by S W Vaughn
Jenner rose and circled him.
He stiffened, waiting for the sting of a needle or the slice of a knife. Cool, dry hands gripped his shoulders with surprising strength and pulled back.
“You make yourself small.” Jenner said. “Do not cower like a dog. Stand straight. Your lack of confidence betrays you.”
Brow furrowed, Gabriel drew himself up — and found he stood several inches taller. Had he always hunched over like that? His body felt strange, unused to this new position. Hands clenched, he resisted a glance back at Jenner, who’d fallen silent.
The lieutenant came around in front of him. “I am certain you have been told this, but you did not listen. If you wish to survive, you will listen now,” he said. “Trust no one, angel. No one. Not your dear doctor, or the other fighters. Not your own self-sacrificing impulses. You have made yourself blind, and you must open your eyes. No one else can do this for you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will. And the sooner you do, the better off you will be.” A shadow of disgust darkened Jenner’s face, and he produced a cell phone. “Apollo will escort you to your room.” He dialed, waited. “Come down.” Disconnecting, he replaced the device, and his lips compressed.
Gabriel hardly dared to breathe. “Is that it?” he whispered.
“I can still hurt you, if you wish.” The smirk returned, coldly amused. “On some levels you welcome pain — another part of yourself that you deny. You would do well to embrace it. Particularly in the ring.”
“No. You’re wrong about that.”
“Believe what you want, angel. You will regardless.”
The dungeon door opened. Apollo must have been waiting nearby. Gabriel glanced at him and caught the flash of cruel desire in his eyes.
“Apollo.” Jenner spoke sharply, as though correcting a dog. “Escort him to his room, and nothing more. You will not touch him.”
He couldn’t have been more shocked if the lieutenant had broken out in song.
Apollo murmured something unintelligible. Jenner stepped forward, fury flowing from him in almost tangible waves. “I did not quite hear you,” he said, his voice low and excessively smooth. “I am certain you meant to agree. Correct?”
“Right. I mean … yes, Mr. Jenner. I won’t.” Apollo’s expression said he’d been on the receiving end of Jenner’s wrath and wouldn’t risk it again.
“Do not merely remember my words, angel,” Jenner said. “Take action. Use your head, and not your heart.”
“Uh … okay.” Though ‘thank you’ was right on his tongue, he didn’t say it. He doubted Jenner would appreciate the sentiment.
He followed Apollo out, and realized he still held himself erect — for perhaps the first time in his life.
Chapter 25
Every arena possessed its own flavor, a separate personality that matched its host. Slade’s glorified nightclub dripped with gauche tastes and dangerous thrill. Gloom, decay, and an undercurrent of treachery permeated the stifling atmosphere of Diego Mendez’s warehouse.
And in Dell Ramone’s modified aircraft hangar, the themes were decadence and raw sex.
Men and women of every variety stood packed in shoulder to shoulder. Desire and lust romped through the throngs, living beasts. Couples fucked openly in shadowed corners, and a few of the sequestered sex parties included three or four members.
Even the furnishings reflected frivolity and wealth. Royal purple and gold satin-draped tables surrounded with plush chairs and benches, their centerpieces clusters of bottles containing expensive wines and white powders. All four walls boasted vast, richly detailed murals of forests through which playful mythical creatures romped. A centaur, nobly bemused and at rest on a slab of rock. A satyr grinning and brushing the long tresses of a slender, laughing wood nymph. Plump, naked cherubs frolicking among the tops of trees.
A fitting tribute to House Dionysus.
Gabriel followed Apollo to Slade’s table, dressed in a long black hooded robe belted at the waist, with nothing beneath. He’d been permitted soft shoes — slippers, really — but he’d have to take them off before he entered the ring.
They passed Dell herself seated at one of the tables, a queen surrounded by delectable, fawning courtiers of both sexes. One hand held a champagne glass with easy elegance, and the other rested lightly on the muscled thigh of a young man who knelt next to her. Stoic Ania, her features firm and impassive, stood to her right and surveyed the scene with hooded eyes.
Dell spotted them and raised her free hand to wave them over. Obediently, Apollo wove his way to her, and Gabriel had no choice but to follow. The attractive trans woman cleared the space nearest her with an impatient brushing gesture, sending her acolytes scurrying to make room.
“Apollo, darlin’.” She extended her hand to him, and he grasped it lightly, almost affectionately. “Who’s your ghost there?”
“’S Angel, Miss Dell.”
“Well!” Dell set the glass on the table with a muted clink and brought her hands together. “Impressive fight last time out, Angel-baby. Any enemy of Mendez’s is a friend of mine. Why don’t you take off that hood so Dell can look on your lovely face?”
Apollo cleared his throat and sent a nasty glare. From the depths of his hood, Gabriel said, “I would, ma’am, but just now it’s not so lovely. In fact, it’s still kind of lumpy.”
“That just adds flavor, sugar. Come on, let’s see you.”
Before he could comply with her demand, Apollo jerked the hood down with a snort. “Do what the lady says.”
Dell loosed a purring squeal. “Honey, you are a piece of work. I could just look at you all day.” Her arm snaked out, and fingers trailed down his chest in a familiar manner. “Sure you’re not for rent, Angel-baby?”
“I’m sure, ma’am.”
She smiled. “Call me Dell.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh! Such a bad boy.” Her laughter trilled like bubbling water. Turning her hundred-watt smile on Apollo, she said, “Better take this baby back to his papa before he gets in serious trouble.” Clear brown eyes came to rest on him, and as Apollo replaced the hood she said, “I’ll be cheering for you, Angel-baby. Don’t let me down, now. Hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He bowed, and her delighted laughter followed him through the crowd.
They neared Slade’s table. The crowd thinned the closer they came. The massive shape of Apollo blocked his view, but soon they’d reached completely cleared floor. Apollo moved aside and revealed the reason for the lack of spectators there.
Jenner occupied the seat to Slade’s right, resplendent in shimmering gray silk the exact shade of his steely hair. His easy posture and mild expression suggested nothing of his nature, but the lack of crowd here spoke volumes about his reputation. They definitely weren’t avoiding Slade.
Gabriel stopped in mid-step. Apollo seized his arm, dragged him to the table and thrust him into an empty chair with a growl.
Jenner leaned forward. “Surprised, angel?”
“No.”
“Good.” A mirthless smile split his lips. “You understand that I could not miss this performance.”
“Of course not. You have to take in every minute of my humiliation, don’t you?”
Slade glared at him. “Watch your tongue, Angel.”
“Marcus. Leave the boy alone,” Jenner said, stunning him into silence. His storm-cloud eyes skewered Slade, who withered slightly under the scrutiny. Then he turned to Gabriel. “Actually, I came to determine whether you have learned to listen,” he said. “Your humiliation is merely a bonus.”
“Yeah, great.” He met the lieutenant’s stare with what he hoped resembled confidence. “I haven’t only remembered. I’m ready.”
Jenner nodded. “Perhaps you are. We shall soon see.”
Slade rose suddenly and motioned for him to do the same. He circled the table, and in a sullen voice said, “Come on. I want you in the pen, now.” His eyes darted to Jenner, as though h
e expected his lieutenant to stop him. But Jenner barely glanced at the pair of them.
Slade led him across the arena to Dell’s pen, which resembled a miniature version of Slade’s back room lounge. The roped-off clusters of couches and arm chairs, heaped with satin-covered pillows, made an odd contrast to the empty space around it, as though some massive invisible hand had scooped up a roomful of furniture and jumbled it in a pile on the floor of a stadium.
Only two fighters occupied the area. One he didn’t recognize, but the other was Pandora’s Akuma. The devil himself.
Akuma crossed the small space and met him at the entrance. After Slade walked away without a word, the blond Asian said, “At last, the world will witness the ultimate battle between good and evil. Tonight, Angel, we meet in the arena.”
“No,” he gasped before he could stop himself. “Jesus. I’m sorry. It’s just … I have to fight you? Tonight?”
“Yes.” Concern furrowed Akuma’s brow. “You do not wish to fight me?”
“No. I mean, yes. Okay. That’s great.” Change the subject, moron. “How did you know who I was?”
Akuma laughed. “I have studied the way you move, my friend. Everyone has a distinctive gait, a special rhythm all their own. Come, and let us commiserate before the games begin.”
Gabriel followed miserably. He’d expected humiliation tonight, but facing Akuma naked would insult both of them. This little stunt would cost him any respect he might have earned.
Akuma took a seat on one of the couches, and Gabriel lowered himself slowly next to him. The other fighter frowned. “Are you uncomfortable speaking with me?”
“No,” he replied too quickly. “No, I’m just a little tired.” The obvious concern from his soon-to-be opponent only served to further his shame. Maybe he could tell him. Confess everything — his capture, Lillith, the real reason he was being forced into this degradation. Maybe…
But confession was not an option. Trust no one.
“Something troubles you,” Akuma insisted. “I have seen you fight before, and each time you have met your opponent with courage and honor. Today you are diminished. What has happened to cause you such pain?”
Gabriel couldn’t look at him. “Please don’t ask.”
“Very well.” Akuma fell silent for a few moments, and then ventured, “I saw you speaking with Jenner when you arrived.”
At the name, his head whipped around. His mouth went dry, and his heart pounded hard against his ribcage. “You know him?”
“I do.” Akuma’s voice dropped. “He is … it is difficult to explain. I work with him, in fact, though our work is outside the organization.” The fighter paused, and then whispered, “What have they done to you?”
He coughed, a poor attempt to disguise a raw sob of relief. “I—” he choked out. After a shuddering breath, he tried again. “I can’t. I can’t tell you.”
“What do you stand to lose?”
On the verge of breaking, he admitted, “My sister.”
Akuma stared into the crowd. “Jenner gave you that tattoo, did he not?”
Gabriel nodded.
“All at once?”
His silence spoke for him.
Akuma sighed. “My name — my real name — is Shiro Kuroda,” he said. “What is yours?”
“Angel.”
“Come now. That is not your name.” Akuma faced him with a worried frown. “I am aware that Jenner’s actions are not always … kind. But I can assure you that he will forgive you for confiding in me.”
Gabriel offered a mocking snort.
“Please.” Akuma placed a hand on his shoulder, and he tried not to flinch in response. “Trust me.”
He stared out from beneath his hood, rigid and desolate. A sharp increase in volume from the crowd indicated the announcer had stepped into the center square. Time had run out.
Though he suspected he’d regret this, he answered the fighter with a barely audible whisper.
“I am sorry,” Akuma said. “I could not hear you.”
He turned toward Akuma and spoke in a stronger voice.
“Gabriel,” he said. “My name. It’s Gabriel Morgan.”
Chapter 26
Time to go.
Akuma stood beyond him, already in the ring. The announcer had just called his name. Gabriel’s legs moved him toward the spotlight, even as his mind protested. He couldn’t do this. He would not do this.
He had to do this.
He slipped the shoes off and kept walking down the cordoned aisle. The passage seemed miles long. He felt eyes on him, hundreds of derisive stares, as if the crowd already knew what was going to happen. He reached the stairs, stopped.
They waited for him. The announcer, the mob, Slade and Jenner. Akuma. Compassion flooded the Pandora fighter's face — and from it Gabriel drew the strength to step into the roped-off square.
“Begin!”
Relieved that Akuma didn’t rush him after the announcer retreated, Gabriel loosened the knot at his waist with stoic determination. Under his opponent’s puzzled stare, he let the belt fall, then pushed back the hood.
There is only Akuma. He tried to work up the courage to remove the robe. No crowd. No Jenner or Slade. Just Akuma and him. Despite his best efforts, the roar of the crowd lingered. It became soft and far, an echo. A pale shadow of itself.
Do it.
Before his nerve could fail him, he tugged the material away from his shoulders. The robe slid down his skin to puddle on the floor.
The mob shut down with an audible crunch, like a plug pulled on a stereo.
Across from him, shocked out of his ready stance, Akuma stared open-mouthed.
Then a single voice rang out, a shot parting the stunned and heavy silence. “Oh, baby! Now this is action!”
The ringing laughter that chased Dell’s impassioned shout startled his heart into beating again. Gratefully, he turned in her direction and gave a slow, open-armed bow to a chorus of whistles and catcalls, and then brought his attention back to his opponent.
Akuma held a hand in the air and pivoted in a half-circle to quiet the mob. When only a slight murmur remained in the air, he faced Gabriel and said, “I cannot fight you like this.”
Panic infused him with the statement. What would Slade do to him if the match didn’t even take place?
“You have an unfair advantage.” Offering a predatory smile, Akuma began to unfasten his shirt. “Without clothing, I cannot hold you. You will slip from my grasp.” He stepped from his flat shoes and slid his pants and undershorts off, rendering himself exposed.
“There. Now we are even.”
“Lord, have mercy!”
Both fighters’ heads whirled in the direction of the statement. Dell shot to her feet, waving one hand before her face in an exaggerated flutter. “You boys want me to bring in something wet and slippery? Mud, jell-o, whipped cream — you name it, it’s yours.”
Raucous laughter engulfed the arena and infected even Gabriel’s desolate mood. He faced Akuma with renewed resolve, as prepared as this abysmal situation would allow him to be.
“Ready?” Akuma asked.
The fighter’s easy grin bolstered him. He might not win, but he wouldn’t hand over an effortless victory. He owed Akuma a good fight, and he would deliver.
Nodding once, trying to convey his gratitude with a single look that was far from sufficient, he struck a defensive pose and waited for the onslaught.
Akuma attacked with the grace of a leaping jungle cat, and Gabriel barely dodged a blow to the midsection. Knuckles grazed his skin as the other fighter passed. He laced his fingers together, tried to connect with the retreating back, and failed. Akuma dropped to the floor, rolled and sprang to his feet a safe distance away.
“You missed,” Akuma said.
“So did you.” An unfamiliar smile stretched his lips at the verbal thrust. The two fighters circled each other, both waiting for the other to move.
He tried the double punch that had worked for him i
n the past. Akuma caught the first blow in mid-flight, batted aside the second as though he were swatting a fly, and maintained a grip on his hand.
“You will have to do better than that.” Akuma grinned.
“I will.”
He feinted a hit and swept a leg to hook his opponent’s ankle, felling him with a quick tug. Brief surprise flooded Akuma’s face, but he caught himself with a mid-air twist and pushed off the mat, propelled his body upright again. A collective exclamation of awe rose from the crowd.
Akuma lunged back the instant his feet touched the floor, and this time connected with a solid jab.
Wheezing, Gabriel concentrated on blocking a blur of fists. Rising panic threatened as he realized in his present condition, he couldn’t win.
He didn’t think he could beat Akuma even in top form.
Desperation drove a blow that somehow broke through and struck his opponent’s jaw. Blood-flecked spittle flew in a fine spray. Akuma recoiled.
Gabriel dropped back, panting and rubbing sore knuckles.
The other fighter straightened with a wicked glint in his eye. “Very nice.” He passed a hand over the redness along his chin. “Now it is my turn.”
The mob drew to its feet, gazes riveted to the ring. Insane as it was, this match was becoming exactly what Akuma had predicted — an epic battle, the likes of which the organization had never seen.
Twenty minutes in, exhausted, Gabriel staggered and fell hard to his knees. Akuma, too spent himself to take advantage of his defenseless state, dropped into a squat across from him. “I think … we are evenly match,” Akuma panted, swiping a palm across his sweat-soaked brow.
“Maybe,” he gasped. His lack of clothing no longer bothered him. In the heat of their battle, he had forgotten Slade’s ridiculous punishment. The torment of having to fight the only man who might be on his side eclipsed every other factor — Lillith’s safety, Slade’s cruelty, even Jenner’s presence at this demented spectacle.
In a whisper that only Gabriel could hear over the deafening crowd, Akuma said, “One of us must finish this. Now.”
