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Because the animal is suffering so much pain, he turns savage, Regina thought.
"He takes pain and uses it like rocket fuel," Tal said, unwittingly confirming her thought. "But they'll make money on him tonight, because he's agreed to something he hasn't done before. Three consecutive fights, no breaks except to haul his previous opponent out of the ring. They've lined up a trio of our best against him."
As her gaze darted toward what the panels concealed, he misconstrued her alarm. "Don't worry, you haven't missed him. He's third in tonight's line-up. They're still on the first bout." He gave her a considering look. "I'm fond of the tough little bastard, so I'm going to put you in a choice place, right where he'll be able to see you. Don't worry, you should stay clean. Blood spray doesn't usually hit the catwalk. Better to put you there anyway. You might be too dist
racting to him on the ground level, in his direct line of sight."
Regina wondered if she should ask how close the nearest restroom would be, since she thought she might be sick. Once she accepted the escort Tal assigned to her, and that man positioned her in a front row position on the wide metal catwalk with a good view of the fighting ring, she was certain of it.
As a correctional officer, she'd faced the simmering potential for violence every day. That was her work environment, and it kept her on full alert through her shift. Her pep talk from her boss when she was hired had run along the lines of, "Stay focused at all times. They watch for a careless moment. You have one, that's when you'll get injured, raped or killed. Have a nice first day."
Her job was as much to maintain calm and order, to keep the inmates on the same even keel, as it was to be ready if that calm and order was disrupted. Even though rationally she knew this was different, the edgy excitement of the crowd, their anticipation of danger and the forbidden, had a similar tenor. She felt like she was back at the prison, particularly on the handful of days when there'd been rumors of an impending riot, usually started and provoked by rival gangs.
She'd had a variety of coping mechanisms. Breaking things down into logical pieces was one of them. This is an organized fight, she reminded herself. Illegal, yes. Out of control, no.
Remembering the cut under the Aussie's eye, she wondered how much of a lie she was telling herself. One thing she knew for sure, though. Based on what she'd felt from Marius earlier in the night, this was an even worse place for him to be than a BDSM club.
The atmosphere was smoky, dirty yellow light illuminating the crowd, the spotlights on the cage style ring throwing their shadows on the high walls like dancing flames. Despite the large space, it was hot.
The man emceeing the fights was a dwarf in a green velour top hat with a purple feather. With his jaunty strut, he reminded her of a character in a Dickens novel.
She guessed she was well and truly committed to figuring Marius out. Else she wouldn't be staying in place now, watching two men hammer on each other with thuds against meaty flesh, their grunts hitting her ears like thunder. The sweat spraying off them from the punches reminded her of children stomping into puddles. The crowd shouted in delight when a blow made solid contact, and even louder when a follow up knocked the man to one knee. There was no referee to call the opponent back. When the man went down, his combatant was on top of him, punching, kicking and hammering. The other man somehow managed to throw him off and get back to his feet, but she thought he was on borrowed time.
She'd had female friends who'd been to boxing matches or MMA fights. Laced with just enough barbarism to make them feel a little guilty about the surge of physical excitement, they'd admitted it had been mesmerizing, watching two men in premium condition hammer and strain against one another.
But that was because the safety net of structure allowed them to rationalize that it was okay, the fighters protected as much as the formal dictates of their sport allowed. This had none of that. It was two men thrown into a ring to beat the hell out of each other in whatever way put one on the ground first, hard enough he wouldn't get up.
Whether for the adrenaline rush, money, validation, a chance at fame or something darker, desperation would be the key to why someone stepped into that ring. She wondered what flavor of it drove Marius here. It wouldn't be about money, even if that was his front for it.
The spectacle attracted all kinds. On her left was a group that looked like a rapper with his entourage; on her right, a Bill Gates style geek with his latest trophy wife. Both sets of people were hanging precariously over the rail, shouting and urging on their chosen one, erupting into cheers or boos as one man struck the other hard enough in the face that his lip split and arced blood over them both. Before it was all over, she expected the floor would be slick with sweat and blood, posing a footing challenge for the later fights. Like Marius's.
As the metal catwalk vibrated beneath her feet from all the excited stomping and motion, she turned her attention to those gathered closest to the cage at ground level. Marius might be there, queued up for his fight. But there was too much movement, too many shadows clustered outside the cage, too many...wait.
If he hadn't moved when her eyes were passing over him, she would have missed him. Like Name That Tune, it only took a few notes--or movements--for her to latch onto his familiar form.
The pair of shorts he wore were as revealing as the ones he'd worn for Siren. They clung to hips, ass and upper thighs. When he came into the spotlighted ring, the bulge of his genitals would be equally on display, to the appreciation of every female or gay male present. No need for modesty. This was all about exposing and praising the primal male form at the top limits of his endurance.
The current bout was over. As the man in the top hat announced the next set of fighters, Regina tuned him out, because one of the men at the opening to the cage called Marius over. Marius was bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. He kept shrugging his shoulders as the man talked to him, tipping his head from shoulder to shoulder, warming up for his fight. Or fights, since there would be three.
A bell clanged, the crowd shouted, and the next fight was on, two combatants charging one another like wild animals in rut.
What happened if someone was killed? Was part of Freddie's job to dispose of the body, while a manager like Tal left some money, a severance pay of sorts, on the doorstep of a grieving mother, girlfriend or widow? Deaths were probably rare in the ring, though. Small comfort, since a concussion or brain bleed was far more likely. A man might be smart enough to go to an Urgent Care if he noted the symptoms. But more likely, he dropped like a stone at his job, as he ignored the effects of dangerously familiar injuries.
Marius nodded at whatever the man said and bounced back into the shadows again. A burly-looking spotter provided a pair of target palms for him. The speed of Marius's punches, the grace of the spinning kicks, took her breath. The man was in top fighting form.
Her Mistress side pushed aside her disapproval, her concerns and moral wrangling, to note other significant factors. At The Zone, he moved like a captive tiger, his energy too closely contained, his senses hyperalert to threats. Here he moved like one on a savannah, his movements fluid and unguarded. Here, he was the threat. The beast was fully out of his cage, no facade necessary. Here they wanted the beast in all his savage glory.
And this was why she was here. Key pieces were required to start solving a puzzle.
The current fight was done, the victor doing a whooping, jumping lap around the inside of the ring, egging on the crowd with his own exultant yells while the fallen was helped up and out.
The man with the top hat came back after the winner exited. He was wearing a pair of heavy Goth-styled boots with buckles up to the knee. As he held up a hand, the crowd settled to a low roar so he could effectively use the megaphone he carried. He hooted his first line like a rap song, waving one arm in rhythm.
"Rabid is in the houuuuuuse." He paused as the warehouse thundered with cheers. Looking around at the faces around her, suffused with a manic enthusiasm, Regina deduced Marius was a favorite, and blamed twisted human nature on why she felt a surge of possessive pride. "You all know Rabid as the beast that won't be beat. Tonight, though, he faces a new challenge. Not only will he fight three opponents back to back, no breaks, he'll be taking on three of our best. Tank, Killjoy and Skullface."
Whistles, boos and sounds of incredulity added to the din. "In the interests of full disclosure"--the emcee raised his voice and rolled his hips suggestively to jeers--"Rabid is the winner of fourteen consecutive fights in our series, which includes five complete knockouts, against such star quality fighters as..."
While the man ran down the stats on Marius and his opponents, Regina's gaze went back to him. He was still working with the spotter, not paying any obvious attention to the comments about him or the competition. She got that. She'd played basketball in high school, and they'd made it to the division finals. She recalled that absolute focus before the key game, tuning out everything except her teammates and the coach.
