by Melissa Marr
“We could ask her to be our protector,” Zevi suggested.
“If I die, you can ask her.”
“We could leave The City.” Zevi contorted his body into what looked like a decidedly uncomfortable position. “I know you don’t want to live in the Untamed Lands, but what about the human world? If Aya’s witch enough to do what she did, I bet she could open a gate there for us.”
“I fight today, Z,” Kaleb said. The chance of victory was slim, but it was there. “I can’t forfeit.”
“I know.” Zevi picked up his satchel, withdrew his mask, and slipped it on. He grinned. “A daimon can only change his mask so often.”
“Maybe . . . or maybe he can stop wearing one.” Kaleb grabbed a piece of fruit from the crystal bowl on the counter and walked out into the Carnival of Souls. Vendors were just beginning to open up, and a few knowing glances were sent their way as they walked out of the pleasure quarter at the break of day. If he told them that he and Zevi hadn’t partaken of any mind alterations or sex, no one would believe him—especially since Zevi now wore his red mask pushed atop his head like a hat. His face was exposed for any and all to see.
Kaleb glanced at Zevi, who stared back at him with faux innocence.
“I didn’t mean that literally,” Kaleb pointed out.
“I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done to survive, Kaleb,” he said in his usual blunt way. Then he grinned and shrugged. “And it’s no real secret who I am when you’re with me, and by now word has gone round that we were in there with Aya. Might as well let them think we were doing that rather than anything else.”
Kaleb nodded. Did she set us up? He couldn’t see how it would be to her advantage to do so. Most likely, she simply wanted to start the rumor that they were allies. Without her witchery being exposed, no one would realize what they were up to. Misdirection and rumormongering. He felt foolish that she’d manipulated the situation so cleverly, but all that really mattered was that, unless Aya had been honest and was able to do as she promised, Kaleb would die today.
Should I trust her?
He had no idea, but he also hadn’t come up with any other options. If Aya could give him an extra something to survive this fight, he’d live. He’d protect Zevi. He’d have a chance with Mallory. He’d have more choices—and so would Aya and Zevi.
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, KALEB was no surer of Aya’s trustworthiness than he had been when he woke, but it didn’t much matter. He would fight whether or not she’d been telling the truth.
The spectators were lined at the edge of the circle, crushed against the wooden barricades that were erected beyond the fight circle, and overflowing the seats until they were near falling.
There was no question as to which fighter should, by rights, bow, but Kaleb wasn’t about to enter what was most likely his last fight with meekness. The barely there dip of the head that Kaleb offered Sol was testament not only to his cur opinion on being always thought lower but also to his standing in the fights. He would either be among the last fighters, or he’d die today. Either way, he wasn’t going to feign humility.
Sol’s lips pressed together in a tight line, but he said nothing.
They gathered the silty mixture in the bucket and closed the fight circle in that same silence. The awareness that this fight was essential to win was underscored by Sol—and everyone watching—knowing that Kaleb had been badly injured by Nic.
The circle closed with a snap that reverberated in Kaleb’s skin in a peculiar way. They’d both been in dozens of fight circles, but the tingle that flowed over Kaleb’s skin was utterly unfamiliar. Based on the flash of surprise in Sol’s face, Kaleb suspected that he felt it too.
In a blink, the fight began. Sol kicked out at Kaleb’s leg as Kaleb’s fist shot toward Sol’s throat. Unlike when he was fighting another cur, Kaleb didn’t worry about teeth or claws in this fight. Members of the ruling caste rarely used their alternate forms. Belias was an exception, but even with him, the shift was rare. They might let talons free, but that was it.
Sol’s second punch missed, but it distracted Kaleb, and he didn’t dodge the knee that rammed into his leg. That was the goal, apparently: go for the weakness. It was a backstreet move, not what Sol would do against a member of his own caste.
But I am less to him.
They each tested the other, watching for reactions, assessing strengths. They’d undoubtedly both already watched each other fight, and from the way Sol targeted Kaleb’s injured leg, it was abundantly clear that Sol had seen the fight with Nic or had reports of where Kaleb had been most hurt. The injuries Kaleb had tried to hide and heal weren’t eradicated, and he supposed it was foolish to believe that Aya’s methods would allow him full advantage.
As he and Sol punched each other, an unusual number of Watchers fell against the circle and were tossed back by the force of the magic that kept the fight zone clear. Their interest in getting closer resulted in their being flung into the carnival, and this time Kaleb was grateful for the security. He was far from fight ready; Aya’s promised energy hadn’t happened.
Did she lie?
There was no way to ask her that unless he lived through the fight, and in that moment he wasn’t sure he was going to.
Sol’s fists hammered Kaleb’s ribs, and despite the exhaustion and the mindlessness that came from transforming, he started to shift forms.
“Kill! Kill! Kill!” The voices outside the circle rose and fell rhythmically, their cadence a chant that matched the heartbeat thundering inside Kaleb. “Teeth! Claws! Kill!”
Sol, knowing that fighting against tooth and claw was harder, grabbed a long-handled trident-looking weapon that Kaleb hadn’t faced in any of the fights to date.
“Teeth! Claws! Kill!”
They were chanting for him, not Sol, not anyone else. They’d reveled in the bloody death he’d dealt Nic and wanted more of the same. What they cherished, what they craved, was the monstrosity he’d rather not embrace.
Sol stabbed the long-handled weapon toward him, trying to capture and pin one of Kaleb’s legs in the tines. The edge grazed and tore flesh. The burn of the cut registered but in the vague way that injury did in this form. Pain. That meant attack. If the upper class spent a little more time trying to understand curs, they’d do better at dealing with them—or fighting them. Stop pain.
Another stab of the trident came at him; this one missed completely.
Kill.
Reason began to vanish under a flood of anger and strength. The injuries that had made him sluggish in the other form were gone now. Kaleb lunged at Sol, moving faster than he was used to even at his peak.
Sol’s eyes widened in a flash of fear as Kaleb’s teeth snapped down on his forearm. The trident fell from Sol’s hand. The weight of it hit Kaleb as it dropped.
The momentum of Kaleb’s leap pushed Sol to the ground, and he scrambled backward, trying to get out from under Kaleb. Even the youngest daimon knew better than to be on the ground with a transformed cur. Here, on all fours, Kaleb had advantages that the bipedal lacked. He wasn’t willing to lose that advantage either; he tightened his grip on Sol’s arm.
With his free hand, Sol punched Kaleb as hard as he could. The blow hit Kaleb under the eye, connecting with flesh on his muzzle and jarring the teeth that held Sol’s other arm immobile. Repeatedly, Sol slammed his fist into Kaleb’s face.
Blood—his and Sol’s—was filling Kaleb’s mouth. He released the arm and went for Sol’s exposed throat.
Sol rolled away, and Kaleb’s teeth closed on empty air.
As Kaleb stalked the bleeding daimon trapped in the circle with him, he felt increasingly energized.
Sol stumbled as he went for a pair of short blades. With a blade in each hand, he pivoted, watching Kaleb. He didn’t attack, and that alone was indicative of which way the fight was going. Typically, he was an aggressive fighter.
Kaleb darted in for another bite, but was rebuffed with a kick to the side where he’d previously been injured.
As he pulled back, he realized that not only did his side no longer hurt, but his leg also felt fine. In fact, he felt stronger by the moment. Aya’s spell. As Sol weakened, Kaleb strengthened. Even in his animal mind, he understood that the healing energy she had promised him was coming from Sol. The witch had made it so Kaleb was leeching strength from his opponent.
Again and again, Kaleb charged at his increasingly unsteady adversary. Sol bled from several places, and although Kaleb had new wounds, each sharp pain almost immediately began to fade. Even the worst of the wounds Sol had inflicted were already beginning to heal. Every new injury healed quickly, as the energy that Kaleb now stole from Sol made the flesh knit back together with an unsettling tingling. It felt better than the pain relievers Zevi fed him after fights, better than the narcotics he had occasionally enjoyed over the years. Even as he was injured time and again, Kaleb felt like he could continue doing this for hours. He didn’t want that flood of strength to ebb, didn’t want to lose the surge of health that poured into his skin.
In a move uncharacteristic of curs, he struck Sol to injure, not to incapacitate, tearing small wounds in the bigger daimon’s chest and abdomen. Death will end the energy. Kaleb tried to force himself to remember why he should want Sol to die. If Sol stayed alive, the energy would keep filling Kaleb.
Sol slashed at him, and Kaleb let the blade graze his side so he could feel his body repair itself. He stayed perfectly still for a moment, staring at Sol and waiting for another pass of the sharp edges against his skin. His fur was matted with blood, but he wanted to feel that next infusion of strength.
The weakened, but not yet dying, daimon was speaking to him, but in this form Kaleb couldn’t understand anyone other than another cur. Sol bowed his head for a moment. His body was sluggish, and Kaleb knew it would take only one carefully aimed swipe of his claws to bring death to his rival. Not yet. He lunged forward, presenting his side as an obvious target, but Sol merely stared at him through glazed eyes.
Kaleb growled.
Sol spoke again, but this time he stumbled toward Kaleb. He bowed his head, hiding his throat, asking for mercy.
Kaleb backed away. He couldn’t make Sol raise his blade again, but he didn’t want him to die. With a snarl, he charged the circle, giving them both a shock. The energy rushed toward Kaleb, drawn from Sol again, and the combined pain of the shock and the loss of more of his strength and health made Sol fall facedown. Kaleb padded over to Sol and prodded the hand holding the blade. Sol didn’t react, so Kaleb nudged harder with his muzzle.
Then Sol’s lips formed a word, and the need to understand that word was urgent enough that Kaleb shed his animal form. Once he was no longer in his other shape, he understood words again. He stared at Sol.
“Forfeit,” Sol said. He repeated the word again and again, adding, “Mercy, cur.”
Kaleb straightened and stared down at Sol. Cur? Even now, Sol couldn’t give him the respect of a name. If he stays alive, I can keep taking his energy. Kaleb looked past the fallen fighter and saw Aya watching them. Her expression revealed nothing, but Kaleb saw her lips form the same word Sol had, “Mercy.”
Resisting the urge to bound to his feet from the surges of energy humming in his body, Kaleb stood slowly. He looked out over the mostly unmasked crowd and then settled his gaze on Aya. Watching her, he called to the assembled judges, “Break it. I’m done here. Sol forfeits. I accept. I want nothing else from him.”
There were gasps that he had accepted a forfeit, but Kaleb didn’t care. He shouldn’t have tortured Sol. All that mattered in that instant was getting away from the fight, the crowds, and the horror of what he’d done.
The circle dropped, Aya nodded, and the connection between him and Sol stopped as if it had been cut. The loss of that flood of strength made him falter as he stepped forward—and for that, he was grateful. If the crowd knew how not-injured he was, they would be suspicious. That he’d won this fight was surprising enough; winning without being exhausted or injured would be alarming. The blood covering his body hid the fact that the injuries he’d sustained in the fight were mostly healed.
The circle falling meant that the press of the crowd was upon them. Strangers touched him, their fingers coming away wet with the combined blood of the two fighters. Later, bits of cloth stained with that blood would be sold in the market. The twisted mementos were collected by the macabre and the zealous, and Kaleb wasn’t sure which group he found most unsettling.
“This way,” a spectator called, trying to summon him closer. Her hand was outstretched, fingers splayed, as she shoved herself through the swarm of bodies. “I’ll nurse your wounds, Kaleb.”
“No, here,” a Watcher called.
“I’ll match any offer,” a blue-masked daimon called. This one held out a marker with a sum that Kaleb would have once accepted, despite the sting to his pride and sickness in his soul that followed every time he’d been hungry enough to whore himself.
His emotions must have been obvious in his expression because the masked daimon added a second marker, thereby doubling the offer. Kaleb opened his mouth to negotiate, here in front of any and all watching. He was a cur, an animal of the lowest order, a daimon to be used by those who could pay for him. Even if he won, he’d still be that creature. Why deny it? If he were a better person, he’d have been revolted by stealing Sol’s energy. Instead, he had tortured the other daimon to prolong the theft. Instead, he was wondering if that connection was permanently severed. Aya might be terrible for creating it, but he was no less awful for enjoying it.
“What terms?” Kaleb asked the woman.
“No,” Zevi murmured. The younger cur had forced his way through the overly energetic crowd and was now directly beside Kaleb.
“We could live on that for months,” Kaleb replied just as quietly.
“So you fought and killed to be an expensive fuck?”
Kaleb’s gaze snapped to Zevi.
“Don’t let guilt change you.” Zevi shoved an eager spectator away from them with a snarl and audible snap of teeth. “You let him live. Even though you were transformed, you stopped. You gave mercy.”
The daimon with the markers had pushed to the front of the crowd. “One night. Only me . . . you can bring your . . . him if you want.” She pointed at Zevi. “I’ll pay extra.”
Zevi turned his back to her, to all of them. “We leave here now. You set these rules, Kaleb. Don’t do this.”
After a brief pause, Kaleb told the woman, “No.” Then he let Zevi lead him away. “I didn’t want to stop. It wasn’t kindness that made me, but wanting that ener—”
“I know,” Zevi interrupted, “but the only people who do know are you, me, and her.”
At that, Kaleb’s gaze again sought out Aya where she stood in the crowd watching him. He shuddered. There were good reasons that witches weren’t allowed to roam freely in The City. For the sort of exhilaration he’d just felt, there were a lot of depths Kaleb would sink to. In his seventeen years, he’d done more than a few things that he’d rather forget, but he did them to survive or to protect Zevi. He’d maimed; he’d killed; and he’d allowed things to be done to his body that made him retch afterward. Never once had he had given in to cruelty for sheer pleasure.
Until today.
Until Aya.
CHAPTER 21
AFTER ZEVI LED KALEB away, Aya watched with the rest of the spectators as Sol was gathered by his family’s servants. Unlike the curs who entered the competition, ruling-class daimons had the ability to resume their lives if they forfeited. If she weren’t carrying the secret she had and if she weren’t female, she could do that too. The daimons who filled The City didn’t know she was as trapped as the curs were, but she did.
She didn’t have the comfort of being in either group. Her class made her separate from the curs; her independence made her barely tolerated by those of her class. She was neither at the top or bottom, and she was definitely not welcome in the trades class.
As Sol passe
d her, he had his eyes downcast, but she knew that his humility would fade as his bruises did. As a result of today’s fight, he would either be extra harsh to curs, or he’d learn from it. Only time would tell.
All things considered, the fight had turned out well. The worst that had happened was that Kaleb saw a part of himself that he disliked—and blamed her.
“Haage hired the cur to kill Marchosias’ child,” a Watcher whispered.
Aya turned her head, but the woman was already leaving. She walked toward three black-masked daimons who stood silent and waiting. As the Watcher reached their side, they turned.
The last one nodded at Aya as her gaze fell on them.
The missing child was the daughter of a Watcher. Aya knew that much, but no one had been able to find the girl. Until Marchosias’ announcement, the girl had been assumed dead by many daimons, but the last news that Aya had learned—news that was never made public—was that the girl had been spirited away by witches. Most daimons had no ties to the Witches’ Council, and although Aya did, she had no further information. Evelyn had been decidedly closemouthed when Aya had asked. They protected their own, and even though Aya was technically one of them, she was just as much daimon as she was witch.
More perhaps.
She looked toward the teeming masses in the carnival and saw what she assumed to be one of the same black-masked daimons staring at her. He—or she—nodded again and then beckoned her forward with a slight head tilt.
“Right,” she muttered. “Follow the masked assassin. Great idea.”
The unpleasant reality was that although the black-masks weren’t precisely organized, they were often influenced by Haage. As brother to The City’s ruler and as one of the most successful assassins, he inspired—or otherwise enforced—a lot of allegiance. As much as she had qualms about Marchosias as an individual, she respected the hell out of him as a ruler. Haage, on the other hand, made Marchosias seem positively forward thinking. He had tried and failed at various attacks on The City’s ruler; he exploited scabs, curs, and trades-class daimons. The only caste he wouldn’t strike outright was the ruling class, but that would pass in time too. For now, he stuck to killing off any witches bound to them. Witches’ heads were found skewered on pikes at the edge of The City. Their bodies, presumably, were discarded in the Untamed Lands or simply destroyed. Within The City, many moves toward civility were done at Marchosias’ behest, just as the most barbarous of acts were credited to Haage. Aya knew enough to suspect both daimons of barbarism and deceit, but she also knew that The City would become a deadlier place if Haage gained power—and that the witches who remained in The City would all be killed.
