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Finn has assured me that these battles aren’t to the death. They go until someone admits defeat, since you can’t kill someone without a body. They’re already dead–just free-floating energy resembling a person. In order to ‘rid the world of them’, one would have to shred their soul out of existence with magic or through smiting. So, the conclaves are a lot like earth-style boxing matches.
It still doesn’t calm the nerves creeping up my throat, though. If I fail, whoever I’m about to fight goes free. These criminals are the worst of the worst. Jack the Ripper style, if you will. They’ve taken lives and murdered innocents in cold blood. They’ve squandered and will stop at nothing to get what they want. There’s a reason the glowing hue of their jar hasn’t changed from blue to green–signaling that they’ve been rehabilitated. They’re monsters in the purest form and no amount of therapy will ever change that.
The gate opens across from me as the man on the balcony announces my opponent. “William Guilgan, you have been propositioned. Your crimes are as follows…”
A list of terror comes next, but I don’t need to hear it. I’ve already recognized his name. The man was known on Earth for harming young children and for starting a social media site, catering to pedophiles. The dude has been dead for a decade and still, the United States government can’t get it shut down.
He deserves to rot here.
As he steps into the light, I notice the bluish hue surrounding him. Though he appears to be here in the flesh, that subtle glow gives him away as a spirit. His jet black hair is slicked backward, but a few strands have gone rogue, dangling over the shaved sides of his head. A black jumpsuit covers his body. It’s plain except for the embroidered number, 24887D, which marks his place in the warehouse storage.
Next to him is the guard who brought him here. Another orc is in armor like the one who watches the front gate, but instead of a spear in his hand, he has some kind of wretched shackle. Lining the inside are needle-like spikes, with a hinge on one side of the circle and a clasp on the other.
“Do you accept?” The voice above asks.
“I do.” The prisoner’s eyes rake over me from head to toe, and a sinister grin stretches uncomfortably wide across his frail, bony face. The guard latches the shackle onto the man’s wrist and the glowing hue around him disappears. I half expect blood to pour from beneath the metal band, but ghosts don’t bleed.
“It’s keeping him here in the arena, tethered to our plane of existence. Without it, you’d never be able to touch him,” Finn says. I jump at the sound of his voice, shooting a glance over my shoulder. He’s glaring daggers at my opponent with his arms crossed over his broad chest.
“But witches shred souls all the time on Earth. Well, mainly poltergeists, but same difference. Could I not do that with magic?”
He shakes his head no. “The intent of the conclave isn’t to rid them from the world. Most souls go bad at some point or another, but they’re usually rehabilitated. We can’t make more and once the batch we have is gone then no more humans, creatures, or otherwise can be born, regardless of what realm they’re in. At least not until God returns, if he ever does.”
“So you value them—save them,” I correct, “even if they’re monsters.”
“Exactly.”
“Fighters,” the voice sounds from above. “Take your marks.”
Finn puts a hand on my shoulder, dragging me backwards until we’re near the wall opposite of the prisoner.
“Remember. I’m right here,” Finn whispers. “Should something go wrong, I think the world can do with one less soul, don’t you?” I can feel his breath against my ear as he speaks, like it’s a secret he doesn’t want the guards to hear. “I doubt you’ll need the help, but if you do…” I nod my understanding.
“When the buzzer rings, you may begin. Remember, the fight is over once someone admits defeat. Since you both have magic, you’re both permitted to use it,” the announcer says.
The guards all step back, standing around the edges of the pit as a boundary lifts from the ground. The only person remaining besides myself and the sicko I’m set to fight is Finn, though he stays to the edge.
An alarm sounds, splitting through my eardrums. My heart skitters to a stop as my hands fly up to cradle my head. With a flick of his wrists, the man is swarmed by electrical current. It glows a ghoulish green as it whips around his figure, dancing effortlessly within inches of his skin. It groups into thick cords of lightning, braiding up his arms. His menacing, vacant eyes spark to life, but it’s not his soul that reflects in their depths… It’s a taste for blood that flickers in them as the dusty green irises fade to pure white.
I really hope Finn knows what he’s doing. If not, I’m fucking toast.
The buzzer stops and a deafening silence creeps in, making my heart beat obnoxiously loud in my ears. The man takes a sure step forward. For someone who appears frail,starvedeven, he certainly has a smug look on his face. He must not know what I am, or ratherwhoI am.
Let’s see how smug he is without all that power, shall we?
Almost all creatures with magic, or any ‘super power’ for that matter, rely on it. It’s their greatest strength and their biggest weakness. They’re used to the advantage it gives them. Take that away and it tends to leave the bastards reeling. Finn taught me that. It’s also why he’s obsessive about teaching me to fight without it, ensuring I’m just as deadly when my magic isn’t at my beck and call.
Holding my hands parallel to the ground, I spread my fingers, feeling the lick of magic roll around them. I won’t waste my soul’s power on this fucker. He doesn’t deserve it. Not to mention that pulling on that battery is a slippery slope. I can deplete it, but if I draw even a smidge over the empty line, I’m fucked. All magic comes with a cost, even soul magic wielded by a nephilim. The damage is irreversible and let’s just say it ends with you becoming a hollow shell of yourself, so I’ve been told. I’d rather not test the theory.
Blood magic from my witch heritage, though? It’s ready and willing to heed my command. When I run out, I can siphon more and as long as dark spells aren’t involved, there are no major side effects.
The power begins to tingle beneath my skin as my opponent nears. One of the arcs of current slings behind him like a whip, then snaps forward and I catch the tail midair, wrapping the bolt around my fist. My lips quip into an amused smirk as I siphon his power and his panic is everything I never knew I needed.
“Well, well, well,” he sneers. “A witch.” He retracts his hand, cutting off the power at the source. The lightning in my hand disintegrates into the open air in seconds. I’ve never seen someone look so repulsed.
His eyes flash bright and a wave of power slams into my middle, sending me toppling backward. Searing pain rips through my flesh, and ebbs through my elbows, my knees, and back. My shirt has lifted in my roll, allowing the rough ground to scratch and grate against my skin, drawing blood. With a thunk, my head slaps the concrete and the air is knocked from my lungs. I gasp, desperate for oxygen, but my body has forbidden it.
Okay… I’m starting to think that it wasn’t panic I saw in his eyes… Surprise, maybe? Does it matter?
