone in your car. No electronics inside."
Cole had anticipated this. The phone stayed behind. So did anything that might identify him. He wore jeans, a plain jacket, and the cold expression of a man who paid good money to watch violence.
The van held six other passengers—men in expensive clothes trying to look casual, radiating the particular energy of people accustomed to buying whatever they wanted. No one spoke. The driver blindfolded them all before pulling out of the lot.
Twenty minutes of turns and stops. Cole counted—tried to maintain a mental map—but the route was deliberately confusing. They could be anywhere in East Portland by the time the van stopped and the engine died.
"Out. Keep the blindfolds on until you're inside."
Hands guided him across gravel, through a door that clanged shut behind them, down a corridor that smelled like machine oil and something else. Something organic.
Blood.
The blindfold came off.
Cole stood in a converted warehouse—easily ten thousand square feet, the ceiling lost in shadows, the floor covered in packed dirt that showed dark stains no amount of raking could hide. At the center was a pit, maybe thirty feet across and six feet deep, surrounded by bleachers that rose in crude tiers toward the walls.
Fifty people were already seated. More were filtering in through other entrances. The crowd was mixed—suits and leather jackets, trust fund kids and career criminals, all united by their willingness to pay for entertainment that would horrify decent people.
[DETECTION MATRIX: ACTIVE. WESEN PRESENT: 7 CONFIRMED, 3 PROBABLE. SPECIES IDENTIFIED: BLUTBAD (2), HUNDJÄGER (1), SCHAKAL (2), OTHERS UNCONFIRMED.]
Cole filed the information and found a seat near the middle of the bleachers—good sightlines, easy access to exits, nothing that would mark him as memorable. A woman in a cocktail dress took drink orders. He asked for whiskey, tipped generously, and settled in to watch.
The first fight was dogs.
Two pit bulls, scarred and muscular, thrown into the pit with handlers shouting commands. They went for each other immediately—not natural aggression but trained brutality, conditioned responses to violence. The crowd cheered as one locked jaws around the other's throat. Blood sprayed. The losing animal went limp.
Cole's stomach turned, but his face remained neutral. The Skalenzahne's emotional dampening helped. He filed the feeling away for later processing and focused on the environment.
Security stations: four visible. Cameras: six. Emergency exits: three, all guarded. VIP entrance: northeast corner, heavy door, two guards.
The second fight was worse.
Two figures were dragged into the pit—humanoid, dressed in torn clothing, collars around their necks that hummed with electrical current. They were both woged: one appeared canine, the other something more serpentine. Both were terrified.
"Ladies and gentlemen," a voice boomed over speakers, "tonight's main event: species versus species! The Fuchs against the Skalengeck! Only one walks out!"
Fuchs. That's a fox Wesen. And Skalengeck—reptilian, smaller than a Skalenzahne.
The crowd roared approval. Cole watched as the two prisoners circled each other, neither wanting to attack, both knowing that the shock collars would activate if they didn't. The first blow came from the Skalengeck—a desperate lunge that opened a gash in the Fuchs's arm. After that, survival instinct took over.
The fight lasted eight minutes. The Fuchs won, though "won" seemed like the wrong word for someone collapsed in their own blood, weeping, while attendants dragged the Skalengeck's body away.
Cole memorized the Fuchs's face. If he survived this operation, Cole would find a way to help him.
You can't save everyone.
He knew that. He'd known it since waking up in that alley seven days ago—had really known it since long before, since his first year as a defense attorney representing clients he knew were guilty. The world was full of suffering that no one person could prevent.
But knowing didn't make watching easier.
The third fight brought Marcus Volk himself.
He entered through the VIP door, flanked by four bodyguards who moved with the practiced efficiency of professionals. Volk was large—six-four, two-fifty, with scars on his face that spoke of violence survived and inflicted. He wore a tailored suit that probably cost more than Cole's monthly rent.
He woged for the crowd.
Full Blutbad transformation: snout extending, ears elongating, fur rippling across visible skin. The crowd gasped—even the ones who knew what they were seeing. A Blutbad in full woge was impressive and terrifying, ancient fears made flesh.
Volk held the transformation for five seconds, then reverted with a smile that showed too many teeth.
"Welcome, friends, to the finest entertainment in Portland," he said. "Tonight's fights are just the beginning. Next week, we have something special planned—a Grimm's weapon, authenticated, up for auction. And to demonstrate its effectiveness, we'll be testing it on one of our... contestants."
The crowd murmured with interest. Cole kept his expression neutral.
A Grimm weapon. Where did he get that?
Volk retreated through the VIP door. The bodyguards followed. Cole noted everything: the timing, the positioning, the way the guards moved as a unit. Professional security, probably ex-military or ex-law enforcement.
This isn't going to be easy.
He stayed for two more fights—both animals, neither as horrifying as the Wesen bout—before making his excuses to the cocktail waitress and finding his way to the exit. The same van returned him to the parking lot. The same blindfold process in reverse.
He drove home in silence.
The shower ran for an hour.
Cole stood under water hot enough to redden skin, trying to wash away images that wouldn't fade. The Fuchs's face when they finally stopped screaming. The Skalengeck's body being dragged through dirt. The cheering crowd, hungry for blood that wasn't theirs.
This is what evil looks like. Not a monster in an abandoned building—that was simple. This is a system. An economy of suffering.
The system pulsed agreement.
[TARGET ASSESSMENT UPDATED: MARCUS VOLK OPERATES EXTENSIVE CRIMINAL NETWORK. ELIMINATING VOLK ALONE MAY NOT END OPERATIONS. RECOMMEND COMPREHENSIVE APPROACH.]
Comprehensive. Right.
He couldn't just kill Volk and walk away. The infrastructure would survive—someone else would take over, probably someone worse. The slaves would still be slaves. The fights would continue.
Cole needed to burn the whole thing down.
Figuratively this time. Probably.
He turned off the shower and stared at his reflection in the fogged mirror. The emotional dampening had helped him survive the evening, but it wasn't complete. He could still feel the horror, the rage, the desperate urge to act immediately regardless of consequences.
That's the human part. Don't lose it.
He dried off and opened his laptop. The next event was in one week. Seven days to plan an operation that would eliminate Volk, free the slaves, and destroy the organization's ability to continue.
Seven days to become something more dangerous than he'd ever been.
Cole started making notes.
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