Broken Angel

by S W Vaughn

  They traveled to Brooklyn in a limousine. Sol drove, and another of Slade’s fighters, Lucian, rode shotgun. Apollo had stayed behind to “take care of the girls,” and Lonzo would not be fighting this time. Two other participants for Ulysses would arrive separately.

  He sat facing the rear of the car, handcuff-free for the first time outside the walls of the hotel prison. Opposite him, Slade lounged beside an attractive blonde with a smile almost as big as the breasts she displayed in a low-cut snug top with no bra. Moxie flirted and bubbled the entire trip.

  Rose, the flame-haired lunch-bringer he remembered from his early training days, sat next to him. She remained more reserved than her chatty companion and seemed nervous to be so near him.

  He didn’t speak to anyone. His attention stayed riveted to the window, and he watched the city rush past.

  They pulled into a sparsely occupied parking garage and circled up the ramps. Graffiti covered many of the scarred walls and chipped pillars, ranging from single-color scrawls to full murals. One pillar bore a crude five-colored star, along with a message in Spanish: Somoslascalles. Though he couldn’t begin to translate, the words chilled him.

  Eventually, the car emerged on the roof. The limo stopped and the engine cut off. Sol opened the door nearest Slade, and the occupants filed out.

  The car rested close to the edge of the building. Only a double-barred railing separated them from a long drop to the pavement. He let his gaze wander and took in the surroundings while he filled his lungs with night air.

  They were in a warehouse district, abandoned years ago from the looks of it. Enormous boxlike buildings in various stages of disrepair surrounded the garage on three sides. Only a few of the structures showed signs of activity, with an occasional light in a window or a distant whirr of something mechanical. Nests of cracks erupting from volcanic potholes appeared at almost regular intervals along the strip of road below.

  He almost jumped over the damned rails.

  The impulse for self-destruction faded reluctantly. He followed the group to an ancient elevator cage near the center of the garage. Its metal grate door stood half-open, frozen like the Tin Man in the rain. With a grunt, Sol pushed the frame aside. A metallic groan rose from the depths of the shaft and the flat rose to meet them. They boarded and started down.

  The rusted cable failed to give way on descent, and they reached the ground unscathed. Slade led them out of the garage into narrow, deserted streets, unevenly lit with harsh orange glare from the handful of arc-sodium lights that still worked. The place seemed desolate and empty, as though their party represented the first human presence here in decades.

  The group walked through a complicated maze of passageways, occasionally leaving the narrow streets to cut through the shells of buildings long deserted. Soon, other souls materialized around them—alone, in pairs or groups, all headed in the same general direction. They arrived at one of the buildings with lights, passed through a room that might have once been a prep area for deliveries, and entered pandemonium.

  Hundreds swarmed the cavernous arena, filling the air with a cicada buzz of sound. Here, the ring was roped, not caged. He caught glimpses of the dull gray mat through the shifting crowd. The scarred surface bore concentric stains, layer upon layer of splotched sweat and blood ground in by feet and rolling bodies. Tonight he would add his own stains to the collection. Thoughts of the impending fight triggered an avalanche of nerves.

  What if he forgot something? What if he didn’t draw the fight out long enough to make Slade happy?

  What if he lost?

  Slade indicated a cordoned-off area along the far wall furnished with benches. “You’ll wait there when the matches begin. You’re up third and I expect you to stick around until the last fight is over. You’ll never find your way back to the car without me, so don’t try.”

  He nodded. He would avoid asking questions.

  “You have your freedom for the moment, Mr. Morgan. Just remember—if you try to escape, I will find you. I did it once, and I can do it again.” His gaze bored into his skull, and a sly grin crossed his lips. “And your sister will suffer the entire time it takes to relocate you. At my hands...or Jenner’s.”

  His body trembled with rage, but he held his ground until Slade took his leave. His captor blended into the masses, and he whirled and plunged away from the madness, toward the open door and the outside.

  He had no choice but to go back. For now, though, these precious minutes spent in the open air—free, with no one lurking around the corner waiting for him to make a mistake—were golden in their perfection.

  From his pocket he pulled a worn, half-empty pack of cigarettes and a plastic lighter, gifts from Doc. He stuck one in his mouth and lit it, deriving artificial pleasure in leaning against a streetlamp pole, inhaling the bittersweet burn. Doing nothing, being no one. He tipped his head back and released a slow plume of swirling smoke into the night-slicing streams of light above.

  The sounds of the night washed over him, the ever-present rumble of New York traffic in the distance, the intermittent blasts of taxi horns, the occasional insectile stutter of flickering lights. The heartbeat of the city that never sleeps pulsed through its streets, unseen blood through concrete veins.

  Over it all, a troubled scream sounded somewhere close.

  He took off in the general direction of the sound, turned a corner. It came again. Harsh laughter joined the cries. There, the alley; down it and out into a fenced parking lot, deserted save for four people who were engaged in a grave disagreement.

  It was three against one, and he didn’t like the odds. Especially since the “one” was a woman. Two of the others were also female. Pretty ornaments, obviously hookers, flanked a tough-looking man clad in denim and metal.

  The lone woman wore a conglomeration of tatters—a worn tee shirt with cutoff sleeves, battered calf-length vinyl boots, a skirt so short it screamed desperation. Her thin frame flirted with emaciation, and the collection of bangles and earrings she sported seemed to weigh her down. He drew closer. Her collarbones showed through the threadbare material covering them. He quickened his pace.

  “You don’t own the street!” she half-shouted to the other three. “So unless you’re cops, piss off. I’ll work where I want.” The weak bravado in her voice barely covered her terror. Her burning eyes flicked to him. While she was distracted, one of the other girls reached out and shoved her. She tumbled to the sidewalk and landed on her ass with a jingle of cheap jewelry.

  “Hey!” He ran the last few feet between them. “What the hell is your problem?”

  “She’s on our turf.” The shover looked him up and down, and licked her lips. “Wanna join us, handsome? We’re short a man.”

  He glared at her, then turned and offered a hand to the woman on the ground. She flashed him a look of wary distrust and extended an arm hesitantly. She maneuvered herself to her feet, using him for leverage, and he was aghast to discover she weighed next to nothing.

  “Don’t help that dried-up little skank.” The command came from the brute behind him. He whirled, keeping the waif-woman beyond their reach.

  “Try and stop me.” Before he could call them back, the words were out of his mouth.

  Incredibly, the brute grinned. The two ladies with him stepped back, as though his smile were a starting pistol. A fist lined with silver rings flew toward his face. He ducked aside, and it failed to connect.

  The next blow caught him in the sternum, knocking the breath from him. He recovered quickly and dodged a flashing foot, then let his fist fly.

  His knuckles caught the other man high on the cheekbone. His opponent’s head pivoted to the side. Surprise filled the brute’s eyes. He stepped back and looked at him standing, poised to strike again, and gave him a contemptuous sneer.

  “You ain’t worth my time,” he drawled. “Do what you want with that piece of street filth. I got a real fight to get to.” He turned and rejoined the pair of prostitutes, who laughed derisiv
ely, and the three of them melted into the gloom.

  Barely hearing him, he turned to address the woman, but she was already halfway across the lot and walking briskly in the opposite direction. He went after her with long strides and reached her just before she turned the corner.

  She seemed to sense his approach, because she stopped in mid-step and mumbled, “Thanks,” without turning around.

  “You’re welcome. Look, can I...” He stopped himself. He’d almost offered to help her. What could he do? He couldn’t even help himself.

  She stiffened, and finally turned to meet his eyes. “See something you like?” The line emerged practiced, stilted. Her body language played out coy and wanton, but her eyes told a different story. Somewhere out there, her pimp was waiting for his cut.

  He shook his head miserably, and she sagged in defeat. The crumpled look on her face wrenched at him. He reached for her, brushed her bare arm—and she jerked away from his touch.

  “Hey! Hands off the merchandise.”

  “Sorry.” He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I only wanted to...”

  “Wanted to what? Grab a cheap feel? No dice, mister. I don’t do freebies, not even for knights in shining armor. It’s pay to play, all the way.”

  He recoiled. The fragility he’d seen in her had disappeared. Maybe it had never been there in the first place. His gaze fell to her arm, where he’d touched her. Slight smudges marred the skin of her upper arm, and he thought he’d smeared dirt there. They were bruises, fading and finger-shaped. He shuddered and averted his eyes.

  “Do you want something or not?” Her foot tapped a weary staccato on the pavement. When he didn’t say anything further, she blew a short breath. “Listen. You seem like a nice guy. I don’t know what you’re doing out here, but it’s kinda obvious you don’t belong. You’re lucky that guy didn’t waste you, you know.”

  “Yeah. Lucky me.”

  She laughed a little. “I’m just sayin’ to watch yourself. Around here, heroes end up napping on a slab, know what I mean?” Her expression softened, and she became vulnerable again. She closed the distance between them. “By the way, this one’s free.”

  She kissed him. He tasted smoke and velvet, heat and sin. “Thanks, cowboy,” she whispered against him. “See you around sometime.” She whirled and strode away, her heels clicking furiously on the pavement.

  He stood motionless, and a strange silence settled over him. The distant background sounds of people arriving for the fight had ceased. He had to get back inside. If Slade realized he wasn’t there... Lillith was only a phone call away. He sprinted for the building, passed through the deserted front room, and forced his way through the crowds to Slade, who sat at a ringside table.

  Slade frowned at him. “Cutting it a little close, aren’t we, Angel?”

  “Sorry,” he muttered, and held his breath.

  The dreaded phone didn’t materialize. “Go,” Slade told him curtly. “Remember your instructions.”

  He nodded in silent relief and headed for the benches Slade had shown him earlier. Many of the fighters had already congregated there. No Eddie, or Lonzo, but there were a few he recognized from the previous fight. Only one bench remained empty, the furthest from him. He headed there. Two regrettably familiar figures reclined in the back.

  The brute from the parking lot—and Nails.

  Chapter 15

  The brute saw him first. “You!” He stood and pointed a finger at him. “What the hell are you doing here, runt?”

  “Fighting.” A darkening bruise had surfaced where he’d hit the man. It was a start.

  “Who are you with?”

  “He’s with Slade.” Nails rose and flashed a wicked smile. “Angel, huh? Interesting choice. Gabriel.”

  “He’s the new hotshot kid from U?” The brute grunted. “I’m going to enjoy tearing you apart.”

  Nails laughed. “Shouldn’t be too hard. Kid can’t even hold onto his wallet. Too bad, Duke, looks like you’re stuck with another sleeper. Make him last for a while, wouldja? It’s boring as hell watching you drop a guy in sixty seconds.”

  “Shit. I could take ’im in thirty. How ’bout a friendly wager, little man? How long you think you’re gonna last against me? I’ll give you a whole minute and a half, even.”

  He said nothing, and though his gut churned with rage and an undercurrent of fear, he maintained a calm expression. He hoped the bastard’s words would prove harsher than his fists—but he doubted it.

  “Leave off, Duke. He ain’t got money. You just make him sorry he ever set foot on our streets.” Nails lost all trace of amusement. “That’s an order.”

  “You got it, lieutenant.” Duke grinned and dropped back on the bench. “See you in the ring, fish.”

  He walked past them and settled on the empty bench. Duke would likely prove a tougher opponent than Eddie had been...and he’d barely beaten Eddie. This did not bode well.

  The lights dimmed. Spotlights flooded the ring and illuminated a new face. A shapely blonde stood in the center, clad in scant midnight blue, presumably to represent the hosting House Prometheus.

  She raised her arms. Light danced on the steel shaft of a microphone in her hand, and the crowd loosed a roar of approval. After the noise subsided, she gave much the same welcome as the announcer at the last event had, and introduced the first two fighters: Magnus of Dionysus and Lucian of Ulysses. The men walked down a cordoned aisle to the ring and entered. The bell rang, and they went at it.

  He tried to let the chaos around him phase into the background, and managed a dull mental distance. Not enough to relax, but sufficient to slow his galloping heart to a quick trot.

  Someone nudged him. He snapped back to reality and looked to his side. Another fighter had taken a seat next to him, a young Asian man with dyed bright blond hair pulled back in a tight knot. The fighter wore loose, blood red pants and a matching sleeveless shirt, placing him with Pandora. He grinned and extended a hand with black painted fingernails.

  “Hello. You are Angel. I am Akuma—it means Devil.” A clipped accent edged his voice, though he seemed fluent enough in English.

  He took the hand, then glanced toward the ring. The first match had ended, and the second was already underway. He hadn’t seen who won—and it didn’t matter to him. Nothing mattered now except winning the fight against Duke.

  “Hi,” he said at last to Akuma. “Fascinating... Angel meets Devil.”

  “Yes. I have wondered when we might be paired together. Our battle will be epic. Its repercussions will echo through eternity.” He smiled again. He’d meant the strange statement as a joke.

  “Your housemate lost,” Akuma told him. “But he fought bravely.”

  He smirked. Doc would have a fit.

  A new fight unfurled in the ring—it looked like one fighter from Pandora and one from Prometheus. At the moment, the match had no clear leader.

  “Prometheus fights without honor,” Akuma said.

  He couldn’t hold back a sarcastic snort. The other man gave him a strange look, so he tried to explain. “Honor? There’s no honor here. We aren’t fighting for respect or principles, just for money. Dirty money.”

  Akuma slowly shook his head. “No. You are an honorable man. And so am I. It is true that we lack a strong moral reasoning for these battles, but we fight for glory, for respect. This...” He gestured, indicating the whole room. “...is an affirmation of life.” His smile broadened. “The money is a nice bonus, though.”

  The words should have been wrong, empty. A hollow comfort. But somehow they rang true. At the notion these fights weren’t all bad, familiar horror and self-loathing welled up and he forced the thought away. He would not become one of these animals.

  One man went down in the ring—the fighter clad in red. Pandora’s representative. The announcer swept an arm at the one who remained standing and declared him the winner. The crowd launched its mingled hoots and cheers.

  They spaced the matches fifteen m
inutes apart. In a short time, he’d face the brute from the parking lot, a man who thought he had a reason to hate him. Hate, he had discovered, could serve as powerful motivation.

  Maybe revenge would prove stronger.

  Akuma took his leave and promised they would meet again. He nodded absently at the retreating fighter and tried to focus on the impending match.

  The announcer’s ebullient, magnified voice cut through his reverie. Time to go. He tugged his shirt off and waited for his cue.

  “Competing in our third match of the evening, please welcome Duke of Prometheus!”

  The brute swaggered down the aisle to the roar of the crowd. He stood, rigid with anticipation, and the announcer continued. “And appearing in his first away match, from House Ulysses...Angel!”

  The corresponding increase in the crowd’s volume intoxicated him. A forbidden thrill coursed through him and electrified his body. Akuma’s words echoed: “You are an honorable man...this is an affirmation of life.”

  He followed his opponent’s path between the roped barriers and ignored the words. Only Lillith’s life mattered. No need to affirm his.

  Entering the ring, the shapes and the sounds of the audience converged into a formless, shifting void of muted color and dull buzzing. Images flashed before him, mental snapshots with single subjects in sharp focus. Akuma assisting his fallen comrade at a corner table. Slade staring at him with fierce intensity.

  Duke. Undulating tower of hatred, with the malevolent expression of a schoolboy about to tear the wings off a captured fly. Or a cornered Angel.

  The bell and Duke exploded in the same instant. He found himself flat on his back. Knees ground into his shoulders. A volley of blows rained on his face. Hot blood erupted from his nose and filled his mouth. The fists moved down, pummeled his ribs, his stomach.

  Disoriented, he bucked and twisted beneath his opponent’s weight. The pressure on his right shoulder eased. He reached up, grabbed a handful of something, and pulled. Duke collapsed on his head. Ignoring the flare of pain, he squirmed away and rolled to the side, managed to gain his footing and Duke barreled at him.