“I wish it was that easy.”
“I know what your problem is.”
“Do you now?” A smile was slowly returning to his face as he turned to properly join her inside the blanket.
“You have to keep moving. When you sit still, you get lost in your head.”
“You might be right.”
“I know I am right.” She guided him to the chair, then sat on his lap and wrapped the blanket around them both again. “I have been studying maps in the wheelhouse with Arnold. We have been discussing where the ship is and where it might be going, and I have been thinking. I know what needs to be done to make you feel better. To give you something to be proud of, something that you can look back on and say, I did this.”
“Oh?” Miller was genuinely curious. He didn’t have the faintest clue what surprises she might have in store for him. “What do you have in mind?” he asked.
“I am not ready to speak of this yet.” She kissed him on the cheek. “You will just have to wait.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Bride of Frankenstein
Radzinski joined Isabelle in her quarters; he surveyed the sparse apartment. It had the same amenities as every other standard room on the ship—a small bathroom, a tiny fridge, and a twin bed. Otherwise, the place was empty except for her bag of chits and that threadbare gray dress she’d worn since they met. Thinking on it, he was sure he’d never seen her in anything else. Without anything else, for sure, but that gray dress was all he’d ever seen her wear.
“You know I’m bringing in some pretty good bank these days, too. I could take you shopping, get you a new wardrobe. My treat,” he offered.
“Don’t need it.” Isabelle watched Underworld from her doorway as she regularly did when she wasn’t working.
Radzinski hoped she was just people-watching and not about to spring a bunch of clients on him again. He checked her out when he could; he didn’t want to get caught staring, but she was bandaged up like a mummy. Arms, legs, chest, and back all wrapped in fresh bandages from hours of new tattoo work. She must have been making the tattoo artist work overtime. Poor guy was probably too afraid to tell her to slow down. He chuckled at the thought. She had new piercings, too; he didn’t know what they were called, but he saw a nun walking around just a week ago with the same shit in her face. Both of Isabelle’s nipples were pierced now, too, and were impossible to miss through her rags.
“New jewelry, huh?” he commented awkwardly. Even for Radzinski, a conversation with Isabelle was often a lesson in frustration.
“Saw someone with them. I liked it.”
“No judgments here. Probably not the best idea in the world to get in the ring with them on, though.”
“I take them out.”
He joined her at her perch. “It’s not so bad down here. I miss the sun and I wouldn’t mind talking to Jerry occasionally, though. Have you seen Lillian?”
“No,” she lied.
“Eh, maybe you should. Could be good for the both of you, seeing as you can come and go as you please.”
“Doubtful.”
“How did you manage that after all? I even look sideways at the exit and I’ve got some asshole breathing down my neck.”
She didn’t answer. Isabelle had fallen between the cracks. Save for a brief exam at the infirmary, she went unnoticed when Miller arrived with Soraya in tow. Isabelle existed in a sort of limbo, a zone between the upper decks and Underworld. She was able to float around like a ghost, appearing wherever she wanted. No one seemed to notice or care, unless they did and, like the people outside her door, were too afraid to look her in the eye much less question her.
“What happened yesterday?” she asked uncharacteristically.
“What do you mean?”
“The Pit. You went too far again.”
Shame washed over Radzinski, and for the briefest of moments, he was irritated with her for even asking. But at least she asked something, he realized. “I’ve been losing control,” he said solemnly. “Too much shit piles up, you know?”
He changed subjects fast. He’d let Isabelle in regarding just about anything in his life, but if that conversation progressed, then his servitude to Lady Setsuko would inevitably come up. For Isabelle’s sake, he wanted to keep her as far away from the crime boss as possible. Radzinski gazed out at the gathered masses in Underworld going about their routines. “These people are delusional. Just look at the way they carry themselves. Most of them have no idea what it’s really like out there.” He turned to look her in the eye. She stared back. “You guys had a wall back at Pepperbush, for whatever good it did you, but you tried. I misjudged you people then, and for that, I’m sorry.”
~~~
The Pit was standing room only, and in preparation for the latest bout, the audience came early to claim the best spots at ringside. The rows of chairs in the front, closest to the ring, were reserved, and beyond that, it looked as if the entirety of Underworld was in attendance. Radzinski leaned back in his chair, his legs extended forward with his arms crossed.
Marisol sat beside him. They had ringside seats for Isabelle’s latest brawl. Alex stood between them and the ring. Radzinski saw his former road-mate and her friend wandering around Underworld and thought it best to make it known that the newcomer was friends with him and Isabelle, lest some unsavory types get any ideas.
“I’m Alex. Nice to meet you. Any friend of Miller’s is a friend of mine.”
Marisol smiled but remained silent as she lit a cigarette.
“Why do people keep saying that?” Radzinski was clearly frustrated with the assumption that he and Miller were anything but adversaries.
“Are you guys not friends? I heard you traveled together for months.”
“And?”
“And that’s more than enough time to get to know someone, especially now.”
“Sorry to burst your bubble, spunky, but Miller and I are anything but friends. We can’t stand each other.”
“Aww, I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe you guys can make up one day.”
“You’re just not getting it, are you?”
“Ah, that’s okay. We can talk about it some other time. Listen, I got to split, you guys. Fights aren’t really my thing, and I’d like to do a little exploring while I’m down here. Nice to meet you, Radzinski.”
“Likewise, kid. And hey, if you run into any trouble down here, just mention my name and they’ll back off.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Take care.” Alex nodded to Marisol before she squeezed her way through the thickening audience.
Radzinski watched Alex disappear into the crowd before he sat back down and returned his attention to Marisol. “Weird kid, huh?”
“Meh, she’s always upbeat like that. It’s refreshing if you ask me.”
Isabelle’s growing popularity among the fighting circles had elevated her to celebrity status overnight. Word had quickly spread throughout Underworld of a newcomer who seemed to rise from the shadows to become the reigning women’s champion of the Pit in record time. No one knew where Isabelle had come from or how long she’d even been on the ship, only that one day she made her presence known and quickly cut a swath of destruction through the fighters’ ranks. These days, crowd-wise, Isabelle was drawing nearly the same numbers as Radzinski.
Radzinski waved to a wandering barmaid. He held up two fingers, palm-side out, then reversed them so she could see the other side of his hand. She nodded and would return with two beers and two shots.
“This is, uh, something.” Marisol was at a loss for words.
“Just take it all in. We have a different standard for living down here. You’ll get used to it. Just give it time.”
“We, is it?”
“Hey, the people love me. Watch this.” Radzinski stood, raised his right arm, and waved for the throngs in attendance. He was met with thunderous applause. The crowd began chanting his name—“Rad-zin-ski”—in hopes that they would be treated to an unscheduled bout. He returned to h
is seat with a childlike grin. “See what I mean?”
“God, you must love this.” Marisol rolled her eyes, hard.
“What can I say? My fans adore me.”
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little impressed. Good for you, John.”
“Thanks.” He looked at her side-eyed while trying to determine if she meant what she said. She appeared to be genuine.
“So what do you live ringside? You can’t possibly want to watch every match.”
“I don’t. God no. I only watch two types of fight. Up-and-comers who are impressing the bet-makers. I like to gauge the competition.”
“Makes sense. And?”
“Isabelle. I make sure I’m ringside for as many of her fights as possible.”
“Aw, are you looking out for her?” Marisol teased.
“Looking out for Isabelle? Fuck no.” He nearly did a spit-take. “I’m looking out for whatever sorry sap she’s fighting. Sometimes even after the bell rings I need to get in there and break it up.”
“Don’t they have staff for that?”
“Sure, but she’s been known to lash out when she’s seeing red. I seem to have a calming effect on her.”
“I’m sure.”
The waitress returned with their drinks. “Two beers, two shots. Matchmaker wants to see you after. He says he’s got an idea that will blow the roof off this place.”
“Do tell.” Radzinski’s eyes lit up.
“He wouldn’t say, but from the way he was grunting, I’m sure it’ll be something worth at least listening to.”
“Thanks, babe. I’ll see you around.”
“Yep.”
“So you’ve even got yourself a manager? Look at you. The next thing you know you’ll be an honest-to-God businessman.”
“If only. Nah, we need to keep things fresh or the crowd will get bored. I think that’s why they took such a liking to Isabelle. She’s something they haven’t seen before.”
“You mean there’s no other decent fighting women down here?” Marisol scanned the rough crowd. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Oh no, there are some legit lady fighters down here and some monsters that even I’d be leery to get in the ring with. Isabelle brings something new to the table. She’s an unknown. She fights in a dress for fuck’s sake. Hell, she doesn’t even say a damn word or even acknowledge her opponent. She gets in there, does her business, and gets out. No showboating, no hamming it up. I think there’s a purity to that, a realness that these people appreciate.”
“Fighting in a dress, huh?”
“Meh, she makes it work.” Radzinski shrugged.
“Hmm, interesting. I have to admit, I really didn’t spend much one-on-one time with Isabelle back on the road or even before all this shit began. I never knew the woman. I’m glad to see her taking care of herself, though.”
“Yeah, that she does.” Radzinski sat up. His attention was back on the ring. “Here she comes now.”
“Is… is that Isabelle?” Marisol’s mouth was agape, and she almost stood.
Radzinski nodded and smiled. “That’s my girl.”
Isabelle appeared from the crowd. At first glance, she could have easily been mistaken for just another spectator until she pushed her way through the mass of admirers and hopped into the ring. She was still wearing the same gray dress she had fled Pepperbush in eight months ago. Most of her skin that showed through the dress—her chest, arms, and legs—was wrapped in gauze. Her feet, hands, and neck were bare, and Marisol could make out the ends—or maybe it was the beginnings—of tattoos. Other artwork showed through where the wraps had bunched up in random spots. Some of the wraps were clearly due for a changing.
“What’s with the mummy look?”
“Tattoos. She’s got them all over. It’s a work in progress. Girl spends most of her winnings on them. You’ll see when the match is over. She’ll head across the way to the tattoo artists and they’ll get right to work. By now, the guy knows to keep his schedule clear when Isabelle is about to fight. Otherwise, she just stands there, waiting and creeping everybody out. It’s pretty funny if you ask me.”
“Ever get a look at them?”
“I have, briefly. From what I can tell, it looks like plants or vines and flowers. Maybe some birds. I don’t know, but whatever it is, it’s big. It’s a huge fucking piece. It looks like the outlines are done and maybe some color, too, but like I said, I don’t want to stare. I have talked to the tattoo guy—you know, just to make sure she’s not putting any pressure on him. He says he’s never been made to work this fast before, but he digs it. Says the ideas are just flowing and he’s got a metric shit-ton of colorwork to do still, but he puts his head down and just goes for it. Surprisingly enough, she’s easy to work with. Shit, the guy’s bringing home enough chits from her job alone to keep his kid fed for a very long time.”
“I guess it’s good to know she’s not shaking anybody down.” Marisol laughed at the thought of this once-unassuming housewife becoming someone to be feared. Perhaps this was the real Isabelle and it had only taken the end of the world and the loss of her family to bring out her truest self.
“That was my initial concern. Sure, she can take care of herself, but if you piss off the wrong people down here, you’re going to wind up crossing swords with people that don’t fuck around.”
“Speaking of?”
“Don’t even stress over it. I’ve got things covered down here.” Radzinski was stoned-faced. Marisol didn’t need to know the intricacies of what was really brewing behind the scenes in Underworld. “But back to Isabelle. Yeah, I hope to see that thing in all its glory someday when the wraps come off for good.”
“She’s not fucking around, is she?”
“No, she is not.” Radzinski leaned in so Marisol could better hear him over the crowd. “Hey, do you ever think about the time we spent on the island, and where that might have led if we stayed?”
“Not especially. I have options here.”
“Ouch. That’s not what I was getting at, but point taken.”
“You’ll live,” she said as she tried to hide her grin behind the lip of her beer bottle. “I must admit, though, you’ve changed and for the better. I actually like the new Radzinski.”
“It’s a work in progress.” He shrugged. “I suppose I deserved that. You want another beer?”
“Keep ‘em coming.”
On that note, Marisol downed her shot and stood. “When in Rome, right?” She joined the crowd in their cheering for Isabelle.
Radzinski clinked his beer with hers in a toast. “That’s the spirit.” He joined in as well with a round of whistles and chants of his own.
The announcer did his job and quickly got out of the way. Isabelle’s opponent was confident, maybe too confident. She didn’t wait for Isabelle to tap fists; she charged right in. She had seen Isabelle fight before and knew to expect the same. She peppered Isabelle with a combination of body blows and left hooks that seemed to stun her. The woman had a pattern that Isabelle was quick to pick up on. She came in for her next barrage, and that was when Isabelle struck.
Isabelle dodged a right hook, then grabbed the woman by the elbow and used her opponent’s momentum to push her off balance. Isabelle was on her in a flash. A series of lefts and rights followed by a barrage of knees to the abdomen and the woman was nearly unconscious on her feet when Isabelle pounced. She straddled the other fighter and kept her shoulders pinned to the mat with her knees. Left, right, the blows kept coming.
The woman slowed her squirming; her face was pulp. Isabelle flipped her opponent onto her stomach, slithered onto the woman’s back and pulled her head rearward by her jaw with both hands. The woman refused to relent. Isabelle released the other fighter’s jaw and put her in a chokehold, wrapped her feet around the woman’s waist and rolled over with her own back to the mat. She squeezed the breath from her for a few more moments until the woman finally conceded defeat. She tapped Isabelle on the arm furiousl
y. Then she tapped the mat and Isabelle again as she began to panic. Isabelle wouldn’t let go. The referee cautiously approached; his tentative steps spoke volumes.
“That’s my cue.” Radzinski rushed to the mat. He had to intervene, the second time in as many weeks.
Isabelle calmed the moment Radzinski touched her. For anyone else, that would have been a death sentence or at the very least a dislocated wrist. He whispered something in her ear while he gently massaged her back. Isabelle’s grip began to loosen. The ref took his opening to drag the opponent away. She scurried to her feet and bolted out of the ring in a hurry.
Radzinski guided Isabelle to a standing position, where he raised her hand for the crowd. The audience erupted even though she showed no sign of appreciation for their adoration. From Marisol’s vantage point, it appeared that Isabelle said something to Radzinski before she jumped down from the ring. And sure enough, just as Radzinski said, Isabelle made a beeline for a group of stalls on the other end of the room. No doubt the tattoo artist was mixed in with the concessions and drink tables.
Radzinski returned to ringside after giving the crowd a bit of a show by pumping up Isabelle’s reputation. He knew the crowd needed something from her—anything. If it came from the Marine, it would be enough.
He returned to his seat to see that Marisol was still standing.
“That was impressive.” She was still applauding with the rest of the crowd.
“Told you. Glad you enjoyed yourself. Come on, let me buy you another drink and give you a tour of the place. I have someone I’d like you to meet.” Radzinski led Marisol out of the Pit and back toward Underworld’s main drag.
As Isabelle passed through the crowd, some of her wraps were dangling from her right side. From Marisol’s perspective, she could make out a large portion of the art. From a distance, Isabelle had what appeared to be an intricate pattern of vines and flowers intertwining down her arms and legs. It looked professionally done and was exquisite in its detail. Marisol wanted badly to see the rest but wasn’t about to pry. The idea of moving down here to Underworld full-time crossed her mind, and if she did, she would make a point of getting closer to Isabelle, if only to satisfy her own curiosity.
The Roaming (Book 3): Haven's Promise Page 38