Chapter 44 Carwynn
CARWYNN
This place should’ve been called the arm pit based on the smell alone. Eau de literal toilette.
It was the most insane thing I’d ever seen. Like someone had carved a super-stealth stadium beneath the city and filled it with raw chaos. My eyes couldn’t keep up with my sense of perception. It was massive. Beyond massive, really.
From the lookout above, I could see four main quadrants: A caged arena for what looked to be bare-knuckle fighting, an interactive shooting range, a hollowed-out pit where wolves sprinted laps, and a flickering dome sparking with strange lights. Perhaps for the magically inclined?
The sight was overwhelming, so much going on all at once.
But the most overwhelming thing of all—the smell.
Holy hell. It was like being trapped inside a jockstrap, that was then sealed inside the world’s most repulsive locker room.
Blood. Sweat. Testosterone. With a trace of something I didn’t wanna know.
Clearly, this was another one of Lochlainn’s secret spaces. So why bring me here? I knew there were other places to shoot in the city, so why let me in on the underground stink-pit secret?
I searched around. Hmm, this was more than just entertainment.
It went beyond whispered wagers, guttural cheers, and blood splattered stone. People were training.
Training for what, exactly?
The magical dome and shooting range had a completely different energy from the drunken roars of the fights and wolfy racetrack. More controlled, serious, intentional.
An unrelenting tightness grew, suddenly feeling anxious.
Was it a dirtier, shadier place for gambling? Absolutely. Hordes of people hollered near the fights and Ossory track, screaming as if it might tilt the odds in their favor.
But the flashing dome and shooting range lacked chaos. No rowdy crowds, no shouting fans. Just a handful of figures engulfed in extreme focus, running drills—practicing.
I twisted my head to get a read on Lochlainn. His face lacked his usual smugness.
He stalked up beside me and gripped the metal railing. I recognized what was plated beneath those features. Pride.
He shot a quick side-eye my way.
“Go ahead, ask. I know ya itching to.” He angled himself to rest against the bar.
I shook my head, still reeling over the sight below.
“Aside from this place being a dodgy, troll-run version of the Golden Oak—and a college boy’s wet dream.” I gaped. “What is this place? Does Faelad know?”
Lochlainn straightened. His eyes smoothing over the quadrants.
“The Snake Pit.”
The corner of his mouth drew up. “As legend goes, after Luckland won its name—having been given to Felan—many millennia passed. History unaccounted for. The land became riddled with invasive shadows and demons—snakes. In need, the land demanded a leader. Lord Padraig was chosen. Fearless, brutal, and unimaginably loyal to his own. People started to disappear, go mad, or show up tattered to pieces. Countless lives fell victim to the foreign darkness . . . and terror spread.” His eyes zeroed in on mine like windows replaying the past. “It was Lord Padraig who was blessed with luck. Gifted with the first ability. His most loyal men were bestowed with a sacred duty, eternal protectors of the crown—the Ossory Wolves. Together, they sought out the snakes and locked them away for good. Peace returned to the land.”
Bellowing cheers erupted as a fighter slammed to the ground in the distance.
Ouch.
Lochlainn studied the underground stadium again. He expelled a slow breath, leaning on his forearms.
“Every game is rigged. Some prick always ups the ante, first by taking your coin and then by taking your life. Dealer may weigh the dice while you’re too busy sweatin’.
To not have a card up your sleeve is to play a dead man’s hand.
” Those golden eyes hardened to steel. “You can only survive by striking hard, fast, and dirty. Cheat the viper. Become venomous. Be the serpent the snakes fear. That’s how us Lucklanders will send them all to hell.
” Eyes locked on my neck. On the gold choker—his choker—laying against my throat.
“When the snakes come slithering out from the dark, we’ll be ready. ”
My teeth caught my lip as I looked away.
I don’t think I’d ever heard Lochlainn so serious—speaking of legends as if they were reality. Wasn’t sure what to make of this version of him, the protector of Luckland. Instead of the whiskey-drinking, tit-watching Kingpin.
“My people are free to be their most authentic, filthy selves down here. While my men train, honing skills to fight for that freedom. The only ones who know about it, are the ones I allow to know.”
He shot me a bladed look, one that conveyed, snitches get stitches.
Got it. Secret toilet-bowl casino is on verbal lockdown.
“Faelad’s never said a word about it,” he continued.
“But with all his spies, I’ve no doubt he’s known for a long time now.
Probably too preoccupied rotting his arse on the throne to care.
Or smart enough to know that his men—are my men,” he said.
The words spat out with hatred, but I didn’t believe it.
There was a soft, sad edge to them at the end.
Could he really underestimate Faelad that much? Lochlainn was smart. Too smart. Part of me didn’t buy it for a second that he was this naive to whatever game Faelad was playing. But maybe this was all part of his game.
When he spoke of his people with that look in his eyes and that quiet confidence in his tone, I felt that flame of pride for them too. The longer I’ve been around, the more I saw how unbreakable Lucklanders were. Body and soul.
A wave of pain noosed around my heart. I couldn’t help but think of Lovelanders, of David’s people.
I hoped they still held this kind of strength.
Thoughts of them often haunted me. David promised he’d take me to Loveland one day, to help the survivors rebuild .
. . once the mayhem of Fecunditas was over.
I met Lochlainn’s steely stare.
“Well, Lucklanders have my respect. It’s not easy to find hope in the ashes of tragedy.
” My eyes slid to a man getting clocked square in the jaw, teeth spraying into the crowd like candy thrown at a parade.
“Though, they definitely lack charm. Must’ve inherited that from their Kingpin.
” I bit my cheek to keep the betraying smile at bay.
A deep, velvet chuckle rose from Lochlainn’s chest.
“Love, if I didn’t charm ya into my bed—then I must’ve just gotten lucky.” Glitter and gold sparked in his eyes as he winked.
I rolled my eyes. Ever the flirt.
But all amusement on Lochlainn’s face soon withered, replaced by something darker, more solemn.
He raised his hand, tapping the small shamrock tattoo inked just next to his thumb.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Padraig’s mark—our royal crest. It represents the three things our blood is made of: loyalty, luck, and lineage.
” He traced the design with a finger. “I need you to remember something, Carwynn.” Voice low, Lochlainn’s eyes padlocked to mine.
“Loyalty always comes first. The protection of my people, my friends, will always come first.” There was something in his stare, sharp and carving, like he was trying to etch his words directly into my bones.
“Loyalty can be deceiving, wearing many faces—some harrowing, some gruesome—all to play the hand right. But when the last die is thrown . . . I need ya to remember what I’m made of. ”
I searched that stone-hard face, trying to translate what he wasn’t saying. Was this a warning? A confession? Or him playing the part of annoying riddler today?
“I will,” I said, unsure of what I was agreeing to.
Lochlainn’s palm grabbed the railing, his chin jerking toward the pandemonium below. “Let’s get a better view, shall we?”
The crowd in the fighting quadrant was like wading through molasses. Thick, hot, suffocating, and my god, it reeked.
Ew.
Sticky, hairy bodies rubbed against mine as I squeezed past. One man nearly blew my eardrum out, lunging forward to scream at the fighters like a rabid dog.
Damn buffoons.
I used my elbow like a chair leg, jabbing back the restless lions. But a warm hand unexpectedly slid into mine. Fingers laced, chaining me to them—Lochlainn’s.
Heat rose up to my cheeks. I internally cursed myself for the reaction, willing them to chill the fuck out.
He pulled me deeper into the frenzy, his free arm working like a battering ram, knocking people aside. Heads whipped. Fists clenched. But when they saw the man behind that trunk of an arm, every scowl and hand lowered. Eyes even cowered. The mob all backed down.
Eventually the chaos thinned.
“Thank the fucking Lord,” I mumbled under my breath.
Loud cackles of laughter drew my attention to the side.
A small fight was about to throw down. Several men gathered in a tight circle, eyes fueled by anticipation.
There was a glimpse of one head above the rest—a tall, lanky man with a shaved scalp, face like sun-dried leather.
His arm lifted, then came crashing down.
Slap!
Several ooooh sounds rumbled from the onlookers.
I weaved my head left and right, trying to see the poor bastard who’d been struck.
Holy shit . . .
I halted, quickly untangling from Lochlainn.
A frail, older woman stood hunched over, rubbing at her cheek. A neatly wound silver bun sat atop her head, several rogue strands curling loose at her temples. A simple gray dress with a white apron tied in the back, dropping loose from her body.
This was wrong and so out of line. That poor old lady could’ve been someone’s precious nana, or a sweet, garden-loving neighbor who brought you fresh-baked muffins with dried fruit.
What the hell was this? Cruel torture? Punishment? That beast of a man needed to be put in his place.
“This is barbaric, Lochlainn! That’s an old lady! Stop them!” I shot out and pointed to the feeble woman who was now straightening.
Lochlainn placed a palm on the small of my back and lead me toward the slap-fight crime scene. An amused chuckle reverberated from his chest.
“Don’t let looks deceive ya. That’s Lights-Out Louisa—renowned champion.” The crinkles at the corner of his eyes deepened with mischief.
He’s got to be kidding me . . . Was he kidding me?
The old woman spat a glob of blood on the stone at her feet.
“Well done,” she said. “Gotta admit, that was quite nice.” An aged hand dramatically massaged into her cheek. “I haven’t felt such soft hands in a long time. Softer than a Brasser lotioning a cock.”
A roar of laughter broke out around us. Lochlainn joined in, then stepped forward to get a closer look.
It felt like a thousand-pound anchor lodged in my jaw, dragging it down to the floor.
Did she say what I thought she just said? Grandma was savage.
The woman wound her arm back. Her weathered forearm was exposed, showing skin worn with time—but it held steady, nonetheless.
“Buckle up, sonny.”
She suddenly launched forward, violently whipping her limb like a slingshot.
Whack!
She nailed him in the temple with impeccable precision. The hit smacked the soul right out of his body as the large brute hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.
Unbelievable.
The crowd exploded. Cheers erupted in a wave around me as people jostled to see the motionless man.
I watched as two scantily dressed women orbited the energized crowd, distributing winnings. The gambling was not surprising, but what was—the lack of drugs. Unlike the clubs, eyes looked to be inebriated with alcohol, not red and glazed over. Interesting.
A bitch-slapping competition. And someone’s cute little Grammy just knocked a man out cold. This was completely insane. But damn, color me impressed. I wondered if I’d just found Aine’s dream job.
I clapped a hand over my mouth, stifling the incredulous laugh that began to bubble out.
“She slapped him into another dimension!” I was beyond stupefied.
An agreeing grunt stole my regard.
A stout, filthy man shifted nearby, staring me down. His eyeballs trailed over me like slugs. Slow, sticky, and disgusting, leaving a mucus-like residue I wanted to scrape off my skin.
“I’d fancy slapping you around,” he sneered, flashing a malicious smile. A tongue dragged over his bottom lip.
“No thanks. You smell like a rotting fish.” I scrunched my nose, dramatically sniffing. “Bet I could gut you like one too.” My glare narrowed.
His thick leg stomped closer, suddenly invading my space. Putrid breath reeked of whiskey and decay.
“Say, aren’t ya that depraved witch’s daughter?” he hissed, tone scathing. “They say she had a bewitching cunt. One that could lure any Lord or lowly into sin.”
Rage bubbled under my skin, the familiar needle prick of my ability beginning to rise.
“You repulsive piece of—”
My words broke off as an arm shot out.
A strong hand clamped around the drunk man’s throat. Lochlainn dragged him forward.
He gasped for air as his fingers pathetically clawed for life.
Light began to illuminate through Lochlainn’s fingers as his power surged with deadly purpose.
The man’s eyes became bloodshot, bulging with panic.
“Big fucking mistake, mate,” Lochlainn growled through a clamped jaw. “Disrespect her, ya disrespect me.”
Unnatural gurgles sounded as golden light flared on the man’s throat.
He wasn’t going to kill him—right? I hadn’t even known his ability could do that. Figured Lockbinding was just locking things. Guess that could include sealing someone’s esophagus shut.
The magic brightened. The man grew paler.
Maybe he really was going to kill him. My palms started to sweat.
“Lochlainn, don’t!” I held up a pleading hand. “Don’t kill him. He may be a nasty douchebag, but he doesn’t deserve an execution.”
Lochlainn speared me a look, as if I were the one being dramatic. Then, he lowered his arm.
The man slumped to the floor, coughing and wheezing.
As quickly as it had started, Lochlainn’s hand was at my back again, casually guiding me toward a nearby doorway.
“For the record—” he whispered, hot breath caressing the shell of my ear. “I wasn’t gonna kill him. Only have a little . . . fun.” A wicked smirk appeared.