The Roaming (Book 3): Haven's Promise

by Hegarty, W. J.

“Isabelle can take care of herself.” Soraya smiled. “If that guy is not careful, he will be right back here with something worse than a cut.”

  Moments after Haven’s newest resident raced out of the infirmary, Vanessa and Lillian burst in. The former was fuming and still had splotches of red fluid decorating her body; her hair was caked with the stuff. She was carrying a glass of the same fluid they managed to scrape from her skin before wiping the rest away.

  Aiko took the container; she was careful to not get any of its contents on her own skin. “What is this?” she asked as she held it up to the light.

  “Some old bitch has been harassing us. She threw this stuff at Vanessa.” Lillian quickly scanned the infirmary’s beds. “She’ll probably be in here shortly. Vanessa got a few good ones in before it was broken up.”

  “Serves her right.” Aiko took a look at Vanessa’s reddened hands and smirked. “Well, I can tell you right off the bat not to worry, but I’ll take some samples from the two of you while you’re here, just to be safe.”

  “How can you be sure?” Vanessa was perplexed.

  “Take a whiff.” Aiko smiled and held the glass closer to the girls.

  Sure enough, the fluid had the faint aroma of poultry.

  “Well, I feel stupid now,” Vanessa said with a combination of relief and embarrassment.

  “Don’t,” Aiko insisted. “In the heat of the moment, your adrenaline would have been up, and small details can easily go unnoticed. That and there would have been no reason to suspect that someone would throw chicken blood on you.”

  ~~~

  In a darkened corner of Underworld but within sight of its main drag, Isabelle rose to her feet as the ruffian buckled his pants.

  “Hey, that was nice. If you want to…” he began, but his words fell on deaf ears as Isabelle strode into Underworld proper.

  Isabelle ignored the other inhabitants of this strange place who were exchanging services for little slips of paper in darkened corners as she made her way to a more densely populated area deeper in Underworld. She followed the noise and a steady stream of people past the River Styx and through dimly lit hallways until they led her to the fighting pit where dozens of spectators gathered around. Two women fought a brutal match inside. The larger combatant was throwing the smaller one around like a child.

  To the side of the ring, a smaller, fat, and greasy man seemed to be taking bets.

  “How do I get in there?” she asked.

  “You have to wait your turn,” he said with barely a look in her direction. “Signup’s over there.” He nodded toward another dirty man with a clipboard.

  “I want to fight,” she told the clipboard holder.

  “Age, weight, and height. We like to match up opponents as best as we can, but as you can see from what’s happening behind you, that’s not always the case.”

  Isabelle didn’t bother to turn around. If she had, she would have seen the smaller woman being thrown from one side of the ring to the other. As the smaller fighter tried to rise, the larger woman charged and sent a knee into the side of her opponent’s head, sending her sliding out of the ring and ending the fight.

  The crowd cheered; Isabelle spoke over them. “Thirty-nine, one twenty, five-ten.”

  “Okay, let’s see here.” He shuffled through his notes while he gave her a brief rundown of the rules. “No biting, no eye-gouging, and for God’s sake, don’t kill your opponent. If the fighters mutilate each other, we’ll have no entertainment, and then I’ll have to get in there and nobody wants that.” He held up his arm; it was in a cast. “Fifty chits to the winner. Five to the loser. Any questions?”

  “No.”

  “Woman of few words. I like it. You’re up three fights from now. Why don’t you get yourself a drink and relax? You look new here. Tell the bartender I got you covered.” He pointed directly at her. She didn’t like his proximity. “Don’t forget to pay me back after the fight—win or lose. I’ve got a business to run here. I don’t want to have to come looking for you.”

  “Chits?” she inquired as she watched him count the little slips of paper.

  “Yeah, it’s how we pay for things down here in Underworld.” He waved a handful of them for her benefit. “You earn chits by doing jobs or fighting and you spend them on room and board or drinks and services.”

  “How much does that cost?” Isabelle pointed to a man giving tattoos in a ratty chair across the room.

  “Tattoos? I don’t know. I think it’s a waste of money. Why don’t you go ask him?” When he looked up, she was already gone.

  Isabelle stood far too close to the tattoo artist and his client. As loud as it was down here, the hum from his ink-gun cut through the noise.

  The tattoo artist wore baggy jeans and a worn black sleeveless shirt. His arms were toned and covered in tattoos, and he had multiple piercings, probably too many, depending on who you asked. “Hey, can you give me some space? I’m working here.” He glanced up at Isabelle only briefly as he was concentrating on his work.

  She backed up one step but continued to stare.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, a little irritated this time.

  “How much?”

  “Depends on the piece,” he said while keeping his eyes on his work. “Something small like a dolphin on your ankle or a band or some initials will usually run you about ten to twenty chits. Why? What do you have in mind?”

  Isabelle pointed out a woman in the crowd. She wore a fishnet top and short black leather shorts, and her breasts were adorned with electrical tape in the shape of X’s covering her nipples. The woman had full-sleeve tattoos and her chest and back were completely covered in ink. So were her legs, at least what was visible from her thighs to her boots.

  “Shit, lady,” the tattoo artist exclaimed. “That’s hundreds of hours of work. You’re talking thousands of chits! Why don’t you start with something small? I’ll have my apprentice do it and cut you a first-timer’s deal.”

  His apprentice looked up from her own work and smiled. She had long green hair teased into a Mohawk up top. The sides of her head were shaved, and just above the ear, long strands fell past her shoulders. She wore a fishnet top over an aquamarine bra and a plaid skirt with thigh-high stockings. The apprentice wore dozens of bracelets, leather and otherwise, over a single sleeve of tattoos.

  When the tattoo artist looked up from his client, Isabelle was gone. He shrugged and continued his work.

  Isabelle watched the ring intently. The latest winner raised his hands and circled the mat in triumph while the loser was helped out of the ring by a distraught manager. Pit staff quickly wiped off excess blood and sweat from the mat and retied loose turnbuckles. The fights were like an assembly line. One after the other, two combatants entered; every so often the loser needed to be carried out. One more match and she was up. Isabelle wasn’t nervous—she wasn’t anything as far as emotion was concerned. She merely was.

  A fake-pompadour-wearing announcer entered the ring dressed in a flashy red suit; he had a black mustache so dark it must have been as fake as his hair. The crowd hung onto his every word and erupted in cheers or boos depending on who was introduced. The challenger entered first. He was a bald, heavyset man at the bad end of thirty. He was received by a litany of jeers.

  “Our challenger for this match hails from Akron, Ohio. His record is a whopping zero wins and seventeen losses.” The crowd burst into laughter. “Here he is, everyone’s favorite doughboy, Atomic Eddie.”

  The heavyset man circled the ring while trying his best to entice the crowd. They weren’t having it.

  “His opponent today needs no introduction.” The crowd began to cheer. “At thirty-three wins and zero losses, he’s your reigning champion! I give you the Menacing Marine!”

  The crowd went through the roof as Radzinski entered the ring. He wasn’t a showboat. He simply bobbed up and down a bit and stretched his arms and his legs to get the blood flowing. He raised a fist for the crowd once, then tapped his opponen
t’s hands and the match was on.

  Eddie gave as good as he was able, but he was sloppy; he had no chance of winning. Both fighters knew it, but how else was he going to survive in Underworld without at least some income?

  The Marine would wrap this fight up quickly. He wanted to be in and out, as he had an important meeting with Lady Setsuko and afterward a date with Sona. He had grown close with the Mistress of Frost in the intervening months since he was thrown into Underworld. Lady Setsuko was another matter entirely. If he didn’t tread carefully, both he and Sona would be made examples of for the masses.

  Radzinski’s mind was wandering, and Eddie landed a rib shot that took the breath from him. It was time to end this. He clearly heard Eddie whisper “sorry” before he put him on his ass. As per usual, the crowd erupted in chants of his moniker. Radzinski raised his fist for his adoring fans, and this was met with another round of applause. A towel girl wiped the sweat from his chest and back and quickly turned around and sold the towel for a handful of chits. Radzinski merely chuckled as he grabbed his winnings and ducked out of the ring. He was about to leave for the meeting when he saw a familiar face. “Isabelle?”

  She nodded.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” He was shocked. “How the hell are you here, now that I think about it?”

  Isabelle kept her secrets.

  “If you’re here…” He paused. “Don’t tell me Soraya made it too?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Man, that is the best news I’ve heard in months!” He was delighted. “When you see her, tell her I’m down here and to come see me. I can’t exactly leave. Hey, why don’t you let me show you around? I’ve got somewhere to be, but it can wait. Hopefully.”

  “Can’t. Fighting.”

  “You’re getting in the ring?” Radzinski’s smiled dropped. “You sure about that? Some of these girls are fucking behemoths.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You be careful in there, alright? Look, if it gets out of hand, I’ll come break it up. Fuck the rules, okay?”

  The mat was cleaned. Isabelle’s opponent was ready. The announcer called her Crazy Clara. She was around the same size as Isabelle, but she was all muscle and looked to know her way around the ring. The people who organized the fights sometimes matched newcomers with an opponent that they could beat or at least wouldn’t obliterate them. It enticed the newbies to fight again, to keep Underworld’s economy moving. That didn’t appear to be the case this time.

  “Shit.” Radzinski sighed. He’d seen Clara fight before. She was no joke, and if Isabelle didn’t tap, Clara would pound her into the mat. He stood anxious in Isabelle’s corner, ready to pounce should the need arise.

  Clara extended her fists in the traditional fighter’s greeting.

  Isabelle just stood there.

  “Oh, so that’s how it is?” Clara growled. “I’m going to fuck you up, puta.”

  The fight was on and Clara went straight for Isabelle’s ribs to take the breath from her. Following that, she decked the newcomer to the ground, all in under ten seconds. Radzinski’s hands were already on the ring’s bottom rope; he was moments from intervening.

  Isabelle lunged. Radzinski was taken aback by the woman’s sheer speed. So was Clara. Isabelle forced her opponent into the corner, then delivered knee after knee to Clara’s ribs and face. Isabelle pushed away from her, then paced in slow circles in the center of the ring. Clara was enraged. She swung wildly, but Isabelle easily dodged the attack. Isabelle countered with a series of quick jabs to the throat, followed by a palm to the nose that sent Clara stumbling back.

  The muscular woman threw a haymaker. Isabelle easily caught it; she sized up the woman’s limb in an instant. Isabelle swept Clara’s legs out from under her, and as her opponent hit the mat, she sent her knee through Clara’s elbow. Clara screamed; her arm dangled at her side. It was hopelessly broken. Before she could tap out, Isabelle was on her with a barrage of fists that dislocated the woman’s jaw. Clara’s face was bloody pulp in seconds, but Isabelle continued. Radzinski yanked her up and off the unconscious woman, and Isabelle immediately ceased her attack.

  Radzinski’s concern melted away into a sense of pride. His grin returned, and he raised Isabelle’s hand in triumph. The crowd was nearly melting down as they cheered Isabelle’s name.

  “Shit, girl. Maybe you should watch my back.” Radzinski hugged her. She didn’t respond. “Go get your winnings,” he said. “I’ll catch up with you later.” Radzinski took off in a light jog toward his appointment.

  The clipboard holder was unimpressed with Isabelle’s performance.

  “I thought I told you not to mutilate each other. Clara’s never going to fight again.”

  “Pay,” was Isabelle’s only response.

  “Okay, okay.” He did as he was told. “While I don’t agree with your methods, your results are undeniable. I think we should work out a deal. You’ll need a good manager down here, and I can help you set up the best-paying fights. What do you say, twenty percent?” He looked up and she was gone.

  Isabelle dumped her entire stack of chits on the tattoo artist’s table. “Shall we begin?”

  ~~~

  Damon met Markus at the River Styx, his friend was clearly high or at least coming down. He stumbled onto his stool and motioned the bartender over. Markus had been waiting for at least twenty minutes by this point. He was fed up with the place: from the dimly lit rooms to the darkened areas where people were doing God knows what to each other and not all of it pleasant. He hated Underworld, and if his best friend didn’t live here, he would never set foot in the place.

  “I’m not coming down here again, man. Fuck this place. Fuck all this grimy shit, Damon,” Markus said as he refused the bartender for a second time.

  “You got to buy something or you got to move on, pal.” Bartender Mike was adamant.

  “I’m not staying,” Markus insisted.

  “Easy, Mike, he’s with me.”

  “The rules still apply, Damon.” The bartender was stubborn. “What’ll it be?”

  “Give me a scotch and a beer. Just pretend one of them is his.” Damon threw down more than enough chits.

  “Yeah.” Mike wasn’t amused. As far as he was concerned, Markus was still taking up a spot that could be used by a paying customer. The bartender returned to his work; it was pointless to argue with Damon, especially when he was high.

  Markus continued his fruitless pleas. “Why don’t you let me at least talk to Sweet Lips? See if I can’t get you back upstairs.”

  “Nah, bro.”

  “What do you see in this rathole? We can start over, man. We can do whatever the hell we want.”

  “You’re right about that: I can do whatever the hell I want. I’m going to run this motherfucker, and I want you with me when I do it.”

  “You’re just not getting it. Damon, I am done with this life. My heart was never in it to begin with. You know that.”

  Damon heard him but he wasn’t listening. “I guarantee I make more in an hour than you do all week upstairs.”

  “That’s not the point, man.” Markus gestured to a couple being intimate in the shadows beyond the stage area. The man was on his knees and the woman had her back against the wall. They weren’t exactly in full view of the world, but neither did they seem very concerned with modesty. Markus then pointed out a teenager clearly being shaken down in a darkened nook across the room. “I can’t live like this.”

  “Man, this ain’t shit.”

  Markus tried another tactic that he knew was futile, but he wanted to put all his cards on the table. “I think I really want to start something with Samantha.”

  “You mean a family? That’s pussy shit.”

  “I mean it, Damon.”

  “Man, fuck that red-headed bitch.” He slammed his beer down. “Give me another,” he ordered. “That bitch got you all twisted.”

  Markus rose. He had had enough. There was obviously no getting through to Damon,
at least not in his current condition. “I’m leaving, Damon, and I’m never coming back here.” Markus turned to go, but he paused mid-step. “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

  Damon met Markus’s eyes just long enough to say, “Likewise.”

  ~~~

  Radzinski still required an escort through Lady Setsuko’s domain; they would never count him as one of their own. Suit-wearing, knife-brandishing thugs flanked him every step of the way. They hated the American and would gladly kill him without hesitation. Only Lady Setsuko’s wrath stayed their hand. She had a soft spot for the Marine, and whether it was purely physical or if she had some long-term strategy, no one knew. Not even those closest to her—Jinsoku and Ken—were privy to her machinations regarding him.

  When Radzinski finally arrived, Setsuko was waiting in the gardens, a new addition to her realm. She displaced about thirty people and tore down their living quarters to make space for an intricate garden packed with banzai, water wheels, bamboo fountains, and meditation sand. It was tranquil, if nothing else.

  Lady Setsuko was meeting with Vadim. Jinsoku, of course, stood nearby, ever vigilant.

  “Just consider it, is all I ask,” said Vadim. He was clearly holding his anger in check.

  “I have.” Lady Setsuko fondled a white orchid. “My answer is still no.”

  Vadim was frustrated, as per usual, when he didn’t get what he wanted. But even he knew to keep his temper under control around the crime boss.

  Lady Setsuko continued, bringing a finality to the hearings. “Killing Cortez and his team is foolhardy, Vadim. Even if such a move could go unanswered, it would cripple my ship’s economy. No, they serve their purpose. You’ll have to find another way to get your daughter away from them.”

  “As you wish,” Vadim acquiesced more quietly than was his nature.

  Lady Setsuko turned her attention to the tardy Marine. “Have I not made myself clear, gaijin? When I call, you come. I would think you smart enough to understand that by now.” She stood so close Radzinski would no doubt feel the heat from her breath on his face if she wasn’t more than a foot shorter than him.