Page 243

Darien pulled his hoodie over his head and set it on the bench beside him, leaving him in a white long-sleeve, jeans, and boots. He pushed himself to his feet and strode across the room, cold puddles of water from the shower stalls splashing the hems of his pants.

He slowed his pace as he passed what was left of the mirrors over the sinks, the mosaic of shattered glass shining on the counter and tile flooring. He’d needed to re-wrap his hands with fresh gauze after that little outburst, and his knuckles still stung from the shards that had bit into his skin. So many tiny flecks of glass embedded in his flesh that he hadn’t bothered to dig out.

“You okay?” the Butcher asked. Darien didn’t have to look to know the warlock was staring at the mess of reflective glass. If he was pissed about it, he didn’t say anything. “I mean, aside from your usual demons.”

Darien tore his attention from the blood-spattered shards to find Casen studying him intently. “Never better.”

The Butcher held the door open for him, and together they began the long trek down the dingy hallway, the bars of fluorescent lights droning and flickering. Beneath these lights, everything was cast in a ghostly shade of blue that felt like being trapped in a fever dream.

“How’s that girl of yours doing, anyway?” Casen asked, his boots pounding out a tune separate from Darien’s. The question made Darien tense, lungs shrivelling beneath the squeezing of an invisible fist. The Butcher prompted, “She still around?” For someone who seemed so aloof and disinterested in the affairs of others, the Butcher sure had a way of digging right to the root of a person’s problems, as if the thing that was eating at them couldn’t be more obvious if it punched him in the face.

Darien shifted his shoulders and drew a breath. “She’s around.” He felt Casen’s eyes flick in his direction. Darien kept his focus on the hallway stretching before him, the noise of the crowd surrounding the Chopping Block swelling to a roar.

“Alright, then.” The Butcher cleared his throat. “Look, I never thought I’d say this, but if you can’t catch a break after this fight, maybe you should take up therapy.” A throaty laugh filled the hallway. He shook his head, hair swaying. “Fuck, therapy… I remember my days of that preachy garbage all too well. I was a lost cause.” His dark eyes flicked to Darien again. “But maybe you’re not. You ever been to see those Aura Healers at the General?”

Darien rolled his shoulders. “Tried them.”

“What about those Caliginous Chambers?”

“I would, if I didn’t have to go all the way to Yveswich. My cousin Roman uses them, and they work pretty well for him.” Darien pushed his hair back with a sigh. “I’ve tried top doctors and therapists, every kooky bullshit remedy in the book.” He squeezed his fingers into fists, the wounds in his knuckles splitting back open, fresh blood seeping into the gauze. “Nothing works. At least not for long.” His next words slipped out before he could stop them. “Maybe I’m cursed.”

“You’re not cursed, Cassel. You’re just a little fucked up.” He bumped Darien in the shoulder with a fist. “But aren’t we all?”

They rounded the corner that led to the arena, the caged octagon platform stretching before him. When he thought back to the first time he’d fought here, forced to settle a debt his sister owed the Butcher, it seemed like a millennia ago. There were days when he wished he could go back to that night, back to a time when he was still chasing after Loren instead of worrying about losing her. Back when he wasn’t lucky enough to know what it felt like to have her. To love her.

Ten minutes, and all the fighters were in the ring. One of the bouncers closed the door of the cage, locking them inside. A thick layer of magic rippled over it, barely visible to the naked eye. No one was allowed in, and no one was allowed out. Some had tried to escape in the past, regretting their decision to fight—Darien had seen it happen a couple times himself—but there was no getting out once you were in. You either won by whatever means necessary, or you died.

Darien waited for the match to start, leaning back against the metal, arms crossed. Two of the workers were talking just outside the ring.

“It’s going to be good, I’m telling you,” the one was saying. “I hope you didn’t bet on any of them because this thing is going to rip them apart.” A delighted chuckle followed the man’s words.

“What kind of demon is it?” asked the other.

The guy wheezed another laugh. “That’s the best part.” He clapped his hands together, rubbing them vigorously. “Nobody knows.”

Darien stiffened. Sound ceased and then sharpened, louder than before. Uneasiness pooled in his stomach as he pushed away from the metal and turned around. He looped his fingers through the latticework of the cage, feeling the spellwork slide over his skin like the touch of a ghost. He strained to hear the rest of what the men—both of them warlocks—were saying as the crowd began to cheer and stamp their feet.

“It’s bigger than a bear. Skin white as bone. No eyes.”

No eyes. Darien felt the blood drain from his face, dripping right down to his feet that were suddenly weightless.

The man went on, “Reeks like a corpse, this thing. Don’t let its size fool you; it’s faster than a werewolf and a hellseher combined.”

“HEY!” Darien banged a fist on the cage, ignoring the zing of the magic digging into the marrow in his bones. One of the men looked his way, followed by the other, both appearing miffed at the interruption. Darien shouted, “The hell did you just say?”

The men shared a smirk. The one who’d provided the information about the demon offered Darien a greasy smile. “I hope you enjoyed your last day alive, Cassel.” He gave a taunting wave of his filthy fingertips. “It’s been fun, but it’ll be more fun watching you get disemboweled.”

This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t possible—

“This demon,” Darien gritted out, his breaths coming in laboured gasps between clenched teeth. “Where’d they find it?”

The buzzer sounded, and the crowd exploded into ear-splitting cheers as the ring announcer shouted into a megaphone, welcoming the audience to tonight’s show.

The warlock walked up to the cage, close enough that Darien could just barely hear him over the booming voice of the ring announcer going over tonight’s performance. Fanning a stack of bills in his face, the man drawled, “I’m betting on the demon.” He leaned in close, so close that Darien could smell his breath, and hissed, “Welcome to hell.”

Darien’s fingers curled into the metal, gripping it tight. With a roar of anger, he shook the cage, the whole thing banging with the force. The man stumbled away from the magic that crackled in defiance, searing the air, and disappeared into the crowd.

That tightness in Darien’s chest turned into a spear of pain. It drove right through his heart, squishing the oxygen out of his lungs. The floor beneath his feet dipped, and the sounds of the crowd became a muted hum as a ringing began, deep in his ears.