Her opponent enters the cage in a cloud of puce-colored smoke. I snort, because that’s one witch trick I’m more than familiar with. It sucks for this witch that their magic is such a gross color, because it’s more sickly than cool.
They shake hands. The bell rings. The fight begins.
It’s brutal.
After a few testing strikes, the witch goes on the offensive, hurling spikes of magic at Celine. Bobbing and weaving, she dodges them all. I’m exhausted just watching.
This is a stamina contest. The winner will be the one with more in the tank. When the witch’s chest starts rising and falling in frantic, staccato beats, I smile. Besides a light sheen of sweat, Celine shows no signs of fatigue. It’s only a matter of time.
Sure enough, the magical blasts get slower, and Celine doesn’t waste a single opportunity. A jab here, an uppercut there. When she leaps six feet in the air, I hold my breath, watching mesmerized as she drives her fist into the witch’s skull like a hammer.
Lights out.
I go crazy right along with the crowd.
Celine circles the cage and waves to her fans, but I’m fixatedon the drip of sweat rolling down her neck. It trickles over the curve of her breast before disappearing into her leather crop top. I lick my lips and groan.
“Let’s go,” Luca says.
Nodding like a puppet on a string, I let him lead me through the crowd with one finger hooked in my belt loop. It’s sweet. And considerate. And I’m too into Luca’s attention to tell him I can keep up fine on my own.
The crowd thins as the four of us duck down a narrow hallway.
A metal door swings open, and Celine comes out with a few other fighters, including Tusker. He sees us coming first and wipes a drop of blood from his nose before tossing his arm over her shoulder.
“Your roster is here, Verity.”
“Shut up.” Celine shakes her head but doesn’t bother to knock the fucker’s hand off.
Glistening with sweat, her hairline is a darker red than the tips of her intricate braid. I force my eyes away from her to glare at the pig boy. “What was your stage name again?”
Luca groans and tosses an elbow at me that I dodge, but I’m still too worked up by the jerk in the crowd to care about his warning. If I want to be a prick to the sweaty oaf manhandling Celine, I will. He’s lucky I don’t drag him into a nightmare too.
Snapping my fingers, I raise my eyebrows. “Wait, I remember! Is it Ham Slam?”
Tusker’s eyes widen. “No, it’s?—”
“Oinkzilla,” I exclaim, cutting him off.
He spits blood on the ground, then runs his tongue over his teeth before smiling at me and putting a pair of blunted, oversized incisors on display. “That’s not it either, man.”
“You’re right,” I groan. “I can’t believe I got it wrong again. That’s my bad, Mr. Hogfather, sir.”
“Ciprian,” Celine hisses, her brown eyes sparking with annoyance.
I don’t give a shit.
He’s still touching her shoulder.
Tusker sees where I’m looking and wisely drops his hand before offering it to me. “I’m Dominic, but where the fuck were you when I was trying to come up with a good stage name?” He points at Celine. “This one was no help at all.”
Dammit all to the monster realm and back. He’s fucking nice.
Reluctantly, I settle for shaking his hand instead of breaking it.
With a distinctly troublemaking grin, Dominic waves and walks away, whistling cheerfully. As soon as he’s out of sight, Celine advances on me. “Ciprian Casanell, I swear to the gods.”
“You invited me,” I remind her, backing away with my hands up. “And I’m glad you did. You were magnificent, hot wings!”
