Ciprian lied to me. Entered my home under false pretenses, tricked me into incriminating myself in a murder, and now he’sholding it over my head. It’s classic psychological warfare. Malach is naïve.
His radiant judgment isn’t foolproof. It measures intent in any given moment, much like my truth. It can’t be tricked, but it can miss things, especially if the situation is complex. And Ciprian is the perfect example of why overlooking one critical detail can be catastrophic.
The moon rises on fight night like a ghoulish celestial voyeur. Pure white and perfectly round, it fixes its steely gaze on me as I navigate the crowded streets on my bike.
If I win tonight—which I have every intention of doing—I’ll walk away with a nice chunk of cash and an even nicer confidence boost. Putting myself in the path of an angry man’s fists by choice is a hell of a lot more palatable than my lived alternative.
Luca and Malach are driving over in Luca’s car. I asked for this solo ride to clear my head, and itwasworking—until the moon decided to poke her nose in my business.
Sliding my bike into the tight space between two souped-up cars that scream,‘Come to bed with me. I’ll be sure to leave you disappointed,’I remove my helmet and freeze.
Alistair is here. I can’t see him, but I can sense him. Call it intuition or something more supernatural—he’s as impossible to miss as the big-ass moon.
“Not now,” I say, each word clipped. “I need to focus. Keep your distance.”
I probably look insane talking to the empty street, but I sense him backing off, sinking deeper into the shadows. My shoulder blades itch, my wings demanding I set them free. I ignore them and stride into the Mouth of Hell, turning down the dark hallway Resker told me to use.
It ends at a tall metal door, littered with dents and faded stickers. I rap on it firmly, then wait. Footsteps echo behind the door—seven of them, to be exact—before a sliding window slots open. The sticker on top of it, perfectly aligned to disguise the panel, reads “Freaks Fuck Better” and depicts an orgy that’s surprisingly graphic for a collection of stick figures.
I raise one eyebrow at the face in the window. This guy is the human personification of store-brand cornflakes, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I forget what he looks like as soon as he’s out of my sight.
“You’re here,” he grunts, sounding almost surprised.
I bite my tongue and barely resist the urge to drive my fist through the peephole and give him a more interesting canvas to work with. “Obviously,” I say, managing to keep the worst of my attitude out of my voice.
The orgy sticker flashes me again as the panel snaps shut, then the door opens with a horrific high-pitched whine. I cringe. Have they never heard of WD-40? They could at least slather some coconut oil on the hinges or something.
Magic scrapes my skin as I enter the room. It’s crowded with fighters. Some big, some small, and some familiar. Most are stretching or sparring. A few are chatting quietly among themselves, but most are engaging in pre-fight rituals, earbuds firmly in place.
The guy from the peephole is nowhere in sight. Or maybe he’s here, and I already forgot his face. I shrug, flinching as Lyss appears in front of me faster than should be possible. Her face I remember... both of them.
“We’ve got our own lockers,” she chirps. “Do you want me to show you?”
“Yeah, thanks.” I do my best to reconcile the way she practically skips across the room now with the sideways skitter from our audition fight. “Have they announced the matchups?”
“Yep.” Lyss points at the wall by the row of lockers, where a whiteboard hangs haphazardly against the gray concrete. About two dozen names are scrawled across it, but the handwriting is so sloppy I can’t make anything out from here. “I was hoping for a rematch,” she says. “But I won’t get one tonight.”
There’s disappointment in her voice, but no animosity. I guess if I’d been the one to tap out, I might want another crack at the person who put me on my back too. As it stands, I’ll be perfectly happy if I never face Lyss and her roving chelicerae again.
“Who did you get?” I ask, keeping the focus on her fight instead of asking about mine. I desperately want to, but I don’t want to come across anxious.
“Dominic.” She grins, then thrums her fingers against the red locker we’ve stopped in front of. The top one is labeled Lyss, and the bottom one Celine, which is a wild choice since the arachne shifter is at least six inches shorter than me. I’ll have to bend over to get into mine—not that I care. I won’t be leaving anything valuable in there. That’s an invitation to get fucked with.
“You’ve got?—”
“New blood, over here,” Resker shouts, cutting Lyss off. She squeals with excitement and loops her arm through mine, practically towing me to Resker.
In addition to Lyss and me, Dominic and one other man make their way over. Dominic, who seems as big and blockish as ever, winks at me. “Hell of a hit, baby girl.”
I smile. “Call me baby girl one more time, and you can experience it again. Free of charge.” I’m glad he’s being a good sport about the knockout, but I have no intention of letting anyone here see me as a hunk of meat.
“Ooooh, I like it,” Dominic says, holding his hands out, palms up.
A smaller man stands at his side—everyone is small next to Dominic—watching our conversation with heavily lidded eyes.My skin prickles. Something tells me if we draw each other’s number tonight, he won’t fall for a quick shot like Dominic did.
“Shut up and listen,” Resker barks. Her hair is pulled back into a severe, slicked-back bun, which might make her give off ballerina vibes if there weren’t half a dozen spikes sticking out of it. It suits her. She’s basically a supernatural cactus.
“I hope you’ve put some thought into your fighter names,” she says, checking the sleek black watch on her wrist, “because I’m going to need them in two minutes.”
