Eyes of Ice

by J. C. Andrijeski

  “Which would you recommend?” Nick said.

  Tom looked at him, his massive arms still folded over his chest.

  “…For a first timer,” Nick clarified.

  Something flickered in the human’s eyes.

  Something about the look gave Nick the distinct impression the human respected the question. At the very least, he didn’t think it was a stupid thing to ask.

  “Honestly?” Tom said. “I’d go with the softer, thicker material. I’ve heard of vamps getting their fangs snapped on the hard ones. I don’t think the head protection is worth the extra weight. And it won’t help you much, anyway. It can also make it easier to get spine injuries if your head is snapped back harder––”

  Nick was already nodding.

  The more he thought about it, the more he found he agreed.

  He stepped closer to the wall, focusing on the row of Kevlar-like masks, looking at those with tooth-guards versus those that just covered the mouth.

  He decided he didn’t want a tooth-guard, either.

  His fangs would grow back if he broke them.

  It wouldn’t be fun, though.

  He found himself remembering the feeds, too, and the fact that the less of his face that showed, the better.

  “What about this one?” He pointed to a heavy, organic-cloth one, with a basic design.

  The outside of it was almost featureless, which also appealed to him.

  Tom nodded in approval. “Good choice.” Pulling it out of the cubbyhole and checking it over, tugging the strap in the back, he paused to glance down at Nick’s feet, then along the wall, at the rest of the rows of equipment. “That’s all you need, in terms of the basics. We fight barefoot here. I can help with the fitting on the mask––”

  “Hand wraps?” Nick said.

  Tom gave him a direct look, shrugged. “We have them. I wouldn’t recommend wearing them, though. If you were to ask.”

  “Why?”

  “They inhibit movement,” he explained. “Anything that inhibits movement is generally seen as more of a liability than a help in there. We’ve got wrist guards,” he offered. “Those provide some protection, in terms of preventing the smaller bones from being broken, and they don’t constrain or slow down your fingers.”

  Nick thought about that, a faint scowl returning to his lips as he thought about what the human was saying. Images came to mind, even as he glanced down at his hands.

  Tom spoke into the silence.

  “You don’t need a shirt, do you?” he said.

  When Nick glanced at him, quirking an eyebrow, the human explained,

  “The boss prefers it when male vamps fight without them. They’ve got a lot of women who come to these things… and fetishists. Male and female.” Tom gave a semi-apologetic shrug. “It’s better business.”

  Nick grunted.

  Shaking his head, he looked around the rest of the room.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t need a shirt.”

  Flashes shone in his eyes. Those, combined with the brighter overhead lights, blinded him briefly.

  Nick raised his hand in reflex, glancing up at the virtual display above the ring.

  He was back in the pit beside the ring, but this time, all eyes were on him.

  Flashes continued to go off in his face, messing with his vampire vision.

  Everything seemed brighter now that he’d ditched the contact lenses.

  He was still fighting to adjust to the mask.

  On the plus side, when he’d looked at himself in the mirror with it on, he was satisfied no one would recognize him in it. He’d asked about facial-rec, muttering about his work, and Tom smiled, shaking his head.

  “Not a chance,” he said. “Anonymity is one thing we guarantee our fighters here.”

  Thinking then, he shrugged.

  “…Well, unless you become a star fighter. Then publicity, appearances and other forms of promotion get negotiated during the contracting process, along with everything else. We would lay out terms for expected promotional work, along with salary, benefits, bonuses, long before that ever became an issue.”

  Nick couldn’t help but notice that Tom said it as if there wasn’t a chance in hell Nick would ever join their permanent roster of fighters.

  Nick agreed with him, pretty much one hundred percent.

  There’d been a bit of a stir when Nick undressed.

  At first, it was just mildly uncomfortable.

  Taking his clothes off in front of strangers shouldn’t be that big of a thing. Nick did it in front of live-feeds from I.S.F. all the time, at least until recently. The vast majority of them, he’d met only a few minutes before he undressed.

  Here, though, it was a bunch of male humans who definitely weren’t interested in either getting laid or getting bit, at least not as far as Nick could tell.

  Even so, they appraised him openly, from his feet up to his cock.

  Then Nick took off his shirt.

  That time, the reaction was palpable.

  Nick practically heard the collective sucking in of breaths.

  Tom, who was standing behind him, if to the side, spoke up first.

  “Holy crap. Is that what I think it is?”

  Nick gave him a hard look. “What do you think?”

  “You’re white mafia?” Tom said, his voice suddenly hard. “We need to know, if you are. Now. The boss’ll need to know. Also now.”

  Nick pulled up the aquamarine fighting pants, which he’d been told to wear without underwear, since they had a built-in organic cup and more or less conformed to his body. He’d also been assured they were completely sanitary, being organics that regenerated after every use, making them essentially “new” for each new wearer.

  “I’m not with them anymore,” he said to Tom, turning only after he’d adjusted the pants around his waist. He straightened, using his height to stare down at the human as he gave him another of those hard looks.

  “Is that going to be a problem?” he said.

  “Is the tattoo going to get us in trouble with your people?” Tom said.

  Nick had to give the human credit.

  Tom didn’t so much as flinch, despite the fact that Nick had at least four inches and probably forty pounds on the other male.

  Nick thought about his question.

  Truthfully, that whole aspect of this hadn’t even crossed his mind. He didn’t think much about that particular tattoo he wore, not anymore. One advantage to having the thing cover his back––he didn’t have to look at it most of the time.

  “No one will come after you,” Nick said, frowning. “We have an understanding. I haven’t worked for them in years.”

  He started wondering if that tattoo might ID him, though.

  The I.S.F. had photographs of every inch of Nick’s body. Not only that, did he really want to be back on the radar of those particular vamps?

  He’d left for a reason.

  He hadn’t been lying just now; he and his former bosses had an understanding. Part of that understanding was that Nick didn’t advertise he’d once run with them.

  Tom seemed to read his thoughts.

  “We can blur it out,” he said, frowning. “In the telecast. That’s not the issue.”

  “Then what is?”

  Tom rolled his eyes, clenching his jaw as he refolded his arms. “You’re not the only one who has agreements with that faction,” he grunted. “––‘Grant.’”

  Nick glanced at him.

  From the way Tom said it, it was pretty clear he knew the name wasn’t real.

  Before Nick could decide how to react, someone else entered the room, moving fast. Nick immediately recognized him as the man in the retro but expensive suit, the man with the arrow beard and the augmented reality hair gel that made him look vaguely sea creature-like, the same man who’d approached him in the stands.

  David Farlucci walked into the center of the space, and looked around.

  “What?” he said. “What am I look
ing at?”

  Nick glanced at Tom, who made a circular motion with his hand, indicating for Nick to turn around, to show the organic metal tattoo on his back to his boss.

  Nick did as the other man indicated, stepping sideways to turn his back so that it squarely faced the human promoter.

  There was a silence.

  “Is this current?” Farlucci said.

  Nick shook his head. “No.”

  When Nick turned back around, Farlucci was still frowning, his brows scrunched in thought.

  “How old?” he said.

  “Twenty years. Thereabout.”

  Farlucci continued to frown, then he looked at Tom.

  “It’s okay. We don’t have time to switch him out. Just blur it in the telecast… and make sure the cage fields and the virtual-simul reflect the same. Or, better yet, turn it into the Farlucci logo. It’s close to the same size.”

  Tom nodded. “No problem, boss.”

  Farlucci looked Nick over.

  “You look good,” he said.

  Nodding once, still seeming to be thinking, he pursed his lips, appraising Nick openly, like something had changed in his estimation of him.

  After a few more seconds, he met Nick’s gaze.

  “Good luck tonight,” he said.

  Without another word, he walked out of the room.

  Remembering the way the humans had been looking at him in that room now, Nick scowled behind the mask, glad at least that most of his face wasn’t visible.

  He wore a robe with the Farlucci gold insignia to hide the tattoo on his back––the giant, all-white, winged angel that Nick had allowed himself to forget he wore, despite the fact that it covered most of his back.

  Tom had been unambiguous about “the Farlucci company’s” insistence that Nick keep the robe on until he got into the ring.

  Like Nick needed to be told.

  Still, he was second-guessing all of this already.

  He already felt like he’d made himself uncomfortably visible to a segment of New York’s boxing underground that he’d just as soon have steered clear of––at least outside the parameters of his immediate job. On the plus side, Farlucci must not have looked too far behind the basics of Nick’s barcode. It was possible he’d just checked to make sure his legal status was current and there were no outstanding warrants for his capture.

  If they’d picked up on Nick’s “Midnight” status, not to mention his recent appearance in the news, they hadn’t said a word.

  Whether Farlucci was directly involved in the vampire disappearances or not, Nick strongly suspected he would have been escorted off the premises if Farlucci had discovered either thing combined with the White Death tattoo––and not only because Nick hadn’t mentioned any of it prior to now. Farlucci and his people obviously preferred to operate under the radar of the vampire mafia; it was unlikely they didn’t feel the same way about the NYPD.

  The two things put together would’ve been a lot to overlook.

  Nick glanced up at the virtual display, weirded out to see himself up there. He saw himself looking up, most of his face covered by the black mask, his colorless, glass-like vampire eyes catching the overhead lights.

  It hit him that Charlie and Kit were here, that they’d be watching this from the stands.

  Then another thought occurred to him.

  Wynter.

  After he talked to her, after he told her what he was doing, Wynter probably would have gone to look for the live-stream of his fight.

  Thinking about this, he realized there was no “probably” about it––she would have looked up his fight. He couldn’t even blame her for that.

  Hell, he would have, if their positions were reversed.

  He had no doubt all of his friends had already recognized him, either from the televised feed of him in the gold robe and the aquamarine pants, or from the virtual depiction currently playing in the air above the ring.

  Kit and Charlie, at least, were watching him right now, and Wynter would recognize him too, if the same view was currently playing on the livestream.

  For some reason, the thought that hit his mind hardest, or maybe just persisted the most stubbornly, was the fact that Wynter had never seen him without a shirt before.

  She would probably wonder about the tattoo.

  She’d see a sea dragon on his back, not what was actually there, but no doubt she would wonder about it, and wonder what it meant––even if she didn’t make the connection to the fighting club, or realize it was the insignia for David Farlucci’s company.

  His jaw hardened around the thought, even as he followed his blond handler, Tom, up the stairs to the few feet of walkway around the outside of the cage around the ring.

  He stood there, glancing out at the crowd, in spite of himself, while Tom unlocked the door to the transparent cage.

  “Robe,” Tom said, holding out a hand. “Put your back to the cage first.”

  Nick turned obediently, facing the blond human, his back aimed towards the cage. Shouldering off the robe, he handed it to Tom.

  “Good luck,” Tom said, just had Farlucci had done before.

  Nick didn’t bother to answer.

  Before he could back out of range of the other’s hands, passing all the way through the opening, Tom grabbed him roughly by the shoulder, leaning in close, probably so the drone cameras wouldn’t pick up his words.

  “Try not to die, ‘Grant,’” he said, speaking into his ear.

  When Nick gave him a flat look, the human laughed.

  Guy was fucking hilarious.

  Still, Nick would be lying if he said he didn’t watch the door shut behind him with more than a small whisper of trepidation.

  That was before he turned around.

  Once he was facing the square fighting space, staring across the suddenly small-looking caged ring, which he now shared with only one other person, that trepidation worsened.

  It also grew a hell of a lot more specific.

  Nick stared at the vampire across from him, and felt his jaw harden.

  Guy was a fucking monster.

  Because of course he was.

  Chapter 7

  Fight

  Nick stared at the vampire who stood there, keeping his face and body utterly still.

  He’d already been warned there was no timer.

  No referees would be monitoring this match.

  There was no bell. No starting shot fired. No clock.

  Once he was inside, the fight had more or less started. It kept going until one or the other of them tapped out, or the fight was declared over by the judges, who sat at a table outside the caged ring. Nick couldn’t even see them from where he was.

  Tom told him, if they ended the fight, meaning the judges, one of two things would happen: the lights would shut off, or, depending on how and why they’d decided to end things, someone would enter the ring to subdue one or both vampires.

  Tom assured him the latter almost never happened, though. He told Nick he didn’t need to worry about that––just stop what he was doing if the lights went out.

  Thinking about all of that now, and what Tom’s words implied, directly and not, Nick stared at the other male, taking his measure as best he could.

  The vampire was around thirty or forty pounds heavier than him, and at least two inches taller. His arms were the size of Nick’s thighs.

  His hair, black woven through with purple and red, was braided tightly to his skull. Maori-like tattoos decorated the visible parts of his face. The black, detailed designs contrasted sharply with the white of his vampire skin, changing the contours of his neck, cheeks and forehead around the matte black mask he wore, which erased the rest of his face.

  Ethnicity-wise, he was tough to pin down.

  He could have actually been a Pacific Islander originally, meaning before he got turned, or even from an indigenous tribe in the Americas.

  Whatever his exact lineage, he was fucking huge.

  Nick looked over his
massive, almost hairless chest, the thick abdomen, trunk-like legs, veins pulsing in his neck and biceps. He took his time, starting at the male’s face and letting his eyes make their way down to his feet.

  Staring at those bare feet, he frowned.

  His eyes returned to the vampire’s hands, and Nick felt his frown harden more behind the thick mask clamped around his mouth and jaw.

  The vampire wore his nails long, both on his toes and fingers. It looked like he’d sharpened each one individually, on all ten digits, honing them to razor-thin points.

  The fucker had turned his vamp toe and fingernails into knives.

  Fantastic.

  Nick glanced around the cage, taking in the dimensions.

  His muscles had already gone into that still, cat-like posture he associated with those few minutes or seconds or fractions of a second before a fight.

  He was waiting, he realized.

  He was waiting for the monster to lose patience, to attack him.

  Yet when he glanced up, he saw that the eyes above that mask were utterly calm, even amused. Nick could have sworn the other vampire was smiling behind his heavy, hard-looking mask, which was as black as the pants he wore.

  So he wasn’t a complete idiot, anyway.

  Nick’s eyes lingered on the mask briefly, taking that in; it looked like it was made out of dead metal, like stainless-steel, but Nick had his doubts it was. It was likely another semi-organic composite, only with harder materials than what he wore.

  “Hello,” the vampire said, his voice muffled through the mask.

  Nick didn’t answer.

  He glanced around the space a second time, once more marking the dimensions, including the height to the ceiling above.

  It was weird how quiet it was, inside the cage.

  When he looked to his left and right, Nick could see movement on the outside. He could see the screaming, the open mouths, but all of it was muffled, far away.

  He was still staring around when the other vampire moved.

  It was soundless, liquid-fast, especially given the other male’s size.

  Vampire fast.

  The taller, heavier vamp came at him from the front, darting sideways in the last instant, swiping at Nick’s face with his extended claws. Nick dropped his weight, sliding under the blow and moving around and behind the larger vampire without increasing the distance between them.