I now know why they call him Slick.
My knuckles drip with sweat that was once coating the man’s jaw before I forcefully wiped his face with my fist. Slick’s blood coats my hands, stinging the raw knuckles I shake out as we circle one another.
The crowd jeers, their shouts echoing in the cramped underground cellar. Faces I don’t have time to focus on press against the wired ring separating us from the rowdy audience beyond. The bets are especially high tonight, emboldening the onlookers to rattle the cage or stomp in time to the rolling thunder outside. Considering how anticipated my match against Slick has been since spending the past several nights defeating each of his opponents, I would expect nothing less.
He’s suddenly charging at me, and I fumble to comprehend a suitable adjective to describe his sheer size. Slick may be the largest and most slippery man I’ve ever encountered—but also the slowest. I duck under the giant fist he swings at my head, narrowly avoiding the second one aimed at my stomach. My foot connects with his bare side, his body so solid that I may have done more damage to myself.
A sweaty hand clamps around my ankle before he yanks me forward with a grunt. Slick is about as predictable as he his gigantic. With the leg that’s still planted on the ground, I drive my knee up into his groin. At that, he does more than grunt while the surrounding crowd sympathizes with a synchronized oof.
The tussle has my tightly wrapped scarf shifting atop my head, threatening to expose a strand of damning silver hair. I back away, panting as I adjust the cloth around my face. After three nights, it’s a miracle I’ve managed to stay anonymous.
Maybe it’s the thrill that keeps me coming back for more. That, and the money.
A fist connects with my ribs, forcing the breath from my lungs. I stumble from the impact, sputtering through the fabric around my face as I try to catch my breath. Slick stalks toward me, grinning in response to the shouting crowd.
I scowl at the sound. He’s a fan favorite after all, no reason to take it personally. It’s a shame the crowd can’t see the girl of nearly eighteen who’s been kicking the asses of men twice her size and age. Then again, attention is the last thing I need, which makes these fights all the more dangerous. I need to remain the faceless rookie, a passing piece of intrigue to fuel the whispered gossip on the streets.
But I don’t intend to leave. Or lose.
No, I’ve made more from winning these matches than I ever did in a month of thieving back in Ilya. Even with Adena selling her clothes, we never could have managed enough to afford real room and board. A twinge of pain shoots through me at the thought, though it has nothing to do with the injuries I’ve earned. It pierces me right through the heart that aches without her—the one that broke the day she did.
For you, Adena. All for you.
Slick is persistent, raining down blows I barely avoid. He clips the side of my head with his fist, and stars burst in my vision. I’m sluggish. Tired and…
Starving. The things I would do for an orange right now.
I shake my head, trying to clear the murky mind inside.
Focus now. Food later.
Slick has thoroughly worn me out. I’m trying to get a read on him, trying to tap into that Psychic ability of mine and find the best way to quickly take him down.
Father would be disappointed at how long it’s taking me to read him.
He blocks my jab before barreling into me, pushing me hard against the cage. The loose wire rattles, and I barely register the chants of the crowd beyond.
“Finish him! Finish him! Finish him!”
Right. I almost forgot I’m a him.
My baggy clothing and covered face have helped to keep my identity to that of the male species. I would be slightly offended if that wasn’t exactly what I wanted.
Focus.
He’s pressing me against the rusty cage, winding back a giant arm to strike me. When the fist comes flying toward my face, I twist to the side, watching it deliver a blow to the metal where my head once was.
He only fights with his upper body.
Sure enough, he cocks his arm again, intent on only hitting his mark with a fist. With that knowledge in mind, my foot finds the inside of his knee, kicking hard enough to send a jolt up my leg. Slick bites down a scream as he drops to one knee before me, clutching what is likely a dislocated kneecap.
A collective gasp echoes through the crowd at the sight of their champion so vulnerable. Those gasps grow into something much louder when I drive my knee into his gut.
Once. Twice—
Suddenly I’m being thrown to the ground.
He’s grabbed my leg and ungracefully thrown me off my feet before swinging my body onto the barely padded floor of the ring. I stagger to my feet, bones aching as I charge the still-kneeling man. Then I’m using his propped, uninjured leg as a step stool before he has a moment to react. Swinging my legs over his shoulders, I hook a knee around his neck and use my momentum to send us crashing to the ground.
Not my most graceful takedown.
I brace for the impact, keeping my leg locked against his neck, squeezing his throat. He grapples blindly behind him, his hands flailing in the hopes of hitting something of importance. I take the opportunity to catch one of his wrists, pulling it hard behind his head and pressing it down to my chest.
This time he does scream. Though it’s strangled, thanks to my leg still choking the sound from his throat.
His elbow strains as I pull his arm down unnaturally, hyperextending the joint. His excessive sweat has me at the disadvantage as I struggle to keep my grip from slipping. I hold him there, panting as he writhes, my own back sweaty against the rough mat beneath us. The crowd closes in around the cage, rattling the metal and shouting things I don’t have the energy to process at the moment.
It took Slick nine seconds to smack the mat aggressively with his free hand, succumbing to his defeat.
I’ve won.
I untangle Slick from my many limbs, rolling away from the puddle of sweat outlining his panting form. My sore fingers fiddle with the snug fabric around my face before I slowly stand to my feet, feeling unsteady. I scan the cheering crowd, more than a little satisfied by the mix of surprised cheers and scowling faces belonging to those betting on my defeat. I raise a triumphant hand into the air, smiling with cracked lips they can’t see.
“And there you have it. Shadow’s won!”
I turn my attention to the man who won’t admit just how fond of me he’s grown. Rafael raises a hand, shouting a variation of his usual lines above the buzzing crowd. “If you bet on the rookie, it’s your lucky day. Bring me your tickets and…”
I don’t bother listening to the rest of his repetitive speech. As soon as I get my cut, I’ll be on my way and sleeping as soundlessly as one is able atop a roof.
Just a few more nights, and I’ll have enough for a real bed.
The hope of that has me clinging to the last shreds of my sanity. Rubbing my sore knuckles, I push my way out of the ring and into the cluster of bodies beyond. Hands are clapping me on the back, congratulations following in the form of various grunts. That is the peak of politeness among this crowd.
“Ah, Shadow.” Rafael nods his congratulations, watching me shove my way over to his rickety table covered with tickets and coins.
“How’d we do tonight, Rafael?” And by we, I mean me. I keep my voice low, my parched throat helping to make the sound far gruffer than I intended.
He shakes his head at the messy table, whistling low. “Pretty damn good, kid.”
I smile despite the angry split in my lip, ignoring the blood beginning to pool in my mouth. “What are we talking? Twenty? Thirty?”
“At least.” Rafael glances up at me with a sly grin while the gray streaking his slicked hair shines in the flickering light.
“How’s that for proving myself, hmm?” I say slyly, just as I do after each one of my wins.
“Yeah, yeah. Listen, you have a future here, kid. The people will wanna see more of ya after tonight’s show.” He straightens, beginning to count out coins before placing them into my greedy palms. “I could set you up consistently,” he continues as I slip the silvers into my pocket. “Say, a fight every night?”
My smile is smug enough for him to see it in my eyes. “Perhaps I’ll consider it after hearing an apology for doubting me.”
“You’re a pain in my ass, ya know that?” The words are harsh, but his tone is anything but. “Fine. I’m sorry. There, you happy now?”
I open my mouth to reply, to tell him that I accept his pitiful apology and expect a higher pay cut.
But it’s not my voice that echoes through the cellar.
No, it’s a voice that chills me to the bone, though it used to set my blood ablaze. Used to have me hanging on every word and aching for the next time I’d hear it.
But now? Now I’d hoped to never hear that cool voice again. Hear the command lacing each word, the calculation accompanying every sentence spoken.
Yet there it is, strong and sure and so damn cocky as it snakes its way down my spine.
“So, is Shadow up for another round?”
He’s found me.
