by Rachel Caine
“That’s yours,” Glory whispered to me. “That’s all yours, Shane. Because you’re going to win tonight, and we’re all going to be free.”
I looked at her, suddenly sure she was lying…but there was something oddly open and honest in her blue eyes.
“You mean it?” I asked. “Free?”
“Free,” she repeated. “I promise you. After tonight, you’ll never have to fight again.”
Then she led me down a hall and sat me in a chair, and Vassily showed up doing his stupid Dracula impression, with cameras that leered at me with empty eyes. And then it was all over and the countdown was up.
Time to fight.
“Paying customers,” Myrnin said. He nodded to the people getting out of cars and walking toward the far door, the safe door, of the warehouse. There were all types—what passed for white-collar in Morganville, moms, college kids, tough guys. A cross section of crazy. There were vampires, too, working the door…Claire recognized one of them, and said so. “Yes,” Myrnin agreed. “He was with Bishop before. One of those Amelie said has been missing. Now we know where he’s been. No doubt Vassily hired many of Bishop’s former employees to staff his little venture.”
“But what does he want?” Eve asked. She was watching the parade of people forking over cash with a baffled and faintly sickened expression. “All this for money?”
“Millions of dollars, which to a vampire means safety and stability,” Myrnin said. “And independence. Our friends who broke away from Amelie to form their little colony in Blacke aren’t the only ones who want out of Morganville; Bishop’s friends and sympathizers fear Amelie. Outside of this town, they could be their own little petty kings and queens.” The way he said it, he seemed bitter and distant, as if he’d considered it before. Or done it before. “In any case, never think money is any less a good motive than passion. You’d be surprised what people will do for money that they wouldn’t do for love.”
“We have to get in,” Eve said.
“No doubt,” Myrnin agreed. “But they will know you immediately. Claire is less recognizable, and hardly anyone knows my face. I suggest you stay here and—”
Eve gave him a withering look and said, “Pass me your hat.”
“Pardon?”
“Your hat. And your coat.”
Myrnin gave her a doubtful look and handed them over. She shook them out, sniffed them, made a face, and then put it on. On Eve, the coat looked even bigger and more ill-fitting than it had on Myrnin, and the hat practically swallowed her head. All that Claire could see of her was a white flash of face.
Just like a vamp.
“Huh,” Myrnin said, and cocked his head with great interest. “For someone so singular, you can disappear quite effectively.”
“Shut up and get ready,” Eve said. “You’re going to need to move your butt if you don’t want it lightly fried.”
He looked down at himself and frowned. “Won’t do, won’t do. Far too individual. No…” And before Claire could stop him, he stripped off his coat and dumped it on the floor, along with his brocade vest. He left on the crimson shirt and black pants—very piratical. “Better?”
“Sure,” she said. She couldn’t imagine it was. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
Eve got out first and hurried toward the door, head down. The vampires got one look at her face and waved her in without a word. Claire followed her, carrying both black bags. They stopped her and asked for admission money, which Myrnin dug out of a pocket and handed over…in gold coins. Probably not all that unusual for the fanged bunch, Claire guessed, because they just shrugged and pocketed the money and gave her and Myrnin plastic strips to wear around their wrists. “You can’t bring blood in,” one of them said as he sealed the wristband. “Concession’s at the back of the room. Ten bucks for a pint.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Myrnin said. “The prices—”
Claire nudged him along. He looked outraged. “Well, it is very high,” he muttered. “Oh. There’s your friend, Even. Ever?”
“Eve,” Claire said. “Here, take your bag. I’ve got mine and Eve’s. I’m going to go find Shane. You and Eve—”
“No need for that,” Myrnin said as the lights dimmed and the door boomed shut at the back of the room. Claire had the distinct impression that it was being locked up, and anyone who arrived after was going to be standing outside enjoying the day, human or vampire. “Here he comes.”
Claire turned around. They were standing on the concrete floor, and the cheap aluminum bleachers extended up for ten rows or so on all four sides of the big, open room. In the center was a platform, and on the platform was an iron cage with an open door. It was about the size of a boxing ring, and there were bright, white-hot lights pointed down into it from all angles to turn it into a blank white canvas.
Vassily walked out into the middle of it, fangs flashing as he smiled and waved at the crowd. The stands were about half full, Claire realized; maybe they hadn’t been able to get the word out quickly enough. Didn’t matter. Their real money came from the Internet betting and memberships.
Vassily was wearing just about the exact same outfit as Myrnin, only on him it looked cheap and stupid. He had a wireless microphone, and now he raised it to his mouth and said, “Welcome, friends, to Immortal Battles, where those with eternal lives gamble to lose them, and those with merely human strength learn what it is to be heroes!” He got some yells and applause. Next to her, Myrnin was standing very still, watching. Claire realized he was gripping her arm, holding her still. She didn’t know why until Vassily said, “And now, meet our mortal hero of the night: Shane ‘The Hammer’ Collins, winner of two previous bouts, survivor, and hunter! Give him a warm, Immortal welcome!”
The crowd cheered. Claire stood there feeling fragile and hot, like she’d been turned to ashes that might be blown away at any second, and watched as Shane, her Shane, walked into the steel cage, arms held high.
He was smiling, but his eyes were dead and haunted by the ghost of the man he’d been. Claire wanted to fall down. Myrnin’s hand was crushingly tight around her arm, but she didn’t feel like doing anything stupid; she wasn’t sure she could move on her own. It felt like a nightmare.
And then, of course, it got worse.
“And the challenger,” Vassily shouted. “Vampire novice, musician, aspiring champion, Michael Glass! This is a grudge match, ladies and gentlemen, years in the making! Now watch as—”
Vassily had miscalculated, Claire saw; he’d thought he could keep on vamping (pun intended) to drive up the betting, but Shane had other ideas. He did a long circle of the cage, and then, with unnatural quickness, he turned around and slammed into Vassily, who was still talking into his microphone. Vassily dropped the mike, but Shane had him by the collar of his fancy coat and threw him in a rolling, flapping heap on the floor. Before Vassily could get up, Shane was on him.
Michael pulled him off and held his arms behind him. “Stop,” he said. Claire could hear him, but she wasn’t sure the crowd could; they were all stomping and yelling, setting up a metal-crashing racket that drowned out most things. Michael wasn’t playing to the crowd. He was talking urgently to Shane. “Bro, stop this. This isn’t you.”
Shane did stop. He went still in Michael’s hold and his eyes closed. But when Michael let go, thinking he’d gotten through, Claire saw the smile twist Shane’s lips, and tried to yell a warning.
She heard Shane clearly when he said, “You’re wrong about that. Bro.”
SHANE
I’d been wanting to take a bite out of Vassily for a while, and hearing him go on and on about Michael, well, that was it. Michael frickin’ Glass. Mr. Perfect. He wasn’t just any vampire, now, was he? No, he came from a long line of human Renfields, all bending over for the vamps. Hell, Sam had even……
No. Something in me shut down when I tried to free-associate Michael’s granddad Sam into that mental rant; Sam, I knew, didn’t deserve it. I’d liked Sam. Hell, everybody had lov
ed Sam.
Like everybody loved Michael. Mr. Perfect.
I jumped Vassily, and that felt good. It felt good to think with my body instead of the confusing tangle of hate and guilt and fear that was inside of me—to just be something, do something, without the higher brain getting in the way. I kicked him, but with the hardest angle of my foot. You don’t kick with the toes, not with bare feet; you use the side or the heel. I chose the heel, and put some momentum behind it, and felt Vassily’s ribs creak when the blow landed.
Nice.
Then Michael was pulling me off, and, dammit, he had me from behind. He had leverage and strength. Vassily got up and retrieved his microphone and scrambled out of the cage, slamming it shut behind him.
Michael said urgently, “Stop. Bro, stop this. This isn’t you.”
I closed my eyes and let my tense muscles go loose in his hold. Only an idiot would fall for that, but Michael liked to believe he could do anything. And he didn’t think I was very smart, anyway.
When I felt him release me, I was smiling so much it hurt. “You’re wrong about that. Bro.”
He probably had warning, hearing that, but I didn’t dive forward to get away from him. Oh no. I launched myself backward, pile-driving into him, and slammed us both down on the springy, booming canvas floor. The crowd was screaming; it sounded like thunder in my ears. The lights pounded down on my skin, and I could feel Glory in my head like a searchlight.
She wanted me to win. Win at all costs.
I twisted around. Michael was pinned under me and he was fighting to get up. This time I had the weight and leverage, and as long as I stopped him from getting organized, I could hurt him.
I wanted to hurt him.
“Shane!” he was yelling. I saw him but I didn’t see him, not clearly; he was a shape, a voice, an opponent, and who he was didn’t matter. He wasn’t a person; he was a thing, and I hit him full force in the face. Again and again. Every time, pain jolted up my arm and nausea followed with it, like I was drunk and tipping over into the throwing-up stage, but then it would recede and I’d hit him again.
I hit him with special force, and I felt a bone snap in my hand. One of the little ones—no big deal—but the high, bright snap felt like a flash of red strobe light going through me, and for a second or two after, my head was crystal clear.
And I saw a girl yanking on the cage door, trying to get it open. A tall girl in a ratty, torn raincoat and a stupid, giant hat that fell off as she fought with the door’s padlock, revealing shiny, close-bobbed black hair and a face as pale as any vamp’s.
“God, Shane, stop!” Eve was screaming, and pounding on the bars hard enough to make them ring. “Stop it! What are you doing?”
It was shocking, like seeing Alyssa standing there, and for a second I thought I did see Lyss, the way I’d last seen her, looking so pretty and smart and ready for anything, ready to die, and I couldn’t save her because I was a loser and I’d been weak, so weak. I should have opened the door even though it was hot, so hot, and I’d been passing out from the smoke.
I looked down.
I’d done some damage to Michael’s face, but it was healing. There was blood on the canvas and on my hands and dripping down his cheeks. Any human dude would have been ready for the hospital.
I realized that he wasn’t fighting back.
Easy money.
I pulled back my fist for another punch, and he didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away, either. He just said, “It’s not your fault, man. I don’t blame you.”
For some reason, that was the first thing he’d said that I really heard. It was almost like I was hearing my father’s voice again, saying something that I’d needed to hear every day since Lyss disappeared from our lives.
That it wasn’t my fault.
That I couldn’t have stopped it.
The truth was, the fire hadn’t been my fault. Nobody could have gotten to my sister to save her.
But this—this was my fault.
I sat back, staring down at him. His blue eyes were bloodshot, flickering with red, but he wasn’t going vamp on me even though I’d hurt him badly. He was just going to take it.
“It’s Glory,” he said. “You know that, right? Not your fault.”
Glory. I looked around but I didn’t see her. It was just a sea of faces now, screaming faces that didn’t care about me or Michael or anything but their own entertainment. Except for Eve, looking so stricken and horrified on the other side of the bars. She cared. Too much, probably.
“Bishop’s here,” Michael said. “They’re going to put him in here with you once I wear you down. I can’t let that happen. I have to stay in here with you. It’s going to take us both to get him. You understand? We have to stand up together, Shane.”
I did. I’d been right before; this was some kind of nightmare, some weird spell that was going to snap any moment now, and things would be okay, all okay. None of this was…real….
Then I saw Claire.
She was standing outside the cage by the bleachers, and Myrnin was holding her arm like he was trying to keep her from going full-out Eve and running for the cage, but I didn’t think she was trying. Like me, she was paralyzed, trapped in her nightmare, and those dark eyes were looking at me, seeing me, and I saw myself, too. Sweating, bruised, feral, angry, cruel.
It made me sick.
I rolled away from Michael and curled into a ball, facing Claire, staring back. Maybe it was the pain from my hand still tearing through me; maybe it was, finally, my own brain waking up and screaming.
Maybe it was seeing that horrified look on her face. I didn’t even care that she was with Myrnin; I was glad she had someone to protect her here. And I knew he would. He’d better. Him, I would kill if he let anything happen to her, and he knew it.
I saw her lips shape my name. Shane. I couldn’t hear her, but I knew how it would sound, how heartbroken and disappointed and scared. I’d let all this get away from me. I’d hurt her and she’d hurt me, and we had to fix it. We had to. Because I couldn’t let this destroy the people I loved.
That included Michael, the jackass. I flopped over on my back, breathing fast, and saw him sitting up. Too-pale-to-be-normal blood ran down his chin and dripped on his bare chest. Without a shirt he looked buff but very, very pale, almost ghostly. Still Michael, though.
Still my friend.
Always my friend, even when I was the biggest dick on the planet.
He was looking at me with a frown, checking out whether I was still in that other, scary place, and I nodded to him and wiped sweat off my face. I felt cold now, not burning hot like I’d been. When I flexed my hand, the pain from the broken bone sliced through me like a clean red knife, driving away all the lingering ghosts of anger.
“You didn’t fight,” I said. “Jesus, man, I could have killed you.”
“Don’t think you could have, not for a long time,” he said. “Anyway, you didn’t.” He looked around and saw Eve. His smile was real and full of delight, but there was something else mixed up in there, too. Something almost scared. “I’m okay, Eve. No permanent damage.”
She was clinging to the bars like she intended to force her way inside with sheer fury. “Shane, if you hurt him, I’ll kill you!”
I waved at her wearily. “Yeah, thanks. I’m the one with a broken bone.”
I exchanged a quick look with Michael, who was making plans. “Get away from the door,” he said.
“Why?”
Michael stood up. “Because I’m kicking it open.”
It took seven sustained, vampire-strength kicks to snap the lock and send the thing flying back; Eve moved off, but not far. I was watching the outside, the crowd. Vassily had, no surprise, disappeared. He’d never intended to be around for long, just long enough to grab the betting receipts and catch his ride. But I wasn’t worried about him. He was a greedy ass hat; no big deal.
I was worried about Gloriana, because I could still feel that subtle gray tension inside me that
meant she was around. Not focused on me, not right now, but definitely……
I saw her a second before she grabbed Eve by the throat and yanked her backward, holding her tight like a Gothic human shield. Eve’s weird hat got crushed in the chaos—and now it was chaos, because the people in the stands were figuring out that things weren’t going according to the standard fight-club plan, and they wanted out. Only there wasn’t any way out of here. The doors were locked. Most of the vamps had already bolted, leaving Myrnin and Michael and Gloriana behind.
Glory’s blue eyes met mine over Eve’s shoulder, and I froze in the act of getting up. My mind clicked over and blanked into a perfect, smooth whiteness, and I felt that fury boiling up again, hot and crazy and perfect. She knew me. She knew just where to push, and what would cause me the most pain. I didn’t even have to think about it consciously anymore for it to hurt.
Hurt. Of course……
I slammed my right fist down into the floor and sent another jolt of agony through my body. The fury shattered and melted away, and I gave Gloriana a smile. A nice, big one. “Guess not,” I said. “You wanted to make me kill Michael, didn’t you? Kind of an if-I-can’t-have-him-nobody-can stalker thing, right? I’m just your weapon. Man, girl, get therapy.”
She smirked at me. “That’s all you’re good for, Collins—being a weapon,” she said. “That’s all you’ll ever be good for. Taking out enemies.”
“Good enough for me,” I said. “But you just made the top slot on my enemies list. Too bad for you. Don’t you think?”
She squeezed. Eve’s eyes got huge and she gave me a pleading look, then cut it toward Michael, who was coming down the stairs out of the cage, heading for her and Glory.
I felt Glory’s power, her glamour, slam into him like a freight train, and he slowed down…and stopped. He reached out for Eve, moving like he was underwater…and Gloriana laughed a little, one of those sweet, innocent little laughs that had seemed so pretty before, and said, “I hate it when you look at her that way, you know. Such a waste. She doesn’t deserve you, Michael.” And I knew right then that she was going to kill Eve in front of him.
