Cosmopolitan

by Shayne Silvers

  Because that’s my life.

  “Technically,” I said as Gomorrah approached, “this would be a grudge match, I t’ink.”

  Dorian’s jaw hung slack in surprise after hearing that. “Ladies and gentlemen, I stand corrected! It seems this is no ordinary bout! These two have faced off before!”

  “You do not have the wolf man here to save you this time,” Gomorrah said, his voice as craggy and discordant as I remembered.

  “Maybe not,” I said, “but then this time ye won’t be blindsidin’ me on a public street in the middle of the night.”

  A chorus of inhuman howls and booing echoed from an array of speakers above. Apparently, they’d gotten the audio up and running in time for the virtual crowd to react to my response. Gomorrah’s eyeless face turned towards the sound of the noise, then sunk back down. I couldn’t tell if my retort had gotten a reaction—you try arguing with a rock and seeing if it gives a shit.

  Go on, I’ll wait.

  “What are ye even doin’ here?” I asked. I’d considered questioning Gomorrah about the seed directly, but it didn’t seem wise with all the Freaks out there gathered around their monitors; we had enough parties interested in Chapman’s seed without advertising its existence to the whole world. Still, between Rumpelstiltskin and Gomorrah, it looked like the Marquis—whoever or whatever the hell he was—had history with Magnus, a relationship of some sort. I simply couldn’t figure out what sort of relationship it was.

  Did psychopathic Freaks have a Country Club Membership or something? An inaugural ball where they drank the blood of the innocent out of punch bowls and danced the night away to the devil’s music?

  “That is not your concern,” Gomorrah replied. “Enough talking.”

  “Oh, right, sorry. I’d forgotten how chatty ye get,” I quipped, rolling my eyes.

  Gomorrah, true to his word, charged. He was surprisingly fast, covering the ground between us in a matter of seconds. I didn’t bother dodging; I’d probably get so tangled in all my guns that I’d end up an even easier target than before. I’d already considered all my options and realized this wasn’t a fight I could win by being faster, or stronger, or even smarter.

  I waited as patiently as I could for the giant, boulder-like fist to come swinging at me from overhead—it seemed Gomorrah planned to crunch me down like a can of soda. It felt eerily similar to watching a nurse prepare a needle meant for my arm. I cringed as I watched his fist descend, one eye pinched shut, my fingers crossed, prepared to roll away if this didn’t work.

  You see, with his length of stride and his reach, I knew I wouldn’t be able to match Gomorrah in terms of speed. And one look was all it took to know who would win in an arm wrestling competition. Which left being clever. Sadly, that only worked if you had time to plan in advance, to strategize and exploit your opponent’s weakness. I didn’t have the luxury of time, and as far as I could tell the only weakness Gomorrah had was his shitty personality. But, depending on how his first blow fell, I’d know if I had what I needed to win.

  Luck.

  And an anti-magic field that, for whatever reason, repelled Gomorrah’s attacks.

  Gomorrah’s hand buried itself in the ground beside me, so deep the dirt hugged his rocky forearm.

  I sighed in relief as the virtual crowd gasped in confusion.

  Then I started shooting.

  Chapter 38

  Gomorrah’s surprise at having completely missed me gave me ample time to unload the first of my double-barreled shotguns at his exposed kneecap—basically a slab of stone held in place by sand and fire and glass. The noise from the speakers was deafening, but I blocked it out, strafing to my left as Gomorrah fought to pry his hand free from the ground. I tossed my first shotgun aside and leveled the second point-blank against his knee. I fired. Chunks of rock spewed outward; a few stone chips ricocheted, clanging against the barrel of the smoking shotgun. I flung it alongside its twin and swung my assault rifle around.

  Gomorrah bellowed and tore his hand free. He whipped around, trying to backhand me into next year, but—as his hand soared well above me—he overextended and fell. I hadn’t even bothered to dodge, which made it look all the more comical. In fact, I’d barely moved since the fight started. I set the butt of the M4 in the crook of my shoulder, aimed a little below Gomorrah’s knee to account for the slight lift that would occur once I began firing, and widened my stance.

  I let loose everything I had, squeezing the trigger in short bursts, emptying my clip until nothing remained of Gomorrah’s knee but a small, bowling-ball sized crater. Granted, it was a hell of a lot less convenient than dropping Austina’s bodyguard had been, but the principle was the same; without a leg to stand on, Gomorrah’s threat level went from DEFCON 1 to half-mangled zombie. When the Unclean—as Hemingway had dubbed him—bastard tried to rise, he discovered that very thing for himself; he tottered and collapsed back to the ground as his leg collapsed, shattering in two.

  The crowd had gone completely silent.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Freaks of all ages…what a stunning turn of events…” Dorian was calling out in disbelief.

  I barely heard him.

  Instead, I set my assault rifle aside and drew the MP5. While it had very little stopping power to offer compared to the guns I’d already used, it would work for what I needed. The behemoth had flopped over onto his back and was attempting to sit up, but, without his right leg to counterbalance, he seemed to be struggling. In fact, he looked so piteous I briefly considered offering to help.

  Instead, I sprayed him in the face with a swarm of helpful bullets.

  Now it was my turn to get booed by the crowd. Apparently, they were all for someone being crushed to a bloody pulp by a rock monster but couldn’t support the idea of kicking someone when they were down…or shooting them, in this case.

  Hypocrites.

  I found the nearest camera, flipped them off, and continued firing until the vaguely human shape of Gomorrah’s face was completely eradicated. I lowered the submachine gun and rubbed at my arms; shooting that many rounds nonstop would leave my biceps twitching for hours.

  Some people, even some of the Freaks watching, might consider this overkill. Gomorrah couldn’t even touch me, after all, so why go through the trouble of blowing his face to smithereens? Here’s the thing: Gomorrah was a bully. And, unless you’d survived bullies, you wouldn’t understand.

  Those who jeered had never been forced to weather the blows and taunts of schoolyard alphas or fend off the hungry stares of their pack followers—the skittish wolves who gnawed on the leftover meat, teasing you with the names given by your tormentors, snickering whenever someone treated you like dirt. They’d never had to learn what it took to break that cycle.

  I had.

  I wasn’t maiming Gomorrah for kicks and grins. I was doing it so any Freak out there who saw me out on the street knew to cross to the other side. Basically, I’d picked the biggest bully on the playground and kicked his ass so badly he wouldn’t ever walk again, and then I’d wrecked his face.

  Because when you fought me, prison rules applied.

  This was a message to my viewership.

  “I do not feel pain,” Gomorrah said, his words slightly garbled now that he no longer had lips. “I cannot die. I will kill you.” To emphasize his point, the Unclean mercenary flipped over onto his stomach and began to crawl towards me, grinding himself across the ground, gouging furrows into the grass.

  I snorted, retrieved my shotguns, and strode over to my duffel bag to begin the laborious process of reloading; if the moron wanted to lose the rest of his limbs, so be it. Fortunately, Dorian saved me the effort, realizing what it was I intended. “I believe,” he yelled, quieting the murmuring crowd, “this fight is concluded! The winner is Miss MacKenna!”

  Not so lovely anymore, apparently.

  I’d take it.

  Still, since I had the attention of the crowd, I shoved two shells into one of the shotguns, smiled, curtsied,
and shot Gomorrah in the face once more for good measure.

  Chapter 39

  Roland passed me on the stairs to take his place in the ring. “Quite a show you put on there.”

  “I was lucky,” I said, shrugging.

  Roland nodded. “Yes, you were. Lucky, and ruthless. Who trained you to shoot?”

  I grimaced. “I had a mentor once upon a time. You’d have hated him. But he taught me a few useful t’ings.” I didn’t feel like going into any more depth than that, and I was glad when Roland didn’t press. Talking about my old boss brought up bad memories.

  Roland hesitated at the foot of the stairs. “Quinn,” he said, then met my eyes for a long moment. I wasn’t sure what he wanted, then realized he was testing his vampire gaze on me. I frowned. He blinked and a slow smile spread across his face. It looked good on him, albeit a little out of place. “I figured it was something like that,” he said.

  “Don’t die, ye idgit,” I said, frowning inwardly at his comment.

  He chuckled and waved.

  I punched in Othello’s password as I walked along the stands to where Alucard was sitting. I’d snuck the phone out of her back pocket after my duel with Gomorrah while a squad of Dorian’s people tried to figure out how to cart the pile of rocks off the field. Several of the tech crew and a few of Magnus’ vampires shrunk back from me—or fled altogether—as I went, which I found so amusing I started to hop up and down the rows to see them scurry.

  I almost felt like a celebrity.

  Or, you know, like a ruthless dictator.

  By the time I made it to Alucard, I’d already read through Serge’s frequent texts, almost all of which consisted of frowny face emojis. The last two, however, weren’t as adorable. The first was innocuous, but straightforward: The man is leaving the hotel. The second, which had arrived only a few minutes ago, was less so: Follow to Brooklyn Bridge. Smells bad. Very very bad.

  I remembered Serge’s keen sense of smell playing a role in the acquisition of my guns and cringed. If the Serbian had picked up a scent worth noting, it meant Chapman was getting himself involved in something truly dangerous. Had he decided to go ahead with the handoff? If so, the Brooklyn Bridge made sense; even in the hours before sunrise, it was trafficked enough to be considered public. Gaggles of tourists often clustered along the walkway that ran across the bridge, taking selfies.

  I stared down at Gomorrah. Why would the Unclean behemoth be here, if Chapman were about to give away the seed? Shouldn’t the hired muscle be where the action was? Was I wrong about the whole thing? Chapman could be out for an early morning jog across the bridge for all I knew. Deep down, though, I knew better; Serge’s nose and my gut couldn’t both be wrong. For some reason, I heard Rumpelstiltskin’s voice in my head, his eerie, warbling giggle…sleight-of-hand. Behind the curtain.

  I cursed.

  “I t’ink I know why they’re doin’ all this,” I said, settling in beside Alucard. “Why they’re so concerned about airin’ these fights, and the deal Magnus struck with Rumpelstiltskin. All of it.”

  The vampire scooted a few feet down the bench. “Do tell,” he said.

  I marveled at the space he’d put between us. “Did ye pull a lunchroom cafeteria move on me, just now?” I asked.

  Alucard’s brow furrowed. “A what?”

  “Ye scooted away from me like I have cooties,” I accused.

  “Cooties?” Alucard drawled.

  I stared at the vampire. Was Alucard so old that he’d never encountered the concept of cooties? Talk about a generational gap. Next, I’d have to explain the merits of boy bands, pagers, encyclopedias, and Blockbuster.

  “What’s the matter with ye?” I asked.

  “Nothing is wrong with me. But after your little show down there,” Alucard said, “and the trick you pulled in the dungeon, I’m wondering if it’s safe to sit too close to you.”

  “Ye do t’ink I have cooties!” I yelled, eliciting faint giggles from those nearby. I turned a glare on the eavesdroppers and laughed when they shrunk back in fear. I grinned and held out my arms to the vampire. “Come give us a hug, ye filthy bloodsucker.”

  Alucard gave me his best flat-eyed stare.

  “Fine,” I said, with a wink. “I didn’t want to hug ye, anyway.”

  “Is it a secret?” he asked. “What you can do, I mean.”

  “Why don’t ye ask Roland? He t’inks he’s got it all figured out.”

  Alucard studied the field below where Roland waited calmly for his opponent to show, one hand on the hilt of his sword. “Roland figured you had some sort of magical protection. Something to keep you safe. But I don’t buy it. When I tried to grab you in the dungeon, nothing stopped me or shoved me aside, I just missed. You didn’t move faster, either. You made me slow down.” Alucard shrugged. “I’m not sure what kind of engine you’ve got, but until I know I’m not fuel, I think it’s better to keep my distance.”

  “You’re one to talk,” I accused. “To ye lot, we’re all fuel.”

  Alucard smirked. “I never said I wasn’t a hypocrite.”

  I rolled my eyes and patted the seat next to me. “You’re safe, ye big baby.” Alucard hesitated but slid over. I was tempted to slug him, but decided against it; we all have cause to fear the unknown.

  “So, you said you sorted it out?” Alucard asked a moment later. The tech crew had finally managed to move Gomorrah with the help of Magnus’ vampires—they’d gone with the light-as-a-feather-stiff-as-a-board method. A few stragglers fetched the chunks of stone worth carrying and waddled across the field with them. I wasn’t sure what they’d do with Gomorrah himself—the big bastard hadn’t spoken or moved since I’d pelted him in the face that final time—but I was hoping it involved him becoming someone’s lawn ornament.

  “Do ye know anythin’ about a seed?” I asked.

  Alucard looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

  I sighed. “Alright, let’s just say there’s this magical artifact tradin’ hands as we speak, and one of the parties involved employs your man with the scars, as well as that stone bastard they’re cartin’ off the field.”

  Alucard’s interest perked up, and then his eyes narrowed.

  “Exactly,” I said. “Now tell me, if ye wanted to divert attention from somethin’ like a handoff that could mean the end of the world, what would ye do?”

  “You think they staged this whole thing to keep everyone’s eyes elsewhere? That they recruited Dorian Gray to set up these fights?”

  “Well, not these fights. A fight. We just happened to show up,” I said. “Ye heard how excited he was when he heard you call out Magnus? You’re even more of a draw. It’s all sleight-of-hand. Like plannin’ a robbery the night of the Superbowl,” I said, trying to think of an analogy that the vampire would understand.

  Alucard gave me a funny look.

  I threw up my hands in disbelief. “Are ye tellin’ me ye don’t know what the Superbowl is? What have ye been doin’ for the last 50 years?”

  Alucard rolled his eyes. “Cher, I’m from New Orleans. Trust me, I know all about the Superbowl. I’m only wondering what you plan to do about this handoff, assuming you’ve got it right.”

  “If I’m wrong, it won’t matter. But if I’m right, I have to stop it,” I replied. “Which means I need to get back sooner rather than later.”

  “I think what we’ve got going on here might be more of a priority, all things considered. We’ve got to get Othello and the girls out of here. Not to mention ourselves.”

  I locked eyes with Alucard. “Big picture? Gettin’ back and makin’ sure nobody gets their hands on the artifact may be more important. Like end of the world important.”

  “Says who?” Alucard asked, skeptical.

  I paused to consider that question. “If I said a Horseman of the Apocalypse, would ye believe me?”

  Alucard’s already pale face went one shade lighter. “Which one?”

  “Death.”

  “Well, fuck.”

&
nbsp; “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing. I was sort of banking on Hemingway showing up to rescue Othello and saving us all the trouble of fighting these assholes. But my luck has never been that good.”

  I snorted. “So…”

  Alucard pulled out his phone. “Hold on, I’ll see what I can do.”

  I stared at him.

  Who was he going to call, The Avengers?

  Chapter 40

  Dorian finally seemed to have the field where he wanted it and gave the signal to turn the cameras back on. While trying to keep my mind off what was going on with Chapman and the seed, I considered the various ways Dorian must have entertained his audience during the intermission. Did he have advertisers? What kind of marketing campaigns were geared towards Freaks? Were there commercials for werewolf grooming products? Vampire orthodontists? Sleep masks for Cyclopes?

  Now those I would watch.

  “And we’re back!” Dorian called. “Sorry to keep you waiting, but I promise this next fight will be worth the delay! Especially considering our second bout of the evening features someone many of you have waited years to see bleed! Please join me in welcoming the infamous ex-Shepherd, Roland Haviar!”

  The cheers and jeers reached a fever pitch. As a former Shepherd, it made sense that the Freak community had an issue with Roland—the Vatican’s soldiers had become supernatural bogeymen for a reason, after all. Now that he was a vampire, however, I was sure there’d be those who considered him a trophy—a superstar playing for their home team. Hence the mixed response. I found myself gripping the edges of my seat, consumed by the pageantry of it all. Now that it wasn’t me down there, I had to admit, the whole Fight Night concept was thrilling, in a way.