Page 17 of Taste of Blood

“Cord,” he greets, pen poised above his clipboard. “Fighting or spectating?”

I look around at the few suited businessmen occupying the seats outside the cage. How some people can get their fix just watching escapes me. “What do you think?”

He shrugs. “I have to ask.”

“Fighting.”

He enters my name on the list. “When’s the last time you fed?”

“Last night.” I know the rules. No one fights hungry, and the club provides donors for aftercare, though I know for a fact that half of them are junkies who are rounded up in the streets with the promise of a few bucks and a fix. They don’t worry about them talking because they’re usually stoned out of their minds.

“You’re in luck. There’s an opening in the next round.”

So much the better. I nod to him and make my way to the corner where the lockers are located and claim an empty one, tossing my keys, wallet, jacket, and shirt inside.

“Cord. Ready to get your ass kicked?”

I turn and face a thick Asian man with a shock of spiked white hair and a face only a mother could love. I know him as an enforcer for one of the lesser bosses, Broward. Hits hard and has no pain threshold. This should be fun.

“Deetz. Feeling lucky today?”

“I am now.”

“Bring it on, asshole.”

The attendant announces us as the bell rings, indicating we should make our way into the cage. We go to our respective corners to wait. There’s no need for anyone to tell us the rules because there are none. When you can’t actually die from your wounds there’s no need to worry about the outcome. It’s no holds barred for five minutes per round. And we get two of them. What could be better?

I can feel the bloodlust rolling off the men watching as they surge forward. Money changes hands as the bets are made before the cage door is shut.

The bell rings and the two of us converge in the middle of the ring. Deetz swings first, connecting with my jaw. I shake my head and grin at him before returning the favor. So much for the feeling out process.

The next five minutes is a flurry of punches, kicks, and bites. Both of us have gone down at least once and bounced back up for more. I can taste my own blood in the back of my throat and swallow it greedily. My fists are bloodied and raw, and one eye is swollen nearly shut, but I’m in my element. This is just what the doctor ordered. No thinking, no regrets. Just pure adrenalin and reaction.

Deetz unleashes a barrage of punches at my midsection and I roll with them before returning the favor. The businessmen watching get their money’s worth as they’re sprayed with our blood when we slam into the side of the cage.

All too quickly the bell rings, ending our first five minutes of chaos. We go to our corners again and the attendant hands me a towel and a bottle of water. I down half the bottle and squirt the rest in my face then wipe it clean with the towel.

Deetz packs a punch, but I like to think I’ve given as good as I’ve taken. His lip is busted open and I can tell by his breathing that I’ve cracked a couple of his ribs.

Not that I’m worried about injuries. The healing process will start as soon as we feed.

The bell rings for round two and we meet at the center again. This round is more vicious than the first, with both of us landing blows that would kill a human. I don’t necessarily care about winning, just not getting embarrassed. But I can tell Deetz is determined not to lose, and in his carelessness, he opens himself up to defeat.

I let him move in on me again and deliver a series of blows to my face, making him think he’s close to victory before I deliver a solid push kick to his gut. When he doubles over, I bring my knee up to catch his nose. It explodes in a spray of blood that causes him to stagger back a step. That’s when I move in and slam my interlocked fists behind his neck and elbow him in the side of the head. Classic takedown.

He crumbles to the floor with a groan as the bell rings, then glares up at me with murder in his eyes.

“What the fuck was that?”

“No rules, remember?”

“Next time,” he growls as I leave the cage.

“Looking forward to it.”

I make my way over to the lockers, where another attendant has two donors lined up for us. Part of me wants to refuse, but the rule is, if you fight, you feed. The last thing they want is someone taking all that rage and bloodlust out into the streets.

I accept the knife from the attendant and make a small cut on the donor’s neck. The blood is bitter with the chemical taste of drugs that momentarily dull the pain, but I drink my fill and push the donor away before grabbing my shit out of the locker and getting dressed.