Dragon Rising: The Untold Story of Asher Grey (Eden's Root Trilogy Book 4)

by Rachel Fisher

  “Hey,” he murmured, pushing his fingertips into her view of the floor. “Look at me.” She looked up, her eyes swimming with tears. “This is NOT your fault.”

  A tear broke its bounds and raced down her cheek. She brushed it away angrily. “It’s not yours either.”

  He forced a smile. “Then I guess we’re even.”

  “Yeah, like I’m a help to you.”

  “You know what? I think you can be. Seriously.” He patted the floor beside him. “I haven’t been able to meditate since… …Well, anyway. I always meditated before fights and now I just can’t.”

  “How can I help?” She scooted closer, her eyes sparkling with the first real light he’d seen since they met.

  “Will you let me teach you? To meditate, I mean? My father always said that we’re at our best when we teach others.” Cassie’s face pinched at the mention of his father, but she nodded and Asher ignored it, pushing it aside. “Ok. Close your eyes.”

  She closed her eyes and then giggled, nervous. It was comforting. Over the years Asher had taught many such wriggling bodies to meditate at his father’s dojo. “Now,” he said, closing his own eyes, “the important thing is to focus only on your breath. Keep it slow and smooth and let everything else fade away.” A wave of relief flooded him, the flow of instruction softening his worried edges.

  She listened and together they breathed. Her breath followed his, deep and smooth.

  In.

  The room faded, dissolving into his center.

  Out.

  The day faded, the light filling him.

  In.

  The world scattered.

  Out.

  There was only breath.

  In.

  And communion.

  He was not the last human on Earth…

  Something Worth Fighting For

  “I bet you’re gonna win easy, Asher.” Cassie’s adrenalin poured from her mouth in a gush of excited prattle.

  “Hush,” Ginny chided, her eyes swiveling.

  Asher felt her discomfort. It was strange to make his way openly in the daylight, but Lifers didn’t hide. At least, the champions didn’t. It was strange, when he was a champion in high school, beating men twice his age and swatting away boys his own like so many flies, he’d felt the surge of his ego. After fights younger fans would crowd him, asking for autographs, wanting to touch his sword. It had made him think he was really something, though his father never approved of his signing autographs. Stupid, he thought, gritting his teeth at the memory as he and the ladies turned the corner. As usual, Dad was right.

  Now he knew exactly what he was fighting for as his footsteps were finally, after all this time, echoed by the footsteps of others. Where he’d expected having lives in his hands to make him more anxious, it grounded him instead. There was no room for error, no second-guessing. When he finally had his first fight, he HAD to win. Maybe it was easier this way.

  They turned into a side alley and stopped. A rusty metal door was all that stood between them and their goal. Asher’s shoulders were already twitching. He could hear the shouts from inside the warehouse every time the door opened to a tumble of “fans” either on their way in or out. As they stepped up, a man emerged and blocked their path.

  “Hey, asshole. Fighter or Fan?” His glistening scalp drew up in derision before his eyes settled on Cassie. “That’s a pretty trick you got with you.”

  Every molecule in Asher’s body screamed for him to treat this man the same way he’d treated the man in black. The surge throbbed in his veins, making him lightheaded. He took a deep breath. The designated door thug might be the lowest level of shit, he thought, but he wasn’t the foe. Starvation is the foe. He lowered his head. “Fighter.”

  The man sniggered, his eyes never leaving Cassie’s rounded shoulders. “Lemme guess. First time?”

  “Yeah, but he’s going to kick ass!” Cassie blurted before Ginny could shush her.

  Asher flushed and bit the inside of his cheek. She was trying to encourage him, he knew. It was just poor timing.

  Bald, low-end door guy’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, of course he is!” he sang, opening the door. “Remind me to put money on him.” His laughter faded as they stepped into the darkness and the door closed behind them.

  Asher half-expected Ginny to turn and say, “This is it.” Some cliché movie shit. But the reality was quieter. There was no need to explain. He’d seen enough Lifer fights from rafters or rooftops to know what was coming. Gangs seethed around the makeshift ring at the center of the warehouse, the colors swelling in waves with their roars, bets flying faster than blows ever would. The setting sun shone through the western windows, painting the scene in red. The sheath at his back was comforting, but his pulse raced at the thought of removing it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone hand-to-hand. He scanned the crowd. Lifers stood out like beacons in the darkness, bare chests heaving, spattered with constellations of blood.

  He was surprised to see the glow of electric lights dripping from the rafters. They swung in the breeze swirling through the shattered windows, clicking reality in and out. Before he had a chance to wonder how they’d managed to have electricity, he was distracted by a shout.

  “Next uuuuuuuuuuuup!” An African-American teenager climbed into the ring, his reedy voice rising above the din. “Who will be our next challenger?”

  Like everyone else these days, the boy was thin as a twig, but his green eyes darted around the room, the spark of intelligence drawing Asher forward. A tall man stood at the child’s refrain, his frame unfolding in steps like a nightmarish version of the children’s song…head…shoulders…knees…toes... By the time he’d unfurled, he had to be 6’4”. Ginny cursed, the ugly word rattling uncertainly from lips more used to sugar.

  It stirred Asher like a wash of ice water. He eyed the towering champion. And to think, he’d thought the door guard was big. He clenched and unclenched his fists At least starvation had robbed him of his bulk. He looked closer, seeking weak points in his opponent’s torso. It was long, exposing tender organs. And the shoulders…too wide. He can’t adjust quickly if he’s off-balance. Rolling his neck, Asher settled into his role as David. “I will.”

  He stepped forward, nearly toppled by the crescendo of jeers and whistles that accompanied the slap of his proverbial “glove” on the filthy floor. He straightened, pretending the steel at his spine was his spine. Raising an eyebrow, he scoffed at the leering giant. “I just hope you don’t hold it against me when I kick your ass.”

  He flinched as the blast hit him like a furnace. The giant’s roar, his gang’s outrage, Cassie’s cheers... It melted over him like radioactivity and he slipped his strap over his shoulder, handing the sword to Ginny without further thought. His eyes never left the towering man he now considered his 2nd victim-to-be.

  The giant slapped his chest and Asher stepped forward in silence; calm, resolute. This was starting to feel familiar: the crowd, the whoops, the gut of his opponent becoming a magnetic pull to his fury. Beneath the swinging bulbs and the deafening roar of survivors who cared nothing for their own lives, his rage found light.

  This man, he thought, staring at the blood-smeared monster riling up the crowd. …This man was everything that was wrong with humanity. The green-eyed sprite’s voice rose, declaring, “The rules of the fight,” but Asher barely heard him over his own seething thoughts. This man will hurt Cassie and Ginny….

  When the “bell” of the wrench clanged against a rail, Asher stood, unblinking, while the giant shoved their announcer aside. Asher imagined him lurching toward Cassie and felt the flow of courage that had given Ginny strength. The rule of protection, he thought, hearing his father’s voice as he sank into his fighting stance, his weight shifting onto his toes, his thighs tensed. Heat surged from his heart to his fingertips. In tournaments this feeling had been his fuel, the kerosene to his attack. But when he’d broken an opponent’s arm in two places, he’d retreated, burned by the fire of his
own aggression. His father had tried to draw him out, to explain the balance, but he’d just pushed him away. A few parties and skipped tournaments later and they were officially on the “outs,” and though they’d made up since, it had never been the same.

  Asher startled as a massive fist whistled past his cheek, his dodge an instinctive response to the shadows. Shit! Pay attention or you’re dead! He whirled away, his eyes locking onto his opponent as they circled one another. The fans pressing at the metal barricades erected to form the “ring” reached in and slapped his opponent on the shoulder. The giant whirled for a moment, pushing them back and Asher saw his eyes crinkle as he turned back. Favoring your left knee, are you? He bit his tongue to keep from smiling. This was almost too easy.

  Spurred on by the crowd, the giant struck again, attempting a lagging right hook. Asher blocked it and slid forward, slamming his palm into the giant’s chin from beneath and sweeping his left leg. Before his opponent had a chance to do more than howl, Asher’s heel was poised above his skull for the kill.

  “Give!” Asher shouted, triumphant. The crowd went bananas, gang members shoving and screaming as he stood, barely having broken a sweat, over the fallen. From the corner of his eye he could see Cassie jumping up and down. Heartened, he bit back a laugh. But as his gaze fell back to Goliath panting beneath him, his heart hardened. He would NOT give up the food he’d just won for his charges. This man would GIVE. It didn’t matter that saying, “Give” might be a death sentence. That wasn’t Asher’s concern. Ginny and Cassie were his only concern. He pressed his foot to Goliath’s forehead, smashing his cheek into the ground. “I said, ‘Give.’”

  The man slammed his foot away. “Fine, I give! Get the hell off me.” He rolled to his feet beneath a crushing wave of boos and jumped the barricades, running for the door followed by a coterie of determined debt collectors.

  A small body slammed into Asher. “You did it! You did it! I knew you could! It was soooooo easy for you!”

  Cassie’s ebullience re-ignited the spark in his chest and he burst out laughing, returning her embrace and pulling in a protesting Ginny. “We’ve got food, darlin’s” he joked, mimicking her twang and planting a fat kiss on her cheek, despite her protests.

  “That was quite the display,” she said, torn between laughter and tears. “Did you manage to work up at least one bead of sweat?”

  Before he had a chance to answer, the crowd closed around them and they were surrounded by a ghoulish post-apocalyptic band of “fans.” They cavorted and screamed; most agonizing over bets lost, though a few reveled in having picked the underdog. All tugged at his clothes and he pushed the ladies behind him to protect them.

  An air-horn blew and the crowd fell silent, all eyes shifting to the teen standing atop the milk crate in the center of the ring. “We have a new Champion in our sector.” The boy raised Asher’s hand in the air. “And our Champion is…”

  Asher’s mind froze. He hadn’t thought of a nickname. He hadn’t thought past the fight. His mind flooded with useless superhero trivia and school mascots: Tigers and Spartans and Eagles all marching as if on parade. And just as he was about to pick something at random, his mind cleared and he swallowed a laugh. It was so obvious. There could be no other name but his own. He straightened. “They call me Dragon.”

  The Time is Now

  “I don’t like it,” Ginny said, scanning the crowd. “I thought we agreed to avoid Lifers with gang affiliations.”

  Asher grimaced. Like that was possible. It didn’t matter whether the Lifer was a banger, or his backers were, it was all the same to the clam as far as he was concerned. “Food’s food,” he replied. “You gonna cheer me on, darlin’?” he asked, turning to Cassie.

  The cinnamon eyes filled, as usual. “Of course, Ash. But…be careful this time!”

  Her eyes darted, though he knew she wished they wouldn’t, to the corners of the room, where new players hovered. The one that kept niggling into Asher’s consciousness was the guy with the giant facial scar and tattoos. He had been at all of Asher’s fights in the past month. Even at rest his face was disconcerting, to say the least. When he smiled… …Asher dropped his eyes. Those thoughts weren’t helpful.

  He tried to quiet his stomach, but he had to admit, this fight was different. He’d won enough times to be invited to “the big time” as the Lifers called it. The “arena” in Times Square was surrounded by the only remnants of the former City, the solar billboards, still clicking through an assortment of ridiculous ads: models with perfect pouts and brands that had gone to brand heaven.

  It was hard not to laugh, he thought, turning to take in his surroundings. There had to be at least a hundred people at this fight, more than he’d seen in months and months… and yet it was drop in the old NYC bucket.

  “Don’t look at them if they freak you out, Ash,” the boy with the green eyes said as he approached. “They’re just for light, not for memories.”

  “Thanks, Eliot.” He took a deep breath. The best thing about the Lifer fights, besides the food supply, had been meeting this 14-year-old prodigy who seemed to know how to tap every source of solar power left in the City. He was the reason bulbs swung overhead at Asher’s first fight, and he was the reason Babaloo Jeans ads still lit Times Square with enough brightness to allow for Championship Lifer fights. It was too bad the kid’s father was a Lobo.

  Like Scarface, he thought, willing his eyes not to find the man in the corner. The red shirt declared his affiliation: Lobo. It was Eliot who’d given him the quick 411 when he’d asked. The ones in red over there? Lobos. The ones in white? Deacons. The pawprint scars/tats/shirts? UBD.

  The last question he’d asked was how Eliot knew so much.

  “You mean, ‘What’s a nice kid like me doing in a place like this?’” he’d snorted, before jerking his head toward the men lolling from the catwalk above in that day’s warehouse locale. “See the dude with the legs?”

  Asher hadn’t had to look to know whom Eliot meant. One of the Lobos who seemed permanently glued to Scarface’s side had two prosthetic legs. Asher assumed he was a veteran of the North African war – the last to involve actual American soldiers. At the time both prosthetics had been dangling over the ring. They were spray-painted red, the same as his shirt.

  “That’s my Dad.”

  Asher hadn’t said a word. There was nothing to say. Eliot’s father was a Lobo. Period. And his own father? Who knew. All he knew was that you didn’t abandon family if you still had them. Not in this world. So the little genius was the pup of a pit bull. Maybe that was the kid’s best chance.

  “Hey, man.”

  Asher startled. Lost in his reverie, he hadn’t noticed how close Eliot had drawn in the pre-fight chaos. The kid’s tone was ice and Asher’s stomach tightened. “What’s up?”

  “Watch it tonight, ok? You’re getting famous.”

  What?

  Before he could speak, the boy scuttled away and grabbed the mike he’d salvaged from who knows where for the big occasion. Asher stared at him, but Eliot wouldn’t meet his gaze. A pall settled over Asher’s shoulders like a boxer’s cloak, his eyes tiptoeing toward the scarred man hovering in the shadows. He shuddered and then squeezed his eyes shut until they watered. What did it matter if he was famous? He would die at some point.

  “Allllllllright!” Eliot’s high voice rang over the square. “It’s time to meet our Chaaaampiooooons. I call to the ring…the blonde bomber, the man of la puncha, the only man to take down six opponents in less than a minute….it’s the Draaaaaaaagggggoooooooon!”

  The crowd went ballistic but Asher stood dead still. Only he felt the hammering of his heart in his chest.

  “Aaaaaaaannnnnndddd in the opposite corner, it’s the man, the myth, the legend…I call the Haaaaammmmmer!”

  A man stepped forward. If one could really call him that, Asher thought, his teeth grinding. The Hammer was covered in homegrown tats from scalp to fingertips. Given that tats no longer existed, Asher
assumed that the guy had done a little time back in the day. Not that the “AB” with a giant swastika in the center of his chest left much to supposition.

  Fortunately, these prison guys were all big on “curls for the girls” and not much else, he thought. They’d only learned to fight in groups, most of them. They weren’t used to a fight that took skill…that required mastering one’s energy, measuring one’s steps, and most importantly, never letting your emotions make decisions. Yeah, keep telling yourself that, but he’s still a Champion Lifer…somehow.

  “Ready to fight, faggot?” The guy smacked his meaty hands together.

  The crowd howled and Asher felt the first smile of the day cross his face. At least he’d enjoy beating this sick piece of garbage. It was one of the only perks to being a Lifer. “You must have been inside a long time to think that still counts as an insult,” he replied, circling.

  There was a roar from the opponent’s camp and Asher’s eyes darted to Ginny and Cassie again. They were tucked into the small alcove that used to be the entryway to a massive sports bar, just as he’d asked. With steel plates at their back and his sword, he thought, or hoped, that they could defend the tiny space, no matter what happened.

  Asher’s opponent was not so appreciative of his humor. He bellowed, leaping forward before the “bell” was even struck. Perhaps it was the Hammer’s signature move, but he chose not to throw a punch and instead grabbed Asher’s throat with both hands. Sunk into his stance, Asher was relieved rather than startled. This was beginner’s stuff.

  He rose, ripping upward with his arms and breaking the grip on his neck, before sinking again and pushing his opponent backward, almost toppling him. The seething crowd shouted and his opponent snarled, spitting at his feet. Asher eyed the Hammer carefully. Generally, people without fighting experience thought that the most important part of a fight was the size or strength of one’s opponent. But in truth the most important part of a fight was the information. If you could size someone up and find weaknesses, tendencies, assumptions – you could manipulate those.