Broken Angel

by S W Vaughn

  In the meantime, he stood silent and waiting for his first match of the tournament, scheduled to occur in about twenty minutes. He had drawn Juno of Pandora as his opponent, and he looked forward to an even, honest fight. He hoped.

  He waited alone. Shiro would soon be fighting Eddie from Dionysus in the adjacent arena. He had yet to catch a glimpse of Lillith. If she’d been on the boat, he hadn’t seen her there. Maybe she’d come another way. Or maybe Slade had decided to keep him from seeing her, except through his terms. That wouldn’t surprise him. Still, he missed her, and longed to know how she was doing.

  The soft tone of a bell signified five minutes until the next match. Sighing off his melancholy, he worked his way toward the platform and tugged his shirt off as he walked. He pulled it over his head, stopped short and almost fell on top of someone who had halted in his path.

  “Hey, watch where you’re—Lillith!”

  “Gabriel. I’m so glad I found you.” Lillith threw her arms around his waist, and he returned the embrace. He held her gently back and looked down at her, smiling.

  Damn. If only the fight wasn’t about to start, he could have more time with her. “Are you okay?”

  “I am now.” She dropped her arms and eyed him up and down. “You look good, Gabriel, really good.”

  He released a short, bitter laugh. “Yes, I’m in great shape. And it’s all thanks to Marcus Slade’s miracle train-or-die program. Works wonders on the physique.”

  Her face fell. “Oh, Gabe. I’m so sorry...”

  “No. Lilly, don’t cry. It’s okay.” Instantly contrite, he drew her to him. “I’m sorry. It was a joke. A bad joke.”

  She sniffled and gave him a watery smile.

  “That’s better.” With one finger he traced her delicate jaw line, lifted her chin up until her eyes met his. “I’ll be fine.” He pronounced each word deliberately, reassuring her. She nodded, and he hugged her briefly. “I have to go. Wait for me?”

  “Okay.”

  With a final fond look at his sister, he proceeded to the foot of the stairs leading to the platform. His opponent appeared on the opposite side. They mounted the steps together and stepped into a blur of light and applause. Juno bent at the waist in greeting, and he reciprocated. He sent a quick glance toward the space Lillith had just occupied, but couldn’t make out anything in the wings outside the brilliance of the spotlights.

  He forced himself to focus on his opponent, who had dropped into a ready stance and waited for the starting bell to sound. It did seconds later, catching him unprepared. Juno’s opening rush carried him to the edge of the platform and nearly pushed him over.

  He threw himself onto the mat. He avoided immediate loss, but the move allowed Juno to land the first strike, a foot to the ribs that elicited a sharp gasp from him. He rolled with the blow and gained his feet, ducked the next punch and landed one to Juno’s stomach.

  Achieving ring-out required a different set of skills from the usual hit-until-you-fall-down style most of the fighters employed. He had to unbalance his opponent—if not physically, then mentally. Maybe he could try some of the psychological devastation Jenner had used on him with regularity. But he’d throw in a slight twist.

  When Juno came at him again, he relaxed his stance and let his opponent’s blow hit him. A fist plowed his jaw, drove his head to the side. He remained silent and immobile for a full five seconds before turning slowly to face Juno. A trickle of warm blood leaked from a split corner of his lip. He lifted his closed hand, deliberately wiped the blood away—and grinned.

  “Thanks. You wanna do that again, though? I don’t think I got the message.”

  Blowing a frustrated breath, Juno balled up a fist, drew back and let fly. The blow slammed his sternum, momentarily robbing him of breath. He regained his wind and cast a scathing look at his opponent.

  “Come on, now.” The grin resurfaced, and he took a step forward. “My grandmother used to hit me harder than that.”

  A look of pure fury flashed across Juno’s face. He roared and swung, and he caught his arm on the upswing. Sweeping Juno’s feet from beneath him, he sent him crashing to the mat, and before his opponent could recover, shoved him hard. Juno tumbled off the platform.

  The resultant roar of approval from the main house lifted over the calls of the crowd in the dojo. Ignoring their appreciation, he descended the stairs and returned to the place he’d left his sister.

  His heart sank when he realized she was gone.

  * * * *

  Gabriel’s fourth match of the evening ended with his fourth consecutive victory, and his opponent’s second loss. Unfortunately, his opponent had been Duke. This didn’t bode well for future interactions with House Prometheus.

  Shiro met him at the foot of the platform and made things worse.

  “Well, my friend.” He slung an arm around his shoulder and steered him through the crowd. “You have just removed Prometheus from the tournament.”

  “I what?”

  Shiro grinned. “Duke was the last of their fighters in the running. Prometheus will not be represented in the final rounds.”

  “Oh, great.” He winced and cupped a hand against his ribs. He didn’t think anything was broken this time, but Duke’s boot had once again left its mark. “Just what I need. Another reason for Mendez to hate me.”

  Shiro lowered his arm. “Are you all right? Perhaps I should bring you to the medical facility.”

  “No, I’m fine. Let me grab my shirt.” He worked his way toward the far wall, to the makeshift pen comprised of straight-backed wooden chairs. Few of the fighters had bothered using the area. His shirt lay where he’d left it, draped over the back of a chair. He grabbed it, and quickly let go when he found it soaked. “What the hell?”

  Blood coated his palm and stained his fingers.

  Shiro came up beside him. “Is something... Gabriel! What happened?”

  “It’s not mine.” Sickened and furious, he picked up the shirt again and spread it open. PIG had been drizzled in spray-paint white on the plain black surface. The saturated material glistened darkly. Where did they get this much blood?

  “Kusotare,” Shiro snapped. “You must show this to the leaders. They cannot be permitted to harass you like this.”

  Rough, mocking laughter sounded behind them. “Yeah, good idea, Gabriel. Go on and squeal some more. That’s what pigs do best.”

  “Mendez.” He dropped the shirt on the chair’s seat and turned to face the grinning bastard without bothering to wipe his hands. “Whose blood is this?”

  “It should be yours, puta. One of these days, it will be.”

  Nails emerged from the mob and stood just behind the House leader. “Guess the pig found his present, huh? Oh, but he don’t look happy. And we worked so hard on it, too.” He leaned on a chair and smirked. “I think he should put it on. After we went through all the trouble to personalize it, it’s only fair.”

  “Mendez, you are out of line.” Shiro moved forward with a threatening glare. “Leave.”

  “You stay out of this, devil-boy. You’re not even a lieutenant.” Mendez crossed his arms and nodded at the discarded shirt. “How ’bout it? You gonna try it on, or what?”

  “Fuck off.” He glanced at Shiro. Beyond him, Cortez and the towering bald fighter, Boomer, approached the pen. “Oh, nice. And you called me a coward? Have to get all your thugs in on this, don’t you?”

  Mendez laughed. “Boy, you are so dead. The minute you’re out of this gig—and believe me, you’re not gonna last long around here—I will hunt you down. I’ll drop your friends and save you for last.”

  “Goddamn it, Mendez!” Wolff’s voice roared above the general din. The cop shoved his way through the crowd toward them. “You’ve been warned. Back off.”

  “Hey, now.” Mendez spread his arms and smirked. “Don’t get cranky, capitan. We were only havin’ a chat with Angel, here. Ain’t that right, boys?”

  “Yep. Just talkin’,” Nails said. “No law ag
ainst that, is there?”

  Wolff glowered at the Prometheus leader. “I think you’re done talking now.”

  “Sure.” Mendez jerked his head, and the fighters wandered off. He gave him a chilling smile. “Later, pig.”

  “Mendez.” Wolff infused the name with warning.

  “Okay. I’m gone. Christ, Wolfie, you never let me have any fun.” Mendez shrugged and walked away.

  He watched him, and then turned to Wolff. “Thanks. I think.”

  “Shut the hell up, kid. You’re worse than he is.” Wolff’s furious stare moved from him to Shiro, and back. “You’ve made a friend. How nice. I’m warning you now, both of you. Stop antagonizing Mendez.”

  “I didn’t do anything—”

  “I heard what you called him. That was stupid. Just stay away from him—and damn it, stay away from me.” Wolff whirled and plunged into the mob.

  “Well,” he said. “He’s a pleasant fucker, isn’t he?”

  Shiro shook his head. “Perhaps not, but I believe his advice is sound. Come, Gabriel. Let us go somewhere Mendez is not.”

  “Good idea.”

  He followed Shiro out. He’d worry about finding another shirt later.

  Chapter 25

  Only the main house remained open for the second night of the tournament. Gabriel stood in the ring, first in a line consisting of the five finalists. Shiro and Apollo had also advanced, along with Ice of Dionysus, and Captain Wolff.

  Maybe he’d have an opportunity to crush Apollo, but he’d take Wolff in a pinch.

  A red-garbed Pandora woman entered the arena with a microphone and a seductive smile. “Gentleman, select your markers.”

  He blinked at the black wooden box emblazoned with crimson kanji symbols she thrust toward him. Shrugging, he plunged his hand through the round cloth-covered opening in the top. His fingers closed around a cool, smooth object the size of a stack of quarters. He kept the object enfolded in his hand, withdrew his arm, and waited.

  The other four finalists followed suit, each choosing a polished stone to decide their placement in the upcoming cage match. The box contained four white stones, and one black. Those with white stones would take positions in each of the four corners of the cage. Whoever selected the black stone would stand in the center, with his back to at least two of his opponents, until the starting bell rang.

  He glanced around the room while he waited for the go-ahead to look at his lot. The crowd seemed to have doubled in size since the previous day, though he knew this wasn’t the case. No one was allowed on or off the island during the tournament—one of the reasons he had been given such abundant liberties. Still, the gathered throngs in the immense central room of House Pandora appeared to outnumber any he’d seen at a fight before.

  The arrangement of the furnishings remained largely unchanged from what he’d glimpsed yesterday. Tables dotted the floor, and two colossal viewing screens bathed the darkened room with eerie blue-white light. Both screens showed the same image: the feed from the cameras trained on the fighters. In the center of the floor, tables had been moved to allow space for the twenty-foot square, roofed steel cage in which they stood.

  “Please show your selections now.”

  He opened his fingers and gave the object in his palm a rueful smirk. The black stone. Hundreds of eyes recorded the fighters’ reactions as the box made its way back up the line to recollect its contents.

  A neutral and genderless voice blared from overhead speakers. “The finals round of this year’s tournament will begin in one hour. The betting window will close in forty-five minutes. Thank you, ladies and gentleman.”

  He left the cage. Stopped just outside the entrance and leaned against the outer wall. Three more wins—if he made it, he would nearly double what he’d taken so far. He’d be a match or two away from supposed freedom, which he intended to take one way or another. If he lost the tournament, he would face another year of hell. Maybe longer.

  He didn’t think he could handle another year.

  “Perhaps we will face each other again, after all.”

  He flinched and sent Shiro a troubled look. “Christ, I hope not. I only got lucky last time.”

  Shiro smiled. “Do not dismiss your skills so easily, mikata. You have improved more rapidly than any fighter I have seen in this organization, though you do not seem to notice. I believe you have a fair chance at winning.”

  “Maybe.” He heaved a sigh and cast another glance around the dimly lit, close-packed room. He didn’t recognize a single face in his range of vision, and thought it for the best, at least until this free-for-all fiasco had ended. His shaky confidence had stabilized as far as one-on-one matches went, but this would be a new experience. One he wasn’t sure he could win.

  * * * *

  “Fighters, please take your positions in the ring. The match will begin in five minutes.” The near-mechanical voice cut through the crowd noise. Exchanging looks of wordless encouragement, Gabriel and Shiro clasped hands, broke apart and headed for the cage.

  Inside, he took up his designated spot in the center and tried to calm the incessant hammering of his heart. The other fighters circled the inner perimeter, each stopping at an unoccupied corner. He rotated in a slow circle and looked at each of his opponents in turn: Shiro. Ice. Wolff. Apollo. There, he halted with a smirk and dropped onto his haunches, placing one hand on the mat before him like a runner on a starting block.

  He tensed, measured seconds by the blood pounding in his ears. The starting bell sounded. He launched at the lumbering shape before him, oblivious to the other fighters. Apollo reached for him. He ducked and rammed his head into the brute’s massive belly. A satisfying whoof of air escaped.

  He pulled away, and a hard blow between his shoulder blades sent him crashing to the floor. A quick upward glance confirmed the assault hadn’t come from Apollo. He rolled away instinctively and just missed Wolff’s foot.

  As he sprang to his feet, a look passed between Apollo and Wolff. So that’s how it was going to be. He straightened, leveled a come-get-me glare at both of them, and raised his fists.

  “Bring it on.”

  Apollo stepped back, and Wolff moved to the side. Rather than take the path he thought they’d expect—straight for Apollo—he rushed Wolff and stopped just in front of him. He sensed movement behind him. Apollo swung for his head, he ducked—and laughed when Wolff leaned out of the blow’s trajectory with a loud curse.

  Uttering a snarl befitting his name, Wolff launched a punch and caught Apollo in the ribcage. The big man responded with surprised anger, raised a hand to return the blow, but he delivered a sharp kick to his shin. Apollo grunted, missed.

  Wolff threw a puzzled glance at him. The cop spun on his heel and sprinted across the cage toward Shiro and Ice, locked in combat on the opposite side.

  In the split second his eyes roamed to track Wolff, a fist plowed into his side. Pain restored his focus, and he turned once more on Apollo. Forcing himself to stay calm, he avoided Apollo’s attempts to pummel him with a show of outward patience and watched for an opening that would let him do some damage.

  There. The sharp rattle of the cage wall behind them drew Apollo’s attention. His fist flew at his opponent’s face with lethal precision. Warm blood burst beneath his knuckles on impact.

  The other fighter bellowed.

  He grinned, held up bloodstained fingers, and beckoned Apollo with a curling motion.

  Apollo rushed at him. From behind him, a faint groan penetrated the din of the crowd. He whirled, ignored the white-hot pain flaring in his kidney when Apollo landed a direct hit.

  Opposite him, Shiro leaned against the cage wall facing the crowd, arms above his head, fingers entwined in the metal mesh for support. Wolff and Ice flanked his motionless body and alternately pummeled him with fists and feet. Barely conscious, Shiro attempted to lift his head and straighten, but his attackers gave him no pause in the volley of blows.

  “You son of a bitch!” He sprinted fo
r the threesome, ripped Ice away and tossed him to the mat. The lanky Dionysus fighter glared, and then raced to engage Apollo, who charged across the ring toward them.

  Either Wolff didn’t notice his fury, or he didn’t care. The captain continued battering the still form that clung to the wall until he wrenched his arm behind his back and spun him away.

  “Enough.” He struck a ready stance. “This is supposed to be a free-for-all, not a gang beating. Fight fair, asshole.”

  Wolff shrugged and raised his fists. “You forgot the other rule.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What rule?”

  “Anything goes.”

  Wolff’s hands flashed out and gripped his shoulders. The cop jerked him forward and simultaneously drove a knee into his groin.

  He fell with a sharp intake of breath. The projector screens magnified the action, and the crowd echoed his gasp. His hands moved instinctively to cover the injured area, but he forced them to his sides, refusing to give the asshole the satisfaction. He slowly regained his feet.

  “Don’t do that again,” he said with deliberate pause, infusing each word with warning. Once again he raised his arms to fight.

  “Try and stop me.” Wolff stepped forward—and a thud shook the floor of the cage. Both fighters froze. They turned toward the sound.

  Ice had dropped Apollo. Game over.

  “I’ll face you again,” he said to Wolff. “Be ready.”

  “Boy, don’t threaten me. You don’t know shit about this outfit.” Wolff sighed over the ghostly echo of the count: fifteen...sixteen...seventeen...and frowned when he saw him watching.

  “If you really want to do the right thing, be a fucking hero, go back to wherever the hell you came from and stay there.” Fury flooded his features. The count reached twenty. Wolff pivoted and strode for the cage’s exit.

  At last he turned to Shiro. The fighter stirred, groaned.

  He reached up and disentangled lax fingers from the mesh. Shiro had gripped the metal wire tight enough to cut into his flesh. Nausea swelled, bile surged in his throat. He slung his friend’s arm around his shoulder and supported him out of the ring.