Chapter 10
TEN
If you act like a god, someone will find out if you bleed like a mortal.
CELINE
The week before the fight is the longest and shortest of my life. Mentally I’m ready, but physically—
“You’re not focused.” Malach knocks me flat. Again. Air leaves my lungs faster than a tire exploding on the freeway.
“I’m plenty focused,” I argue, sucking in the sweat-tinged oxygen of the gym.
Night Shift is a no-humans-allowed training facility.
You won’t find any Zumba classes, but lots of the better-off supernaturals on the Fringes train here.
It’s pricey. Too pricey. Luca signed me up for two months without telling me, paying cash and claiming I’d get evicted if I kept attacking Malach at home.
He’s not wrong. The last thing I want to do is disrupt my living space. Scratch that. The last thing I want is to be murdered by my dad. The second-to-last thing I want to do is lose my first fight at the Mouth of Hell. And the third-to-last thing I want to do is break my apartment.
“You’re not seizing creative openings,” Malach says, offering me a hand up.
Still gasping for air, I yank him down hard instead. He twists before impact—barely—and lands with a thud on the mat beside me.
“Fuck you,” I wheeze. “How’s that for creative?”
“An expletive? That’s not creative at all.”
I groan and close my eyes, breathing in the subtle coating of disinfectant that always lingers in the gym. There’s no one else sparring right now . . . and that’s become a pattern. They always happen to be leaving when Malach and I arrive. Something tells me Luca paid extra for that.
Since the staff at the front desk are tight-lipped, I have no way to confirm my suspicions. Luca refuses to discuss it, which tells me everything I need to know while also serving as a sneaky way to avoid directly tipping off my magic. Clever bastard.
There are two days left until I climb into the elevated cage again.
My opponent remains a mystery. Hopefully, my first match will be someone more like Dominic, the thought-to-be-extinct pig shifter, and less like Lyss.
The arachne shifter is . . . well, she’s a monster.
While I wouldn’t mind getting a beer with her, I’m in no hurry to have her sharp-ass legs poking holes in me again.
“Overthinking won’t help, My Truth.”
I roll my bottom lip between my teeth to bite back my retort. “I know,” I admit. At my side on the mat, Malach radiates heat. It’s a small comfort—at least I can still make him work up a sweat. I wish it weren’t so distracting.
The thing about Malach I had almost forgotten is his pragmatic bluntness. He doesn’t say things to get a rise out of me; he says them because he thinks they need to be said. And while he teases me sometimes, he’s never trying to piss me off.
It’s the difference between him and most Fringes supernaturals—that instinctive urge to prod, rile, and agitate. Some call it killer instinct; I think it’s more about testing limits: knowing how far you can push someone before they snap.
“I’m trying not to think at all,” I say.
Malach grunts. “The middle ground is the better place to make your stand.”
I yawn and nudge his shoulder with mine. “Do you think this even matters? If he wants me dead, which we know he does, he won’t give up.”
Dad’s burning eyes flash through my mind along with the familiar aura of rage that hovers around him. Sometimes dormant, it could activate over the slightest thing. There’s something in him that can’t be pacified, an evil that never fully goes away.
Back in the box. Put it back in the box, Celine.
“Don’t talk that way,” Malach says, rolling onto his side to face me. I feel his stare as intensely as if he were touching me. “You won’t give up either.”
“You’re right,” I whisper. “Because I can’t.”
It takes effort to peel my sore body off the mat, but I’m less winded by our training than I was at the start of the week. Even still, Malach is back on his feet before I am—proof that I’m not at the top of my game.
“We should work on your magic deflection strategies.”
I chuckle. “Dodge—that’s pretty much the whole strategy.”
He frowns. “You’re not without magic.”
“Yeah, but it would cause a scene. Making more enemies is the last thing we need. Especially if the enclave decides to come for me . . .”
Malach’s cheek twitches, and I shake my head. He may be grown up, but his tells are the same.
“Spit it out,” I drawl. “I’m not accepting half-truths in my inner circle right now.”
“That’s ironic,” Malach mutters.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I plant my hands on my hips and stare at his face. From the dimple in his chin to his messy curls, he looks more god-like than angelic. It’s not fair.
“This enclave,” he says. “You fear its judgment yet persist in lying to yourself about the demon. As you said, you only have time to face your real enemies. He will not turn you in. You pretend it’s a concern when you know it isn’t.”
“You’re way too confident for someone who hasn’t even met the guy,” I hiss.
“Ciprian is an expert at hiding his intentions. He ran circles around the rest of us, and we never even realized. The enclave may not care if we break petty laws, but killing a guard? If he tells his father, they’ll come for me. ”
Malach cocks his head. “I judged his intent—”
“Leave it alone. He’s a liar.” I raise my fists and drop into a fighting stance. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. We’re wasting time. Time we don’t have.”
“As this clearly upsets you, this is the last thing I’ll say—”
“It doesn’t—”
“Yes, it does. I only ask you to consider why you’re this angry with him. Is it because he withheld the full truth or because you weren’t smart enough to catch him doing it?”
I attack, hitting him with a flurry of punches.
Malach doesn’t have my strength, but he’s plenty strong on his own, strong enough that I don’t feel bad throwing haymakers his way, especially after that comment. He thinks this is about wounded pride? That’s bullshit.
Ciprian lied to me. Entered my home under false pretenses, tricked me into incriminating myself in a murder, and now he’s holding it over my head. It’s classic psychological warfare. Malach is na?ve.
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 it was working—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.”
Dominic blanches, going whiter than he did when I knocked him on his ass. For some reason I take pity on him. “Go with something on theme with what you are.”
He grunts, then grins, knocking his shoulder into mine in a move that’s supposed to be friendly but nearly knocks me flat. “Thanks.”
“Okay, time’s up,” Resker says. “Let’s hear them.” She looks first at Dominic, her lips twitching. “Something tells me this will be good.”
“Hell yeah.” He flexes one enormous arm and kisses the bulging muscle. “You can call me Tusker.”
Resker’s eyes dip closed. “Only if you absolutely insist. What about you, Lyss?”
“Well, I thought about Silka or Widowmaker, maybe even Chelicerae—for educational purposes, you know?”
“Less process more decision, please.” Resker sighs.
“The Recluse,” Lyss says proudly.
I give her a thumbs-up. It’s a strong name, and she’s got the skills to back it up.
Resker writes it down, then looks at the silent guy expectantly.
“Thorn,” he hisses in a voice that sounds like glass scraping against ice. I blink a few times. He’s a creepy guy. As for the name, it’s simple, and there’s nothing overtly embarrassing about it. Until I see him fight, I’m reserving judgment.
Resker turns to me last, assessing me with the same greedy eagerness from before. “What about you, angel?”
I’m expecting the nickname, but it still sets my teeth on edge.
Now that Alistair has shown it gets to him, I expect her to use it at every opportunity.
She’s carved out a solid place for herself in the Fringes, which tells me she knows how to use every piece of leverage she can get her hands on. I shouldn’t forget that.
“Verity,” I say, holding her stare with a “don’t fuck with me” look of my own. “You can call me Verity.”
“Okay, Verity—you’ll be fighting Thorn, and you’re up first.”