by Dana Swift
In the dark recesses of corners, wizards and witches press the fine powder of Bloodlurst into their Touches. Their eyes flash a brilliant red for a brief second and then dull. The healer in me has to hold myself back, still myself from lurching toward them and explaining the pain that comes with burning out forever. It will happen in three stages! I would yell at them: Beads of sweat. Endless spasms. Limp weakness. Then, magic finally gone, permanently, and all for the happiness and power it brings them now. I turn away from the laughter and sighs.
Along the wall, the names of fighters and their stats flash in sequence. I catch mine emphasized in red. Next to my fake name are the more important betting opportunities and stakes, which flicker, constantly fluctuating. Ten to one, it says, I will win against a fighter named Ax, whose name flares in purple. A lot of money will be lost tonight.
I take two steps toward the back room where I change and prep for fights, when Sonna, the bartender and a fellow fighter, calls to me. “Smoke!”
I push past the clog of consumers and amble up to her. “What?”
“Sims was looking for you.”
“Yeah?” I try to read whether this is good news or bad.
Sonna looks as disinterested as ever. “Said something about you fighting first.”
“First?”
“Yeah, that’s what he said,” she says as she presents a row of fresh drinks and sweeps up leftover condensation circles with a wave of blue smoke.
Sims likes to sandwich his event. Give the audience big shows at the beginning and the end to hook interest and keep the people here betting and drinking. So first means a good level of respect. Guess I didn’t lie to Naupure after all. I had joined the big leagues, which means I have more to leverage with for tonight’s needed information. Perfect.
Agent Smoke has given straightforward guidelines to finding the Underground. A list of objects and clues notify fighters and audience members of the hidden location. An upside-down hammer, which I find on a rotated sign outside a metal crafter’s shop. An arrow on a dyed sheet hanging in a yard directs me down an alleyway.
Soon the rest of the signs become unnecessary because I’m able to follow a group of wizards who are obviously heading toward only one thing. They smell of pent-up violence, or maybe it’s body odor mixed with alcohol. One wobbles into a wall and the others laugh as they pull him forward. I sustain the black magic just in case, but I don’t think these men would know they were being tailed even if I went up and introduced myself.
They lead me down several alleyways before they slosh to a stop at a dead end, where only a broken window peers out into the night. One of the wizards rattles his fist on the glass, right near the shards of razorlike teeth.
“Hello!” he calls, then laughs with his friends. They’re drunk. I’m going to have to backtrack and navigate from scratch. Stupid mistake. I’m a few steps away when I hear it, the groan of a wooden frame bending and the snap of glass breaking. I turn to see the window has expanded to a door, and a man is opening the wicker crossbeams and cracked glass like a screen.
I retreat into the shadows, then whisper in order to be visible again. When I round the corner I spot the last man tumbling through the door. The gatekeeper is about to close the elongated window frame as I rush forward.
“Hey, entrance for one more?” I slur.
His face twists as if I’ve made an uncomfortable joke. “You aren’t a regular and you aren’t on the list,” he says.
“Yeah, but a friend invited me and I’ve got the money.”
“Friend, huh? What’s the password, then?”
“A bloody place like this doesn’t need a bloody password,” I quote from Smoke’s files. Gods, I hope that was the actual password and not Smoke ranting in curse form in her research.
Unbelievably, the guy nods and holds the window door open for me. Two for two! Thanks, Smoke.
“Four gold.” He holds out his hand and I surrender the outrageous amount of money. But I have much more pressing matters as I enter the Underground. For one, the smell—a mixture of mold and body odor—presses on me like a damp cloth thrown over my head. If at any time I get used to this frontal assault my olfactory glands must have been obliterated.
After a few stairs, I duck under a low-hanging exposed beam and am confronted by the sight of mobs of people in the dusty gloom. The number of beings mushed into this giant open warehouse calls for a moment of proper gaping. No one gapes back, though, and I realize with a start that I’m anonymous for the first time in my life. Even if I were to make a scene, this is Belwar and I’ve been gone for nine years. It feels good.
To my direct right, a bar stretches and then hooks around a corner. In the middle of the room, barrels of bright light shine upon a giant sphere five meters high. It sits on a raised platform, with an attached runway leading to a black-curtained doorframe. All attention is fixated on and reaching toward the sphere. I shove my way closer, squeezing between pressed bodies.
Inside this rounded cage, two dark figures zoom around. So that’s how they control the spells from hitting the audience. They have amplified an orb, made it as thick and strong as a Wickery prison cell. Transformed it into a playground of destruction. As I think this, a blast of spikes fire and stick to the walls of the dome before bursting into purple smoke. One fighter—a woman—whooshes to the left to physically hit the other fighter in the face. Why do people want to see a girl, or anyone for that matter, get beat up? This is disgusting. Isn’t there enough suffering and death already? The purple magic wizard leans backward and backhands the witch. She crashes into the side of the dome closest to me and I finally see her face, her beautiful and bloody face.
Jaya.
* * *
Jaya stands and wipes her bleeding lip. “You want to play? Let’s play!” she yells. The crowd shouts in response. Some who were cheering for the wizard have turned. A man screams in my ear, “Destroy him, Jaya!”
I have made a lot of ignorant judgments in my life, but never have I been so oblivious. This girl. This girl, who burned out in my arms, cage casts.
Jaya casts a spell I can’t hear, but everyone sees the blaze of red shoot from her left hand. Her opponent, who based on the cheers is called Ax, ducks, rolls, and manifests a shield to block any residual magic. And there is magic to spare, because Jaya’s power smashes against the sphere where Ax once stood and spatters outward and against his crouched defense. Before he can rise, Jaya is standing over him. With orange magic no doubt, she beats down on the shield like a red-hot hammer and it breaks, allowing Jaya’s fist to plow into Ax’s arm. Crack! Something shatters and the audience bursts into another horrid roar. All around me, wizards surge forward. My body’s sweat and smell meshes with those of the crowd. I’ve become one of them. Even if I wanted to, I can’t turn away and retreat.
Jaya glides backward, giving Ax, who’s nursing his freshly broken arm, space. She’s drawing this out. In a real fight it would have been best to cast another spell to defeat him. This is all for show, a painful, bloody game. How can this be the same girl who threw herself at death’s feet to save a thief? Does my father know she does this?
Ax stands, cradling his broken arm. It’s already swollen to twice its normal size. He’s casting, shooting pink healing magic and orange morphine down to the bone to override the pain as he and Jaya circle each other. So that’s why she retreated. She wanted him to mend the damage she’s done.
Ax sends off small spells that Jaya either ducks or blocks. They become a tangled battle of purple-red movement. Now it’s just a question of who will get hit first. It’s Ax. A stream of red strikes him in the foot and twists his leg. He sways a bit, but nothing else happens. The two continue their fight. Ax looks restless, though, glancing frequently between Jaya and his foot. He’s probably wondering what the spell was as much as I am.
Suddenly, Ax seems to have had enough. A purp
le blast ignites the air. Flames burst from Ax’s good arm and swallow half the dome. All anyone can see is Ax pelting streams of fire in Jaya’s direction. Jaya throws both hands up, and then disappears from view. I jolt forward, but can’t go anywhere. She gave you a chance, you bastard!
Ax falls to one knee, but keeps chanting the fire spell. It’s about to engulf the entire dome, Ax included. The idiot. Wizards and witches on the other side of the arena holler. A red halo blooms over the sphere. Jaya, she’s containing it, making an orb of yellow and purple magic to suck away at Ax’s spell. The red streams streak the ring, so bright many cover their eyes. I raise a hand, but I don’t dare look away. She’s there in the brightness, walking forward, chanting, arms outstretched and swirling in a circular motion.
In one blink, both color and light disappear. The purple flames vanish and the red container evaporates. Jaya stands, while Ax hunches, panting.
“Smoke, Smoke, Smoke,” the crowd chants. Their voices toll in thumping unison.
“What?” I shout to the wizard next to me. “What are you saying?”
“Smoke!” he yells, and points to the girl in further answer. “Jaya Smoke.”
Oh my Gods, why hadn’t I pulled it all together sooner? Jaya was Agent Smoke. This girl was an undercover agent in the underground cage-casting ring. What had my father done? Or worse, what had Adraa made her do?
Jaya sends one last puff of red magic at Ax, and it nuzzles his cheek before making him slump sideways. What the blood was that? The dome clicks free at the top and pulls apart into two halves, like an egg cracked open. When it has completely collapsed, a bearded man comes forward and raises Jaya’s left arm above her head. The audience cheers, claps, makes any noise it can to signal its appreciation.
“Smoke, Smoke, Smoke,” people continue to chant.
Jaya Smoke beats the air with her fist, victory splashed across her features. Then she walks out of the dome and toward the black hole where fighters enter and exit. And that’s when a new emotion runs across her face. She doesn’t like this, does she? I look at the wizard Ax, slumped in the dome. If she had wanted to kill him he would be dead.
Who are you really, Jaya? I push against the crowds. I am going to find out.
* * *
I can’t very well follow Jaya into the black hole she has disappeared into. That would involve jumping onstage. Too public and noticeable unless I use powerful black magic. I spot the only other entrance that might lead to the back. A large wizard stands in front of it. I can’t squeeze by him, even cloaked in a conceal spell. Black magic confuses the eyes, not the sense of touch or physical mass. Black hole onstage, it is.
I wait for the next two fighters to enter the ring. While the announcer calls out their stats, I cast the most powerful camouflaging spell I have. In this dim, smoky environment, I fade from existence. A roar reverberates behind me as the two wizards begin dueling. I climb the platform and slink toward the curtained threshold. The curtain is probably only here to notify people of a black magic user. Most homes typically fasten hidden bells at the top of the doorframe so they ring at any movement. There are no bells here, and yet I still lift the curtain fast, not wanting anyone to notice fabric moving on its own. Behind the material a few meters of hallway stretch to meet a door. I uncast the spell and power walk. If I get caught now I can talk my way out of it. Get caught in black magic concealment spells and you are guilty automatically, no matter the circumstance.
The door is locked. Typical. With a quick blast of air under the frame, the metal plate on the other side swooshes back with a clang. I open the door to find more hallway, with noise brewing from a door at the end. The best camouflage is acting like I belong here, no doubt.
I’m walking toward the noise when a bulky hand grasps my shoulder. “You’re not supposed to be here. Fighters only.” I turn to find a wizard even taller than Kalyan. He’s got a lot of meat on his bones, muscles with a padding of fat. I don’t want to have to fight him.
I shrug off the hand and face him chest to chest. “I’m looking for Jaya.”
“Yeah, you and every other stalker I’ve found back here.” The words pull at me. Gods, how much unwanted attention has she received from cage casting while on her mission?
“I’m a friend.” I hope she vouches for me; that is, if I ever get past this beast of a man. She had thanked me the other day for helping when she burned out, so there’s that. We might be friends in her mind. I hope she deems us friendly at least.
He laughs. “Yeah, we all have that fantasy. Now get the blood out.” He pushes my shoulder and I let myself stumble. Distance is better for purple dueling spells.
I pivot to another tactic. “I want to talk to Sims.”
He starts a little, then regenerates the stern frown. “You friends with him too?”
“Never met, but he’ll be interested in what I have to say.”
“Oh yeah, what would he be interested in from you?”
Blood! I wish Agent Smoke had furnished a description in that report. But at least I know whom I’m dealing with now. I open my mouth.
“Hey,” a voice rings out.
Sims and I both turn. It’s…her, standing there. No bloody face. No confused air. In fact, this girl is way too pretty and way too put together for someone who almost got burned alive. But here she is. Jaya and Agent Smoke, wrapped into one, and again barging in for the save. Guess it did look like I needed rescuing. She takes a few quick steps forward so she is the third point in our hostile triangle. “He’s with me, Sims.”
“With you?” Sims asks. I think he means it sexually, but she blows off the insinuation.
“Was going to introduce you, but he wandered off.” She turns to me and holds my eyes for half a second. The message is clear enough: Shut up and don’t contradict me. She shrugs and stares Sims down. “He’s got a good arm and he’s a white forte. You’ve been looking for one.”
Sims gives me the standard up and down. How classic, I’m being summed up in a glance. “He doesn’t seem like the fighting type.”
“That’s what you first said about me, too.” Jaya gives him one of those long stares, primal and unnerving. Unspoken sentences flow between them as they maintain eye contact. I want to understand what they’re saying, to see the memories burst forth in their heads about a past in which this girl, this Belwarian peasant girl, came here and requested to fight. And she’s still a fighter, still here tonight knocking out a wizard who has dubbed himself Ax.
Sims breaks eye contact and says gruffly, “Fine. If his arm is so good I’ll put him against Beckman. He’s been itching to taste new meat.”
“Beckman? You drugged, Sims? I wanted you to meet the guy, not kill him.”
What in Wickery have I gotten myself into? I calm my face. Can’t let any uncertainty through, or else I’m going into the ring with death.
“Best I can do on short notice,” Sims snorts.
“Fine, I get it. But I just wanted you to take a look at him. We can come back next week.” Jaya seems relieved for a second, not in her voice, but something about her shoulders unwinds from tension. She is working a trap or a plan, something that Sims is obviously falling for.
“You know that’s not how it works. He came here to be seen? Then he’s going to fight,” Sims says.
“Fine.” Jaya smiles. “Let him have my second fight—Tenson. And next month I’ll take Beckman.”
Sims’s whole demeanor transforms. A black happiness bubbles inside him. I can see it sweat out of him like sludge. “You and Beckman?”
“Me and Beckman.”
Sims’s mouth does this weird half smile, half frown, like he’s weighing these options on his lips. He rubs his hands together. “I need time to publicize that.”
“That’s why I’m saying a month.”
“All right, deal,” Sims says as he thrusts out an eager
forearm.
“I still get my payment for tonight.” Jaya jams a thumb at me. “I get his contribution too.”
Sims glares at me as if he forgot I was still standing there while they negotiated. “Once I see he can still stand afterward.”
Jaya turns to me. Now she’s the one summing me up in a glance.
“No problem,” I say before she can cast any doubt or give Sims more leverage.
“I won’t be cheated, Sims, either way.” Jaya presses her arm against his. “That’s the only thing you can count on.”
Sims pokes a finger at both of us. “You’ve got thirty minutes. I like to be impressed.”
Interacting with Sims is like watching someone try to peel off your skin. You want to scream, to yank away, but either action means more torture. He is not Vencrin, but he works for them, allowing the Underground to be a meeting place and a way to funnel drug money into the system. Because of my hatred, our relationship is…strained. So getting myself involved in anything beyond our agreement is risky. But then I saw him, the guard who carried me when I burned out, being confronted by Sims.
I don’t know why I wanted to save Jatin’s man. Well, I guess actually I do. Jatin and I were bonded, or would be. His man was my man. The resemblance between them is uncanny too; it makes me feel as though letting one be destroyed would kill the other. If I don’t fight for my people now, what good am I as a future rani? Besides, I know what would have happened if I left Kalyan to Sims. He would have been beaten in the alleyway, three or four against one. Those were the odds that had been stacked against Riya’s father. And this had all started because of what happened to him. I won’t chance that happening again, to anyone, especially Jatin’s friendlier counterpart. So I cloak myself in a thick skin and trade myself, my fight, so his blood won’t be spilled on a dirty street.
The actual trading isn’t so bad. I thought I would probably have to offer up something big like that to find out about my firelight and Nightcaster’s involvement. But now my plan hinges upon this guard’s ability. Already the lack of control pokes at a level of anxiety I haven’t felt since my first night here.
