by Katee Robert
“When they’re finished, we go in. Don’t let anyone stop you.” As long as we can get down there and issue an official challenge, there’s not a damn thing any of the factions can do except meet it. The laws of the feast days are there for a reason. To ignore them is to invite ruin. That shit should have been enough to keep peace, but the rules didn’t help my father when these fuckers slit his throat, and they didn’t help me and my brothers when we were forced to flee for our lives. Now I’m going to make them choke on their goddamned laws.
As we watch, the Mystic catches the Amazon’s punch in his robe, twisting the fabric to trap her. He delivers a brutal jab to her throat and bears her to the ground, punching her in the face once, twice, a third time. Her hand slaps the ground. Just like that, the fight is over.
The Herald steps forward. She’s an ancient Korean woman with her long white hair pulled back in a high knot at the top of her head. “Gerald wins. The Amazons will allot him the agreed upon amount.”
A cheer goes up from the wedge of the amphitheater that’s mostly Mystics. They’re easy to pick out because they dress like fucking weirdos. Robes in a variety of colors as if they live in another time and place, wild hair stuffed with trinkets and ribbons, some of them like to renounce shoes because it makes them feel closer to the gods or some bullshit like that. They’re also smart as hell and like to use others’ perceptions of them to their advantage. They’re not as strong and fierce as the Amazons, not as brutal as the third faction, but there’s a reason they’ve held their wedge of the city since its inception. They are not to be underestimated.
“Now,” I murmur.
One by one, we drop off the low roof to the street. I pause long enough to ensure all seven of us are on the ground and then lead the way through the crowd. It doesn’t take long for people too start noticing us. Seven men in dark clothes with murder in their eyes. Even if they don’t recognize us for who we are, they begin to part, pushing each other to make way for us.
We reach the lip of the amphitheater and start down the stairs. One of the Herald’s guards moves to stop us from entering the sand, but she holds up a hand and he shifts back. This woman has been Herald since I was a child, a neutral party that oversees all the feasts and calls no faction home. She surveys me and finally nods. “Have you come to challenge?”
It’s obvious to everyone present that it’s exactly why I’m here, but Sabine Valley is nothing without its ridiculous rituals. I can’t ignore them if I want this to work. “Yes, Herald.”
Her dark eyes flick over my face and those of my brother’s behind me. “What grievance have you brought to us, Abel Paine?”
“My brothers and I were wronged by the leaders of the factions present.” The space naturally amplifies my voice, but even if it didn’t, every person present would hear me. They’ve all gone silent. “Seven fights for the seven lives they’ve ruined.”
She studies me for a long moment. The Herald has never stopped someone from engaging in ritual combat during Lammas, but she still has the authority to do it. “Who will be fighting?”
“I will.”
“You’ll stand in proxy for your brothers?”
“Yes, Herald.” Things aren’t traditionally done this way, but that’s going to work in my favor tonight. Those fools will look at me and think that there’s no way I can possibly win seven fights. They’ll happily wager the things they can least afford to lose on that assumption. And then I’m going to shove their failure down their throats and make them choke on it.
The Herald tilts her head to the side. “And the stakes?”
“For every fight I win, one of my brothers chooses a Bride as restitution.”
Her eyes widen ever so slightly. “A high price.”
“So was exile.”
At that, she nods and turns slowly to meet each of the faction leaders’ gazes in turn. I’ve avoided looking at them until now, but I can’t avoid it any longer. First up is Aisling, queen of the Amazons. She’s a fierce bitch and looks every inch of it, a lean white woman with hard green eyes and pale blond hair braided back from her face. I once watched her gut a man and walk away without so much as a hitch in her stride.
She sent her warriors to set my childhood home on fire on the night my father died.
Now to Ciar, the Mystic’s leader. He’s a grizzled white man with a cloud of gray hair who looks like someone boiled him down, papery skin stretched tight over muscles and tendons. He likes to pretend the gods speak through him and uses it to rule his people with an iron fist. He’s also got thirteen wives at last count and dozens of children.
It was his order that commanded his people to provide the drugs that sent our household to sleep, killing dozens in the fire.
And finally the person I’ve both dreaded and craved seeing. I stand there and stare up at the man who was once my friend. Eli Walsh. He’s filled out since I saw him last, a white guy with long-ish blond hair swept to the side and black frame glasses. He always was too pretty, and now he looks fucking flawless. Someone who didn’t know better would assume he’s as useless as he’s pretty, and he likes to play up those perceptions. In truth, he’s nearly as deadly as I am.
His father slit my father’s throat and would have killed every single one of my brothers if I didn’t take them and run for our lives.
All while Eli stood by and did nothing.
The Herald raises her hands. “The rewards are fair. Send your warriors.”
I turn to my brothers. Six faces that I know as well as my own, and none of them look happy. They’ve locked their shit down and they trust me to take care of this. I pull my shirt over my head and toss it to Broderick. “Wait on the stairs.”
He shakes his head, a small smile pulling at his mouth. “Never could resist a chance to take off your shirt.”
“They want a show. I’m going to give it to them.”
“Uh huh.” He nudges Gabriel, our youngest brother, with his shoulder. “Let’s give him room to work.” He gives me a long look. “Don’t die.”
“Please. As if these assholes could kill me.” Technically, fights on Lammas can go to the death without repercussions, but that’s not on the agenda tonight. If I slaughter my way through seven of their best people, it will turn the city against me. We’re back and we’re here to stay, which means playing by the rules. Even if it’s only obeying the spirit of the feast, rather than the explicit rules.
The faction leaders spend ten minutes communicating and then seven people move out onto the sand. I study them the same way they’re studying me. Three women—all Amazons—and four men. Two from Eli’s people. Two Mystics. I only recognize two of them. This should be interesting.
The first steps forward. It’s one of Eli’s people, a Latino man built like a prize fighter. He’s light on his feet as he approaches me. I roll my shoulders and take a slow breathe.
Eight years of exile. Eight years of fighting and scraping and clawing for survival in a world that wants nothing more than to eliminate me and my brothers.
It ends tonight.
The Herald lifts her hand. “Begin.”
My opponent rushes me. He’s even faster than I expect and he moves like he knows what he’s doing. I hold perfectly still as he closes the distance between us. He takes that as my being unprepared and strikes with an upper cut that would take off my head if it landed.
I shift back just enough that he misses. He sank too much into that punch and it leaves him wide open. I hammer a brutal punch into his ribs. Something cracks beneath my fist and he stumbles. I don’t give him time to recover. I kick his knee, dislocating it, and then punch him in the face.
He hits the ground and doesn’t get up.
One of the Herald’s people comes over and crouches next to him. She presses two fingers to his neck. “He’s alive.”
The Herald nods. “Abel wins the first match. The prize?”
I glance at Gabriel. My youngest brother is pale and looks vaguely sick, but he steps forward and l
ifts his chin. “I claim Fallon of the Mystics as my Bride.”
A murmur goes through the crowd in a wave. I hold my breath as I wait to see what they’ll do. Ciar looks like he wants to kill us, but he finally waves a hand and a gorgeous redhead steps forward. She comes down the stairs quickly, moving with a grace that screams combat training. Her face shows nothing as she crosses to stand next to Gabriel.
One down, six to go.
The factions sent their best. I’m better. I defeat them one by one. I’m not showy, choosing to conserve energy instead of being entertaining. One by one, my brothers claim their Brides. Sons and daughters, siblings, loved ones of the people responsible for our father’s death, for our exile.
Until there’s only one left.
He’s a giant of a man, a huge white guy who has six inches on me and probably outweighs me by fifty pounds. I turn my head and spit blood—the last Amazon got in a couple good hits—and motion. “Let’s get this over with.”
The crowd doesn’t cheer, doesn’t speak, doesn’t seem to breathe. Guess I’m being entertaining, after all.
The giant lumbers toward me. Too slow. This is their final fighter? I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. This time, I don’t wait for him to reach me. I rush forward and hit my knees, driving my fist up into his balls with everything I have. He makes a high-pitched whistling sound and topples, curling in on himself like a dead bug.
I climb to my feet and look down. He’s too busy clutching his balls to tap out, but it’s clear he’s not getting up anytime soon.
The Herald raises her eyebrows. “Abel wins the final match. The prize?”
Here it is. The thing I’ve been waiting for. I turn and find Eli. He’s leaning forward, his elbows propped on his knees. His expression is smooth and free of worry, but that shit doesn’t fool me.
I give him a bloody grin. “I choose Harlow Byrne.”
Eli’s woman.
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Acknowledgments
Thank you to all the readers who have come on this journey with me. The Wicked Villains has been such a joy to write and your enthusiastic reception of it has inspired me in such a huge way. None of it would be possible without you. Thank you.
Biggest thanks to Jenny Nordbak and Sarah Hawley and the Wicked Wallflower Club Facebook group. Without all of you, this series never would have happened, and Hades wouldn’t have a BDSM club named the Underworld.
Thank you to Asa Maria Bradley, Piper J. Drake, Nisha Sharma, and Andie J. Christopher for listening to me ramble on about ideas and plot holes and cover goodness and “Do you think it’s too far if…” questions.
Last, but never least, thank you to Tim. This year has been…a lot, and you’ve been my rock through it all. Thank you for the support, for lending me some of your Self Assurance when I need it most, and for packing a couple hundred signed book packages. Love you, always and forever.
About the Author
Katee Robert is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of contemporary romance and romantic suspense. Entertainment Weekly calls her writing “unspeakably hot.” Her books have sold over a million copies. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband, children, a cat who thinks he’s a dog, and two Great Danes who think they’re lap dogs.
www.kateerobert.com