The energy in the room swells with a contagious combination of adrenaline, excitement, and fear. Add in the hodgepodge of supernatural essences mixed with sweat and blood, and breathing through your nose is a risk.
“Good luck,” I tell Lyss and Dom.
They’re both fighting early, but my name is last on the lineup next to ‘special guest.’ That tells me absolutely nothing except that I should be ready for anything. Casually, I scrape my itching back against the ribbed locker vents and hope no one notices.
“Make me sin!”
“Make me sin!”
“Make me sin!”
“Make me sin!”
My heart beats in time with the chanting crowd, and I focus on regulating my breathing as I duck through the tunnel.
Left foot. Inhale. “Make”—Right foot. Exhale—“Me”—I grind to a halt as the itch spreads from my spine to my fingertips—“Sin.” Air catches in my throat.
Something is wrong. Very wrong.
I glance behind me, but besides the light from the locker room, I can’t see much.No way but forward, Celine. I force myself to keep moving toward the cage. If something bad is waiting for me out there, I’ll face it head-on with my eyes wide open.
“We’ve got a show for you tonight, folks. Verity—your favorite fighting angel—will take on a very special guest... the one, the only... Secooooond Cominnnnng!”
I reach the end of the tunnel and drop to the floor of the cage, ignoring the screaming fans and skipping my normal hype lap. Resker will be pissed, but something about the special guest’s fighter name is setting off all the alarm bells in my head. Who the fuck is this asshole?
The side entrance opens to thick, black smoke. It swirls around a pair of sturdy shit-kicking boots planted in a wide stance. As I drag my eyes up the body they’re attached to, I curse the damn smoke. I can’t get a good look.
The fighter takes three slow, measured steps forward.
His face appears under the lights, hulking and familiar.
I freeze, hands clenching and unclenching at my sides.It can’t be.I ground him to bits and buried him and his shit across multiple dumpsters. There’s absolutely no fucking way that Roscoe Daemyn—enclave enforcer, bad tipper, and all-around son of a bitch—is facing off against me in the ring right now.
There’s roaring in my ears. I can’t tell if it’s the crowd or thetsunami of blood crashing around in my head as it tries to reconcile what I know to be true with what my eyes are telling me.
The roaring changes to ringing—no, fuck, that’s the actual bell.
The fight is starting.
I lift my hands into a relaxed, guarded position. Second Coming matches the move. Exactly. Hands curled and hovering loosely in front of his chest. It’s a common guard, but something tells me it’s not a coincidence.
I lift my right pinky to test him.
Raising one thick, bushy eyebrow, he lifts his middle finger instead.
The crowd eats it up, no spoon required.
My anger comes as a relief, mercifully chasing away the shaky fear that swamped me when I saw his face. I don’t know who or what Second Coming really is. They can’t be Roscoe, though. They’re someone else—something worse, wearing his punchable face like a mask.
I circle cautiously. Someone is trying to play god with my past. This reappearance is going to stir up rumors and put Ciprian at risk for covering up Roscoe’s death.
His fist slams into my jaw without warning, and I see stars. Instinctively, I retreat, protecting my face with my forearms as my vision jitters in and out of focus. He’s strong. Ravoc demon strong, according to Ciprian’s demonic explainer, but he’s not angel strong.
I let the pain focus me and remind myself that I’m undefeated for a reason.
This is my fight to lose.
Advancing, I throw a punch, then duck as he throws the move back at me. Jab, cross, two right hooks while driving my back foot into the cage floor for extra power—a sweep with my right leg—feint, an uppercut at half-strength.
