“Blair.” I don't know why I assume they're blood, they look nothing alike, but I see a similar energy in both their eyes—like they have nothing to fear, not even death itself.
Eric nods.
“So, she gets special treatment?”
“Not in the way you'd think.” He rubs his hands together, uneasy. “Because of her status here, Blair is making a huge show out of Mercury's fight.”
“How so?”
“Well, usually the initiation fight is one-on-one. Violet against Violet. Whoever wins advances. But Mercury will be going up against prospective Keepers. Five of them.”
My stomach drops. Five-to-one? Even I couldn't survive those odds. How the hell does Blair expect a tiny speck of a woman like Mercury to prevail? It's sick—sick and wrong—and I don't want to bear witness to that particular blood bath. “She has to fight five guys and win?”
“Well, four guys...and you. And she has to do it blindfolded.”
I...am going to kill him.
For the briefest of seconds, my vision flashes white. I'm not sure if it's from fear or anger or a commingling of both, but my palms break out in a sweat and I don't think I've been this hot since the time the AC broke in B wing in the middle of a heat wave last August.
Eric knows me, so he knows just how wrong I think this is. I have never, in all my twenty-seven years on this earth, raised a hand to a woman—not once—and I'm not about to start now. I can't. I physically can't do it. Besides, a man striking a woman is bad enough, but five?”
FIVE?!
“You okay?” Eric thumps me on the back where I'm bent over the couch, hanging my head between my knees. There's a very good chance I'm going to expel everything I've eaten in the last week because the answer is no. I am definitely not okay. With any of this.
“I think I'm gonna be sick.”
Eric hums and settles back into the couch. “It'll pass, brother. It'll pass.”
Like hell it will.
A few minutes before midnight, I change into the ripped black jeans Eric thrusts into my hands. They're ceremonial, apparently, and required, but I feel like a cocky jackass walking around without a shirt and shoes. Ever since he informed me of my role in all this, I've been on edge. My mind scrambling for a way to avoid tonight altogether and sprint away from this property as fast as possible. I'm still reeling, searching for an out when Eric leads me back out of the training room the way we came.
“Eric.” I grab hold of his shoulder to keep him from opening the stockroom door and he looks up, smirking like he knows what I'm about to say. “I can't do this. I can't fight her.”
He turns, places both hands on my shoulders, and squeezes. “Your mama taught you well, Kess, but Mercury isn't a little girl, okay? She's not fragile. So I need you to really hear me when I say I'm not worried about her. You're the one who might get ripped from stem to stern, so just check your chivalry at this door right now, because there's no place for it where we're going.”
I'm not sure if that's even possible, I don't know if I can just turn it off, but Eric shows me how it's done. He grabs hold of the doorknob, takes a deep breath...and completely checks out. His face falls, and it's so emotionless, so placid, I'm suddenly wondering if going back to prison isn't safer than what I'm about to risk here tonight.
“Brace yourself, Kessler. Shit's about to get weird.”
He's right, of course. The second we emerge into the hallway, I can sense things have changed since the last time I was here. My brain is still trying to hatch an escape plan, and my muscles are so tense I can barely breathe, but that all melts away when we walk out into the bar.
For a moment, I think my eyes are playing tricks on me. The cavernous space is aglow with moving color, every surface bathed in neon. Purples and oranges and greens. They drip from the walls, dance across the ceiling, and cover each and every body in attendance. The only unoccupied space in the entire room is the giant metal cage and an empty platform with stairs on each side that wasn't there before.
Every live bulb in the room is a black light, distorting reality. The floor is covered with dozens of writhing, painted-up bodies dancing in sync to a metal track, blaring so loud it feels like the ceiling could come down on us at any moment.
It's a rave on steroids.
“Let's go.” Eric leads the way through the crowd and I follow, feeling like my feet are dragging lead weights as I try to take in everything happening around me. Men and women, both old and young, are doing lines of coke off one another, passing glowing drinks from hand to hand, dipping greedy paws into ornamental glass vases filled to the brim with multicolored pills. Everyone's high off their asses. Have to be. Rows of buffet tables are spread out along the walls, containing every kind of food imaginable, but the trays remain untouched. The party-goers are too busy getting blown on leather couches or groped right out in the open to care about dinner.
Yup. I'm gonna be sick.
I'm so busy inspecting my surroundings that I don't realize Eric has stopped next to the cage and I practically plow him over. He openly glares at me over his shoulder, and I look past him and realize why we've stopped. The redhead—Layla—is tucked into the crook of his arm, wearing a black corset, black thong, and nothing else.
“You ready?” she asks, yelling to be heard.
I avert my eyes, choosing not to answer. What the hell would I even say? In my quest to avoid Eric's woman, I lift eyes to the platform—a stage of sorts—and see there's a curtain just beyond, and the thick fabric is gaped open in front, enough to frame one leg, a sliver of a torso, and one striking blue eye.
Mercury.
She's back there, getting ready for what is probably a very important event in her screwed up life, and she's just...standing there. Staring. At me.
“Sorry about your boy here,” Layla says, raining loud, drunken kisses along Eric's bare skin.
When I realize she's talking about me, I snap to attention and spin on her. “Why are you sorry?”
“Because.” She releases Eric and spins, strutting toward me on sky-high heels, looking like the very embodiment of lust. When she stops, a single finger rests against my sternum, striking softly with every word she speaks. “My girl is going to kick...your...ass.”
She's right, of course. No matter how hard I try, I won't be able to check out. I won't be able to do what is asked of me. So yeah. Mercury's going to kick my ass from one side of the cage to the other, and I'm going to let her. There's not a doubt in my mind.
Four other men, all dressed in black jeans like me, come to stand behind Eric. He makes introductions as best he can over the music and I try to commit their names to memory. Silas. Oliver. Marcus. Jesse. They don't pay me any mind, and I return the favor. That is, until the door behind us starts to open—the door leading into the cage.
“You make it in there and you'll be set, Kessler. Just...don't die.” Eric holds up a fist for me to bump, and I flash back to Benny Callahan offering me the same thing on my release day, which now seems like it was years ago. But unlike Benny, I actually like Eric, even if he has lost his damn mind, so I bump my fist to his.
“I'll try not to,” I mutter. He doesn't hear me, but that's okay. I'm just focused on not dying. The last thing I want is my own autopsy photos landing on Griffin's desk.
People begin rushing closer to the bars, and I scan the sea of faces for anyone I might recognize. There are all shapes, sizes, and ethnicities, all in varying degrees of fucked-up-ness, but no one that strikes me as familiar. Swallowing the steel ball of nerves in my throat, I take my place next to the other men in the cage, just as Eric instructed, and together, we wait patiently, never speaking a word, while the party around us rages to obscene levels.
And then, with a deafening slam of finality, the metal door shuts, sealing us inside.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mercury
Out on the floor, Blacklighters are raging. Violets flit around, answering the beck and call of every man in attendance. Kissing, gri
nding, pouring various cocktails down the throats of well-to-do businessmen. Tonight's gathering was invitation only, so there are no locals here, only people tied to the Blacklighter name; people of influence. Everyone seems to be having the time of their lives, even my five little prospective Keepers, all lined up in a neat circle like good little soldiers, waiting for the main attraction.
Me.
Out of the five men, only three look ready to go. Oliver, Marcus, and Jesse are pumped, clenching and releasing fists, ready for the fight to begin. But Silas...he's still as a statue, quietly fuming. I can practically see steam rising off his shaved head as his eyes stare off into the abyss, visualizing the demise of the woman who took his friend—his brother—from this life. He'll be hard to throw tonight, but not impossible.
The newcomer, Kessler, is stiff, unsure of himself as he looks out over the swarm of people rattling the cage walls. He's far bigger than the rest of the men, making him stick out like a sore thumb to the point I almost feel sorry for him, for what I'm about to do to him, but I wave my concern away and focus on what's about to happen.
This day has been a long time coming, and now that it's finally here, it feels almost anticlimactic. I'm sure average women would shake in fear of what I'm about to do, but I'm not average. Above all else in life, of this I am certain. Anticipation coils within me when I think of what will happen after the fight. Seven years I've waited to be initiated, and it's finally going to happen.
“You look beautiful.”
My stomach turns, dipping this way and that, as my mother approaches from behind. Her gardenia perfume permeates the air, making it feel thicker and unclean. Her arrival is welcome, comforting even, but there's something else; something in the words falling from her coral-painted lips that feels foreign and makes me want to squirm where I stand.
Ah, yes.
A compliment. That's what it is. That's what's caused this sudden itchy sensation—like there are insects under my skin trying to burrow their way out.
Blair doesn't compliment freely, and she doesn't compliment me ever. But I've seen her with the other girls, placing hands on their shoulders, admiring their silken hair, offering praise. After that, however, she expects payment. The woman is careful how she spends her words, and once she's delivered, you are to do the same. So...what does she want from me? She has my undying obedience and loyalty, and I'm about to make her very proud in the cage, she knows that, so what is it? What could she possibly ask of me?
Cold hands come up to grip my shirt collar from behind, straightening it so it lays flat. My eyes follow her hands and I peer down at my ceremonial dress with disdain. It's bright. Too damn bright. It glares up at me, mocking, jeering, so different from my normal attire that I feel like something to be looked at and not touched. But beneath the white gauze, my purple undergarments peek through, reminding me of how far I've come and what I have concealed beneath this fair skin of mine.
“Invites went out to all thirty chapters, and all thirty showed.” My mother's voice is flat, unfeeling, but the rest of her is practically vibrating. With what, I'm not sure. Nerves, apprehension, dread; her poker face is unreadable. “Did Layla deliver my message?”
I continue staring through the break in the curtain, down at the five men who stand between me and my destiny. Layla did in fact deliver my mother's message, with sad eyes and tensed shoulders. She expected a negative reaction, but I gave her nothing. I know how my mother likes putting on a show, so it came as no surprise when she decided to revert to an archaic tradition that hasn't been used in years—long before the word Blacklighter was ever spoken.
The bid for blood.
No other Blacklighter under this roof has had to do such a thing, but I'm the Madam's daughter. I'm expected to give more than anyone else here. It's my lot in life, and I've accepted it.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Good.” She ruffles my hair, maneuvering each curl until it's perfect. “You'll be quite a prize, being a Havenworth.”
My mother may have her doubts about me, and she may expect more from me than I'm capable of giving at times, but I still bear her name—my father's name—and that brings with it responsibilities she knows I'll never shirk.
“I'm very proud of you, Mercury.”
My skin prickles again. Another compliment. For once, she's not demanding I make her proud. Instead, she's stating I've already accomplished that, even though we both know that's a lie. I'll never measure up to the woman she wants me to be until I'm bearing a sun on my virgin flesh, which, if all goes as it should, will happen tonight.
When she finally comes around to inspect me, to make certain I'm up to par, I stand perfectly still as she pokes and prods, tucks and straightens. Her bright blue eyes are soft today, eerily so, but she must approve of what she sees.
“Beautiful,” she says again, this time in a whisper as she steps away. “No worries, love. You were born to blacklight.”
Beautiful...
Love...
I don't like this. She's spending too much on precious words, and I'm worried I won't be able to pay up. The idea of disappointing her has my heart pounding furiously, banging out a warning against my rib cage as she walks away.
I wait.
I wonder.
I hold my breath as she stops.
Then, she turns to face me. “Mercury?”
I swallow nervously, then instantly regret it when her eyes dip to my throat.
“Yes, Mother?”
“The big one...”
The big one? Ah. The outsider.
“Kessler?”
After speaking his name, I wish I hadn't. I'm not sure why, but the hiss of the double S, the way my tongue meets my front teeth as the L rolls through my mouth...I instantly want to say his name again. It's a beautiful name, for a man especially. Kessler.
Kessler.
Mother smiles. “Make sure he doesn't leave the cage.”
She winks, disappears through the curtain, and that's that. I'm left alone with simple, ugly thoughts. Occasionally, people die in these fights. It's a risk everyone takes when they step into the cage, but she's asking me to purposely end this man's life.
Can I do that? Can I kill an outsider? For her? The answer rushes to the forefront of my mind, planting itself there like an oak tree.
Yes.
Yes, I can.
The second my mother takes her place at the podium, I sense it, and so does everyone else. The atmosphere changes and every person in the room stops what they're doing—stops drinking, snorting, fucking, dancing—and turns to cast their eyes at the woman behind the microphone. The music dies. Strobe lights cease their incessant flickering. A calm descends, and with a single look, my mother owns the room.
“As most of you know, this is an exciting night for me, and for my daughter. Every Blacklighter here knows Mercury, so they know how devoted she's been to this family. Not only has she vowed to carry on what I've built here after I'm gone, but she's proven her devotion by going above and beyond—by waiting seven years to claim Blacklighter status when all she needed was a few months.”
That's a lie. It wasn't my choice to wait seven years. It was hers. Every choice made regarding my life has belonged to my mother, not me. Through the centimeter-wide gap between curtains, I watch her. In a purple pantsuit that glows under the black lights, she's a vision. Her blonde hair is positively luminescent, glowing like something from a fairy tale. Blue eyes burn into the crowd as she welcomes our visitors, and they're all entranced. Not by her beauty, but by her power.
To my left, the curtain stirs, and I glance up to find Layla skipping toward me. She's smiling proudly, her red hair askew. “It's time.” She lifts a black scrap of fabric in her hand; something so many Blacklighters before me have worn, and I turn around, waiting for her to fit it over my eyes.
Deep breaths.
I'm ready.
I'm ready.
Once the knot is secure, Layla leans in close, gripping my shoulders tigh
t. I wonder what it would be like if my mother showed me the kind of affection Layla offers so freely. But I quickly turn away from that thought and refuse to acknowledge its existence.
“When you closed your eyes, you were a Violet,” Layla whispers in my ear. “When you open them again, you'll be a Blacklighter. You are going to obliterate them.”
Yes. I am.
Seven years getting my ass kicked from mat to mat. Seven years spent learning how to absorb my own pain. Seven years of defensive maneuvers. Seven years spent building a callous around my body and mind. And all of it has led to this day—the day I become a full-fledged Blacklighter and make my mother proud.
“Breathe,” Layla urges.
To anyone else, it would seem she's trying to calm me, but that's not the case at all. We both know I'm perfectly calm. Instead, Layla is taking one last moment as my mentor to guide me, telling me to focus on my senses, to get a firm grip on what's around me before I'm delivered to the cage. Because she's been here before. She knows how this works.
I do as she says and take a deep breath in through my nose. I can smell everything. The alcohol, the sex lingering in the air, sweat from strangers' bodies, a million different perfumes and colognes, and the pungent, dangerous scent of drugs being passed from hand to hand. Debauchery at its finest.
After working my way through identifying everything I can, I let my ears guide me, listening as my mother addresses the crowd. Her voice dominates the room as she prattles on about how proud she is of her daughter and how this day will be remembered by all present. There's a pause as the crowd cheers, but then she calls my name, and I fight to contain the smile threatening to part my lips.
This is it.
The heavy velvet curtain swishes loudly, and I know Ice has come back to take me to the cage. I don't need his help, I can get there perfectly fine on my own, even blindfolded, but this is part of the production.
“Okay, little Violet,” he rumbles. “Let's go.”
The Monster of Farewell (Blacklighters Book 1) Page 8
