Chapter Eight
Rook’s club smelled even worse when it was full of sweaty lowlifes gambling their money away.
I wore the only pair of jeans I owned and a white undershirt that made me feel naked in the crowded room.
The first fight was half over when I placed a bet at the counter on Paris’s opponent and used my real name.
I wanted to make sure Rook knew I was here tonight.
I coughed on cigarette smoke as I ordered a beer from the bar to keep up appearances, but when I tipped it back to see if my aversion to the drink had changed in the last ten years, I nearly spat it back into the bottle.
Someone bumped into me and splattered some of it on my collar. They didn’t apologize.
Anticipating standing room only for Paris’s fight, I moved down the bleachers toward the cage, where I could get a good view of what was going on inside it.
I arrived just in time to see a man fall, knocked unconscious and covered in blood when the man he fought landed a powerful punch to his face.
A group of Rook’s workers entered the cage to remove him while the winner leaned against the metal mesh and chugged down a bottle of water, his chest heaving.
But I wasn’t interested in that as I glanced at the weapons table pushed against one side of the cage.
I scanned the array of items available to the fighters and noted that there were no knives present.
It was doubtful that anyone else had noticed.
They were too busy watching the violence unfold in front of them.
Once the previous fighters left—or were dragged from—the cage, a different set of men came to tidy up and used magic to remove the blood that stained damp patches on the dirt floor. Ten minutes later, a voice boomed over the speakers.
“You’ve seen him in the cage before…” He spent the next two minutes amping up the crowd, working them into a frenzy.
The man who entered the ring was surprisingly small, much shorter than the previous fighters who were built like mountains and oozed rage from their pores.
He entered the ring with unnerving calm and the kind of smugness that comes from many victories.
Idiot. If there was one thing I had learned from my business, it was never to feel so victorious as to let one’s guard down.
Sweat already shone on his bald head in the heat of the club.
His unfazed demeanor did not stop half the crowd from roaring, stomping, and cheering his name.
His opponent received the other half of the spectators’ appreciation.
The announcer said he was a promising newcomer, to which he responded by letting pillars of flame burst from his hands and scald the ceiling, which raised a second wave of shouts.
It did not rattle the first man who approached until they met in the middle of the room.
And then the fight began.
There was no hesitation, no test. The two men came at each other, fists and magic flying.
Their magic seemed basic, all elemental things magicians learn as children—fire, water, air, earth.
Nothing impressive. When they failed to do more than scorch and drench each other, the smaller man turned to the weapons table and wrapped his hands around a scarred baseball bat.
He swung at his opponent, who dodged and kicked the other man’s legs from beneath him.
He fell to the ground and rolled, clutching the bat fast to his chest, refusing to drop it.
Rising to his knees, he swung hard at the other man’s legs and bought himself time to stand as his opponent bellowed and collapsed hard under the weight of his own bulk.
He brought the bat down on the man’s back—once, twice, thrice. The man did not get up.
Another win to feed his false sense of security.
The crowd booed at the brief fight, and the half who had bet on him settled into their seats with crossed arms and palpable disappointment.
The winner raised his arms once and turned in place before he walked out of the cage mostly unharmed.
The same cleanup crew removed the loser and prepped the cage for the next fight.
I focused on the ones who neared the weapons table, but they were too fast and efficient for me to see what was happening.
Most of them wore gloves. I suppose it kept blood and saliva and whatever else off their skin.
There it was, though. When they exited the cage, a single knife caught the light among the weapons. The crowd around me shuffled, completely oblivious as anticipation buzzed through the room like an electrical pulse.
“And now,” the announcer declared, “tonight’s main event!”
Two fighters entered the ring one after the other. They were roughly the same height and weight, both shirtless and muscular. One had long black hair pulled into a knot on top of his head. The other had a long scar through one milky eye.
They squared up on either side of the cage, and the scarred one glared with his one good eye.
“You’ve seen them in the cage before, but their last fight took an eye, and I think the loser might be back for blood tonight! Lee ‘The Death Dealer’ Paris versus Jacob ‘The Eye of the Storm’ Dodds!”
Every single person in the room, aside from me, roared.
The building shook with shouts, stomps, and clapping hands.
I was too busy watching the fighters circle one another, showing off more than the previous competitors and riling up their fans.
I cataloged each pass Paris made near the weapons table.
He was subtle, but I noticed him take stock of his choices.
A bell rang and Dodds launched himself at Paris.
No punches, no playing around, just straight to the floor with bruising force that knocked all the breath from Paris’s lungs.
They grappled for a few minutes, passing the upper hand back and forth with neither of them gaining the advantage.
Tired of rolling around with him, Paris shoved his knee into Dodds’s stomach and sprang to his feet.
Dodds was only half a second behind him, finding his footing with the grace of a dancer.
He closed the gap between them and punched low and close to Paris’s frame—stomach, ribs, back.
Places that would leave pain for the next few days, if Paris had days left to feel it.
He tried to break away from the assault and finally escaped with a somersault across the dirty floor.
He stood next to the weapons table, hand whipping out to grasp the handle of the hunting knife laid out among other choices. Gray was right…and so were the spirits.
The moment he tightened his grip on the weapon, his eyes lost focus. His head swiveled from side to side across the arena, and he collapsed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
The crowd exploded, then fell eerily quiet as they noticed the blood, the complete lack of movement or breath.
A dead Death Dealer ruined in front of them—not the entertainment they came for.
They’d still talk about it for days, and the ones who were gluttonous for violence would come back and bet double on Dodds the next time.
I laughed, imagining Rook trying to piece together what happened as I slunk out of the building.
***
For the next four days, I slept harder than the dead.
I even took Sunday off. They say self-care is important, right?
All was quiet from Rook until my phone buzzed with a text message in the middle of the night as I soaked in the massive jacuzzi tub in my bathroom.
I picked up the phone, somehow knowing it was him before I even opened it.
Rook: I know it was you.
What was me?
I lay back against the edge of the tub, the glow of my phone illuminating a rare grin.
Rook: Don’t fuck with me.
How good does that kiss taste now?
Rook: I’m going to fucking kill you.
And then, a second text right away.
Rook: And you were the one who kissed me, England. Enjoy the time you have left.
I set my phone aside, completely unbothered by his threats. Let him stew in his defeat. Maybe he’d shut his gaping mouth for once now that he’d lost the star of his show.
Without Rook bothering me all the time and taking up too much space in my head, I could return to business and spend more time on my extracurricular research. I’d gotten payback, and I’d cured my ridiculous obsession.
That was my fatal mistake. Like the fighter at Rook’s club, I let my guard down—just this once—so sure that I had won.
***
On Thursdays, Gray oversaw tasks at the warehouse that provided space for most of my black market business dealings. Rare spells, cursed objects, banned books, and exotic antiques filled the building, and he was in charge of inventory and preparing for transactions over the weekend.
It was my night to check in at my nightclub, Avalon, which was never too busy midweek.
The crowd was a mix of humans and magicians, and I sat down at the bar entirely sober to watch them mingle.
I had a rule about never drinking at my own bar.
Most of the humans were unaware they were in supernatural company, but observing them with sober clarity still gave me a good idea of how business was going.
They danced under colorful lights and the enormous, sparkling chandelier that reflected them around the room. Half of them were on drugs that my people manufactured, although usually only the humans partook. Most magicians were unwilling to risk the unpredictable effects drugs had on their magic.
Danny was the only bartender tonight. I didn’t interact with him regularly—Gray did all the hiring for Avalon—but I knew the names of everyone who worked for me.
He nodded respectfully as he passed by me at the bar, knowing better than to offer me a drink.
Tonight, I contemplated one, just to celebrate my victory over Rook, but changed my mind.
Now that he was out of the way, my to-do list had shifted instead of getting shorter.
My priorities were tracking down and neutralizing whoever killed Pope and Blackwell and spending my slim windows of spare time on Project Mori.
You’re being watched. Six o’clock.
The spirit’s voice whispered in my ear. I made no hurry to turn around, but rotated with deliberate slowness on my barstool.
I leaned back against the counter on my elbows and scanned the room, searching for the person who was out of place.
They weren’t difficult to find, considering they’d broken Avalon’s dress code with their ripped jeans and blue hoodie, which meant they didn’t come through the front door past the bouncers.
I couldn’t make out their face under the hood before they noticed me watching and backed away toward the lavatory.
I rose from my seat and straightened my tie.
With two fingers, I motioned Danny over and asked him to alert security to our guest. I crossed the dance floor, people parting for me without really knowing why, but the man in the hoodie didn’t run off.
He stood in the shadows and stared at me with an inadequate amount of fear.
I was halfway across the room when the lights caught his blue eyes.
I moved faster as he raised a hand and a groan sounded above me.
I wasn’t fast enough. A tinkling rattled overhead, then the severing of metal.
I jumped forward as the chandelier crashed down on the dance floor, glass blasting in every direction.
I slid across the polished floor on my stomach and shards sprayed over the back of my pant legs.
The patrons of the club screamed, scattering away from the disaster.
I lifted my head in time to see Rook smirk at me from across the room. He waved and then turned again.
I scrambled to my feet, shouting at the nearest security guard to take care of the dancers instead of dealing with the intruder.
Rook was mine. I ran after him, leaving a trail of glass as it rained off the fabric of my clothes.
I burst through the metal back door and blasted a gust of wind that knocked him off his feet.
He skidded across the pavement, and when he stood, there was a hole in one knee of his jeans, leaking blood onto the denim.
He erected a shield around himself to stop the fire that came next as I attempted to incinerate him. When he lowered it, he shot back a curse I hadn’t expected, and I barely dodged it in time.
“I’m going to kill you!” I seethed, stalking forward until his back hit the bricks of the adjacent building.
He chuckled and clocked me in the jaw. My head snapped sideways and I lost my balance. “You already fucked that up the first time, so I doubt it.”
I steadied my footing and swung back at him, but he blocked my fist halfway to his face, gripping it in his hand, his fingers locking around my knuckles.
He spun me around so that my back was to him and locked his arm around my throat.
As he pulled me against him, I realized for the first time that I was an inch or two taller.
“Do you have any idea how much money you cost me?” He squeezed the crook of his arm against my windpipe and my neck bent at an uncomfortable angle. His breath was hot against the side of my face.
“You almost killed me tonight,” I gritted out through the strain on my throat. I clawed at his forearm.
“You weren’t actually going to die,” he said. “Stop being so dramatic.”
I stopped struggling against him, and he loosened his hold.
“That’s how it works, right?” He let go and shoved me away from him. I turned, glaring and smoothing my rumpled jacket. “You can’t die, can you?”
“It’s not that simple, and it costs me.”
“Costs you what?”
This? This was too dangerous. He could kill me, kiss me, fuck with me however he wanted, but he could never know the truth.
Which meant this time I had to end him.
The curse hummed in my palm, where my arm hung limply at my side, and I wondered vaguely why I hesitated. Rook’s eyes flicked to it, and he took a step forward.
“You won’t.”
“Why not?”
He stepped toe-to-toe with me and wrapped his strong hand around my wrist. The dark magic fizzled out. “Because you’re still thinking about that kiss. But Austin?”
“What?” This close, I could smell citrus again.
He tightened his hand and wrenched my wrist at an unnatural angle. Bones snapped.
“Don’t fuck with my business again,” he growled when my scream died off.
He turned and walked away—walked, not ran—with his back to me. He no longer thought I was a threat.