by Melissa Marr
The crowd strained as the urge to rush to the betting houses conflicted with the danger of walking away from Marchosias. He knew it, let the tension build, and then held his hands up as if he hadn’t made a decision already. “What say you?”
Cries of “Aya!” mingled with “Yes!” and “Her kill!”
Marchosias lowered his hands as he turned to Aya. “The people have rendered judgment. The kill is counted as justifiably yours.”
The chaos of the crowd running and trampling one another drew Kaleb’s attention so much that he almost missed the desperate look that came over Aya’s face when Marchosias leaned forward and kissed her forehead. Why? It didn’t matter: what mattered was that Aya’s power play had changed his game. He had just lost his third-place position, and he was now in danger of dropping further unless his points for his match tomorrow were significant.
No mercy.
He didn’t like to inflict injury for point count before killing his opponent. He was decisive, but not cruel. If a fight started, it ended with a kill, but he didn’t torture. Until a match began, a forfeit was a solid win: it meant that he’d succeeded in winning without needing to take the field. Midmatch, accepting a forfeit was a sign of weak nerves, of an inability to do the job thoroughly. Kaleb kept to those rules, but he didn’t enjoy engaging in blood sport for the purposes of getting a kill-plus.
Now, as a result of Aya’s play, he would have no choice but to do so tomorrow.
CHAPTER 5
MALLORY PREFERRED TO DO her morning run in the quiet hours just before sunrise. Once people were headed to work or school, she felt self-conscious. They rarely commented on her odd attire, but they looked. Attracting attention wasn’t on her father’s list of good ideas. The goal was to blend in, to be unobtrusive so that if anyone came around asking questions, there were no details strangers could share. A teenage girl running in jeans, boots, and a jacket instead of the more standard workout attire attracted attention. Running shorts had nowhere to hide her revolver, and training in her everyday clothes was more practical. Boots were heavier than tennis shoes; jeans didn’t have as much give as bare legs (but were far better than long skirts); and the awkwardness of running with weapons was a lot different from running while wearing an MP3 player. She trained for reality—not that she could say that to the people who looked askance at her.
She pulled the door shut behind her, slipping away from the safety of her warded house and watchful father and into the soft violet of the last moments of night. Something about the peculiar purple-gray skies made her relax. It felt right in a way that the harsh midday light never did. This was the time when her body felt intensely alive, as if her very skin were too tight to contain her and the only way to relieve that pressure was to be outside. The only other times she felt that pressure were when it had been too long since she’d seen Kaleb. In that case, too, she knew how to cure the tension—she simply needed to be nearer to him.
The feel of the ground under her feet was a comforting rhythm as she set out on today’s path. She had a series of routes, and before each run, she drew a letter from an envelope she kept in her dresser. That kept her routes random, which made her harder to follow or stalk; unpredictability was a priority when hiding from daimons. Today’s path took her toward the community college, along the river, and around the shopping mall. One of the things she looked forward to each time they moved to a new town was charting her run routes. Make the moves fun, her mother had often said. Mallory still tried.
Not quite a mile from the house, two men ran up on either side of her like they’d been waiting for her. A quick glance verified that they didn’t have witch eyes, but they didn’t look like they were in shape to be running easily beside her. They were bulkier than most runners, but even if they were fit, she’d never met a human who could keep up with her. It was one of the few quirks of genetics that she figured she’d inherited from the stranger who had been her biological father.
“I’m not looking for company,” she said as she picked up her pace. They weren’t the first men to try to hit on her or intimidate her, but she ran a little faster, pretending they were threats and letting herself run as if they were.
Both men sped up so they were alongside her again, and her pretend fear became actual fear.
“Back off,” she said.
The one to her left grinned at her as he increased his pace and stepped in front of her. “There’s a lot of interest in you at home.”
Mallory put out her hand to keep from running into his now outstretched arms. Her hand slammed into the middle of his chest. He took one step backward, but he didn’t move farther away.
The trickle of fear became a rush of adrenaline. Flight wasn’t going to work; the only option left was a fight. Mallory turned her head, tracking the location of the second man, who now stood several steps behind her, and tried to reason with them. “You don’t want to do this. Go back to wherever you’re from and—”
The man in front of her flashed his teeth in the sort of smile that made her think of angry dogs. “I don’t want to hurt you. You’re more use as a pretty, living bargaining chip, so just come along peaceful-like. We’ll take you to The City, and you’ll be treated like you deserve.”
“The City?” she echoed.
His words clicked into place for her, and the extent of the danger became clearer. Daimons? Here? Mallory stepped to the side, trying to evade him. Her hand was already reaching for her gun as she moved. If they were really daimons, the idea of facing two of them made her mind slip into that eerily calm place she found during training.
But it felt like the world hit fast-forward as the man lunged at her. He had appeared human, but in a split moment, he was something else. She wouldn’t call him a dog, although he looked more canine than anything else. Claws too long for any dog extended from long digits on hands that appeared human. The body had a dog’s fur, but the limbs were more muscular. The tatters of his clothes clung to an animal shape.
In that same moment when he lunged, Mallory drew the revolver from the holster hidden under her jacket. Suddenly her father’s fixation on a gun’s firing speed made good sense.
The daimon stopped just short of touching her. The other one was off to her side, but he wasn’t moving either.
“We don’t want to hurt you,” the human-shaped one said.
Mallory had her feet planted and arms straightened; her hands were steady and the short barrel of the revolver was aimed at the doglike daimon. She took several steps backward, wishing she had a gun for her other hand.
“We can hurt you,” he said, “but we only want to take you home.”
The doglike one stared at her with eyes that looked as human as her own, and she paused.
She didn’t move, couldn’t move.
It’s a daimon. Pull the trigger.
The shape of it was unsettling, not quite canine but not quite monstrous.
“We need you to come with us,” the other one said. He was still in the shape of a man, but his voice sounded rougher now, like the sound had to roll over heavy rocks before words were fully formed.
Mallory shook her head. “I’ll shoot.”
The daimon in front of her made a sound like a laugh or a cough.
“You won’t get both of us,” the other one said.
He grabbed her arm and tugged her off-balance.
She let the momentum of his action spin her to face him—and then she shot him. She only got off one shot, but it was a good shot. The bullet pierced his chest, and at such close range, the spatter was enough to make her feel sick.
It did not, however, stop him. He grabbed her gun and yanked it out of her hand. He moved so quickly that the clatter of the revolver hitting the asphalt was simultaneous with a cuff to her head.
Mallory tried to evade both daimons, but they moved quicker than she could have imagined. Her father had told her that they were crazy fast, but seeing it was still shocking.
The doglike one had her wrist in
his jaws now, holding her in place. The other one had sunk to his knees. He was motionless on the asphalt, but he still stared at them.
“You ought to help him,” she said to the daimon in doglike shape. She wasn’t sure he understood her, but she knew she wasn’t going to fight her way out of this. Maybe logic could buy her time for . . . something.
She swiped at the blood on her face, and when she pulled her hand away, her fingers tingled. As she glanced at them, weird claws seemed to extend from her fingertips. It’s contagious? Her gaze darted to the daimon in front of her. The claws growing on her hand were the same as his.
She swiped her claws at the head of the daimon restraining her, and he released her with a yelp.
Mallory held up her claw-tipped hand like a weapon and darted away.
The daimon that was crouched in front of her grabbed at her, but this time she moved almost quickly enough to avoid him. She felt the edges of his claws graze her arm.
None of this made sense. Adam had never said that their blood would change her. The horror of seeing the change to her hands mixed with the pain in her arm, and she stumbled backward.
The bleeding daimon caught her again, but she tore away from him and ran toward the gun.
She only made it a few steps before the daimon on all fours landed in front of her in a leap that should’ve been impossible. She swerved too suddenly, twisting her ankle and falling in the process.
“Stop.”
The voice cut through the haze of pain and confusion. The only person who could fix things was there. “Daddy?”
Adam stepped in front of her. The daimon’s claws scored his side, but that was all that the daimon had time to do. In mere moments, her father had spoken a spell that left the doglike daimon immobilized on the ground. It looked at her from eyes too like her own, but didn’t move. Its chest rose and fell in silent breaths.
The second daimon wasn’t so lucky. When it had started changing, Adam spoke another spell—this one fatal. It dropped to the ground dead in a form that was neither man nor animal, but a sick mix of the two.
Her father drooped.
“Daddy!”
“I’m fine.” He pulled her to her feet. “Everything’s fine.”
“It’s not!” She tugged him away from the blood on the ground with her malformed hands.
“I’m here now.” Adam put an arm around her, steadying her. “Everything is fine.”
“It’s not.” She held her hands out. “Look at me!”
“Shhhh,” he murmured.
“Hush, Mallory.” He grabbed her face, and she noticed that there was blood on his hands too. They weren’t changing, but before she could ask why, he told her, “We were running together today, and you fell. The bruises are from a fall.”
“But . . .” She nodded even as her mind fought to hold on to the truth of what had happened. The daimons, the blood, her hands—all of it was replaced with a hazy memory of a twisted ankle and bruised arm from tripping over something. A dog. One of those tiny little ones had darted into my path.
Mallory leaned on her father. “Why can’t people keep their dogs on leashes?”
Other people had arrived, and they were talking to her father. She tried to look at them, but she couldn’t focus. Witches. They were pulling a man and an animal into the back of a black van. She didn’t know why there were witches with her on her morning run. “Daddy?”
“Just a minute, Mallory.” He held her to his side.
“We have this, sir,” a woman said. Mallory blinked, but the witch was out of focus.
Her father pointed at her ankle. “Someone fix that. She can’t walk home like this.”
“Yes, sir,” another voice said.
Mallory’s eyes drifted shut, and when she opened them, her father was helping her into the house.
“Stay here.” Adam left her standing just inside the door and went into the kitchen.
She knew there was something she wanted to ask, but she couldn’t remember what it was. Mostly, she wanted to take a nap until her headache went away. The walk home from her run was hazy. All she knew for sure was that if she’d gone running alone like she did most days, she’d be hobbling home because of that yappy little dog that had darted into her path.
When her father returned, he had a trash bag in his hand.
“Thanks for coming with me today,” she said.
“Of course.” He walked her to the bathroom. At the door, he stopped. “I need the clothes you have on. Put them in the bag. Then take a good soak, and stay home today. Make sure to use the bath oils I made for you, Mals. That will make your head feel better too.”
Mallory did as she was told.
Good daughters always obey.
CHAPTER 6
AS KALEB DRESSED FOR the fight the next morning, Zevi paced around their cave so rapidly that Kaleb had to say his name several times before the manic cur heard him. Even then, Zevi’s only response was a curled lip. The mornings of a fight were harder every time, but today Zevi was in rare form. He’d obviously been awake for hours, trying to be silent, because from the moment Kaleb opened his eyes, Zevi was in motion. The pent-up energy that he’d been containing all but erupted.
“Zevi!”
All Kaleb saw in the blur was a flash of red eyes and exposed teeth, but in the instant before Zevi actually tackled Kaleb, he stopped and dropped to the floor in a heap of too-thin limbs. “I don’t like this.”
“I know.” Kaleb stroked his hand over Zevi’s hair.
“We could leave The City.” Zevi pushed against Kaleb’s hand and tilted his head. Despite years in The City, Zevi often seemed more animal than anything else. His childhood among quadrupedal creatures in the Untamed Lands outside The City showed even more when they were home—and when Zevi was anxious.
“Have I lost yet?” Kaleb asked.
Zevi snorted. “‘Lost’ is dead.”
“Or forfeit.”
With another headbutt, Zevi muttered, “Curs don’t forfeit. I know, Kaleb. I know. You wouldn’t forfeit. You need to win. It’s the only way for us to jump castes, but”—Zevi took a whimpering breath—“I’d rather stay cur than you be dead.”
Kaleb petted him for a few moments. “I’d rather die. This is not enough.”
The answering sigh was expected, as was Zevi’s resolute attitude shift. He stood, walked to the fire, and dropped several rolls of wraps into a large metal pot that simmered over the coals. He said nothing as he did so. When he was done, he collected his bag and went to stand at the mouth of the cave. “I’m ready.”
They walked in silence to the carnival. When it was first begun, the Carnival of Souls was where the witches had worked their arts and sold talismans to protect daimons from summoners’ circles. Of course, now, everyone knew that not many human-born witches could draw a daimon to the other world. It was The City’s witches who had been behind the summonings; they’d roamed both worlds then. Daimons who troubled them were summoned to the human world, where they were entrapped. Until Marchosias had stopped them, the witches were the daimons’ greatest source of death or imprisonment. Marchosias had been the lion at the front of the fight, slaughtering the oldest witches and their children to prevent another generation of their kind until they accepted the treaty that gave them the human world and left The City to daimons.
Centuries later, Marchosias was still pushing back the unending growth of the Untamed Lands, cutting away at the wild plants that the witches had set to flourish. He had changed things and continued working for the good of The City, and they all knew it. In return, they followed him absolutely—and fought for a worthy role in the world he’d carved out for them.
Some fighters, ones who forfeited after a good fight, would be chosen to serve in his militia. Others might be found deserving of trades training. The competition was as much a fight arena as it was a showplace where daimons could try to improve their lot in life, even if they had no actual expectation of winning. Kaleb, however, had a real chanc
e at winning.
With no more acknowledgment than terse nods at those he knew, Kaleb made his way to the fight grounds for his match.
The wood shavings and sand under his feet were still wet from the judgments that had required punishments. Often, fresh shavings were brought in after Judgment Day, but the crowds were hungry for the sort of violence they’d been denied by Aya’s match. The still-bloody ground where the fight would happen today was testament to the expectation and hope that there would be ample blood spilled.
“Tell me again that you won’t die,” Zevi demanded as they stood at the edge of the circle.
“I won’t die here.” Kaleb pulled his boots off and handed each to Zevi. “Tell me you won’t forget the rules.”
“I promise.” Zevi ducked his head sheepishly. Neither mentioned the time that Zevi had launched himself at a fight circle and been summarily knocked backward like a bit of flotsam, but Kaleb knew that they both thought of it every fight. Seeing Zevi unconscious made Kaleb lose focus that day. It had nearly killed them both: Zevi from the force of the shock and the impact of the fall and Kaleb from a set of claws that ripped furrows down his chest and then tore clear through his stomach muscles.
Zevi shoved Kaleb’s boots into his bag. “Nic will draw claws fast.”
“I know.” Kaleb peeled off his shirt, but kept on the loose trousers he was wearing. He hated ruining another set of clothes, but he wasn’t going to strip bare in front of the audience.
Absently, Zevi accepted the shirt with one hand, and with the other he dug around in his bag. In short order he retrieved Kaleb’s mouth guard from the depths of the bag and held it out. “He’ll aim for a straight kill with you.”
“I know, Z.” Kaleb took the mouth guard, looked at it warily, and then handed it back. “I can’t use this for more than a minute today. I need my teeth.”
