Page 20 of The Bloody Ruin Asylum & Taproom (Sam Quinn #7)

Fifteen

How Is That Fair?

Sebastian went back to the door and let in a tall man with a dark olive complexion. He had short black hair and big brown eyes.

“Frank, this is Amir. Please come to the mat.”

I’ve seen Amir fight. He’s graceful and very fast. It’s almost like a dance with him.

Frank was slow to move, that smirk of his gone.

When he finally made it to the center of the mat, Amir nodded and waited.

Frank, too, waited. No one moved, but the longer it went on, the more pronounced was Frank’s attitude of defeat and Amir’s of victory.

It was similar to a chess master playing an entire game in their head, knowing twenty moves ahead who will win.

That same knowledge seemed to be hitting Frank.

“Go,” Sebastian said, clearly done with the stalling.

Frank barreled forward, straight at Amir, who slid out of the way, spinning and hitting Frank in the back of the head with a bladed hand. Frank went down and was out.

Amir turned to Sebastian. “He’ll wake soon. There should be no permanent damage.” He then went to the judges’ side of the room and stood beside Wei.

With a look of annoyance, Sebastian went to Frank, grabbed a leg, and dragged him back to the wall opposite the judges.

“Ava, please move to the center of the mat,” he said, walking back to the door.

When he opened it, a man with light brown skin and long black hair, tied in a braid down his back, walked in.

“Ava, this is Salvador.”

Strange. I don’t know this one. Everyone else has been a renowned fighter, Clive said.

Delores gets her arm ripped off and Ava gets a newbie? Bullshit, that’s what this is. Clear favoritism. I swear, Clive, if some robo-vamp walks out to fight you, I’m taking him out myself.

No, you’re not. If you do, I’ll have to assume you think me too weak to defend myself. Is that what you believe, Sam?

Damn it, Clive! I don’t want you to get hurt.

I know. And I’ll do my best not to, all right?

I didn’t respond.

Sam?

Shh, it’s starting.

He growled in my head but I ignored him.

Salvador took a step forward but then stopped. Gaze focused on Ava, he lifted his foot again to move forward but dropped it back on the mat. Closing his eyes, he shook his head and shot forward. She turned to run but didn’t get far before he’d snatched her up and threw her at the far wall.

Somehow, Sebastian got there first and caught her. “Remember, we’re not doing permanent damage.” He put Ava down and then went back to the door.

Delores muttered insults—I assumed—in Spanish while she glared daggers at Sebastian.

Salvador looked over his shoulder to grin at whatever Delores had said, as he made his way to the wall beside Amir.

Interesting. Ava must need eye contact to influence others. Smart of Salvador to realize that.

“Clive, please come to the center of the mat.”

I mean it, I said. Don’t you dare get hurt!

Have faith.

Clive stepped up and turned to the door. Sebastian, though, walked over to the judges’ area.

“Clive, as you yourself are known for your fighting skills, we had to adjust the test.”

How is that fair?

Shh.

“The judges and I discussed it, and we thought you should have to spar with two of our fighters.

Shit!

He’s not done yet…

“But then we realized that you’d be at an advantage, having seen them fight—such as it was—so it was decided it should be three.”

“Of your choice,” Cadmael added.

When no one said anything else, Clive nodded. “I see.” He looked over the four fighters and said, “I mean this as no disrespect to your superior skills, Wei, but as it will take time for your knee to heal, I’ll not ask you to spar with me.”

She looked pissed off—at her knee, not Clive—and nodded her acceptance.

“Fine,” Sebastian said. “Noab, Amir, and Salvador, please take the mat. And go.”

Salvador hit the ground immediately, writhing in pain. Unlike Ava, Clive didn’t need eye contact to control others or deliver excruciating pain.

The other two fanned out, smiling at Clive.

Clive lifted a hand, curling two fingers in a come-here gesture, and I laughed, knowing he’d done it for me.

Noab moved, disappearing from sight, but then he was flying through the air and crashing through a stone wall. It felt like sections of a film I was watching had been cut out. Noab was ten feet away and then half his body was through a wall. They were too damned fast for me to track.

Clive spun and I got dizzy. Amir was already there, his arm around Clive’s neck. Clive reached up and broke the bone, but when he tried to heave Amir away, Amir spun around and swept Clive’s legs.

The film jumped—and I was going to hurl—and then Clive was behind Amir, his hands around Amir’s neck.

I though Sebastian would call it, but then Clive was the one flying through the air and crashing through a wall.

Clive!

I’m fine, he said, waving a hand in front of his face to waft away the cloud of mortar dust engulfing him. My fault for not realizing Noab was up.

“I want to play,” Wei grumbled.

“Next time,” Clive assured her as he rose to his feet and returned to the mat where the other two were waiting.

“How’s the arm?” Clive asked.

Amir shrugged one shoulder. “I can fight with one arm.”

Clive turned to Sebastian. “Are swords available?”

When Clive turned his head, Amir leapt forward, but Clive had already moved as well. The movie skipped again and Amir was standing where Clive had been. Clive, though, was now leaning against the wall beside Cadmael.

I relaxed. This was clearly playtime for them.

Clive walked back onto the mat. “So, that was a no on the sword question, was it?”

“No,” Noab said. “I’ve seen you with a sword. I like my head where it is.”

Chaaya, the South Asian Counselor who was judging, asked, “Are we concerned about that one?” She pointed at Salvador, still writhing on the floor in pain.

Clive shook his head. “I already released him. I believe he’s hoping we’ll forget about him so he doesn’t have to fight me.”

Salvador popped up with a grin. “This is so.” He walked over and leaned against the judges’ wall. “Now I can watch properly.”

“Coward,” Noab said.

Salvador smiled wider. “No, please, tell us about being embedded in a wall. Was that fun?”

The film jumped and all of a sudden I was looking at the back of Amir’s head and Clive’s bladed hand slamming into it. Amir tipped over like a falling log. Clive had pulled the same move on Amir that Amir had used on Frank. Clive stepped over him and squared off with Noab.

Noab flexed, his gaze fixed on Clive. “I told them this was a stupid idea.”

“Fun, though,” Clive said.

Frank was now awake, sullenly standing by himself and watching.

When Noab moved, so did Clive. I got seasick trying to track what was happening. All I got were flickers of punches and blocks, throws and hits on a continual loop.

Eventually, though, someone must win. Clive flipped Noab, landing on Noab’s back, Clive’s knees drilling into Noab’s spine. When he tugged gently on Noab’s neck, Noab hit the mat with his hand, accepting Clive’s win.

Clive hopped off and extended his hand to his friend, pulling him to his feet.

Amir, Sandoval, Wei clapped. Cadmael nodded approvingly. The two Asian Counselors shared a wary look. The Australian Counselor laughed, though the humor didn’t reach his eyes.

“As there’s nothing for the judges to discuss,” Vlad said, “perhaps we can call it a night.” He checked his watch and then glanced over at Sebastian, who was watching Clive with a thoughtful look on his face.

“Yes. That’s it for this evening,” Sebastian said, crossing the room to walk Ava out the door.

“When did you arrive?” Clive asked Noab.

“Earlier this evening. We got here as those other guests were being escorted out. It looked as though we missed something, but no one has seen fit to share with us what it was.”

“Ask me again someday and I’ll tell you.” Clive gave him a significant look and then turned to Amir. “It’s been a long time. I see deadly grace remains your gift.”

Oliver stayed to chat with Clive and the fighters. The judges and other applicants, though, left quickly. The conversation was interesting, but I was exhausted. As I didn’t know anyone they were referring to, their voices became white noise. I pulled out of Clive’s mind and fell asleep.

A door slams, waking me. My eyes pop open to see a cockroach scuttling toward my face. Flying up, I realize I’ve been sleeping on the floor of one of the rooms in the asylum. I rub at the grit on my cheek, unable to stop the full-body cringe from having anything in this place touch my skin.

A woman in a long gray dress pulls a bedpan out from under the narrow rusty bedframe, pours the contents into a bucket, and drops the pan on the floor, kicking it with her foot back under the bed.

The crash of the pan makes me jump but doesn’t seem to wake the woman on the bed. I look more closely and realize her eyes are open, wildly roving around the room. Her head, though, is strapped to the bed, unable to move.

The attendant in gray says something in Hungarian to the woman in the bed, whose eyes fill with tears. The attendant shakes her head as the woman in the bed keeps opening her mouth, though nothing comes out.

A dark stain blooms on the thin, moth-eaten blanket that covers the patient. She’s wet herself. The attendant shouts and stamps out of the room, leaving the poor woman strapped down and sobbing silently.

If she’d unstrapped the poor woman, this probably wouldn’t have happened, but rather than the attendant taking responsibility, she blames the patient.

It feels like I’m watching a Hungarian version of the Stanford prison experiment.

These attendants have complete control of the patients and are cruel with it.

I know there’s nothing I can do about something that happened decades before I was born, but I desperately want to. I lay my hand on the lump her feet make.

“I’m so sorry.” I feel a whisper of the scratchy cloth under my fingertips as I squeeze, trying to comfort the memory of a woman long gone. Stepping out of the room, I pass the bucket and look up and down the hall.

Other doors are open as bedpans are emptied into other buckets. One woman is being dragged out of her room by two attendants, while another walks quietly beside her attendant. Both groups are walking toward the main hall. They pass and I follow.

They turn left at the main hall, away from reception.

A sconce on the wall flickers, casting a thin, sickly yellow light over the graying tile floor and walls.

There’s a grainy photograph on the wall of Budapest from over a hundred years ago.

Another one has two men in white coats standing in front of a wall of books.

And yet another features a group of haggard attendants in gray dresses.

I know old timey photography required sitting for an extended period of time to get the exposure, therefore people don’t smile, but this group looks particularly grim. Perhaps it’s just that I’ve seen them in action and have yet to find one behaving like a caretaker rather than a jailer.

The women and their attendants go through the door that leads downstairs to the basement rooms and the tub. The whole asylum is creepy, but there’s something about the basement. It feels important, so I descend the steps after them.