Chapter 13
The little Nymph stumbles out of Electis Tower.
The wind carries her scent, and I smell distress through the sweat of her body and salt of her tears.
And something else. She’s been drenched in the stench of Elites—and dark magic.
Those Elite devils
Violence ripples through my body, and the urge to destroy is pulsing through me. Long ago, I’d learned to keep to the shadows; it was the only way to avoid the pain. The excruciating pain.
Shaking my head to dislodge the fingers of despair from my brain, I move quickly to follow the nymph.
I shadow her all the way back to my, her—our—basement.
Relief fills me when I see her disappear down the staircase.
In the twenty-four hours since I first saw her, I have experienced more emotions than the rest of my adult life put together.
The eternal state of numbness is leaving me.
Once I determine she is staying safely back in her room, I retrace my steps to stalk the devils and find which one hurt her.
Approaching the tower, I see the entrance door opening, and press myself into the deep dark.
I hear footsteps, quick and impatient. I see the blonde Elite, the one who lives on the top floor.
As he passes by, not seeing me, I smell the nymph all over him.
It enrages me. He hurt her, so now I must hurt him. There is no other option.
The Elite devil heads to the school garages where the rich boys keep their cars. If he’s going off the grounds, I’ll follow him. It may be better to hurt him away from the Academy anyway.
My bike is close to the garages, behind a low wall covered with a brown tarp.
After a couple of tries, it fires up, and keeping my headlight off, I follow the Devil’s dark blue sports car as he drives past security guards and cameras.
There is someone I don’t recognize at the guard house, a man in a black leather jacket who watches the Devil’s car with interest as it shoots off onto the country road.
The stranger and I meet eyes, and for a second, I think he’s familiar.
The jagged scar running the length of his face itches in my brain.
The next moment, the man with a scar is left behind as I ride fast. I push my bike to its limits to keep up. I don’t often experience pleasure, but speed makes me feel temporarily alive.
Scenery blurs as I tail him. I think I know where we’re heading.
Passing through the town and out to the farmland beyond, the narrow road leads to an old building that’s been converted into a place for drinking and fighting.
All the devils like to slum there. The blonde one skids to a halt, parking carelessly as I push my bike behind a dumpster.
There are dozens of vehicles in the lot.
The sound of shouting and beating music leaks out of the doors as two men wave him in.
A minute later, I’m also entering with no fuss or bother.
The men at the door nod, like they recognize this is a place I belong.
The scent of aggression is everywhere, along with alcohol, cigarettes, and stale sweat. Even though the place is packed, the Devil still draws attention as he heads to the bar. No one notices me, which is how I like it.
He orders, then throws back a shot, quickly tapping the glass on the bartop, calling for a refill. That’s good. Alcohol dulls reflexes and loosens tongues, which is why I do not drink it.
A small voice in the back of my head reminds me that I welcomed the numbing effects of alcohol when I’d been in the circus. The ringmaster would give me drinks before whatever performance I was slated to do.
‘Take a shot, then go do your party tricks, little boy.’
A figure suddenly appears next to the blonde devil. Where the fuck did she come from? As I move closer, I can hear the devil say, “Striker.”
The woman, who is tall and broad-shouldered and dressed in black from head to toe, nods. “Drakeward,” she replies.
Drakeward.
I file the name away in the part of my brain that remembers best, then push closer. My gray coveralls help my invisibility, and I’m so close I could reach out and snap the Drakeward Devil's neck. My fingers itch with a desire to do so, but I tamp it down. I probably will kill him, but not yet.
Instead, I focus on what my enemy is saying, though the baying crowd makes it hard to hear.
“...Hart…no trace…” Drakeward says.
The Striker woman replies with, “How long?”
Drakeward passes Striker something, a bundle of banknotes perhaps. I wish I could hear his words, because Striker tightens both her eyes and her lips. I know that look, it’s what people do with their faces when they are unhappy.
Yells are coming from the back of the room where the cage is. A man comes stumbling through the crowd. When he collapses in a pool of his own blood, no one goes to his aid.
Striker moves off into the crowd, and I stay where I am because I want to see what Drakeward will do next.
There is an energy crackling off him; I can almost taste the blue sparks of electricity that flare from his fingertips.
His Elite magic is not quite under control.
A bell in the cage clangs. Another match is done.
That’s when the blonde Elite raises his voice.
“I’m bored,” he drawls. “Any takers?”
The room gets quiet. I’ve been here before and understand the scene. If no one is leaping to put Drakeward in his place, then he must be a decent fighter.
But I know he’s not the best fighter here.
Maybe allowing myself to be visible for a moment might be worth it. Visible but not traceable. I’m wearing the Academy janitorial coveralls. If he sees them, he’ll know where I’m from, and I don’t like that. When I’m usually at Machete’s, I wear the coveralls with no logo printed on them.
A simple solution occurs to me. I keep on the black beanie that hides my distinctive white hair, but I unzip the uniform, step out of it, and place the folded material on top of an iron strut.
Pushing my way to the cage, the men at the entrance widen their eyes.
I hardly see them because I’m focused on my target.
Stepping into the ring, I’m wearing a woolly hat, and my boots—but that’s all.
Then I wait.
The Elite joins me. His eyes travel over my body. “I guess we have a contender,” he says, pushing his voice out of his chest so it booms around the space. He thinks I’m a joke. I’m used to that. “Cosmo Drakeward,” he says, nodding to me.
I don’t reply with words, but I do crack my knuckles. That seems appropriate.
He raises an eyebrow. “Well, alright then.”
I wait while he shucks off his sweatshirt.
“I’m keeping my pants on,” he announces, and laughter sounds. “Ready?” he asks.
More than. I give a slight nod, but stay stock still, waiting for his swing. It heads towards my flesh with nothing to stop its destruction.
Apart from the fact that I drop suddenly.
I may be big, but I’m not slow. The Drakeward devil snarls somewhere above my head, and it makes me feel that temporary pleasure inside.
The inside pleasure increases as I reach up and jab my fist into his side.
Unfortunately, he swings and hits at the same time. My jaw whips around. That’s not right.
Flinging myself up and forward, the blood in my veins pumps hard.
Drakeward stumbles and quickly rights himself, and I allow my arm to act as it needs to, deploying my fist towards his temple.
It can be a killing blow, but I pull back slightly, just enjoying the moment my knuckles split open on his skull.
He straightens faster than I think possible and starts punching back.
For a spoiled Academy man, he can actually fight—and he has grit.
Though when I get a jab into his ribcage and feel the bend of his bones, he allows a groan to pass his lips.
I make the mistake of enjoying the moment, and he swings his forehead towards my face.
I shift just in time to avoid the snap of my nose, and our brows collide.
I imagine this is how it would feel to meet Thor’s hammer.
I have to give myself a second because everything in my body stops working.
Sliding my eyes to Drakeward, I’m pleased to see he’s in the same state.
We meet eyes.
“That fucking hurt,” he says through bloodied lips.
Then, the strangest thing, he smiles at me.
I usually only ever see fake smiles, and I’m used to those, but this, I think, is genuine.
His eyes are lit up with fighting energy and pleasure.
He hauls himself onto his knees, gaze not breaking contact.
I mirror his movements, and we both stagger to our feet at the same time.
And Drakeward reaches out his hand.
I look at it, then at him. He grins again, showing bloody gums. A small part of me wishes I could shake, but I can’t. I take one step forward and punch his lights out.
Ding ding.
Don’t mess with the nymph.