The Monster of Farewell (Blacklighters Book 1)

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The Monster of Farewell (Blacklighters Book 1) Page 19

by Catherine Black


  He draws out my name—my full name—and the crowd loses their ever-loving minds, screaming at the top of their lungs, chanting my name like they know me, breaking it up into three separate parts.

  “Mer-cur-y!”

  “Mer-cur-y!”

  “Mer-cur-y!”

  The excitement I felt a moment ago is gone. Fucking vanished as nine pairs of eyes turn to me, expecting me to do something, but I can't. I'm frozen. Stiff with anger.

  Eric is the only one to lean in. “I'm sorry, Mercury. I told her not to use that name.”

  Of course he did.

  “It's fine.” I roll my shoulders back, trying to brush it off, trying to look anywhere but at the raised platform where my mother sits next to Sneed's Madam. “It's just a name. Right?”

  Eric's smile doesn't reach his eyes as he nods. “Right.”

  He and I both know it's not just a name. It's a label. One given to me in jest when I was a child committing the ultimate act of betrayal. Since then, it's grown with me, morphing into something darker than a nickname made to make light of a horrible situation. As an adult, it's a reminder of how empty and ruthless I can be when faced with confrontation. It's a label that says, 'DANGER', 'NO TRESPASSING', 'VIOLATORS WILL BE SHOT'.

  When I can't take it anymore, I look up at the platform. It comes as no surprise that Blair is already staring holes into the side of my head. Her face is a blank slate as always, but her blue eyes are on fire, and I'm positive she's remembering the day I was deemed 'The Monster of Farewell' just as I am. It was the same day she gripped my shoulders in a half-hearted hug and proclaimed, “He wanted rainbows for you, Mercury, but only because he feared your storm clouds.”

  Behind her stands the man who gave me the nickname in the first place. Ice, unlike my mother, is actually smiling. Quite proud of himself, I'm sure.

  “Ignore her,” Layla whispers at my side. “It's not a big deal.”

  Actually, it is a big deal. The other women residing in Farewell may know my story, but they don't gossip. They don't fraternize with other chapters. Even when word finally did spread to other chapters after Daniel Havenworth was murdered, my given name was never associated with the story of his demise. No one knows that the child who killed the man responsible for Blacklighters is now a Blacklighter herself. And it was meant to stay that way. At least, I thought it was.

  It's such a simple move on my mother's part, so seemingly innocent, but I know what she's doing, and I don't appreciate it. She's placing her only daughter on a pedestal; saying that, yes, the rumors are true, there is a woman—a monster—living among us, who took a life before she ever mastered tying her shoes. She's warning the Blacklighter whose name is being called—Barbra—that there's a monster entering the cage with her tonight, and she should be prepared to yield.

  Yield or die.

  There's only one problem.

  Barbra has been hiding just on the outskirts of the spotlight, and when she finally decides to step forward, every voice cheering my name dies a swift and painful death.

  “Hoooly shit,” Layla drawls. “What the hell are they feeding these women?”

  Eric shakes his head. “Well, if I had to guess, I'd say steroids and the testicles of all the men who've ever wronged them.”

  He may be onto something there. With a sloped forehead, an angry unibrow, crooked teeth, and limbs the size of tree trunks, Barbra looks like the unfortunate love child of a gorilla and a badger.

  “Do the same rules apply?” Kessler's voice, along with the hot breath fanning over my ear, pulls my attention away from Barbra the Barbarian. “First to bleed loses?”

  Somehow, I find it in me to laugh. “I wish, but no. Different fight, different rules.”

  Layla glances from my face to Kesslers, worry inching her red brows close together. “We deal in more than a few drops of blood for a public fight. Losers either yield or are rendered incapable of defending themselves.”

  Much like I've done a thousand times before, I retreat into myself, mentally preparing for the fight to come. Kessler never leaves my side, and I'm aware of that on some level, but everything else fades. The crowd, the cage, the announcer, the sprays of blood landing on my cheek as the first fight gets underway—none of that matters as I close my eyes and center myself, seeking refuge in solace.

  I can do this.

  I took down five grown men. Blindfolded!

  Actually, no, I didn't. I scratched them, hit them, made them bleed, but they were fine when they left the cage. Barbra here has to be less than fine for me to win. She either has to be so worn down she caves...or she has to be unconscious.

  Maybe I can make that happen. After all, I'm the Monster of Farewell, right? I'm the Madam's daughter. I have to win. There are no other options.

  Actually, that's not true either. There are two options. Either win...or die fighting.

  “She won! Layla won!”

  Eric screaming in my ear jerks me back to the present, and when I open my eyes, everything comes flooding back in. The noise, the lights, the blood matting my hair. Two prospective Keepers are carrying Kimberly's limp body out of the cage and into the shadowed hallway, and Layla is half-sprinting, half-limping through the crowd, straight for us.

  The sea of people splits apart for her, and as soon as she's close enough, she hurls herself into Eric's arms, latching onto him like he's the only thing that matters. Every tooth in her mouth is stained red with blood, her right eye is already swollen shut, and her once form-fitting shirt hangs off her chest at an odd angle, but none of that matters to Eric. All his focus is on kissing the fire out of her as she locks her ankles behind his back, grinding against him, clawing hands through his hair, riding out an adrenaline high that only getting your ass kicked and living to tell the tale can deliver.

  Everyone within reach is patting her on the back, the leg, the shoulder, congratulating her on the win, but not me. I'm glued to the spot, unable to congratulate my former-mentor, because I'm me, and physical contact is still somewhat of a mystery in my mind. But it doesn't matter, because the announcer is calling my name, and Kessler is taking my hand in his. Time stands still for two whole seconds as he rests his forehead atop my head, kissing my hair. It's a tender exchange, one that doesn't belong in a place like this, but I don't pull away.

  Kessler sighs, like the weight of a tsunami is leaving his body, before calmly leading me to the cage. The prospective Keepers—the same ones I fought at my initiation—stand guard at the door, each smirking as I go by, eyes lit with joy. They think I'm about to lose my first fight, and judging by the stature of the woman waiting for me on the canvas, they might be right. I don't want them to be, but I've never seen this woman fight. I don't know what strategies she'll use, I don't know how fast she is or what kind of damage those meaty fists of hers can inflict if they slam into my already battered body.

  Just outside the door, Kessler stops. Looking up into his dark eyes, filled with shadows of all the things he wants to say, I expect him to do something stupid, like beg me to yield. Or walk away. He can't possibly know this about me, but giving up is not in my nature, so that's out of the question. And even if it weren't, I'd rather die in the cage than succumb to the consequences Blair doles out to Blacklighters who fail her.

  I will not yield.

  I will not be labeled a coward.

  “Give 'em hell, Merc.”

  Kessler kisses me, hard and fast, and when he pulls away and vanishes into the crowd, I vow it won't be the last time our lips meet. I'll kiss him again, and when I do, the red sun on my neck will be painted black with victory.

  “Mer-cur-y!”

  “Mer-cur-y!”

  “Mer-cur-y!”

  The crowd begins chanting my name again when I step inside, and after the door slams, I feel every step Barbra takes vibrate through the canvas as she nears, like a looming wall of bitchiness. She reeks of sweat and salami, making me grimace as I turn to face her. Inside the confines of the cage, she looks even mo
re imposing. Taller. Bigger. Uglier.

  There's a huge gap between her front teeth, and that's all I can focus on as she sneers down at me. “I'm gonna turn you inside out, bitch.”

  A response forms on my tongue, ready to leap out into open air, just as the buzzer sounds.

  Barbra charges.

  She's prepared.

  I am not.

  I don't want to run, and even if I did, there's no time, so I stand my ground, putting a shoulder out front, one fist raised to protect my head.

  None of that makes a difference.

  Barbra slams into me, and I'm certain she was a steam engine in another life. I lose my footing. The bars of the cage dig into my back when I hit them, the unforgiving metal laughing at my plight, and I curse every arrogant thought I've ever had throughout training when I fall to my knees on the canvas, vulnerable and alone, pain shivering through every nerve receptor surrounding my bruised spine.

  This win will be easy for her, especially since I'm in such a prone position, but she doesn't attack. She doesn't advance. In fact, slumped on the floor, I feel her footsteps as she nears the furthest wall of the cage where the majority of the crowd is gathered, and I peek out through my lashes. Breathing through the searing pain at my back, I see my opponent strutting back and forth like a peacock, head raised proudly, hands braced on her hips.

  “Is that the best you've got, Farewell?” she screams. “This? This is the infamous Monster of Farewell? She's a child, for fuck's sake!”

  My head pounds with every beat of my heart, and thanks to the adrenaline not being used at the moment, my hands begin to shake as I try to formulate a plan, a strategy, a trick of some kind that will ensure this fight won't end with my skull split down the center, because that's the path we're on.

  “Get up!” A hand snakes through the bars, grabbing the material at my chest and tugging until I'm forced to turn and face whoever's screaming at me. “Get up right now, Mercury! On your fucking feet!”

  Kessler's face blurs. I try to blink him into focus, and it works, a little. “You can do better than that. I know you can. I've seen it!” He shakes me until it feels like everything is rattling apart inside my head. “Where's the girl that bloodied five grown men from behind a damn blindfold, huh?”

  Where, indeed?

  “Yo, Lawson!” Sid tugs at Kessler's shoulder, but he doesn't budge. “Get away from the cage, what are you doing?”

  “You're faster than her. Smarter, too. Prove it.”

  That's all he manages to say before Sid and Oliver pull him away, leaving me alone, staring up at the woman who looks as if she's ready to eat me for dinner. I should be afraid. I should be intimidated. But the voice inside my head won't allow it. It's too busy screaming for me to get up, to fight, to shake it off.

  Finally, I listen.

  I hop upright, roll out my shoulders, and stare into Barbra's shit brown eyes. She stares right back, laughing, waving a hand to the crowd which is now chanting her name in place of mine. There's no loyalty in cage fighting, that's true, but you'd think the regulars here would root for the home team.

  “I thought you'd have some fight in you, being the Madam's daughter and all, but now that I'm here, I've gotta say...I'm pretty fuckin' disappointed.” Barbra cracks her head to one side, then the other. “You're no monster. Just a head case.”

  She moves. I move. Slowly. Never advancing, just rotating in a circle, waiting to act or react.

  “How'd it happen, Mercury? Did he creep into your room at night? Did he touch you? Did Daddy kiss all your booboos? Is that why you killed him? Couldn't handle daddy's hands and lips anymore?”

  “Don't listen to her, Mercury!” Layla's voice is close when she screams, but I don't look away from Barbra. If I do, she'll strike. I know it. “She's just trying to bait you. Ignore her!”

  “Red's right. I am trying to bait you.” Barbra lurches forward quickly, causing me to tense, but she pulls back just as fast, laughing at my reaction. “You're just a stupid cunt with a fucked up face. You're no Blacklighter!”

  My vision clears, and for the first time tonight, I feel it.

  The rage.

  The ugly entity I keep hidden away. The one responsible for my body count. The monster that was born the day I laid hands on my father in anger and pushed. It's knocking at the door, salivating, begging to be set free. Smiling, I break away the locks and welcome her into the light.

  Barbra must sense the shift because her smile fades. Music pulses from the speakers, shaking the blood pumping through my veins, and soon my breathing falls in sync with the beat.

  You can call me a lot of things—ugly, stupid, useless—but to insist I'm not a Blacklighter, when the very blood on which this place was built runs through my veins?

  That's unacceptable.

  Barbra...is about to bleed.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Kessler

  Four years ago, I tripped Brodie Andrèson—AKA McStabby—in the chow hall for badgering my bunkmate. Brodie was a few years in, serving two consecutive life sentences, one for each of the women he raped and killed during a St. Patrick's day pub crawl, and he did not appreciate me jutting my foot into the aisle as he passed our table spouting homophobic slurs toward my friend.

  In retrospect, I should have known he'd get his jelly-stained trousers in a twist and seek retribution, but when I laid down to sleep that night, all I could think about was the number of days I had left inside that hellhole and what I could do to shave off days as quickly and efficiently as possible.

  I didn't expect to wake hours later with Brodie sitting on my chest, sliding two broken shards of glass between my lips, just at the corners, just deep enough he could catch the skin and rip, but there he was, ready to bless me with a Glasgow smile.

  Moving on pure instinct, I slammed both palms into his chest, sending him to the floor along with his makeshift weapons, but he still managed to split one side of my mouth apart. Guards were alerted, our floor was put on lock-down, and the two of us were escorted to opposite ends of solitary. Him with a smug grin and a dislocated shoulder courtesy of an overeager guard. Me with three flimsy cloth bandages holding my face together.

  The wound bled for weeks. Every time I spoke, every time I coughed or chewed or fucking breathed, the damn thing would reopen. Only when my beard grew in did it decide to finally scab over and heal. I haven't shaved since then, so I have no idea what the end result looks like, but I sure as shit remember how it felt. The blinding pain. The fever I endured once infection set in. The epic misery of going days without food for fear of what chewing would cost me. I remember every second of that cruel torture, and yet, it doesn't hold a candle to how it feels seeing Mercury take a direct hit to the face. Seeing her blood spew out across the canvas as she stumbles blindly, trying to stay upright while also keeping her vulnerable areas protected, is worse.

  So much fucking worse.

  It makes absolutely zero sense, but this mangled, acidic burn setting up shop in my chest is the direct result of watching Mercury fall heavily to the ground after taking a knee to the ribs. It's the product of seeing her body slung around the cage like a rag doll. It's a visceral, cell-deep reaction to the blood I see pooling just beneath her pale skin, the garbled screams piercing the smoke-filled air, the thudding of bodies as she and Barbra grapple for the upper hand.

  Minutes pass by in slow motion and I have to force myself to breathe, to blink, to stay on my feet despite the sea of riotous bodies surging against the cage bars where I'm standing. Every citizen of Farewell is wailing, cursing Barbra while showering Mercury with encouraging words of support.

  “Well, that didn't take long.”

  Eric appears at my side, hands shoved deep in his pockets, head cocked to the side as he examines me. He's perhaps the only person here not paying attention to the fight, and for that reason alone, I choose to ignore him and keep my eyes glued to Mercury. I have to mentally catalog every hit she sustains. Every injury. Every possible broken
bone or torn ligament.

  “Usually it takes at least a month,” Eric continues. “Three at the very most. Unless you're like Richard and hate your Blacklighter.”

  “I don't hate my Blacklighter.”

  The mechanical response leaves my mouth before I have the good sense to stop it.

  Even though the crowd is deafening, I still hear Eric's muttered laugh. “And exactly how much sense does that make, Kessler? If you were out in the real world and some chick tried strangling you, how quickly would you be able to forgive and forget? How much groveling would it take on her part before you decided to forgive her?”

  For some reason, his use of the phrase real world has me cutting my eyes away from the cage bars. There is great knowledge hidden behind Eric's smirk, but also, barely-concealed pain.

  “If you're trying to impart wisdom, by all means, Eric, have the balls to be frank.”

  “Alright.” He crosses his arms and turns to face me so we're nose-to-nose in the middle of a hundred blood-thirsty onlookers all screaming for one woman to tear the other apart. “You're sunk, man.”

  “I'm sunk? What the hell's that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, I thought if anyone would be immune to Farewell's charms, it'd be you, but I thought wrong. You're digging your own grave just like the rest of us, and for what?” He jerks his chin to the cage. “For her?”

  I take one menacing step closer. “Watch it.”

  “Right there.” He stabs a finger into my chest. “That's what I'm talking about. This was a mistake. I brought you in thinking you'd be able to keep your head above water, especially since you got paired with Mercury, the one woman here who had no interest in settling down with a Keeper, but here you are, watching her like your next breath depends on whether or not she continues to breathe. And every chance she gets, she's looking out at you with the same fucking expression.”

  Sparing a moment to glance back at the cage, I see Mercury with her arms locked tightly around Barbra's thick neck and, fucking hell, he's right. Her eyes flit to me so quickly I can barely see it, but I feel the moment of connection.

 

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