Chapter 35
THIRTY-FIVE
Expect pain.
CELINE
I slide into my padded wraps, flexing my knuckles against the jelly-lined fabric.
Black and designed to look like leather, they’re more a part of my outfit than actual protection.
With opponents who attack with magic or fangs, getting out of the way is usually a better strategy than trying to block.
My itch is acting up tonight.
“You good?” Lyss asks, standing on her tiptoes to reach her locker.
Hiding a smile, I reach over her and grab the black tank top she’s trying and failing to get down. “We need to get you a stool.”
Lyss gasps, snatching the shirt from me and clutching it to her chest. “And ruin my street cred? You wouldn’t dare.”
“Please.” Dom winces while awkwardly attempting to wrap gauze around his ribs. “If you keep poking holes in everyone you fight, I don’t think anyone will say shit about a boost.”
Lyss pulls the tank top over her head, her voice muffled by the fabric. “How’s your spleen?”
Dom shrugs. “Which one, bitch? You tore it in half. Math logic says I have two now.”
“Math logic,” I snort. “Otherwise known as my favorite subject in school.”
Dom tosses a playful punch at my shoulder. Their fight last week was grisly. Like, Resker called a pause afterward so someone could mop up the blood, grisly. I can’t believe Dom is planning to get back in the cage already.
“Is it safe for you to shift before it’s fully healed?” I ask him, curious about how that will affect the process.
“Trying to uncover my secrets, Verity?”
I roll my eyes but move to his side to help him secure his bandage. He grunts his thanks, and a handful of Ciprian’s silly nicknames for him run through my head.
“Never,” I tease. “I wouldn’t dare risk the wrath of the Hogfather.”
He groans, and my lips twitch.
“Resker still won’t let you change it?”
“She said I had my chance, wasted it, and I’ll be Tusker until I die.”
That sounds like a threat. Grateful that I’m standing behind him, I grin as I imagine Dom trailing after the terrifying woman and begging to change his stage name. I bet her entire body became a scowl.
“She could change her mind.” I toss in the conditional to avoid an outright lie and pat him on the back.
Dom cranes his neck, hope transforming his square features into an almost boyish expression. “You think so?”
I nod, accepting the punishing sting of the nonverbal lie. There’s no chance in the many fucked-up realms that Resker would walk back a decision. That would make her look weak, at least in her mind, but I can’t tell Dom that . . . the poor guy has two spleens.
Lyss peeks under Dom’s gauze and sighs with relief. “It’s not infected. That’s good.”
Dom and I exchange a glance. “Did you poke me with poisonous toes, eight legs?”
She shakes her head, then buries her head in my empty locker . . . the only one she can reach. I raise my eyebrows. Lyss is a terrible liar. Poisoned legs would explain why I had such a hard time healing from her attack during our audition fight. Good to know.
I survey the locker room, taking it in. Most of the fighters are focused on themselves, with only a few clustered in groups like ours. To my surprise, Dom and Lyss were determined to befriend me. Even more surprising, I don’t hate it.
“Double-check the board,” Resker shouts, poking her head through the door and smacking the flat of her hand against the wall to make sure she has everyone’s attention. “The first fight starts in five.”
The energy in the room swells with a contagious combination of adrenaline, excitement, and fear. Add in the hodgepodge of supernatural essences mixed with sweat and blood, and breathing through your nose is a risk.
“Good luck,” I tell Lyss and Dom.
They’re both fighting early, but my name is last on the lineup next to ‘special guest.’ That tells me absolutely nothing except that I should be ready for anything. Casually, I scrape my itching back against the ribbed locker vents and hope no one notices.
“Make me sin!”
“Make me sin!”
“Make me sin!”
“Make me sin!”
My heart beats in time with the chanting crowd, and I focus on regulating my breathing as I duck through the tunnel.
Left foot. Inhale. “Make”—Right foot. Exhale—“Me”—I grind to a halt as the itch spreads from my spine to my fingertips—“Sin.” Air catches in my throat.
Something is wrong. Very wrong.
I glance behind me, but besides the light from the locker room, I can’t see much. No way but forward, Celine. I force myself to keep moving toward the cage. If something bad is waiting for me out there, I’ll face it head-on with my eyes wide open.
“We’ve got a show for you tonight, folks. Verity—your favorite fighting angel—will take on a very special guest . . . the one, the only . . . Secooooond Cominnnnng!”
I reach the end of the tunnel and drop to the floor of the cage, ignoring the screaming fans and skipping my normal hype lap. Resker will be pissed, but something about the special guest’s fighter name is setting off all the alarm bells in my head. Who the fuck is this asshole?
The side entrance opens to thick, black smoke. It swirls around a pair of sturdy shit-kicking boots planted in a wide stance. As I drag my eyes up the body they’re attached to, I curse the damn smoke. I can’t get a good look.
The fighter takes three slow, measured steps forward.
His face appears under the lights, hulking and familiar.
I freeze, hands clenching and unclenching at my sides.
It can’t be. I ground him to bits and buried him and his shit across multiple dumpsters.
There’s absolutely no fucking way that Roscoe Daemyn—enclave enforcer, bad tipper, and all-around son of a bitch—is facing off against me in the ring right now.
There’s roaring in my ears. I can’t tell if it’s the crowd or the tsunami of blood crashing around in my head as it tries to reconcile what I know to be true with what my eyes are telling me.
The roaring changes to ringing—no, fuck, that’s the actual bell.
The fight is starting.
I lift my hands into a relaxed, guarded position. Second Coming matches the move. Exactly. Hands curled and hovering loosely in front of his chest. It’s a common guard, but something tells me it’s not a coincidence.
I lift my right pinky to test him.
Raising one thick, bushy eyebrow, he lifts his middle finger instead.
The crowd eats it up, no spoon required.
My anger comes as a relief, mercifully chasing away the shaky fear that swamped me when I saw his face. I don’t know who or what Second Coming really is. They can’t be Roscoe, though. They’re someone else—something worse, wearing his punchable face like a mask.
I circle cautiously. Someone is trying to play god with my past. This reappearance is going to stir up rumors and put Ciprian at risk for covering up Roscoe’s death.
His fist slams into my jaw without warning, and I see stars. Instinctively, I retreat, protecting my face with my forearms as my vision jitters in and out of focus. He’s strong. Ravoc demon strong, according to Ciprian’s demonic explainer, but he’s not angel strong.
I let the pain focus me and remind myself that I’m undefeated for a reason.
This is my fight to lose.
Advancing, I throw a punch, then duck as he throws the move back at me. Jab, cross, two right hooks while driving my back foot into the cage floor for extra power—a sweep with my right leg—feint, an uppercut at half-strength.
Twisting in the air as a distraction, I hurl my left elbow toward his face.
The sequence is flawless, creative, and lightning fast; and I know without Malach having to tell me it’s also some of the best fighting I’ve ever done.
There’s only one problem: none of my hits land.
Second Coming counters every single one, moving with none of the clumsy, lumbering strength I remember from Roscoe’s assault. It’s another confirmation that I’m dealing with something new, something other.
His next move breaks my rhythm, and I barely manage to dodge the haymaker in time. His knuckles graze the side of my braid, barely missing my face. I counter, hoping the power of the punch left him off balance. It didn’t. He leaps over my sweeping leg like he’s jumping rope on the playground.
Stumped and a little shaken, I run through my standard moves to see how he reacts. He mirrors each one, reacting only a fraction of a second behind me each time. It’s like facing a bigger, uglier version of myself, and I’m fucking over it.
This is the Fringes; it’s time to fight dirty.
I throw a knockout punch with my left fist while aiming a dropkick at his balls. Even though I know it’s coming, I barely duck his mirrored hook in time.
Our feet collide with an agonizing crack, and pain radiates from the ball of my foot to my knee. I absorb the shock and shift my weight to my other leg. It fucking hurts. I’m not sure if it’s broken, but something isn’t right.
Roscoe’s lookalike face ripples before locking on the angry expression I remember from the Fang. He shows no sign of pain, but he took the same impact I did—it must have done something. Please have done something.
Gingerly, I try putting weight on my injured foot. Pain shoots up from the heel before settling at a mid-level throb. Okay, that’s fine. I can do this. I can still beat him. I just can’t wear him out by running circles around him.
The itch, barely noticeable over my pain and adrenaline, skyrockets as Second Coming strikes again. Dropping into a squat, I release my wings and use my good foot to power my launch. That should get me airborne and give me time to—
Fingers, meaty and made to crush, close around my ankle. Shit.
He hurls me to the floor of the cage, and I block everything out. The pain, the crowd, my body’s instinct to panic—they’re not going to help me survive this fight.
Creative. Be creative, Celine. Malach’s voice echoes inside my head, but I’m out of ideas. Second Coming anticipates my every move.