Page 5

C rimson walked towards the rusting gate as clapping erupted, copious amounts of money was won and lives were ruined with a single, ill-placed bet. The creaking gate rumbled upwards, allowing her to walk through and abandon the fighting pit behind her. She passed another competitor on her way out, not bothering to motion a simple greeting to him. He smirked at her small frame, as they all did, and went willingly to his death.

She could still feel the carnage and gore on her hands, even if they were gloved. The warm, sticky rush of blood as it poured out of several versions of joints and ligaments. Even if the men she took on were the worst of the worst, she made sure to make it quick. Death was already punishment enough, prolonged suffering didn’t need to be added to it.

Unlike some of the brutes housed and trained here. The select few who enjoyed the thrall of the kill, or the warm rush of scarlet over their hands as they made their opponent suffer. Those were the sorts that Crimson gladly took on as well .

Candles embraced in metal holds adorned the stoned wall, red bricks in every other spot. They guided her further and further until the sconces were barely visible. The hallway turned and so did she, finding the huge room where the other competitors awaited their turn anxiously. There was the rapping of knuckles on steel, the tapping of scuffed boots on the granite and dirt floor, the picking of skin from bare palms as they all sat and sweated in silence.

She nodded once towards a couple that she knew the names of, ones that she would never enter the ring with. They dipped their chins back in respect towards her.

Well, towards Red Lyric.

None of them knew who she was and they would never find out. Not unless she wished to stop her facade and give up on making any coin for her and her brother.

A few grumbled about their odds if he made it out of the arena, how the fights must be slow today if he was still standing.

Crimson didn’t dare to remove any of her leather until she was out of sight for anyone. Her jacket was made of two different shades of red, with a hood that hid her hair. A metal hair pin and a clever hook inside the hood kept it in place, as well as a ribbon that kept her bangs out of her face. Crimson, like her namesake, along the outer shell and blood red for the middle panel, as well as in stripes on the puffed sleeves. Her matching high-waisted pants were sticky, thanks to the heat of all the bodies within the underground chamber.

Her hand found her bag on the back wall, along all the other men’s personal effects and freed it from its hook. She tugged at the corded laces of her black boots, loosening them from the constricting grip as she sank down another level to the singular bathing chamber where contestants could change. Before she could reach for the door, Grimm, who owned the pits, approached her.

“Tonight’s pay.” He held his hand out, offering a satchel of coins, tightly tied off with a thin cord around the neck of the chestnut bag. “You fight well, as you always do.”

“Fighting to survive is one thing. Fighting to win, is entirely different.” She took it with a narrow bow of her head.

Grimm was not an attractive man. His shoulder length blond hair was choppy, as if he’d taken an axe to it when it became unbearably long. She wouldn’t put it past him. He seemed to never have enough patience, even for the small things in life. He looked as if War found a human shell and occupied it, adding nasty scars like a collector did rare books.

He leaned back, taking her in. “It looked quick and easy. I’ll add an extra five crowns if you can make the next one last twice as long.”

For Saint’s sake, twice?

She barely managed to keep the violent opponent off of her today, let alone win. There was only so much of her powers that she could use in plain sight without it being obvious as to what she was doing. She wasn’t even sure about the furthest extent of her gifts, let alone what they could do if she accidentally lost control of them in an underground arena full of folk.

“Twice?” Her voice was low, into the masculine rumble that her brother helped her find to help sell the image that she wasn’t female. Another reason why she wore the charcoal gloves, too. Because even her hands looked feminine.

“The crowd came here for entertainment. Make it entertaining.” He crossed one bulking arm over the other.

She contemplated it, heavily. “As long as I’m the one who walks out, who collects the money at the end of the match, fine.” Her shoulders shrugged. “I can take them down in five minutes or fifteen.”

Crimson didn’t flaunt her confidence much, but when she was blessed with the supernatural gifts of a Saint, she allowed herself quick moments.

He flashed his yellow teeth at her. “Make it fifteen then, next time. Five extra crowns in your winner pouch for the extra trouble.”

Twenty crowns.

That was enough for an entire week of food and medicine, if she used it sparingly. A portion of rent, included.

She didn’t dare show the elation that spun around like a whirlwind tornado inside her. “When am I up next?”

“Two days.”

With that, he left.

Crimson locked the door behind her, making sure there would be no interruptions. It only took her eight minutes to pull out the female clothes, to strip off her fighting leather. To release the cotton band that held her chest closer than it should have been and loosen her hair from the braided bun that kept it away. When the corset was under her breasts and the skirt was hitched enough for a quick get away if she needed it, she shoved everything back into the brown bag and slung it over her shoulder.

There was a little mirror in the corner of the wash basin and she bent down enough to fix her messy bangs into place. It gave her extra security, to hide a portion of her face that was bare during the fights. Anything to help make her and Red Lyric look entirely different.

Crimson pulled the pins out of her hair, letting the bun fall out of place. The straight braid tumbled down her back, right between her shoulder blades as she unlocked the door and strolled out.

She was running late.

There was no one in the hallway as she dashed quickly through it, searching for the side entrance that the serving girls and boys used to get to the top layers. Another part of her night, only if for an hour or two while the Blades still went on. Crimson shoved past a few other girls, tucking her satchel under the table with their items and hastily grabbing an apron with two overlapping swords on the corner.

A way to tell who was working and who wasn’t.

“He’s in a foul mood tonight.” Renfri, another girl, muttered in her passing. “Good luck.”

“Great.” Crimson hastily tied the strings behind her back and swiped up a tray of cold ale that came from the tavern above them. A way to make an additional profit, while housing them all.

“Crimson!” A meaty voice yelled to her. “You’re late! Your shift started five minutes ago!”

“Couldn’t get past the crowds! It’s busy tonight!” She called back and swiftly departed the stockroom before Roland could berate her any further.

“That’s because the Red Lyric was on the roster. You know how the audience worships him.” Roland grumbled. Roland, sent all the prettiest girls out to the top layer, where they could gain the most amount of tips. She supposed she should be honoured for it, but it felt slimy and wrong.

Her heart did a stupid little dance at the fact that even a man such as Roland, worshipped her alter ego. It shouldn’t have gone straight to her head, nor should she have let it, but it did and so did she.

“You’re on the Silver Balcony tonight, don’t be tardy again or I’ll demote you to the bottom feeders!” His face was almost the same colour as a tomato, and she shoved her giggle down as she adjusted the five cups in a balancing act and made her way out the door. Another girl bustled past her with an empty tray, looking to refill it before someone else quenched her patrons thirst.

Sacks of sugar-coated peanuts were tucked in the large side pocket of the apron, for an additional crown.

Crimson skillfully avoided the drunken men that battled past her, trying to place their last minute bets before the next round began. She headed up towards the second mezzanine and began to call out to the thirsty men who needed a chilling drink.

The ale wasn’t flavorful, mostly a mouthful of wheat and pear, without any additional spices to add to it. But it did the job and got the men drunk enough to waste their money on foolhardy reasons and impulsive bets.

Which was why Grimm allowed it to happen.

She sold one instantly, a tall male handing two coins to her in exchange for one off the top. He almost toppled the entire wooden tray if she hadn’t caught it at the last moment. Crimson kept her scowl to herself, trying to remain in that cheery, sweet mood that sold more ale. No one wanted to buy a pint from a wretched, pinched-faced server.

She passed a few people who ignored her call for drinks and treats, weaving in and out of the sweating bodies. Someone pressed metal circles into her palm and stole another, leaving with her with three mugs. The liquid slipped over the side, creating a sticky mess on the flat side of the tray.

“One here, Red!” A velvet tone of smoking darkness summoned her attention and she turned towards it. She lowered the tray for the handsome patron that kindly offered her three coins. “A bag of nuts as well, sugared if you have them for my delightful companion.” The russet-skinned male gestured towards his friend, and he came into view.

It was him , the man with the starry eyes.

He angled his head down, in plain greeting that required no complication. Crimson might have gotten lost in the panels of his face, or the curve of his sensual mouth had the original man not caught her attention.

Saints be damned, she nearly bit her lip.

No one, no one, ever stirred her heart before.

But he most certainly did.

“I have two at the moment. How many would you like?” She tussled with her skirt as she tried to hide her blush, pulling both bags free as she precariously balanced the tray between her hip and the wall.

“Just one will suffice, pretty thing.” He practically purred it down at her and it sent the wrong sort of chills to shoot through her bones, lick her veins and emptied out her head.

“Here you are.” Crimson handed it to him and popped the other back into her pocket. She added the coins into it, giving a hefty weight that jingled when she moved. “Is there anything else?” She moved closer, trying to unload the ale. Her heartbeat slowed as she dragged her fingers across his wrist, trying to influence him into buying another.

He blinked, tilting towards her with a curious expression. Not quite dazed, by the looks of it but something close. His lashes dipped. A few more seconds and she’d convince him to buy a drink or two, if his pulse was any indication.

“What else are you selling, lovely girl?” The first man’s lids were painted in cobalt glimmer that reminded her of her brother’s eyes. Blue, like broken glass. He smiled at her and it was a pretty thing, unusual for masculine features. There was a snake tattoo that wound up his arm, starting at his wrist and finishing off at his corded shoulder.

Crimson found it chillingly accurate.

“Knock it off.” His friend shoved into him, a warning clear enough. “She’s not that kind of girl.” He met her gaze again, and she had the nerve to meet it instead of casting hers aside as an inner voice told her to do. “Are you?”

“No!” Crimson protested with a shameful heat that kicked through her. “Not at all. I just sell nuts and ale, nothing else.”

For some reason, the emotion churning magic didn’t seem to immediately affect either one of the males in front of her. Strange, considering that it always worked. It was easy, a blink of an eye but not with them. She brushed it off as coincidence and went to grab her tray to find another customer as someone rudely bumped into her. The tray tumbled forward and the ale spilt all over the floor.

Quick, warm hands pulled her back just in time before she became a part of the mess. A dizzying sparkle of something new burst to life inside of her, like the feeling of a bubbling wine.

“You alright?” The tall man peered down at her, sapphire and gold swirling around his incredible eyes.

“Yes, thank you.” She mumbled as a blush took over her cheeks. He was absurdly attractive, bless the Saints. It didn’t help that his uniform fit him very well. She could make out almost every line in his corded torso, the hidden strength in his arms and the toned muscles in his legs.

“Fast reflexes, West.” The other praised with a clap on his back as West lifted her up and out of the way of the spill. He bent down and handed her the tray. “She might have been completely drenched otherwise.”

“Why do you think I stepped in?” He said with a boyish smile and brushed off a speck of dust from her hem. “Wouldn’t want that.”

The first man reconsidered, “Though, perhaps we may have enjoyed that sight far better than her without a single drop to be found.”

West exhaled a long breath, annoyance dancing through his features as a muscle in his neck jumped. “You shouldn’t say things like that to girls you’ve only just met.”

“Oh, lighten up.” He chuckled, clapping his shoulder. “I’m just having fun.”

“That’s what worries me.” West stole a last glance at her before turning away.

Crimson hastily exited with another mumbling appreciation, finding the store room to restock her tray before the event was over.

When the final fight was over and done with, and no more guts were to be slain in vain, she turned in her tray and apron for the night as well as the coins that piled up in her pocket. Roland counted them all up, separating them into six piles. The other girls added their amounts and he totaled them all up. He muttered thanks to each of them as he gave them their fair wages, Crimson inclined before pocketing the final pile for himself.

He brought his hands together, a clap sounding as he addressed them. “Good work today, girls! I need four of you for tomorrow night!”

The spots were quickly filled as Crimson found her bag and tossed the crowns inside, hooking it over her shoulder as she left the room. The chamber was slowly emptying out, patrons finding the staircase that led up to the tavern above. She waited patiently for her turn, considering the corridor up was thin enough for only one person to walk up at a time. While Crimson stood in line, her attention caught on a hushed conversation between three people on the first level.

She recognized them.

“Where is he?” West inquired, shuffling back and forth between his boot clad feet. He was dressed in a midnight doublet, lined with gold that made his eyes pop out from his golden-brown skin. Charcoal trousers rose up from his black boots and they fit him perfectly. “We don’t mean him any harm, but rather a word with him regarding his talents.”

“Red Lyric isn’t available for personal tasks. His only commitment is here, in the pits.” The announcer, Zion, nervously sputtered. “Many have tried but he doesn’t accept anything with hires.”

“Why not?” The graceful companion asked as he lowered his scarf, revealing his attractive face. “If he knew who asked after him, then I’m sure he’d change his mind like a shift of sand on the breeze.”

Zion’s eyes widened, but he didn’t seem to be afraid of him. “I’m afraid not, Prince Altivar. He doesn’t take on tasks from anyone from the Silver Gates, let alone the Gold Gates.”

Crimson froze.

The man was… the Empress’s son?

That explained the luxury in his silken scarf, the richness of his cosmetics and the shimmer to his dark skin. Which meant that West was Captain Westley Saint, in charge of the Watch.