Twisting in the air as a distraction, I hurl my left elbow toward his face.
The sequence is flawless, creative, and lightning fast; and I know without Malach having to tell me it’s also some of the best fighting I’ve ever done.
There’s only one problem: none of my hits land.
Second Coming counters every single one, moving with none of the clumsy, lumbering strength I remember from Roscoe’s assault. It’s another confirmation that I’m dealing with something new, something other.
His next move breaks my rhythm, and I barely manage to dodge the haymaker in time. His knuckles graze the side of my braid, barely missing my face. I counter, hoping the power of the punch left him off balance. It didn’t. He leaps over my sweeping leg like he’s jumping rope on the playground.
Stumped and a little shaken, I run through my standard moves to see how he reacts. He mirrors each one, reacting only a fraction of a second behind me each time. It’s like facing a bigger, uglier version of myself, and I’m fucking over it.
This is the Fringes; it’s time to fight dirty.
I throw a knockout punch with my left fist while aiming a dropkick at his balls. Even though I know it’s coming, I barely duck his mirrored hook in time.
Our feet collide with an agonizing crack, and pain radiates from the ball of my foot to my knee. I absorb the shock and shift my weight to my other leg. It fucking hurts. I’m not sure if it’s broken, but something isn’t right.
Roscoe’s lookalike face ripples before locking on the angry expression I remember from the Fang. He shows no sign of pain, but he took the same impact I did—it must have done something.Please have done something.
Gingerly, I try putting weight on my injured foot. Pain shoots up from the heel before settling at a mid-level throb. Okay, that’sfine. I can do this. I can still beat him. I just can’t wear him out by running circles around him.
The itch, barely noticeable over my pain and adrenaline, skyrockets as Second Coming strikes again. Dropping into a squat, I release my wings and use my good foot to power my launch. That should get me airborne and give me time to?—
Fingers, meaty and made to crush, close around my ankle.Shit.
He hurls me to the floor of the cage, and I block everything out. The pain, the crowd, my body’s instinct to panic—they’re not going to help me survive this fight.
Creative. Be creative, Celine.Malach’s voice echoes inside my head, but I’m out of ideas. Second Coming anticipates my every move.
As if they sense my despair, my wings curl around me and take over. Transforming into flaming knives, they slash at fake Roscoe’s body from his ankle to his forehead. Blood gushes from the cuts. It sizzles and boils as it encounters my fire.
Roscoe’s face, now singed and sliced to ribbons, wobbles and warps, revealing an oddly smooth surface beneath his skin. A shell? A mask? Polished bone? I can’t tell, and it doesn’t matter. There are only two acceptable outcomes: knock him out or force him to tap.
I can’t kill him in front of a crowd, not while he’s wearing the face of someone who would still be alive if it weren’t for me. Even if I could make it out to be an accident, word would get back to the enclave, and we’d all be fucked.
Tensing my abs, I kip up to press my advantage and slam my fist into his nose. He stumbles; I hit him again. His head rocks to the right. I throw another punch, this time to his temple; he staggers and drops to his knees.
Winding up for the knockout blow, I charge, forgetting for oneagonizing second about my bad foot. It buckles, and suddenly we’re eye to eye.
His pupils are mere pinpricks.Finish him.
I brace to deliver the final blow, and his face warps into Alistair’s, black hair framing piercing blue eyes. So familiar, they see right through me. He holds his shaking hands up, begging me not to hit him.
Trembling with unease, I slam my fist into his forehead.
Alistair would never beg.
Second Coming falls to the cage floor, his body becoming leaner as he slumps onto his side. His face... gods, it’s not a face at all. Smooth, indistinguishable, and without features—he’s faceless. The harder I stare, the more wrong it feels.
I hear the emcee call my name and climb to my feet unsteadily, doing my best to hide the excruciating pain I’m in as I wave to the crowd.Tough it out; you’ve had worse.
Resker’s hired muscle—the stubby one and the one with the boring, forgettable everything—enter through the right tunnel. They gather Second Coming between them and drag him out, taking the answers to all my questions with them.
More than exhausted, I duck into my tunnel and limp toward the locker room. The pain in my heel is blinding. I may have to break down and ask Alistair for a healing potion. I already know I won’t be able to stay off my feet long enough for it to heal on its own.
A shadow blocks the light at the end of the tunnel, and I stiffen until I recognize his shape. Luca rushes to me, wrapping his arm around my waist to support my weight. “We’ve got to go, baby. Malach is getting the car.”
His voice vibrates with tension.
