Page 22 of Reaper (Quincy Harker Demon Hunter #10)

I woke up in my room, with a massive headache, dry mouth, and as I looked in the mirror after grabbing a shower, a truly impressive array of bruises.

The best one was on my back, a perfect outline of a foot along my ribcage that hurt when I touched it, hurt when I moved, it hurt when I breathed.

Hell, it hurt when I thought too hard. I started getting dressed but stopped after my jeans to catch my breath. Broken ribs suck.

Are you okay? Becks asked. It feels like somebody kicked the shit out of you.

That’s because somebody kicked the shit out of me. I threw my last match, because I liked the guy, but halfway through giving him the win, I realized he was a goddamned faerie knight, and I was barely fifty-fifty to beat him on my best day.

So you let somebody kick your ass who could probably kick your ass anyway? That was dumb.

You’re not wrong, I replied. It wasn’t my best decision. And now it sounds like I’m going to pay for that bad decision. Gotta go, babe. I think I’m getting called to the principal’s office.

Love you, Becks said. Don’t do anything else stupid.

No promises. I tamped down our connection as the footsteps I heard outside my door slowed and Pete came in.

“The Boss wants to see you,” he said. He was back in Stern Pete mode, a face he’d been wearing most of the time since my fight in the cafeteria.

“I guess he’s not going to offer me a raise, huh?” I said, wincing as I pulled a shirt on.

“Not so much,” Pete said, gesturing for me to precede him out the door. “Are you healed?”

“No,” I replied. “Probably going to take a couple days. If I can stay out of trouble, I can use a spell or two to speed things up and be ready to go by the next fight.” Assuming there was a next fight.

I couldn’t be sure the Boss wasn’t going to toss me out right then, which would leave me with no more idea where the fight club was than I’d had at the beginning.

And with a busted rib and a shitload of bruises to go with my lack of anything useful.

I needed to stay inside, no matter what.

As long as my next fight wasn’t a death match, I was going to have to win it.

We stopped at a door I hadn’t seen before, about halfway between the arena and the mess hall. There were no signs anywhere, just a plain door with an unadorned brass knob. Pete knocked, and the Boss called out “Enter.”

Pete gestured at the door, and I went inside.

This was my first good look at the Boss, not that I had any illusions that he was actually in charge.

He was a manager, taking orders from whoever was really running the show, a guy who might show up for the big fights on Saturdays, if that.

But anything I learned from this douche would put me one step closer to the real boss.

I just had to convince him that I still wanted to fight, I just didn’t want to fight Tony.

He was a big guy, probably six-three or four, but it was hard to really tell with him sitting down.

Thickly muscled, with big hands that looked like they’d seen a fair bit of hard use.

He had short red hair, an almost military-tight buzz cut, and a long handlebar mustache.

Frankly, he looked a lot like an actor off The Walking Dead , but more muscular and with a soul patch.

He wore a polo shirt that was about one anabolic steroid away from splitting every seam, and he leaned on his elbows with a disapproving look on his face.

“Mr. James, what am I to do with you?” He had a little bit of a brogue, and I pegged him for first-generation Irishman. He’d been in America a while, but no more than twenty years. Probably came over as a teen, if I had to guess his age.

“Well, I’m shit at canasta, but I play a pretty mean game of checkers,” I replied. One of these days I will learn not to mouth off at the boss bad guy. Today obviously was not that day. I didn’t have high hopes for tomorrow, either.

To my surprise, he laughed. It wasn’t my worst effort, but usually the middle management villains are so hyped about keeping what little power they’ve managed to scrabble their way into that they can’t find the humor in anything but suffering.

This guy was either secure in his position, or had a shred of humanity left in him. I was putting my money on Column A.

“That’s pretty funny,” he said. “Have a seat. Water?” He held up a bottle.

“Sure,” I replied, then caught the bottle he tossed at me. I cracked the seal and took a long drink. “So…I lost.”

“You did.”

“Am I fired?”

“Not even a little bit.” Okay, that was off script.

I took a drink of my water and sat silently, waiting for him to explain.

He sat silently waiting for me to ask for an explanation.

The joke was very much on him. I’m over a century old, so I’ve built up a decent stock of patience, and I knew that I could literally sit in the office waiting for him to grow old and die without aging a day, so it was going to be his move, no matter if the power dynamic dictated that I be the one to ask for more information.

We played chicken for almost a full minute before he chuckled again and leaned back. “You’re never going to ask, are you?”

“Nope.”

“I like you, Murray James. You’re funny, you’re a good fighter, and you know how to play to the crowd. I think you’re hiding something, probably a lot of somethings, so I don’t trust you even a little bit, but I like you.”

“Well, since you’ve all been such founts of fucking information since I got here, I suppose it’s a little unfair that we haven’t braided each other’s hair while I told you about my favorite color and who in homeroom I have a crush on, but that’s just the way it goes sometimes,” I said.

“What do you want to know about our little operation?” he asked.

“Where the fuck am I, for one. Who’s really in charge, for another. And how can I get in a bet or two on myself, for a third,” I ticked my questions off on my fingers, expecting to have exactly none of those questions answered.

The Boss held up three fingers of his own, folding them down as he answered.

“You’re in the Colosseum, but you knew that already.

I’m in charge enough for you, and you’d better hope you never meet my boss, because he’ll scare the balls off a donkey just lookin’ at him, and fighters aren’t allowed to bet on their own fights until the higher tiers, and even then only on themselves, not their opponents, on account of we can’t have some asshole throwing a fight just because he thinks he’ll make more money losing than winning. Which brings us to today.”

“I didn’t bet on my fight,” I said.

“But you did throw your last fight.” There was no question in his voice, and I didn’t bother lying.

“Yeah, not that I needed to. Tony was just screwing around until he laid me out regardless. He was playing with his food. I couldn’t beat a faerie knight in single combat without at least a Desert Eagle, and only that if I had cold iron rounds.

” It stung a little to admit that, but even my ego has its limits.

Oberon’s knights were badass motherfuckers, and at full strength, I might be able to take one out, but not without depleting all my stored power and a little more besides.

“He was that, wasn’t he?” Boss chuckled.

“Still and all, I’m here to make fights, and to make interesting fights, and that show you two put on was boring as all fuck.

Because of you. Now, I’m not busting you down to Tier Two, because you’re too strong for that shite, and it would just make for another boring scrap.

You’re obviously here to climb the ladder and make some real money, so I’m giving you one more Tier Three fight.

But we’re going to add a little something to make it more interesting. This time, you fight two on one.”

I thought for a second about the guys I’d seen in the mess and did some mental calculus.

If I had my full strength, I could probably take out any two of them at once, as long as none of them were secretly super-warriors like Anthony.

Regular paras, used to winning through their strength, speed, and reflexes, are actually easy, if you know the limits of their abilities.

It’s the ones who pair all those physical advantages with training, like Anthony, who make life difficult.

“Okay, that sounds fine,” I said.

“Yeah, I thought you’d think that.” He pulled out a keyboard drawer and tapped on it.

I immediately felt my connection to Becks, and my magic, thin down to the barest sliver.

“That’s why I’m also throttling your magic.

You’re a lot more powerful than we thought based on your Tier One fight, so to keep it interesting, we’re going to send you in against a couple of Tier Three guys with just enough magic to keep you alive. ”

He leaned forward, all geniality gone from his face. “You fuck with my fights, you fuck with me. And trust me, Murray James, no matter how much of a funny fucker I find you to be, you do not want to fuck with me.”

I leaned forward, mirroring his posture, and stared deep into his eyes.

With my magic tamped down, I didn’t have to worry about my soulgaze frying his brain, so I could stare at him like a normal person.

“How many times did you have to practice saying ‘funny fucker’ before you could manage it without getting tongue-tied?”

His eyes widened, and after a second or two of frozen time, he burst out laughing.

“Oh, Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, you are a fucking riot , Murray. I hope they don’t break your jaw when they kick your ass, because god damn , you are hilarious!

Now get the fuck out of my office and get some time in the yard before Saturday.

Because I guarantee it’s going to be a fight, and an entertaining one as well.

Just…maybe not so entertaining for you.”