Lips pulled into a responsible line, she fingered the black serge cloak on the last mannequin. While not as flamboyant and stylish as the other two, it was warm and had a voluminous hood.
Sensible.
She took it off the mannequin and turned to find Klaus.
Dressed in a new pair of thick, black leggings, a black woolen tunic, and the black, ankle-length coat adorned with large pockets, he waited for her near the saleslady.
Arms bulging with her selections, Stasha was about to join him to pay when a basket of woolen scarves and mittens snagged her. A set like that would be perfect for Klaus. She opened her mouth to ask him what color he fancied but snapped it closed—a bright-red set was squished at the very bottom of the pile. She yanked it out and dangled the scarf and mittens under his nose. “Perfect. They’ll match my boots and my ribbon. The final snub to the two-faced god.”
Before Klaus could comment about her extravagance—or her irreverence—she plunked her shopping onto the sales counter.
The old lady’s lips pursed. No doubt preparing to say, You can’t afford all that, girl.
Stasha slapped the silver coin down on the table first.
The woman’s eyes widened behind her half-moon glasses. “Where did you get that, girl?” The sewing dropped into her lap, and the needle pinged on the wood floor.
Stasha shrugged, trying for an innocent smile. “I saved. For a long, long time.”
Klaus coughed loudly behind her. He excused himself and headed across to the display of scarves and mittens and picked up a gray pair.
Rolling her eyes, she snatched them from him and tossed them back on the pile.
He needed some hope too.
The shopkeeper’s lip curled, but she wouldn’t turn away the money. In fact, the crone’s hand trembled as she counted out the change—two handfuls of irons and a few coppers.
Stasha winced at how little of the silver coin remained. The purchases had been necessary. They had a hard journey ahead, and they needed all the advantage they could get. But from now on, they’d have to be as stingy as the Martka were at dinner time.
The saleslady didn’t need to see her worry. She slipped the change into her pocket and bobbed a bow—as if she could afford to throw money around. “You have an excellent day.”
She swung the cloak over her shoulders and headed for the door. Klaus’s coughing followed her.
Not wanting to swap her boots in the cold air outside, she stopped before going out. Stepping out of her old ones was easy. She passed them to Klaus, who leaned against a wall for support. Just the short walk from the mill to the store and then a bit of shopping had tuckered him out.
She pushed her fear for him aside as her feet sank into her new boots. A perfect fit, her toes snuggled down into the soft fleece. She spun in a half circle while he surveyed her. “What do you think?”
Klaus swallowed. “They’re … very nice.” He shifted his weight, careful not to fall over. “And very noticeable.”
“And very warm. Now hold out your hands.”
He frowned but dropped her old boots to obey.
She slipped the wildly conspicuous red mittens onto the fingertips of each of his hands and draped the scarf around his neck. “Happy birthday to me. And screw the Kňazer and Martka.”
His eyes widened. “For me?”
“For you.” Over her shoulder, she added, “The world awaits us.”
She opened the door and then stopped dead.
Blue Eyes stood on the other side of the street. His tattooed hand rested on the hilt of his fancy sword. Crushing blue eyes seared into hers.
“Where’s my money, pit princess?”
Stasha didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
Neither did Blue Eyes. He watched her with predatory focus. The same threat she’d often used in the fighting pit when she’d known she’d win.
Moving slowly so as not to provoke him, she sloughed off her knapsack and dropped it at Klaus’s feet. “Go back to the mill,” she murmured. “I’ll meet you there when I’m done here. Wait for me.”
Klaus bounced on his able foot. The silent question—What about you?—floated between them.
She nodded once, internally cursing him for not moving at her first command. She didn’t want to take care of him while dealing with Blue Eyes.
Klaus finally squeezed her arm. He stumbled off, nearly tripping over his bad leg.
She fought a wince.
Blue Eyes didn’t bother looking after him. He tipped his chin at her new boots. “It looks like you’re wearing my half of that bet.”
She caught a glimpse of the swirling black lines on his hands. Just another layer to the predator. The cat’s stripes designed to keep it hidden in the long grass.
Despite the churning in her stomach, she was no mouse.
She pulled herself to her full height, threw her shoulders back, and pasted on a, hopefully, convincing smirk. “Half of that money was mine.”
“It’s the other half I’m worried about, pit princess.”
She rolled her weight onto one hip, trying to look bored with the conversation. “It’s not like you’ll miss your half. Why else would you have bet so much coin on someone like Vlad?”
He snorted. “I bet on that kid because I knew he’d win. I don’t make hopeless investments.”
“Everyone else watching that fight said the exact opposite.”
He arched a perfect eyebrow. “Not you. You bet a week’s wages. You knew the quality of the bet. And the odds.” He sauntered forward, then stopped. “You knew he would win. Just the same as I did.”
Her spine locked up. She rolled onto the other hip, trying to relax. “So what if I like an underdog?”
He took another step closer. “And would you say that you’re the underdog right now?”
A spark lit in her blood. Long-forgotten excitement shot through her. The standoff before the first punch was thrown. “Not a chance.”
He took the last step, closing the gap between them. His breath warmed her chilled face. “Then let’s see what you’re worth in the fighting pits. See if you can actually win that coin in a fair fight.”
She smirked at his ignorance. “Fights are booked a week in advance.”
“Not when you have silver to flash around.” A lazy smile. “Feral Fox? I think that’s his name. He was only too happy to fit us in.” His inked fingers flicked between them. “Unless you don’t have the guts?”
“Of course I’ve got the guts,” she snapped. Part of her wanted to stomp over to the fighting pit right now to finish him off for his arrogance. Even better, when she won, she’d collect all the entrance fees.
The sensible part told her to refuse. She and Klaus didn’t have time to delay their escape from Askavol.
She bit her lip. Not going with Blue Eyes was just as risky. He’d tracked her with ease. Unless she played along with him, he could either drag her to the Kňazer—she would not get another chance to escape—or he could stalk her all the way to Ruepa. Risking their freedom was not a bet she was willing to make.
She pasted on a defiant smile. “You’re on.”
Stasha sauntered into the fighting pits, flaunting her new cloak, new boots, and Tarik’s red ribbon in her braid. She tossed an iron into Feral Fox’s hat at the entrance. If the fight went as she planned, she’d be winning it straight back, along with all the other entrance fees.
The dimly lit spectator area already teemed with people. Their excitement, laughter, and tension crackled like lightning. Just what she’d always loved about the pit. But as exciting as it was, she intended to win this fight as quickly as possible so she could rejoin Klaus at the mill for the start of their new life.
Too warm in the crush of bodies, she sloughed off her new cloak and leaned against the wooden fence between the ring and the spectators to center herself. She’d never liked talking before a fight. Best to stay in her head until the very last moment.
Her head wasn’t a happy place t
onight.
A year had passed since her last fight, and now she was forced to think about why that was. Not only that, the stakes in this fight were higher than ever. After buying their supplies, the second silver coin was their only salvation. If she were to lose it—
Not. Going. To. Happen.
She scanned the crowd for Blue Eyes.
He was nowhere to be seen.
That meant nothing. A man that arrogant wouldn’t back down. Just as he probably didn’t doubt that she’d show up too.
Time to move.
She drew in a deep, steadying breath and pushed her way through the crowds to her betting table. As usual, Goul and his friends monopolized the space. They were drinking from a shared mug.
Goul took a swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and called, “Look! Stasha dressed in fighting leathers.”
“Fighting leathers?” Ivan blinked his shock. “Is this your way of avoiding the betting? Scared to take me up on last night’s offer?” He winked at her.
She tossed her cloak on the table to keep it clean and snatched the mug from Goul. The mouthful she gulped tasted like piss. Cheap, watered-down ale. “Oh, I intend to bet and fight. It’s my birthday in a few hours, and I have some money to win. For the second time.”
She caught a glimpse of Blue Eyes on the opposite side of the ring. Hands shoved lazily into his pockets, he nodded at her.
She ignored him. But her fingers clawed the mug. She forced them to relax.
Ivan took the mug out of her hand, eyeing her warily. “Who’s the unlucky sod?”
“Him.” Stasha pointed across the ring. Blue Eyes’ astonishing gaze fixed on her. Assessing. Evaluating. Looking for weakness.
He probably saw plenty. A year had passed since she’d fought in the pit.
This wasn’t the time to show fear or weakness. She tossed her shoulders back, although her insides clenched. Blue Eyes was no starving orphan boy, here for a few knocks with his friends. Dressed in black leather from head to foot, he looked even more intimidating now than he had the previous evening.
“Seriously, Stasha?” Goul nearly choked on his own spit. “You’re good but not that good.”
She appreciated his shock. It mirrored her own disbelief that she was getting into the ring with that predator. But Goul didn’t need to know that. Languidly, she twirled her ribbon and tilted her head. “Care to bet on that?”
Goul’s eyes darted between her and Blue Eyes. She could have sworn Goul’s fingers trembled as he pulled a coin from his pocket. “An iron says Stasha loses this one.”
Good. Let the whole pit think she was about to get her butt kicked. That way, when she won, she’d clean up the betting at her table. More money to fund her and Klaus’s great escape.
“You’re on.” Ivan chucked his coin down too. He huffed a nervous laugh through crooked teeth. “It’s a shame, Stasha. I hate to see your pretty face messed up. Imagine what it’s going to do to your insufferable confidence.”
“You’ll like my face a lot less when I’m smirking at you and taking your money.” One hand braced on the table, she pulled the silver coin out of her pocket and flashed it in the torchlight. “One silver coin says I win.”
If she lost to Blue Eyes, he’d have to sort out ownership of his precious coin with the people at her betting table.
If she won—however unlikely—then she’d truly have earned the coin. Goul, Ivan, and the rest of them would replace a little of the money she’d blown on supplies.
Either way, Blue Eyes would hopefully stop stalking her and Klaus.
She dropped the coin on the table.
A shockwave of oohs and ahs reverberated around the group.
She sauntered into the ring and stopped at the entrance. The muddy circle and buzzing crowd that surrounded it were achingly familiar. Only one vital piece was missing. Tarik. In her memory, he laughed through split lips, just as he’d done the last time she’d seen him alive. Her muscles turned to mush.
She hissed and shut her eyes. Now was not the time for grief. Look to the living. Look to Klaus. Tarik was beyond her help now.
She gulped a couple of breaths, opened her eyes, and stepped into the ring.
Yesterday’s mud had congealed into a gooey jelly. It squelched under her new boots, and she winced. The crowd cheered, so she rewarded them with a flourishing bow. None of them needed to know that her ears were burning or that her throat ached hot and dry at the incredibly high stakes.
Blue Eyes joined her. He didn’t raise his fists, didn’t drop into a fighter’s pose like her opponents usually did. If anything, he looked disinterested. Bored. Except for a slight twinkle in his eyes. Clearly, he was enjoying the game.
Bastard.
Even though they’d probably all bet against her, the crowd chanted her name. They were her friends. They’d watched her fight since she was twelve. They knew how many times she’d lost and won. And they knew why she’d avoided the pit for a very long year.
She rolled her shoulders and fixed Blue Eyes with her own gaze. “The crowd knows my name. Don’t you think they should know yours too? You know, to mark on your gravestone once I’m done with you.”
He arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow in what looked like genuine amusement. “Averin.”
The crowd hissed Averin’s name. Coin hitting betting tables boomed through the pit.
She grinned. Any moment now, she’d mess up Averin’s perfect eyebrow. She pushed the notion away. Using her fists on men’s thick heads was both painful and a waste of energy. They would always be stronger and bigger than her. She had to be stealthier and use their weight and strength against them.
She balanced her stance, ready to grab Averin and fling him to the floor.
His fist slammed into her stomach.
She doubled over, gagging.
But instead of following up on his advantage, Averin stood over her, chuckling.
Not just a bastard, but a patronizing one too.
Winning now wasn’t just about the silver coin—she had to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off his oh-so-pretty face.
She jumped up, pivoted and landed her boot solidly on the back of his knee. She braced for him to fall—
His leg barely buckled.
What in the darkness was he made of?
He grabbed her collar and scooped her into the air as if she weighed no more than a kitten. A small, exceptionally annoying part of her was impressed with his strength and resilience.
She struck upwards and slammed her palm into his nose. Lovely red blood splattered her hand and shot across the ring.
Averin yelped. But instead of dropping her, he rammed his head into her face.
Pain exploded through her jaw, and her lip split. “Nice one.” She gave him a bloody smile.
Averin dropped her into the mud. She fell back against the wooden barrier with a jarring thud.
He wiped his hand across his nose. A bloody smear trailed along his cheek. “Glad you approve, pit princess. Now, should we finish this?”
He was waiting for her to stand? Why the gallantry? Anyone else would have leapt at an opportunity to win. Maybe he did have more silver coins than he needed and was happy to make her work for the one she’d filched.
Elbow leading, she leaped to her feet and lunged for him. He blocked lazily. Her elbow found its mark, juddering to a stop against abs as hard as a schorl blade. Pain jarred up and down her arm. Not in five years of fighting in the pits had she hit an abdomen as toned as that.
All advantage lost, she barely managed to dodge his grabbing hands. She twisted away sharply and smashed the side of her hand into his neck. He stumbled back. She followed up with a sharp elbow jab into his solar plexus. Despite his rock-solid torso, this time it was he who dropped to the floor.
A quick pirouette followed by a leap and she drove her boots into his back. A satisfying crunch—and pretty Averin, with the gorgeous blue eyes, sprawled face-first, into the mud.
She grinned wildly, the
n spat warm blood. “Fight over.” Had he let her win? Who cared? The coin was hers. She and Klaus could now leave without the fear of being followed or hunted.
The crowd went wild. “Stasha! Stasha! Stasha!” People stood on the betting tables and stamped in tune to the chant. Others beat their fists against the wooden barrier.
Arms waving, she twirled her hips and chanted with them. Her victory dance spun her toward Averin. He’d pulled himself to a sitting position and was grinning at her. “Congratulations, pit princess. The coin is yours.”
“Now was that so hard to admit?” With a flourish befitting the show she was putting on, she offered him a hand to help him up. “You could have saved yourself an ass kicking.”
Averin accepted her hand and let her pull him up to full height. He was only a couple of inches taller than her. He fixed those piercing eyes on her, and her stomach swooped deliciously. “Maybe I like getting my ass kicked by a pit princess. Now, I believe you owe me a drink.”
Still reeling from her unexpected reaction to him, her mouth opened and closed lamely.
Humiliating.
She could fight him, but she couldn’t talk to him?
Way to be pathetic.
Another of Averin’s low, throaty laughs. “Go get your winnings, and I’ll meet you outside.” He flicked the red ribbon hanging precariously from her braid. It pulled loose and fluttered into the mud. He sauntered away.
She snatched up her precious ribbon and tucked it in her pocket.
In his dreams was she wasting any more time on him. Not when she and Klaus still had a night of walking ahead of them to get away from Askavol.
She rushed to the betting table to claim her winnings.
Ivan bounded to her. “In-cre-di-ble!” He patted her back. “This is one time I don’t mind handing over coin to you.”
She preened and shook his hand from her shoulder. “Ivan, next time, follow my lead with the betting. In fact, not just with betting. With everything.” No need to tell him there wouldn’t be a next time. It pained her to leave Tarik’s friends—her friends—to their fates, but what choice did she have?
The Fire Thief Page 5