by K M Martinez
Mel let loose a full belly laugh.
Victor scowled. “We had him. He was headed right toward us and everything. But I guess Grandma noticed we had been gone for a while and figured out what we were going to do. Out of nowhere, she popped out in front of us—scared Gabe so bad he screamed like a girl, and there’s Thrash with a hand to his chest”—Victor put a hand to his barrel chest—“saying ‘Oh dear.’ Then Grandma chewed our asses out.”
“Foiled!” Mel laughed. “Foiled again.”
“She said we needed to be less obvious.”
Less obvious. So Grandma Mari was not expressing disapproval over the attempt at revenge—just at the public nature of it.
“Is there anything I could say to get you guys not to go after Anton?” Mel asked.
Victor looked at her with steely resolve.
“Okay, fine. Then I agree with Grandma: be less obvious.”
“Gabe said you have something, something someone gave to you last year,” Victor said quietly.
“Please, I’m not the one that sleeps around,” Mel said heatedly.
“No, something old. That fits in your hand.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Mel realized Victor was talking about her stone. “What about it?”
“Keep it close to you, and don’t let anyone else know you have it.”
“Why?”
“I can’t talk about it here.”
“Way to get all mysterious on me.”
“After this morning’s vote… I don’t trust anyone.”
“Our clan voted unanimously.”
“I don’t trust anyone that’s not blood,” he said with fire in his voice.
Mel thought about the attack at her home, the dagger, and all the questions it raised. Her ire built up as well.
“All right,” she said. “But first chance you get, you’re explaining what’s what. I don’t like this shit.”
Chapter Seven
Gabe was on cloud nine. He had just spent quite a bit of time talking with Siva Reddy, and he was taken by the short, dark-skinned Asian woman. He loved to listen to her talk. It wasn’t just her accent—which he found incredibly sexy—it was the interesting things she had to say.
Like about her experiences growing up. She told him the first time she ate a taco, she thought the tortilla was naan. So she squeezed the filling onto her plate and proceeded to dip the tortilla into the taco filling. And the first time she saw a fork, she had no idea what it was or how to use it, because her family never used utensils to eat. It was fascinating—her life had been so similar to his, yet so different.
But now he stood in the pit and twisted a little in his Kale armor, which was made of a sleek, dark, lightweight metal lined with black leather. His arms, legs, and torso were all covered. He double-checked the armor piece on his left forearm—it had come loose during his warmup—and pulled on the leather strings to make sure they were tight. Then he picked up his helmet. It was black, with gold flames exploding from the mouth guard, giving the appearance of a skull on fire. He looked up at a smiling Siva and gave her a toothy grin before slipping it on. Finally he grabbed his weapon of choice: a long metal staff with a blade on one end. Toward the middle was a button that would separate the staff in two with a simple twist of both ends.
“Kale contender.”
Gabe looked up. A Journeyman from Clan Mayme was serving as referee. On his other side stood Gale Norris, a boulder of silver with a helm shaped like an eagle’s head, beak sticking out crudely. In his hand was a longsword.
“Ready?” asked the Mayme referee.
The crowd, which had mellowed since the end of the Advanced matches, revived with force. This was the first match for Journeymen, and they were eager for blood.
“Assurgere! Assurgere! Assurgere!”
Gabe looked toward the sky. The sun was just setting, and soon it would be dark. The flames would have to be lit.
It was perfect.
He loved it.
He looked at Norris, nodded to the ref, and got in the ready position.
The roar turned deafening. Gabe tuned out the crowd, and the Mayme referee gave the signal to begin.
Gabe charged at Norris, and the Janso charged at him with his longsword held high.
Clang!
The blades met. Although Gabe’s blade was thinner than Norris’s, it held up well; the vibration from the collision caused no discomfort. Gabe swiftly brought up the opposite end of his staff and tagged Norris on the side of the head.
“Two points Kale!”
The Kale section exploded in cheers.
Norris pushed Gabe roughly.
“Oooh!” the Kale side mocked. Gabe heard high-pitched yelling from his clansmen. “Sugah! Sugah!” This was always a favorite taunt of Kale descendants.
Gabe got back into the ready position. When the referee gave the signal, Gabe attacked quick and fast.
Slash. Slash. Swipe. Swipe. Stab.
His movements were so quick, Norris was having a hard time defending.
Gabe spun, swung his staff around his back, and brought it to his front. As he did, he brought the bladed end up under Norris’s defense, catching the Janso under his arm.
“Point Kale!”
It was three to zero.
Gabe smiled. He couldn’t see Norris’s face, but he could tell the man was fixing to shit bricks.
“Come on, Norris!” Gabe taunted. “Charlotte’s watching!” He pointed at his cousin, who was sitting with Jonah.
When the ref gave the signal, Norris bull-rushed Gabe, swinging his sword widely.
This is just too easy.
Gabe blocked Norris’s attack and kicked his legs out from under him. He tagged Norris hard on the mouth guard.
“Two points Kale! Match goes to Kale!”
Norris tore off his helmet in disgust. “Fuck!” he screamed, bleeding from his mouth and nose. He stormed off toward the Clan Janso section.
Gabe stabbed his staff into the sand, dropped his helmet beside it, then faced the Kale section and held up his arms. He grinned and shadowboxed slowly before blowing kisses into the air.
The crowd roared.
Gabe loved it.
“Get your shit out of here.”
Gabe turned around.
Anton Morel had entered the pit. He was decked in glossy silver armor with diamonds engraved on his chest in the shape of an M, and his ostentatious silver helmet had been made to look like it was covered in eagle feathers. His weapon was a thin sword.
Anton stepped forward and kicked Gabe’s helmet into the stands. It sailed into the Tam section, where a young boy caught it and held it up proudly. Gabe smiled and waved at the boy, then in one swift motion, pulled his staff from the sand, swung it as hard as he could behind Anton’s legs, and dropped him on his ass.
Gabe threw his staff to the side and viciously pulled Anton’s helmet off his head. Arms grabbed at Gabe from behind, but before they could get a firm grip on him, he had taken two steps and punted Anton’s helmet well over the heads in the arena.
“Fore, motherfucker!”
A entire group of Journeymen had come forward to keep a livid Anton and Gabe separated. The two pushed toward each other manically.
“Come at me, bitch! Come at me!” Gabe roared, pounding his chest.
“Fuck you, Mendez! You fucking piece of shit!”
“Fuck you! And your fucking sequin armor!”
“You son of a bitch!” screamed Anton, spit flying out of his mouth, face red, veins sticking out of his neck. “I’m going to beat the fuck out of you, Mendez!”
“Not with your fucking bling armor you’re not! You asshole motherfucker!”
Someone pulled Gabe away, and Gabe would have punched whoever it was in the face had it not been Thrash.
“Come on, cuz,” Thrash said with a smirk. “I think you won the verbal battle.”
“Fuck! I won the kickoff battle too. Did you see me kick that son of a bitch out of here?”
“I
did.”
A scrum had broken out between the Kales and the Jansos—with Victor at the center of it—but it looked like it was already dying down, the descendants returning to their seats. Victor in his gold armor stared daggers at the Janso section. Mel just looked amused by the whole thing.
“Don’t you look happy,” Gabe said to her.
“Oh, don’t even. You know you enjoyed that just as much as I did,” Mel replied. She looked over at the Janso section. “What was Anton wearing, anyway?”
“Fucking diamonds.”
Mel guffawed.
“Did you see that gaudy thing he called a helmet?” asked Thrash. “He’s off searching for it right now. I hope it stays gone. That thing is hideous.”
“I hope someone hides that son of a bitch,” said Gabe. His clansmen were handing his helmet down the line, and it was slowly making its way to him.
“If he’s not back in five minutes, he’s disqualified,” said Victor.
Gabe paused. He’d forgotten about that rule.
“Don’t look so happy, Gabe,” Mel said. “He’ll be back with or without a helmet.”
That was allowed, too—to fight without a helmet. And sure enough, Anton ran back onto the pit with seconds to spare, sans helmet, looking furious.
“Lucky bastard,” Gabe growled.
“He’s going to fight dirty,” Mel said.
“We all fight dirty,” Victor replied.
“This is different. You’ll see. He’s gotta take his anger out on someone.”
Anton’s opponent was a Journeyman from Clan Mayme with a long curved blade. He wore gleaming white armor, and his helm was of a simple design with a wide space for his eyes. As soon as the match began, Gabe could tell the Mayme clansman was going soft on Anton because he didn’t have a helmet. Anton took advantage and scored a point. After that, the Mayme clansman stopped taking it easy on the Janso, and scored four points in a row. The last was a crushing blow to the mid-section.
Anton stood doubled over. He took his time before once again stepping toward the center of the pit beside the referee and in front of the Mayme Journeyman.
When the referee gave the signal, Anton flicked sand in his opponent’s face. And while his opponent was temporarily blinded, he savagely stabbed the Mayme clansman in the back of the knee.
The Mayme’s scream was horrific.
The crowd quieted as the Journeyman from Clan Mayme lay in the sand, writhing in agony, Anton’s sword still in his leg. Anton stood a few feet away, admiring the view like it was his masterpiece.
“Bastard,” Mel growled.
Gabe looked over at his sister. For a moment, an abject abhorrence took over her face; then she relaxed into the bland expression she wore when she was trying to hide her feelings.
She’d been wearing that expression quite often these past few days—like when she stood in her home bleeding from the back of her neck, looking down at her broken attacker.
Gabe didn't like to think about that moment. He and Victor had both realized immediately what could have happened. What if that knife had cut her an inch deeper? What if he and Victor hadn’t been there?
If we hadn’t been there, she wouldn’t have allowed the man to keep breathing.
When they were younger, there were a few times when Mel lost control, blew her lid, and put some serious hurt on other Novices. It was never unprovoked; she wasn’t one of those sinister Michael Myers types that yearned to hurt people. She just had a burning anger that got the better of her, and when it was all spent, she was left feeling like her actions were inexcusable. As she got older, she learned to bury it, and she became the carefully composed woman she was today.
Gabe was pretty sure that was why Mel refused to participate in the games—because she never wanted to lose control again. Her other reasons were just excuses. Good excuses, but excuses nonetheless. Mel was all good intentions. The problem was, there was still that piece of her deep inside… and there was only so long a person could bury a true part of themselves. Gabe didn’t know when or if Mel would ever lose control of herself, but he hoped to be there if it happened. Someone had to save her from herself, after all.
And then he’d give her a hard time about it afterward. That was a brother's job. He would make her feel better and help alleviate the guilt… but only after a good ribbing.
“He’s done for the rest of the games,” said Thrash.
Gabe looked out at the pit. Four Journeymen were now carefully carrying the Mayme competitor away. “He’s done for the rest of his life,” he replied. “That injury isn’t something you can come back from whole.”
“That was a stupid thing to do,” said Thrash. “Every descendant from Clan Mayme is going to want Anton’s blood.”
“As if they could get it.”
Gabe had always believed that those in Clan Mayme were a bit soft. The way the Clan Mayme Journeyman lost was proof. There was no way anyone in Clan Kale would’ve gotten hurt like that. That said, what Thrash had said was very true. The games were deadly, and generally anything went, but what kept descendants in line was the threat of retribution from other clans. Anton had just made himself a target of all of Clan Mayme.
****
All around Victor, the crowd roared. They were lively and exuberant, a far cry from just an hour ago.
Victor had watched the match between Anton and Blake Collier of Clan Mayme quietly. It was unfortunate what had happened to Collier. He was a good guy, smart, and one of the few Clan Mayme descendants who loved to fight. He and Victor were the same age, and had started competing at the same time. They fought their first matches together, made each other bleed, and made each other better.
Yes, it was very unfortunate what had happened to Collier.
Victor had left the arena after the incident to see how Collier was doing. Just before the Mayme was whisked away to the emergency room, Victor was able to talk to him for a few moments. The man was in good spirits—probably because someone had given him some awesome pain meds. Neither of them talked about the fact that Blake would probably never compete again, or maybe even walk without assistance.
Victor didn’t need another reason to hate Anton. He’d always known what kind of man Anton was; all that had changed now was that Anton had decided to stop hiding behind that very thin film of charm he’d exuded most of his life.
“Victor, you’re up next,” Tío Jorge said. “Stay focused.”
“I am focused,” said Victor.
“No, you’re not.” Tío Jorge’s tanned, leather face wore a grim expression. “You almost lost your second match.”
This was true. Victor's first match had been an easy win, against a Tam descendant who was favoring a shoulder injury. Victor had gotten his points quickly and easily. But in his second round match, against a Moors descendant, Victor had fallen behind one to four. If he hadn’t disarmed his opponent, he more than likely would’ve lost. Which would have made him the odd man out; Gabe, Thrash, and Charlotte had gotten through to the third round as well, along with Justine Wiley.
“I’ve known you since you were a boy,” said Tío Jorge. “I know how you think, and I know what you feel. I’m going to tell you what I always tell you. Drop the load you’re carrying. Leave it alone. Take care of business now, and when the time is right, go back, pick that shit up, and then make them pay with it.”
The current match ended with a shout. A descendant from Clan Tam stood in the center with her arms raised.
“Right now, you do what we do. Understand?” Tío Jorge’s eyes looked black in the firelight.
“Yes, Tío.”
“All right.” Tío Jorge handed Victor his weapon—a massive battle axe with intricate designs along the handle.
Victor put on his helmet. It was just like Gabe’s, except it was all gold with the black Kale sun spanning its entire back. He walked to the center of the pit and waited, searching the other clans to see who his opponent would be.
A slight figure from Clan Ferus app
roached. Victor recognized Cori O’Shea from the walk. No one else could give off such feminine grace while stalking like a predator.
“Victor,” she said.
He nodded while admiring her armor. It was a forest green that looked impressive on her form. Her helmet was the same color, with a mouthpiece shaped like the mouth of a snarling wolf.
Cori saw him looking. “Well it doesn’t have diamonds… but I like it,” Cori said.
Victor almost laughed.
They both got in the ready position, and when the referee gave the signal, they sprang.
Cori was quick, but Victor had trained with quicker. He deflected her strikes swiftly, sidestepped her, and tried to attack her unprotected back. But she was too smart for that. She rolled away agilely. As she leapt to her feet, he attacked again, trying to overwhelm her with his strength. She defended his crushing blows, but each block took all her strength and endurance.
She rolled away again to get some breathing room, then counterattacked. She was quick, fierce, and when her sword met his thigh, he grunted. He had fought Cori several times before, but she must’ve been working hard at improving her strength.
“One point Ferus!”
They returned to the center of the pit.
“I’ll never understand how quickly you adjust to my speed,” she said.
“You’re not as fast as Mel,” he replied.
The referee gave the signal to attack. Again their weapons swung and clashed. But this time Victor got the point.
When the referee gave the signal again, Victor could tell his blows were tiring her, but she managed to get a point when her blade touched his shoulder.
Damn, she’s quick.
The next two exchanges were Victor’s, and he was up three to two. Cori was bleeding freely from her arm, the result of his last strike.
“You know, I didn’t believe you about Mel being faster than me, but maybe she is,” she said lightly.
Victor could tell that the sight of her own blood had rejuvenated her. Some fighters were like that. Gabe was, for one.
Sure enough, the next two exchanges were Cori’s, and Victor now had blood dripping from his shoulder down to his elbow.
