Unforgiven: A Soulkeepers Novel (The Soulkeepers Book 3)

by Lori Adams

“What thing?”

  “That overprotecting-me thing. I can handle myself.”

  Michael sees my defiant look, should he choose to argue with me. He stops to reconsider. “I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s still my first instinct. To protect you. But okay, here’s the deal with the fight circuit. You go. I go.”

  “So we’re making deals now?” I cross my arms and pretend I’m annoyed.

  “Yup.”

  “And what if I say you can’t go?”

  “That would be a deal breaker. See how that works?”

  “Hmm. I suppose you can go just this once,” I tease. “But only because you’re too sexy to leave behind.”

  Chapter 12

  Kampfzone: Battle Zone

  It wasn’t so hard to find, this underground fight circuit, even though it travels to different locations all over the world. Michael, by way of some mysterious friend he refused to name, was able to track it from Singapore to Tajikistan to Montreal to New Jersey. So that’s where we end up, in New Jersey. Several stories beneath an abandoned waterfront factory. Down charred stairwells and over piles of glass and debris, we come up to a rusty old door.

  Michael has explained things. The circuit is known as D on D: Disavowed vs. Demonic. Sort of a come-as-you-aren’t-anymore kind of gig where common rules between dark and light entities don’t apply. Basically, it allows natural enemies to go at each other, and let out their aggression to the best of their abilities, without fear of spiritual retribution. The idea is that no one but the contestants face any real danger. Fans can watch and wager without fear. In theory. There have been exceptions, when the occasional fight breaks out in the crowd. Old grudges and habits die hard. Like most of the contestants.

  The door is wedged in place at an angle and muffled noise seeps through the cracks. Unlike La Croix, no one is standing guard; you’re here because you want to be. If you’re an unsuspecting human who’s stumbled into the wrong shithole, you’re up for grabs. Literally.

  Michael has attended only one fight night in his life, about a year ago. He was tracking a soul who wasn’t supposed to be there. He’s since learned that every fight night is different and you never know what to expect.

  Michael pulls the door open to a blast of Nazareth singing “Hair of the Dog.” He purposely blocks my view and I wait, not so patiently, while he assesses things. When he finally holds the door and stands aside, I walk in and suffer a slight letdown. It’s a typical-looking bar: smoke-filled, long and narrow, with two counters along each side. There are numerous TVs mounted behind the bars, broadcasting various fights on mute. Each fight is live, but I don’t know where the feed is coming from. The place is packed; almost all the seats are taken. I recognize lesser demons in their black trench coats, mixed among others in street clothes with solid black eyes or strange demonic features similar to the creatures in La Croix. They are huddled in the center of the room and staring up at the screens. There are only a few scattered among them that I would categorize as “normal-looking.” Disavowed angels, maybe, but it’s hard to say; they seem to mix in fairly well.

  As I stand there, it becomes obvious that my Chelsea Light is gathering attention. Conversations stop, heads crane looking for the source. Any other place and they might descend on me like buzzards on roadkill. But this is a place for the disavowed. They have to assume that if I’m here, I must no longer have the power of my calling. I defected.

  Michael is quiet, taking it all in. Then he reaches over and grabs my hand. He already regrets bringing me here. He wants to back out, I know it. I squeeze his hand three times. He looks down at me with an earnest expression.

  “It’s okay,” I say over the music, forcing a reassuring tone into my voice. I’m scared, but not as much as I should be and this has me worried. “Let’s get a drink.” We should try to blend in, so I shoulder a path to the bar on the right. We take two stools near the end just as the crowd cheers at something on one of the screens. I can’t tell what I’m looking at. The camera pans a dense patch of faces in the stands. Something bad has happened and they’re euphoric over it.

  The lesser demon on the stool to my left ogles me and then sees Michael glaring. He quickly downs his drink and leaves. I take the lead and order two beers from the bartender. He eyes me warily over his bushy black mustache. I think he might ask for my ID, but he doesn’t and eventually goes to fetch our drinks. I have no idea if Michael even likes beer.

  “How are we doing?” I ask, like a nurse asking a patient who is doing all the suffering. I hope Michael will relax. He shrugs, looking around. Always assessing things. For the first time, I wonder if it’s safe for Michael to be here, as a Halo now. They probably aren’t too popular with the demon crowd. “Hopefully it won’t take long,” I say as our beers arrive. “How much?” I ask the bartender.

  “What’d’ya got?” he shoots back, resting his arm on the bar and leaning forward. He’s flirting and I’m taken aback. He’s twice my age. At least. Probably more.

  Michael has been inspecting the bottles of beer, making sure there’s nothing funky inside. “Here!” They pass his test so he throws several bills at the bartender, who is still perusing me at his leisure. The bartender ignores the payment. I take my chance with a dazzling smile.

  “Actually, I’m looking for a friend. I heard she might be here. High Alice? You know her?”

  His demeanor does a one-eighty, eyes narrow, sleazy mustache-smile drops. He glances down the bar to a man who’s been watching us. He’s planted in a row of heavy drinkers focused on the flat-screens. The man throws back his drink and then comes over. He’s big, like Wolfgang, and takes up the stool to my left. I feel Michael’s hand squeeze my knee. I keep a smile plastered on for the big guy while I pat Michael’s hand and then gently remove it.

  The guy has buzz-cut black hair and a five-o’clock scruff along his square jawline. He’s built like an action figure and about as friendly-looking as a dead-end sign.

  “Hi there,” I say without any compunction. He grunts and orders a drink by way of raising a finger. The bartender is already mid-pour with a bottle of Beefeater Gin.

  “She’s looking for High Alice,” the bartender tells him. Beefeater throws back his gin and gets a refill.

  “Yeah. I know her,” he says with a distinct British accent.

  “Cool!” I post a friendly smile and then give Michael a look to say, See there, this won’t be so difficult after all.

  Then Beefeater says, “But I fancy you at the moment, love.” Crap.

  I take a sip of beer, stalling for time. Michael’s beer is nearly empty. I haven’t even seen him take a drink.

  “Her next one’s on me,” Beefeater says to the bartender, then he snakes his arm across the back of my bar stool. His eyes are brown but when he blinks hard, they turn solid black. He grins like this is supposed to get me hot or something. Maybe that’s what he’s used to. Maybe he thinks I’m some demon groupie who likes to play possession games. Or just a silly human who mistakenly thinks we’re LARPing. His warm breath smells of chemicals and cigarette smoke when he speaks. “So, what’s your name?”

  My second heartbeat is raging against my rib cage. I’m feeling the need to cough just to clear my lungs. Instead, I grin at Beefeater. “What would you like it to be?”

  He finds me charming. Amusing. Not yet annoying like I’m going to be.

  “That your man?” He flicks his chin toward Michael, and I cock an eyebrow at the phrasing.

  “Why, yes. That is my man,” I say. “I take him everywhere I go.” I pat Michael’s knee while he yanks on my heart, causing me to lean toward him. Beefeater clamps his huge hand over mine on the bar, holding me in place. The tugging stops.

  “Tell him to get lost,” Beefeater orders. His black eyes dilate and he thinks he’s compelling me. If I were an ordinary human, I’d be in trouble at this point.

  “You tell him,” I toss back. He blinks in surprise, and then considers me with a curious frown. His eyes drop to my Chelsea Li
ght; he’s wondering what I am. What I’m doing here. Maybe he’s itching to find out. Maybe I’m wrong and he doesn’t care.

  Eventually, he looks down the bar at Michael. “Get lost. She’s looking for a dirty demon tonight.”

  Michael’s eyes tighten; he assesses the situation—the guy’s arm on my chair, his hand holding mine against the bar. Then he notices my dreadlocks beginning to pulsate and his eyes snap to mine. I don’t say a word but he gets it.

  A crooked smile creeps across his face. “If I were you, pal, I’d remove that hand,” he tells Beefeater in a relaxed, friendly tone.

  “Or what?” the man snarls. “You’ll remove it for me?”

  “Nope. She will.”

  Beefeater scoffs and shifts his attention back to me. “She will?” He growls seductively, like he’s into aggressive foreplay.

  “How about this,” I say, borrowing Bailey’s sex-kitten voice. “You tell me where to find High Alice, and I’ll let you keep all those thick little sausage fingers.” I lay my right hand on top of his.

  “Little? Trust me, love, there’s nothing little about me.”

  “High Alice?”

  “How ’bout you have a taste of the sausage first.” He withdraws his hand and brings his thumb toward my mouth. I lean back and intercept it with my right hand. We’re now palm to palm. I redirect my energy into my Chelsea Light and it ignites like a jet engine against his skin.

  “What the hell!” he shouts, twisting and jerking to get free. I hang on. His hand begins to smoke. Then I shove him backward off the bar stool. He crashes to the floor and flails wildly before scrambling up and stumbling into a group of lesser demons. They seem to know he’s not someone to mess with. They make room and leave him standing alone. I slip off the bar stool and walk over. Beefeater comes at me swinging. I turn sideways, capture his arm, and then whip my elbow across his five-o’clock scruff. He takes it like a baseball bat to the chin. His head snaps to the right but I keep going. Body punches to all vital organs. The heels of my palms, knees, elbows, and feet make direct hits. He’s gotten over the shock at my response but he can’t track my next strike. When he lunges at me, I easily flip him onto his stomach and wrench his arm around in its socket. He yells all kinds of obscenities through his broken jaw.

  We’ve disrupted the entire bar now. Everyone is watching, caught between the fights on the screens and the one in front of them. Beefeater is facedown and bleeding. Shouts from the patrons tell me to break off his arm. To beat him with it.

  I lean over him, keeping the arm at an unnatural angle. “Now that we’ve gotten all that foreplay out of the way, how ’bout you answer my question. Is High Alice here?”

  He curls his lip, still stubborn, but eventually nods.

  “Where?”

  He grunts out an answer that sounds like “In back.” I check with the bartender. He looks a little stunned but nods toward a door hidden in the back wall. I release Beefeater, letting his arm flop to the floor. Michael has been watching with nothing but a smile. I’m panting from the rush. I could keep going. I walk over and grasp his chin, kissing him hard on the mouth. His fingers slide into my hair, holding us together. We kiss long and deep and devour the sparks that use to control us. My high spiritual energy overtakes the effect of the sparks, turning them into a pleasant, sizzling sensation.

  We pull apart and stare in surprise. The change is undeniable—the sparks are strangely delicious and tantalizing—but this is hardly the time to discuss it.

  “Damn, babe,” Michael murmurs through a grin.

  I’d love to continue this but I’m on a mission. “Ready?” I ask, and he says, “Anytime.”

  We head toward the back, stepping over Beefeater, who’s crawling to his knees. Michael slams him back down with his foot and says, “I told you to remove that hand.”

  —

  The wood-paneled door hidden in the wall leads us down a narrow hallway. To the left and right are doors to the restrooms. A single lightbulb dangles above a cruddy red door at the end. A notice is marked over the door frame in block letters: kampfzone, which Michael reads as, “Battle zone.” From there we can hear the muffled drone of crowd noise. An occasional metal-on-metal clatter.

  Michael insists on entering first and pushes through the unlocked door. We’re holding hands, so I step inside just after he does. He is guarded, on alert. We are immediately swallowed by blaring voices. So much noise translates to a buzz in my head. I stand rooted in place, gazing around in astonishment. I expected something in the neighborhood of a local boxing ring, but this is some dystopian nightmare on steroids.

  Everything is metal gray with an oily shimmer like the grimy inner workings of a machine. It’s a circular configuration made up of spectators on risers along the perimeter. The center of the arena is hollow, with a gray concrete floor two stories deep. Hanging from metal cables attached to the ceiling are three round steel cages. They are of varying lengths, the two on the ends slightly lower than the center cage, but they all come to rest about eye level to the surrounding crowd. Each cage is huge, made up of widely spaced flat bars, and has a round steel floor. Each one holds two contestants who go at it, rocking and spinning the cages as they fight.

  I gaze around at the endless rows of faces. How will we ever find High Alice in here? Spotting Baron Semedi with his black-and-white face will be only slightly easier.

  Michael tugs me forward and we move along the metal walkway, heading toward the left. As we make our way around, we gain a full view of all three cages. We maneuver through mobs of “people” who are yelling and punching the air with their fists. In the aisles are the bookies, haggling and taking wads of cash or pouches stuffed with unnamed valuables. Rusty old numbers on the odds board hanging by chains at the far end are continually flipping and changing for each contestant.

  I can’t get over the beatings the guys in the cages are taking. In one cage, a fighter with black wings whips around the bars like a deranged bat. His high-pitched screeching makes the fans go wild; they whistle and mimic his sound as best they can. They want him to attack the second fighter, who is clawing his way up the bars. The second fighter waits for the first one to zip by—a spider in a web—and then lunges, snagging him out of the air. They drop like stones and roll across the cage floor. As they twist up to their feet, the first fighter arches his wings backward and then flaps hard, stirring up air. This propels him toward the second fighter, who catches him and hurls him against the bars. More screeching from the fans while the second fighter attacks with a dirty move—foot to the crotch—which stuns his opponent. Then, with lightning speed, he strikes the face, throat, and liver. He moves so quickly that the winged man can’t escape. Nearly incapacitated, the winged man stumbles sideways. The second man takes the other by the throat and shoves him against the bars. He crams the black wings through the cage, pinning him in place. Then he thrusts his hand into the man’s chest and rips out his heart, holding it up to the crowd with howling triumph.

  I look at Michael with an expression of, What in the hell was that? He says, “Siliat. A brutal technique very similar to what you just did in the bar. Minus the organ extraction.”

  “Yeah,” I mumble. “Minus that.”

  We move along as a distinct clacking noise rises above the din. Two fighters in the center cage seem to be equally matched in height, weight, and weapons. Both have short bamboo sticks and are beating the crap out of each other in rapid succession. So quick, I hardly see the sticks, only the result when one stumbles and falls. Michael says it is a lethal version of Eskrima. Brutal and deadly. I have to look away as one man beats the other senseless and then shoves his bamboo sticks into the eye sockets. The spectators seem especially pleased. I feel nauseated.

  We don’t stick around but continue forward. A slow chant rises from the fans in the next section. They’re keyed up about someone in the last cage. The noise rises higher and higher in a hypnotic tempo. I can’t make it out, so Michael leans toward my ear and yells ov
er the racket, “They are calling Brummbar! Grumbling bear! Look!” He points to the last cage where a healthy-looking Neanderthal is set to take on some shirtless guy with tattoos on his chest, cargo pants, and black boots. The guy is calm but alert, and I think he’ll soon be roadkill. Brummbar is stirring up the crowd, beating his huge chest and roaring through the steel bars.

  Michael tries to tug me away; he’s spotted someone he knows. I drag my heels, mesmerized. Just like everyone else, I want to see what happens.

  Brummbar, the four-hundred-pound German bear, faces the tattoo guy and they move around in a cautious circle. The cage is rocking side to side, so they have to be careful not to fall at the other’s feet. Brummbar has tree stumps for legs; he stomps, rattling the cage awkwardly. There are no weapons. Only bare hands. Brummbar makes a few false starts to draw out his challenger. Tattoo guy doesn’t take the bait. Then Brummbar rushes forward, his beefy arm cocked and ready. He takes a swing but tattoo guy ducks and lands a quick blow into the rib cage. Brummbar doesn’t flinch. He takes another swing. That’s when tattoo guy goes to work on him. Using his body as a weapon, the guy pummels every major organ, stunning his opponent. Then he hoists him over his shoulders, walks across the cage, and slams him down to the floor. The cage shudders and takes off spinning. The crowd rages around us. Tattoo guy straddles the infamous Grumbling Bear, wrapping his legs around his throat and throwing him around like a fish. Flailing and choking, Brummbar can’t recover. Tattoo guy raises his hand to the fans, who jeer out their decree. In a quick, efficient snap, Brummbar’s neck is broken.

  I exhale the deep breath I’ve been holding. I’m speechless. I want to know what technique that was. I pull Michael to me and shout out my guesses. “Was that Sambo? Muay Thai?”

  He scoffs and says, “U.S. Marine.”

  Ah.