Maya snapped the menu shut. Best to keep this short and be on her way.
She again fixed the man in her gaze. He put down his chopsticks. Neither of them had spoken yet.
“They say you are the best,” Maya began, “and I need your help securing a relic.”
The man swallowed and nodded. “Black market relics are one of my specialties.”
“The particular relic I need,” Maya continued, “is not exactly ‘on the market’ at the moment.”
The man nodded again and waited for her to continue. The waiter returned with Maya’s drink. She gave the drink a contemplative swirl in its tumbler and downed the whole thing in a single swallow.
“I need to secure the sarira,” she said, lowering her voice. “That is, I need to steal, in advance, the tournament prize.”
The man’s eyes grew wide. This was a tall order. For a moment, he appeared to consider what would be involved, but then shook his head sadly.
“This is not a thing that I can do for you.” Then—perhaps foolishly—he added, “Does Richard know about this little project of yours?”
Maya cocked her head to the side and offered a little laugh, acknowledging the guts it took to ask that. She knew that Richard and this man went way back. But she also knew that, in the end, this man was all about money, not loyalty.
“Richard is not quite himself these days, and I’ve had to take some license in protecting his interests.”
The man looked skeptical and leaned forward. “As you did previously with the chains of St. Paul?” he ventured.
Maya’s eyes narrowed, her brow furrowed, and a vein in her bicep pulsed. That last question was a step too far.
The man knew it. “Forgive me,” he implored, “that is none of my business. Please continue. As you were saying?”
“As I was saying,” Maya drawled, “I need the relic. And you were going to get it for me.”
The man tugged at his already open collar, weighing his options. The restless fingers of his other hand played with an unopened fortune cookie.
“Right. But as I already said,” he stuttered, “I cannot secure this particular relic for you—”
Maya stood.
“But,” he hastily added, “I can get you special access to its storage location.”
Maya sat back down, placated. She calculated what additional arrangements would need to be made on her end, and found it feasible.
“That will do,” she said. “But do not fail me.”
The man’s face flooded with relief. “Of course, of course.”
Maya reached across the table and plucked the fortune cookie away from him. She cracked it neatly in half as if she were demonstrating what would happen to him if he failed her.
Maya crumbled half the cookie and handed the man his fortune. “This is for you,” she said, leaving the table and heading for the door.
Hesitating, the man uncurled the paper with a trembling hand and scanned it. The fortune read: “Only those who forgive are blameless.”
He gulped and pulled out his phone.
Chapter Six
Cass didn’t know if anyone had noticed them sneaking out, but no one had stopped them. And thanks to the way the Underside collapsed distances, they were already back in Salem. Now they were pulling up to the strip mall at the edge of town where she’d trained in mixed martial arts for more than a decade. Her old Volvo puttered to a stop in the parking lot. It was late, but the parking lot was almost full.
Thursday nights were open fight nights and it looked like she wasn’t the only one feeling the itch.
Cass was grinning. It felt good to be home. It felt good to be in a familiar place doing familiar things. Her plan was to get out a little aggression in a friendly arena, go home, use all the hot water in her shower, and then sleep in her own bed for twelve hours.
Cass put the car in park, turned off Florence + the Machine, and reached for her gear in the back seat.
Zach, riding shotgun beside her, seemed a little nervous. Breaking the rules didn’t come naturally to him.
“Let’s go, you big, sneaky rebel,” Cass said, pinching his leg. “We already did the hard part. Now it’s time for some fun.”
The guy at the counter waved them through into the back where they took the stairs to the expansive basement filled with weights, training gear, and sparring rings. Even at the top of the stairs they could hear the crowd of people below, raucous and chanting.
Cass was surprised to see that, instead of multiple matches around the room, everyone was gathered around a single fight at the center of the room. She couldn’t quite see what was going on over everyone’s heads, so they worked their way around to the far side and then inched toward the front. A few friendly faces recognized her and cleared a path.
The fight was just getting underway. A stocky, muscled woman, nearly six feet tall, her hair braided in cornrows, was pitched against a ripped fellow, about six-six, covered in tattoos. Given the physics of the height, weight, and gender difference between them, it didn’t strike Cass as a fair fight.
Until she got a better look at the woman’s face.
“Holy shit!” Cass shouted into Zach’s ear, her voice almost drowned out by the noise. “That’s Rosie Cassera, former MMA world champion!”
Zach nodded his head as if he knew what she was talking about. “Okay!” he said.
“Okay?!” Cass mimicked. “It’s freaking awesome!”
Zach couldn’t help but smile at Cass’s enthusiasm.
In the time it took Cass to explain this to Zach, the fight was already over. The big guy danced, dragon tattoos rippling cinematically, and threw a jab. Rosie, on the other hand, just stepped into the jab, absorbed the shorted blow, and laid the fellow out with a single uppercut. He collapsed in a heap, eyes rolling back into his head.
The crowd went wild. Cass whistled and cheered.
“Holy shit!” she shouted again into Zach’s ear.
The fight had been dramatic, but it hadn’t sated anyone’s appetite, especially Rosie’s. Sure, she spat out a little blood, but she hadn’t even broken a sweat—and, from the look on her face, it seemed like she enjoyed the taste of her own blood.
Tonight’s designated emcee, a Tongan fellow who often ran the desk upstairs, stepped back into the ring and held up Rosie’s hand.
“Who’s next?” he bellowed. “Who wants a shot at the champ?”
The crowd roared again, but as they watched Mr. Dragon Tattoo get dragged out of the ring by his feet, no one stepped forward.
“Come on people!” he challenged. “This is a once in a lifetime opportunity! No one is going to step up to the plate?”
The emcee spun in a circle, his finger pointed, scanning the audience for faces that he recognized. When he got to Cass, he stopped spinning and cracked a big smile.
Lowering his voice so that the crowd had to listen more closely, he said: “Ladies and gentleman, we’ve got another special treat tonight—Cassandra Jones is in the house.”
The regulars who knew Cass hooted and cheered. The rest of the audience craned their necks to see who he was pointing at. The short, skinny, vaguely Asian girl?
Zach squeezed Cass’s elbow, clearly a little worried. Cass mouthed “thank you” to the emcee but waved him off. The emcee wasn’t going to give up so easily, though. He took Cass’s hand and pulled her into the center of the ring. He raised Cass’s hand in the air and shouted again, “Cassandra Jones!”
Rosie seemed more amused than worried. Cass couldn’t blame her after the seeing the giant she’d just felled. The crowd picked up the chant, egged on by those who knew her: “Cass! Cass! Cass!”
“Alright, alright,” Cass agreed. She met Zach’s eyes and shrugged.
Cass kicked off her shoes, stripped down to her yoga pants and athletic bra, and held out her hands for a quick tape job. Meanwhile, Rosie paced back and forth like a tiger waiting to be fed. Again, the raw physics of the matchup didn’t look good. Rosie had about ten inches
and sixty pounds on Cass.
Cass took a deep breath and centered herself. Without even trying to access her powers, her weak eye twitched and she could feel the heat rising behind it. Time already felt a little looser, a little more inviting and forgiving. Cass shook her head, trying to put that fire aside. She wanted this to be an old school fight. This wasn’t a training bout staged for Kumiko. No. This was just for . . . fun?
Right, Cass reminded herself, this is just for fun.
The bell rang and the fight began. Most of the audience was just hoping that Cass would last longer than the previous disappointment. The handful of people in the audience who’d known her since she’d starting coming to the gym as a teen hoped that she’d get some good blows in before Rosie inevitably took control. Zach hoped that he wouldn’t have to spend the rest of the night looking for Cass’s lost teeth on the gym floor. He put one hand to his face, covering his eyes as if he were afraid to watch, and then immediately split the fingers so that he could see through the cracks.
Rosie hung back, not wanting to be seen as mean-spirited. Her posture said that she was willing to give a skinny local girl a few minutes of fun.
Cass, on the other hand, remembered why she’d come tonight: she had some guilt and frustration she needed to work out.
Cass moved in with a wicked flurry of blows, treating Rosie as if she were a practice dummy. Rosie was caught off guard by the aggressive move and the ferocity of Cass’s attack. All of a sudden, it didn’t feel like a friendly bout. From the far end of Cass’s fists, the fight felt personal.
Rosie knew how to protect herself, however, and Cass only connected a couple of glancing blows. Rosie returned the favor with a couple of kicks aimed at Cass’s ribs. Cass, though, was fast—ridiculously fast—and avoided any harm.
Rosie backed off for a moment, a newfound look of respect in her eyes.
Cass felt great. Her blood was flowing, her head was clear, and she felt light on her feet.
Reflexively, she winked at Rosie.
Rosie didn’t care for that.
She advanced on Cass—knee, jab, kick, jab, jab—but despite her own intentions, Cass’s eye had locked in and time had opened like a flower. She avoided the blows with a kind of casual, prescient ease, effortlessly seeing through Rosie’s feints to the truth behind them. Rosie’s face grew redder and her attack grew more frantic. Cass slipped free again and again and a smoky white light started to burn from her weak eye.
Zach noticed the light right away. “Cass!” he yelled, by way of warning. “This probably isn’t the time or place!”
Cass heard him, but his voice sounded deep and muddy, like a track played at a slower speed. She wasn’t especially worried about the light, but he was probably right. Best to end this.
Cass let Rosie build up to throwing a roundhouse, then ducked and clocked Rosie in the temple with a sharp, devastating elbow. Rosie stepped back, stunned. She wavered on her feet. Then, as she started to fall, Cass swooped in, caught her, and let her down gently.
The crowd roared even louder, beside itself in disbelief. Rosie, still in Cass’s arms, cocked one bruised eye open and whispered, “Nice.”
“Thanks,” Cass said.
But before Cass, Rosie, or the crowd could get much farther, a voice boomed out from deep in the corner of the room. “I’ve got next,” the man called in a commanding, vaguely British voice.
The crowd obediently parted and the smiling man stepped into the light.
It was Richard York.
Chapter Seven
Cass’s jaw dropped.
Though, to be fair, she wasn’t alone. Half the ladies in the room—and maybe a quarter of the guys—had the same reaction.
Zach, however, refused to participate in this collective gasp. Instead, he crossed his arms and clenched his teeth. He wasn’t going to sigh wistfully at the sight of a half-dressed billionaire playboy with a British accent.
The crowd parted and a shirtless Richard strode to the center of the ring. Cass, still holding Rosie, peered up at him, trying to take his measure.
After months of grueling rehab, Richard was dangerously lean. He looked like his troubles had whittled him down to the bare essentials of who he was and what his body needed. His ribs showed and blue veins crisscrossed his arms and shoulders just below the tight, pale skin. His blond hair was more closely cropped, and a short, dark beard had grown in. Everything about him looked coiled and tight. But more than this, Cass was struck by his eyes. Before, Richard’s eyes had been playful and knowing, like he was in on a joke that everyone else failed to get. Now, his pale blue eyes burned like coals and the haggard lines radiating from their corners gave him a weary but fierce look.
Rosie’s eyes fluttered back open and fixed on Richard standing above her, haloed by a fluorescent ceiling light.
“I must have died and gone to heaven,” she said dreamily.
“Not a chance,” Cass said, helping Rosie back to her feet and handing her off to the emcee.
Cass brushed off her yoga pants, squared off with Richard, and looked him in the eye. He didn’t flinch.
“Hello, Richard,” Cass said.
“Hello, Cassandra,” Richard said.
Cass wasn’t sure how to feel. She was certainly glad to see him, and glad to see him looking so . . . fit. Last time they’d crossed paths, he’d still needed a cane. But she couldn’t help but feel hurt over how things had gone down with Maya. Richard had sent Maya to help them retrieve a relic—the chains of St. Paul—so that they could learn who had kidnapped her aunt Miranda. But Maya, after the relic had been secured, had double-crossed them. If it hadn’t been for some quick thinking on Zach’s part, they might never have taken the relic back and located Miranda.
How much did Richard know about that betrayal? Was Maya acting on his orders? Could she trust Richard? Did she want to?
Cass weighed Richard’s challenge and decided to let it go. Beating a legendary MMA fighter was enough winning for one night.
“Some other time, Richard,” Cass offered. “I’m done for tonight.”
Zach’s relief was obvious. He already had Cass’s gear in hand and stepped to her side, holding out her jacket.
“Richard,” Zach said and nodded.
“Zachary,” Richard said and nodded.
The crowd, though, wasn’t done for the night. Cass had won their hearts, and the palpable crackle of energy between Cass and Richard (and Zach) fed their hunger to see one more fight—a fight with something a bit more personal at stake—before the night was done.
The chant quickly gathered steam: “Fight! Fight! Fight!”
Zach frowned. Richard repressed a smile. Cass raised her eyebrows skeptically.
The emcee seized the moment again, stepped between Cass and Zach, and lifted Cass’s and Richard’s hands high in the air.
“Fight!” the emcee roared. The crowd cheered.
Cass relented. She, too, was susceptible to that crackle of energy.
“Alright,” Cass taunted Richard, “I hope all your rehab time has taught you how to enjoy convalescing.”
Richard smiled, a bit of his old self shining through. He was, of course, not in the least surprised that he’d gotten what he wanted.
“Good luck, mate,” the emcee whispered to Richard as he stepped out of the ring, “because you’re going to need it.”
Cass, though, had been thrown off balance by Richard’s arrival. Her night had gone from fun to epic to awkward. And she knew, too, that Richard wasn’t here just for fun. He wanted something.
While Cass was trying to puzzle through what it might be, Richard took advantage and swept her leg, sending her tumbling to the floor. The crowd “oohed” in response. Cass rolled through the fall and back up onto her feet, embarrassed.
She could hear Rosie shouting from the sideline, “Don’t let him do you like that!”
Cass cracked her neck and waded back in. Richard was waiting. He drew her in and swept her leg again.
&nb
sp; This time when Cass popped back up from the mat, she was angry.
Who did this bastard think he was? Who gave him the right to play with her like this? Who gave him the right to mess around in her life without her permission? Who gave him the right to swoop in when he felt like it and then disappear without a word? He’d even let her think—for months—that he was dead.
This last thought especially hurt, more than Cass wanted to admit.
She threw a punch and followed up with a kick. Richard evaded both. Cass, though, was just setting the stage. When Richard kicked back, Cass grabbed his leg, slid her hand higher up his thigh, and flipped him onto his back.
She didn’t let go.
Richard tried to scissor her upper body between his legs but Cass saw it coming and used the opening to reposition her hold, driving his shoulders down into the mat and applying enough pressure to his leg that he was forced to give ground.
He strained against her hold and almost slipped free when Cass, with her ear pressed against his abs, got distracted by his cologne.
She’d forgotten how absurdly good he smelled.
She applied more pressure to his leg and Richard gave more ground. He grunted. Sweat poured off them both.
Cass seized the opportunity to clear some things up.
“Did Maya double-cross us on your orders?” she whispered fiercely, squeezing.
Richard’s head bobbed up, trying to get a look at Cass’s face and gauge how the fight had changed into an interrogation, but Cass forced it back down. His hands scrambled to get a hold of her torso, but couldn’t find a grip.
“No,” he said, “that was not what I had in mind.”
Cass absorbed this response. It rang true. She’d always been able to tell if someone was lying.
Quick as lightning, Cass switched holds, her hands now looped under his shoulders and around his neck, her cheek pressed against his collarbone, her mouth pressed against his ear. He bucked but couldn’t slip free before she had him locked down again.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were still alive?” she whispered softly into his ear. This second question sounded less like an interrogation and more like a plea.
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