The boy crowed in victory, thrusting his arms into the air, nose still bleeding. He lurched toward her, and the moment she realized what was happening was the only moment she had.
Lore instinctively brought up her gloves to protect her chest, but that wasn’t what he was after. The boy locked an arm around her neck and crushed his lips to hers.
The panic was blinding, exploding out over Lore’s skin like ice; it locked her out of her own mind. He pressed his body tighter to hers, his tongue clumsily licking at her as the crowd howled around them.
Something split open inside her, and the pressure that had been building in her chest for weeks released with a roar of fury. She drove her knee up hard between his legs. He dropped like she’d cut his throat, squealing the whole way down. Then she lunged.
The next thing Lore was aware of was being pulled up off the ground still kicking and snarling. Her gloves were splattered with blood, and what was left of his face was unrecognizable.
“Stop!” Big George, one of Frankie’s security guards, gave her a small shake. “Honey, he ain’t worth it!”
Lore’s heart slammed against her ribs, beating too fast for her to catch her breath. Her body trembled as Big George set her feet back on the ground, holding her until she gave him a nod that she was all right. For his part, Big George stalked over to the boy moaning on the mat and nudged him with his foot.
As the pounding in Lore’s ears receded, she realized the room had fallen completely silent, save for the banging and clattering in the kitchen just upstairs.
A slow horror slithered through her, knotting around her heart. Inside her gloves, her fingers curled to the point of pain. She hadn’t just lost control. She’d slipped back into a part of herself she thought she’d killed years ago.
This isn’t me, she thought, wiping the sweat from her upper lip. Not anymore.
There was more to life than this.
Desperate to salvage her night’s pay, Lore ignored the bile, and the singular, sharp hatred she had for the whimpering piece of filth on the ground, and put a sheepish smile on her face. She held up her hands and shrugged.
The spectators rewarded her with cheers, thrusting their cups up in the air.
“You didn’t win—you cheated,” the boy was saying. “It wasn’t fair—you cheated!”
This was the thing with boys like him. What he was feeling just then, that rage, wasn’t the world falling in on him. It was an illusion shattering, the one that told him he deserved everything, and that it was owed to him simply because he existed.
Lore tugged her gloves off and leaned over the boy. The crowd hushed, their faces as eager as hungry crows.
“Maybe your next one should be Can’t Win for Losing?” she said sweetly as she pressed hard against his bandage, this time with her bare hand. The bell rang over the sound of his outraged cry, ending the match. Big George dragged him back toward his huddle of friends.
Lore started back toward Frankie. It had been a mistake to come here tonight. Even now, she couldn’t tell if her body wanted her to break into a run, or scream.
She’d made it to the edge of the ring when he called out, “Next match: Golden versus challenger Gemini.”
Lore gave him an annoyed look, which he returned with his usual unbothered smile. He flashed her five fingers. She shook her head, and he added three more. Crumpled bills waved in the air around her, fluttering by as the crowd rushed to place their bets.
She needed to go home. She knew that, but . . .
Lore held up all ten fingers. Frankie scowled but waved her back toward the ring. She pulled her gloves back on and turned. If it was one of the boy’s friends, at least she might be able to amuse herself.
It wasn’t.
Lore reeled back. Her opponent stood just outside the light cast by the fixture overhead, clearly welcoming the darkness. The young man stepped forward, enough for the dim glow to catch the bronze mask that obscured his face.
Her breath turned heavy in her lungs.
Hunter.
A SINGLE WORD BLAZED through her mind. Run.
But her instincts demanded something else, and her body listened. She slid into a defensive stance, tasting blood as she bit the inside of her mouth. Every part of her seemed to vibrate, electrified by fear and fervor.
You are an idiot, Lore told herself. She would have to kill him in front of all these people, or find a way to take the fight outside and do it there. Those were the only options she allowed herself to consider. Lore was not about to die on booze-soaked mats in the basement of a Chinese restaurant that didn’t even serve mapo tofu.
Her opponent towered over Lore in a way she tried to pretend she didn’t find alarming. He had at least a six-inch advantage despite her own tall frame. His simple gray shirt and sweatpants were too small, stretching over his athletic form. Every muscle of his body was as perfectly defined as those men she’d seen on her father’s ancient vases. The mask he wore was one of a man’s raging expression as he released a war cry.
The House of Achilles.
Well, Lore thought faintly. Shit.
“I don’t fight cowards who won’t show their faces,” she said coldly.
The answer was warm, rumbling with suppressed laughter. “I figured as much.”
He lifted the mask and dropped it at the edge of the ring. The rest of the world burned away.
You’re dead.
The words caught in her throat, choking her. The crowd jostled Lore forward on the mats, even as she fell back a step, even as she fought for air that wouldn’t seem to come to her. The faces around her blurred to darkness at the edge of her vision.
You’re supposed to be dead, Lore thought. You died.
“Surprised?” There was a hopeful note in his voice, but his eyes were searching. Anxious.
Castor.
All the promise in his features had sharpened and set as the fullness of youth left his face. It was startling how much his voice had deepened.
For one horrible moment, Lore was convinced that she was in a lucid dream. That this would only end the way it always did when she dreamed her parents and sisters were still alive. She wasn’t sure if she would be sick or start sobbing. The pressure built in her skull, immobilizing her, suffocating whatever joy might have bled through her shock.
But Castor Achilleos didn’t vanish. The aches from Lore’s earlier fights were still there, throbbing. The smell of booze and fried food was everywhere. She felt every drop of sweat clinging to her skin, racing down her face and back. This was real.
But Lore still couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away from his face.
He’s real.
He’s alive.
When a feeling finally broke through the numbness, it wasn’t what she expected. It was anger. Not wild and consuming, but as sharp and ruthless as their practice blades had once been.
Castor was alive, and he’d let her grieve him for seven years.
Lore swiped a glove across her face, trying to refocus herself, even as her body felt like it might dissolve. This was a fight. He’d already landed the first blow, but this was the person who had once been her best friend, and she knew the best way to hit him back.
“Why would I be surprised?” Lore managed to get out. “I have no idea who you are.”
A flicker of uncertainty passed over Castor’s face, but it vanished as he raised an eyebrow and gave her a small, knowing smile. Beside her, several men and women in the audience trilled and began to whisper.
There was no way to send him out without making a scene, and there was no way she was letting him out of this basement completely unscathed after everything that had happened. Lore turned to give the signal to Frankie, hoping that no one could see her heart trying to pound its way out of her chest.
The bell rang. The crowd cheered. She lowered into a fighting stance.
Go away, she thought, staring at Castor over the tops of her gloves. Leave me alone.
He hadn’t cared enough to try to f
ind her in the last seven years, so what was the point of this? To mock her? To try to force her to come back?
Like hell he would.
“Please be gentle.” Castor raised his hands, glancing down at a split in one of his borrowed gloves. “I haven’t sparred in a while.”
Not only was he alive, he’d finished his training as a healer instead of a fighter, as planned. His life had played out exactly as it was meant to, without her there to interrupt it.
And he had never come to find her. Not even when she’d needed him most.
Lore stayed light on her feet, circling around him. Seven years stretched between them like the wine-dark sea.
“Don’t worry,” she said coldly. “It’ll be over quick.”
“Not too quick, I hope,” he said, another grin tugging at his lips.
His dark eyes caught the light of the bulbs swinging overhead, and the irises seemed to throw sparks. He had a long, straight nose despite the number of times he’d broken it sparring, a jaw cut at perfect angles, and cheekbones like blades.
Lore threw the first punch. He leaned to the side to avoid it. He was faster than she remembered, but his movements lurched. As strong as his body appeared, Castor was out of practice. It made her think of a rusted machine struggling to find its usual flow. As if to confirm Lore’s suspicions, he leaned a little too far and had to check his balance to keep himself from stumbling.
“Are you here to fight or not?” she growled. “I get paid by the match, so stop wasting my time.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Castor said. “By the way, you’re still dropping your right shoulder.”
Lore scowled, resisting the urge to correct her stance. They were already losing their audience. The basement floor shuddered as the crowd stomped their feet into a driving beat, trying to force a change in the tempo of the fight.
Castor seemed to read the room correctly, or he’d gotten splattered by enough drinks, because his face set with a newfound focus. The lightbulbs kept swinging on their chains, throwing shadows. He wove in and out of them, as if he knew the secret to becoming darkness itself.
He feinted right and launched a halfhearted punch at her shoulder.
Fury painted Lore’s world a scalding white. That was how little he respected her now. He didn’t see her as a worthy opponent. He saw her as a joke.
Lore slammed a fist into his kidney, and as his body curled, her left hand clubbed his ear. He staggered, eventually dropping to a knee when he couldn’t regain his footing.
She threw another punch, this one directly at his face, but he had enough sense left to block it. The impact reverberated up her arm.
“Keep toying with me,” she warned him. “See how that ends for you.”
Castor stared at her through the dark, unruly hair that had fallen into his eyes, his ivory skin flushed. She stared back. Sweat dripped off Lore’s chin, and her body was still pulsating with the force of the storm inside her. The swinging lights danced in his dark irises again, almost hypnotically. The last traces of humor left his face as if she’d clawed them off herself.
He shot forward, locking an arm behind her knees and pulling them out from under her. One moment, Lore was standing; the next, she was flat on her back, gasping for air. The audience cheered.
She raised her leg to knock him back away from her, only to hear Frankie’s pleasant voice call out, “No kicking!”
Right.
Lore rolled hard to her left, coming to the edge of the mat and onto her feet again. This time, when she launched a volley at Castor, he was ready, meeting her blow for blow. She ducked and bobbed, sinking into the current of the fight. Her lips curled into an involuntary smile.
There was movement at the top of the basement stairs as someone came down. That one look cost Lore—Castor reeled his arm back and launched a powerful blow into her gut.
She wheezed, trying to resist folding at the waist. Castor’s eyes widened, almost in fear.
“Are you o—?” he began.
Lore lowered her head and drove it straight into his chest. It was like ramming into a cement wall. Every joint in her body suffered, and her vision was dotted with black, but he went down, and she went down with him.
Castor rolled them so he was on top, careful not to crush her with his weight as he pinned her to the mat. Lore was gratified to hear him breathing as hard as she was.
“You died,” she managed to choke out as she struggled against the hold.
“I don’t have much time,” he said. Then he switched into the ancient tongue. “I need your help.”
Her blood cooled at his words, spoken in the language she’d tried to force herself to forget.
“Something is happening,” he said. The fight had warmed his body until it was almost burning to the touch. “I don’t know who I can trust.”
Lore turned her face away. “And that’s my problem how? I’m out.”
“I know, but I also need to warn you— Damn,” Castor breathed, then swore again in the ancient tongue for good measure. He shifted their positions so that Lore rolled on top of him. She was distantly aware of the audience chanting the mandatory eight count. Too late, she realized he was letting her win.
“You jackass,” she began.
His gaze was fixed on the staircase, on the figure she’d glimpsed before. Evander—Castor’s relative, and occasional playmate to them both when they were kids.
Van wore a simple black hunter’s robe, with a glint of something gold pinned just above his heart. His dark skin gleamed with the steam rolling down behind him from the kitchen, the undertone as cool as a pearl. He’d cropped his hair close, which only better served to highlight how devastatingly handsome he was. His eyes were sharp as he signaled something to Castor.
“Time’s up,” Castor said. Lore wasn’t certain if he was talking about the match or something else.
“Wait,” Lore began, though she didn’t know why. But Castor had already lifted her off him. His hands lingered at her waist a second longer than either of them seemed to realize.
“He’s looking for something, and I don’t know if it’s you,” Castor told her.
Lore’s head went light as his words sank in. There was only one he that would matter. She fought for her next breath. She fought against the static growing in her ears.
“You may be done with the Agon, but I don’t think it’s done with you. Be careful.” His gaze became intent as he ducked low and whispered in her ear. “You still fight like a Fury.”
Castor pulled back, taking his bow, accepting boos from the crowd and a red Solo cup that was offered to him. He pushed through the audience, heading straight for the stairs. As Castor reached him, Evander gripped his arm, and, together, they disappeared into the sweltering kitchen.
Someone grabbed Lore’s wrist, trying to tug her arm up into the air, but Lore was already moving, shouldering her way through the crowd.
What are you even doing? her mind screamed at her. Let them go!
She collided with someone near the stairs, hard enough that he was sent stumbling back against the nearby wall. Lore whirled around, half an apology already escaping her lips, when she saw who it was.
Shit.
His skin was white as bone, his dark eyes almost comically wide as they met hers. Edgy, vaguely hipster buzz cut. Skinny frame and skinnier jeans. Necklace made of braided horse hair.
Miles.
Unbelievable, she thought. How the hell had this night managed to get worse?
“Wait here!” she ordered.
At his stunned nod, Lore ran up into the kitchen, weaving through the irritated cooks and the veil of steam until she found the disabled emergency door and burst onto the dark street.
The air glowed red from the taillights of the SUV speeding away. A single red Solo cup rolled toward her feet, something dark smeared across the side of it.
Ink.
She turned it toward the dim security light above the door, trying to parse the uneven strokes of ea
ch letter. Her pulse beat wildly at her temples.
Apodidraskinda.
A child’s game. Hide-and-seek.
A challenge. Come find me.
Lore dropped the cup into a nearby trash can and walked away.
THE HEAT IN HER body had subsided by the time Lore made her way back down into the basement. She didn’t see Miles as she cut through the crowd and went to retrieve her backpack and night’s pay from Frankie. She only half listened to his instructions on where the next week’s matches would be held, counted her bills to make sure he wasn’t stiffing her, and tried to ignore the thrumming in her veins.
He’s looking for something, and I don’t know if it’s you.
A shudder passed through her. She shook her head, clearing Castor’s voice and face from her mind to prepare herself for what was coming.
Miles was waiting for her outside. In the few minutes it had taken Lore to return to the street, he’d managed to make himself breathless—whether from pacing, rehearsing whatever speech he was about to give her, or a combination of both. He stilled as she came through the door, pretending he’d been checking his phone the whole time.
Whatever she’d expected him to say, it wasn’t “Want to get a bite to eat at Martha’s?”
Lore hesitated. What she wanted was to go home, shower, and sleep for the next six days, until this disgusting hunt reached another end and the next seven-year cycle began. But Miles had a steadying effect on her.
“Sure,” she said with forced nonchalance. It still felt like there was lightning beneath her skin. “Sounds good to me.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re definitely paying this time.”
“Am I?” she said, letting herself drift back into their comfortable rhythm. “Or am I going to flutter these lashes and get our meal on the house?”
“When, in your entire life,” Miles began, genuinely curious, “has that ever worked for you?”
“Excuse you,” Lore said. “I am adorably persuasive.”
Lore Page 2
