Page 29 of Reaper (Quincy Harker Demon Hunter #10)

S o am I in trouble again for cutting the shit out of Janik?

” I asked Pete when he came to escort me to breakfast. I was a little surprised to see him, as he’d mostly stopped playing babysitter a while back.

Now the only times he popped by my room was when I’d pissed off the Boss.

Which meant that I still saw him almost every day, given my typical behavior around authority figures.

“Nah, the healers fixed him up right after the fight,” Pete said. “I just wanted to give you the rules on Saturday Night’s fight. The Main Event runs a little different from all the other tiers.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, holding up a hand. “There are healers?”

Pete looked surprised that I didn’t know this. “Of course we have healers on hand. We can’t have our best fighters going down with an injury right before a big fight. That would hurt the bottom line.”

“So why the fuck did everybody get all bent out of shape when I fucked up the losers in the yard a few days ago? The way the Boss was acting, you’d have thought I tore up a picture of the Pope on live TV.”

Pete looked confused, and I was reminded how much older I was than everyone I knew except Luke.

I waved a hand in his direction. “Never mind. It’s a pop culture reference from before you were born.

But what the fuck, man? Why did I catch so much shit for hurting those assholes if there are healers right here in the building? ”

Pete looked at me like I was being particularly dense.

“The healers are for top-level fighters. We don’t want to waste their energy on the lower- and mid-tier guys.

We try to save them for when a big draw gets hurt, like Janik.

If he bleeds out, then we’re short a Tier Four fighter, which means less money wagered, and maybe even fewer tickets sold.

That costs the Boss real money. Some Tier Two dipshit picks a fight he can’t win, gets his guts strewn all over the Colosseum, and nobody gives a shit, because he hasn’t had time to build a fanbase.

It’s just like real life, Murray. The stars get all the perks, and the schlubs get the shit. ”

“So what about you, Pete?” I asked, thinking this might be my opening. “Are you a star or a schlub?” I figured if I could get Pete to break ranks with the Boss, even once in a private conversation, I might have a better chance of flipping him to my side and getting some real information out of him.

He just grinned at me. “Neither. I’m one of the smart ones. I don’t fight, and I don’t bet on the fights. I just do my job, collect my pay, and stay the fuck out of the arena.”

I shook my head, a little disgusted. “Like a drug dealer that doesn’t ever sample his own product, just gets everybody in the neighborhood hooked then profits off them.”

Pete didn’t catch the insult for what it was.

“Exactly, my friend. Exactly.” He walked over to sit on my bed, since I was currently parked in the room’s only chair.

Tier Four got me a swanky room, but it was still a glorified cell.

A cell with a nice bed, jacuzzi tub, and a bigger TV than I had in my own apartment, but a cell nonetheless.

And I still had that fucking collar around my neck, with an explosive charge tucked right against the base of my skull.

I’ve survived a lot in my time, including actually being dead once, but I had my doubts about coming back from a grenade exploding right against my medulla oblongata.

Pete sat cross-legged on my bed and clicked off the TV to make sure he had my full attention.

“Here’s the deal with the Main Event. It’s a fight to the death or to incapacitation.

And this time we mean serious incapacitation, the kind your opponent isn’t coming back from without major healing magic. ”

“So basically to the death,” I said.

Pete smiled a sheepish smile. “Yeah, it’s a fight to the death. I just don’t usually say that part out loud in case someone gets squeamish.”

“I’ve been cage fighting against monsters for two weeks so a bunch of rich assholes can get richer while we bleed. I think squeamish went out the window after my second bout,” I replied.

“Fair enough. So yeah, you’re fighting to the death, and you know your opponent—Eleanor.

She’s the closest thing we’ve had to a Grand Champion in a couple years, so the betting is heavy.

If you want to place a wager on yourself, the odds are really heavy on the opposite side, so your payoff would be massive.

” He sat back and looked at me, grinning.

“And if I lose, I’ll be dead, so it’s not like I can bet on Eleanor and collect, huh?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“How much cash do I have in my account?” I asked, more out of a desire to see what they had in the coffers at this joint than any interest in placing a wager.

I was pretty sure I could take out one vampire, even one as skilled and powerful as Eleanor, but I didn’t need the money.

I invested wisely in my first century, and I’ve mooched off Luke for decades, so I’m pretty well set for dough.

“You got ten grand for winning the Contender’s Battle Royal, plus two grand for winning the Tier Three fight before that, plus a grand for Tier Two, and five hundred for Tier One.

You got docked two grand for losing your first Tier Three fight, but you won that back by beating two fighters in the makeup bout.

So you have…” He counted on his fingers for a second, then beamed at me as he said, “Thirteen thousand, five hundred dollars that you can wager on yourself.”

“That Battle Royal paid out ten grand?” I asked, a little stunned. There must have been a lot of money moving around this place.

“It counted as two Tier Four fights, and those pay five thousand to the winner, so it was worth ten.”

“And what are the odds on my fight? I assume they’re pretty heavy in Eleanor’s favor.”

“Oh, yeah,” Pete said. “The odds right now are plus one thousand for you to win.” Yeah, I was a massive underdog.

If they ran their shit like a legit sportsbook, and it seemed like they were, that meant that if I bet a hundred bucks on myself, I’d get back a thousand. So basically a ten-to-one payout.

“Okay,” I said. “Bet it all on myself.”

“All of it?” Pete looked surprised.

“Why wouldn’t I?” I asked. “If I lose, I’m dead, so there’s no point in saving anything. I doubt you guys will be looking for my next of kin to give them the money left over in my underground fight club account after you bury me in a shallow grave somewhere.”

Pete nodded. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

I continued. “And if I win, I get a hundred thirty grand and change to keep betting on myself until you figure out a way to kill me off or I retire as champ, right?”

He looked uncomfortable at me pointing out that I knew the deck was stacked, but finally answered. “Yeah, pretty much. Like I said, I’ve never seen anybody walk out of here as a Grand Champion.”

“And I don’t just get to randomly retire after tomorrow night, even if I win, do I?

That’s all bullshit, right?” I remembered some line about walking away after a couple big wins, but I could still feel the collar around my neck and was pretty sure that if I tried to take early retirement, the Boss or his real boss would go all Suicide Squad on me in a heartbeat.

Pete wouldn’t look me in the eye, which told me a couple things.

One, that he knew I was right, and two, that there might still be a decent person in there.

Maybe I did have a chance at flipping him to my side and helping me shut this whole shitshow down.

“No, you don’t. If you beat Eleanor, the Boss is going to keep you here until you lose.

After a couple Tier Five fights, there’s just too much money to pay out if you walk away, so nobody gets to walk away. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry for me, pal,” I said, standing up and cracking my knuckles. “Feel sorry for Eleanor and the next four assholes I have to beat to get out of here. Now let’s go get some breakfast. Daddy needs bacon.”