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Regardless, the warlock took his chances and swung?—

Darien evaded his fist with ease, then delivered a few punches of his own, alternating hands. On the third strike, the man crashed against the cage wall and fell. Darien threw himself on top of him and laid into his face with bloody knuckles?—

He blacked out. When he came back to himself, it was to the ear-splitting squall of a bullhorn and the wild screaming of a blood-hungry audience.

The ring announcer jumped into the cage. As Darien got to his feet, the announcer grabbed his wrist and thrust his hand skyward, declaring him victor to a crowd that roared and stamped their feet.

Darien ripped his arm free and climbed out of the cage.

About an hour later,Darien wrapped a towel around his waist and pushed the stained shower curtain aside, the metal rings screeching across the rusty pole.

The moment the group of men gossiping in the change room caught sight of him stepping out of the shower stall, they fell silent. One of them coughed. Another cleared his throat.

Darien was well aware that he was the topic of their conversation. He’d heard them yapping while he showered, their voices muffled by the stream of the scalding hot water as he’d scrubbed off all the gore. Apparently, they had not expected him to be in here.

“You got something to say,” he began, voice echoing in the sudden quiet as he crossed the drafty room that stank of sweat and mildew, “say it to my face.”

No one spoke.

Water rolled down his back and dripped off his hair as he sauntered to where he’d left his duffel bag on the bench and pulled out a set of clean clothes.

The men—all of them—grabbed their shit and left.

He got dressed, stuffed his bloody clothes into a garbage bag, then sat on the bench and pushed his feet into his boots. He’d just finished lacing them up when he heard a sound.

Gunshots—rapid-fire gunshots popping through the building.

Upstairs, people screamed.

Footsteps thundered.

More gunshots.

Muffled shouting. Someone was barking orders, but the voices were too far away to make out what they were saying.

The door banged open. The Butcher rushed in, pale-faced and panting.

Darien shot to his feet. “Hell’s going on?”

“Cops,” Casen gasped. “They’re raiding the place. Hurry—you gotta go before they see you?—”

“What about you?” Quickly, he slung the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. “You can’t stay here, either—they’ll arrest you.”

“I’m going Below,” he panted. “They can’t catch me there. Follow me.”

He grabbed the rest of his things and left the change room. The Butcher led the way, down blue-lit hallways and around corners, until they reached a row of attached lockers pressed up against the wall.

He grabbed onto an edge and pulled. Metal scraped across the floor as he hauled the lockers away from the wall, exposing a squat doorway that had been cut into the concrete behind it. “Get in.”

Darien squished behind the lockers and bent down far enough to see inside.

It was an old sewer tunnel. The waterway was dried up, the smooth stones of the arched walls shining like emeralds in the mercury vapor lantern-light.

He ducked inside.

“This’ll take you out by the river overpass,” Casen said, his words echoing in the dank space. “Don’t come back to the market until you get the okay from me.”

Before Darien had a chance to reply, he was pushing the lockers against the wall and sealing him inside the tunnel.