The referee whistled and motioned for them to enter the ring, and Jac held his breath. Should he let the man win, or try to win himself? He examined the man’s broad shoulders and impressive height. Without a doubt, the bookie would’ve marked Jac as the underdog. The girl said she’d bet on him, but she worked here, and Liver Shot would pocket more volts if Jac lost. If he wanted a job here, he should think about the den first.
Wanted the name on my tombstone to match my crown.
He swallowed down his disappointment. He wouldn’t be a legend tonight.
Jac and his opponent readied their stances, fists raised, shoulders squared. For a brief moment, the den was silent. Then the referee blew his whistle, and the room erupted.
His opponent threw the first punch. Jac dodged it easily and went for the man’s stomach. Another miss, another jab. Soon the man’s shoulder dug into Jac’s abdomen, shoving him against the wall. The crowds around them cheered as Jac grunted and kicked his opponent off him.
They circled each other. Jac was hyperaware of the smell of Rapture, of the gaze of the girl from the suppliers’ table. It all made his head spin. It made the scar on his arms itch.
The rest of the match passed in a blur. He ended it on his stomach, the man’s knee in his back, the taste of blood in his mouth from his split lip. The man didn’t look much better—a cut on his jaw, a hobble to his step from a kick in his groin—but he’d won, and that was what mattered.
The man held out his hand to Jac, and Jac grabbed it gratefully and got to his feet.
“You’ve got more to you than you look,” he said. “You should come sit with my friends. Let them buy you a drink.”
Jac flashed a smile, even though he usually tried not to drink. “I can’t turn that down,” he lied.
After collecting their possessions from the referee, they made their way to the table. There were six suppliers sitting there—four men and two women, one of them being the girl from earlier. Jac tried to keep his expression neutral even as she winked at him.
His opponent gestured at the open seat next to the girl. “We all work here most nights. We bring in the supplies and oversee the orders and the stock...and make sure there isn’t trouble. We can always use extra help.”
“Who pays you? The tavern?” Jac asked.
“We get our volts directly from the Torrens. Sophia’s the manager. She keeps charge of all that, and transporting the stock here.” He nodded at the girl, who smiled. “Plus, a name like Torren will get you places. The Family really watches out for us. Pays for doctor bills or emergencies if they come up. It’s more than you could ever ask for.”
Jac cleared his throat nervously. “And none of... I mean, I heard about what happened to Sedric—it was all over the papers—”
They exchanged wary glances. “We’ve been assured our volts are still coming.”
He hesitated. Jac wanted to press further—whowere the volts coming from?—but he also didn’t want to arouse suspicion. Todd Walsh was jobless and needed volts, and the Torren Family name carried weight in New Reynes. This was his ticket to the inside and, soon, hewouldfind out all Levi needed him to know.
“Well,” Jac said, smiling. “I can’t say no to that, either.”
His opponent slapped him on the back. “Great. Why don’t you grab drinks for the table? There’s no charge for us here.”
Jac nodded and stood up. As he made to move to the bar, the girl—Sophia—stood up, as well. “I’ll go with you,” she offered, and didn’t bother to wait for Jac to accept or decline. She popped another piece of taffy in her mouth as she walked beside him. “So, did it feel good throwing that fight?”
His mouth went dry. How could she tell? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
They reached the edge of the bar, and she leaned one elbow on it, crinkling a green taffy wrapper between her fingers. “I won two hundred volts.”
“I thought you bet on the underdog.”
“I did,” she said, nodding at Jac’s opponent from earlier. “Just not the one the bookie picked.”
Jac wasn’t sure if she was trying to flatter him or not. Something about the girl gave him a bad feeling, but he’d need to ignore that if he was going to work with her. And from what the man had told him, Sophia wouldn’t just be his colleague—she’d be his boss.
“Well, I’m happy to earn anyone a few volts,” he answered carefully.
“What’s your name again?” she asked.
“Todd Walsh.”
She pursed her lips. “Well,Todd, I’m Sophia Caro.” She said both of their names like they tasted of phoniness. “Welcome to the Torren empire.”
ENNE
