There were sixteen fights in the first round. I'd missed one while I was cleaning up in the bathroom, but I emerged from my confrontation with Michael in time to catch the tail end of the fifth. I slipped through the crowd, my bad arm lifted high above my head, until I found a good vantage point and then I forced myself to concentrate on the pit.
The more the fights dragged on, the more monotonous the violence became. It was the same thing over and over — skull bashing, the occasional spleen flung over our heads — and the crowd was becoming anaesthetised to the brutality, the roar dulling to a less-than-enthusiastic cheer. When the round came to a close, some of the spectators even left to go home.
"ARE YOU READY FOR ROUND TWO, HOWLERS?" the emcee called.
There was a renewed cheer.
"I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"
The noise levels rose once more and I winced, moving to rest my arm over my chest. I could feel the hot itch of muscle and tissue beginning to sew themselves back together, but Michael's saliva had softened the pain. I scowled as a renewed surge of anger began to build.
His mercurial temper was starting to fuck with my head. He'd threatened to kill me if I didn't stay away from him, and yet he was still trying to order me around like one of his underlings... after he'd refused, point blank, to give me the position. I flexed my good hand in agitation.
"He's going to get you killed!"
The certainty in his voice made me want to tear his throat out. He never would have thought that two years go; back then, nobody would ever have questioned my ability to handle myself. It was like there was a flashing, neon sign pasted on my forehead that read, BROKEN — and no matter how hard I scratched at it, it never quite came off.
Like falling in love with Sebastien had crippled me.
"NUMBERS 3 AND 8 — TAKE YOUR PLACE IN THE PIT!"
Two men descended the steps into the pit. One was covered head-to-toe in tattoos, the ink shimmering beneath the lanterns, and I realised the tattoos hid evidence of argentiserum torture. His opponent was missing half an ear and right before the whistle blew, he bared his teeth — most of which were missing.
The second round kicked off just as brutally as the first. They circled each other for a few seconds before 3 lunged, phasing mid-air and crashing down on top of 8 with claws and teeth poised at the ready. I winced. Bad move.
None of the fighters who phased in the first few seconds ever fared well, and all I could do was grimace when 8 managed to get a good grip on 3's body, flinging the dark, silver-shot wolf around the tracks like a rag doll.
Halfway through the fight, the sound of ripping flesh sliced through the roar of the crowd, and 8's arm came away in 3's mouth. Blood sprayed everywhere.
My heart started to pound as tension mounted. 8's screams echoed throughout the large space but he continued to fight, raining blows on 3 with his booted feet until there was a loud, snapping sound and 3 collapsed on the ground. I peered over the platform and winced when I saw the state of his broken neck.
"8 WINS!"
8 was helped out of the pit by members of the crowd while someone retrieved his lost arm and disappeared after them. There was a break as the next round of bets were collected, and I waited with bated breath for my own number to be called.
It was almost worse than the building anticipation before the first fight. Then, I'd been in as close to perfect physical condition as I could possibly be, but now I was injured. Injured and pissed. Sebastien had drilled into my head how important it was to keep your head, to know your limits physically and emotionally — and right now, I wasn't sure what my limits were.
I had to be bloodthirsty to win, I had to walk that fine line between the urge to hunt and the urge to phase, but if the thirst overpowered everything else...
I'd phase in the first three seconds and get my neck snapped like a twig.
Three more fights unfolded in the pit before the emcee finally called my number. I was shaking as hands shoved me forward and I jumped down onto the tracks, one fist clenched and my heart beating hard against my ribcage.
My injured arm was starting to sting fiercely and instead of ignoring it, I used it to ground me. If I concentrated hard on the itch of blood and sinew, the urge to phase faded into the background.
My opponent — number 27 — was pushed in after me. I recognised her as the girl who'd been ahead of me in the line when I was signing up, the one with the neck tattoo. She was covered in blood now, but whether it was hers or her previous opponent's, I couldn't tell.
She bared her teeth as I stared at her, shifting into a crouch.
I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was clinging to her human form as desperately as I was. The adrenaline, the blood, the atmosphere — it was almost too much.
Keep your head, Juliet. Keep your head...
The whistle rang out and she leapt.
I expected her to phase mid-air and I tensed, ready to catch her, but she didn't. She crashed into me, teeth and nails bared, and I felt her legs wrap around mine as she tried to trip me up. I felt the string of her nails digging into my arms and white-hot pain blurred my vision, shooting through me like knives.
I tried to think through the pain, to use the momentum of her jump to swing her around, and when I felt the impact her back hitting the wall of the pit, a tiny surge of victory rushed through me. But then she was right in my face, her teeth scoring my throat, and for a second I almost wished she would rip my throat out — anything to distract from the pain of her nails driving straight to the bone of my injured arm.
"He's going to get you killed!"
His voice was like a bucket of ice water thrown at my face. It was like a taunt — goading me, almost — and a red haze coloured my vision. No matter how many times I told myself I had nothing to prove, I couldn't help it — I had to prove that I could do this. Survive.
I'm not broken, I thought stubbornly. I'm strong.
I rammed my knee up and the sound of cracking bones rang out as I hit the juncture between her legs. She stopped gnawing on my neck to scream and I used her temporary distraction to reach up and grab her head, slamming her back against the wall.
A stunned look crossed her face, before it dissolved into a menacing scowl. She flashed her teeth, a growl rumbling up from her throat, and then she dug her fingers deeper.
It was like white fire scorching my arms. It was hard to remember a time when I'd been in this much pain; I could feel my body begging to phase, to rip her apart and heal, to end this fight... but I'd never win that way. I knew how to fight upright, as a human, no matter what my instincts screamed.
I'm strong. I can do this.
She came at me again, and I felt the soldier in me take over. She was light for her height with not a single ounce of surplus fat on her body, which made it easy for me to use her grip on my arms, and fling her high into the air. As she was lifted into the air, I pushed my arms back, directing her over my head and then I dropped her hard onto the tracks.
A second later, I pressed a booted foot down on her chest.
Hard.
The sound of ribs splitting rang out and the crowd went wild around me. A spasm of pain crossed her face and she attempted to push me off, to roll out from beneath my foot. When her killer nails sunk into my heel, I kicked out at her hands, stepping on her fingers.
I felt a flicker of guilt at her cry of pain, and even though I knew that the kill shot was what counted — that I needed those points — I couldn't torment her any more than necessary. I hunkered down, reaching for her head instead.
A dribble of blood escaped her mouth as she hissed at me, her legs kicking out, but I dodged her attack and pulled her up by the tufts of her hair at the back of her neck. She realised what was coming and started to fight back harder, kicking and scratching and fighting as hard as she possibly could, but it was futile.
There was no gnawing or fumbling with my teeth — I sank them deep, shredding right into her jugular.
Blood gushed over my tongue, spilling into my mouth, and I closed my eyes as I savoured the taste.
Then I ripped her throat out.
My final opponent was the winner of the first fight, number 21. He looked a sight worse than he had a few hours earlier; his bulky frame was criss-crossed with injuries and when he grinned menacingly at me, his teeth were smeared with blood.
My whole body throbbed in pain as I was thrown down into the pit, but I forced myself to concentrate on the facts from his first fight. Too slow, too forceful. I'd come up against much bigger and more intimidating sparring partners while I was training and normally, I'd be feeling confident about my ability to beat him, but I was badly injured. No amount of saliva was going to heal my arm in the next few minutes.
"I eat little girls like you for breakfast," he taunted in a thickly accented voice.
I suppressed a grimace.
When the whistle rang out over the roar of the crowd, he barrelled after me. My heart started to pound harder against my ribs as I held still, and at the last moment, I whirled out of his way, twisting until I was behind him. I kicked out at the small of his back, propelling him into the wall of the tracks.
He hit the wall with a growl and turned to face me, his eyes narrowed. I hadn't done much damage — or any damage at all, really — except to rile him up. He advanced on me again, a little slower this time, and I danced out of his way once more, sliding across the stones.
This isn't the fucking ballet, Juliet! I berated myself mentally.
I spun to plant my foot at the small of his back again, but I misjudged how fast he was turning and he caught my ankle.
Shit, shit!
He grinned at me as he pulled, and suddenly I was airborne.
Airborne — with my head heading straight for a collision with the wall.
I threw out my good arm, pushing against the wall before my head hit, and I somehow managed to shove myself up into the air. He let go of my foot as the motion forced me out of his grip and my other boot came down hard on his face.
He roared, grabbing my knees, and then I was being dropped heavily onto the ground.
"You'll pay for that, you stupid cunt!"
My back landed heavily on one of the metal tracks and the impact jarred my spine. Pain shot through me and stars burst in my vision and for a moment, I was completely paralysed. My whole body tingled with a pins and needles sensation, and though it couldn't have lasted more than a second or two, it slowed me down fatally.
When my sight cleared, it was just in time to watch his foot coming down on my ribs.
Screaming in agony wasn't my style — but then, I'd never had someone shatter four or five of my ribs in one go either. I heard them splinter over the roar of the crowd and pain, so sharp it felt like knives piercing my chest, erupted above my diaphragm.
My vision went white with agony and I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.
This is it. This is how I die.
It sounded pathetic in my head. I'd come through a war, been part of an epic revolution that freed thousands upon thousands of lycans from a corrupted government, and I was going to die here, in a pit surrounded by bloodthirsty animals who didn't give a crap about the freedom we won for them. I'd sworn to protect Theo and all I'd done was put him in more danger — and the only things he had to protect himself against the entire lycan population was a gun and an envelope with a scrap of money. No training and no allies.
Maybe Michael was right. I should have just gone back to Sebastien and taken the stupid Guard job...
The sound of laughing pierced my thoughts. The oaf was laughing — gloating, even — at my imminent demise.
"How do I kill her?" he demanded of the crowd.
It was hard to make out the response, but the sound of someone yelling, "Crush her skull!" broke through the confusion and a shudder of pure horror ran through me. I blinked up at the dark ceiling, panic clawing its way up my throat. It was difficult to focus on anything but the agony searing my body, but somehow, my eyes managed to land on his platform. He was staring at me — glaring, really — his expression thunderous, and his hands were gripping the metal frame so hard, he'd managed to crumple a section.
"He's going to get you killed!"
I hated that he was right. In that moment, I hated him more than I'd ever hated anything; it was like his words had somehow poisoned me and turned me into the weak, pale imitation of myself that he viewed me as, and I hated that most of all.
I inhaled shakily, and just the act of dragging air into my lungs hurt like a bitch. My opponent turned to face the crowd, his arms spread wide in victory, and somehow, somewhere, I found the strength to move. Pain seared me but I pushed through it, forcing myself up onto my knees behind him.
I could taste blood in my mouth — my own — and for a second, I thought I was going to pass out... but I didn't. I concentrated hard on my good arm, pouring all of my energy into my wrist, and the bones in my fingers began to crack. I could feel them heating and shifting, the tips elongating and tapering into claws. Dark, brownish hair sprouted from the follicles on my skin, spreading to my elbow as I pushed my arm through the change.
It was so damn painful, but I'd already hit my threshold ten times over already. I barely felt it.
The atmosphere surrounding the crowd began to change and my opponent sensed it, but I caught him before he had a chance to turn. I dug my long, wolf-nails into the skin above one of his ribs. The skin was thinner here, stretched over the bone, and it took a few seconds to pierce through it.
He roared as I curled my clawed fingers around the rib... and just pulled.
He tried to throw me off, swing around to stomp on my knees, but I clung to him desperately. Something hard hit my face and my vision almost went black, but I clung and clung, gripping the bone with a strength I had no idea I possessed. He attempted to twist out of my grip and finally, finally, I felt it start to snap and I yanked.
A scream of pain was wrenched from his throat.
He kicked out at my stomach and bile rose in my throat — no, not bile.
Blood.
I coughed and spluttered as it gushed over my tongue, drenching my chin.
But I never let go of his rib.
When he kicked out at me again, I used the momentum of the kick to lift me up off my knees and with one final wrench, I shoved my wolf-arm upwards, driving the splintered end of his rib right into his heart.
We both collapsed onto the ground. The screams of the crowd grew louder and I heard the boom of the emcee's voice ring out over my head, but I had no idea what they said. My vision blurred in and out of focus and as the adrenaline began to seep out of my system, a fresh wave of pain crashed through me.
And then my world went black.
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