The four of us follow Wilde into a row of seating as a horn goes and two people climb onto opposite, low platforms.
Ziggy turns, mouth pressing to my ear. “Peril is a type of fighting. Like a mix of stick fighting and martial arts that all takes place on the platforms. The goal is to push your opponent off, however you can. The only limit is that there are no blows to the head allowed.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“You wouldn’t have. It mutated here. It’s how Wilde’s End and the other towns that compete earn money.”
“That’s so …” Weird? Aggressive? Dramatic? But while I’m searching for a word, Hart sits forward in his seat between Ziggy and Hudson.
“This is so fucking cool.”
“Is it?”
He shoots me a bewildered look. “Look how fast they’re moving. How hard they’re hitting each other. No safety equipment, no padding …” His gaze moves back to where the two people are fighting, and the loudthwackthat comes from someone being hit reaches us. “I want a turn.”
“No,” Hudson and Wilde say at the same time. My brother continues. “It’s dangerous.”
“You’veclearly been doing it,” Hart says, jabbing at his chest. And the bruise. Suddenly, all of Hudson’s injuries make sense.
“I help Wilde train. I don’t compete.”
“Not my fault you’re scared.”
Hudson snorts. “I competed once. Against Wilde. And even though he took it easy on me, he still kicked my ass. You want a turn? Have at it. You won’t last more than a few seconds.”
Darkness settles behind Hart’s eyes, and he crosses his arms, slumping back in his chair and watching the matches like he’s dying to get out there.
As far as fighting goes, I’ve never been a fan. But I can’t deny there’s something about the atmosphere and the crowd reactions that are pulling me into it. Match after match passes, and Ziggy snuggles into my side, like he’s not that interested either. If he doesn’t like fighting, I have no idea why he brought me here in the first place, but I’m sure I’ll find out. Ziggy doesn’t do things without a reason.
The match I’m watching ends, and as the crowd applauds, Wilde pushes to his feet.
“I’m challenging Foley,” he shouts, and the crowd gets louder.
Hudson claps his hands together. “This is what we’re here for.”
But the name has caught my attention. “Foley …” I repeat, and Ziggy’s head lifts from my shoulder.
He nods.
“Wilde said he’d break something of Foley’s, but … Foley’s a person?” My voice inches higher. “What’s he breaking?”
Ziggy doesn’t look half as concerned as I am. “My money is on a rib. He owes Foley at least five.”
“A rib? He promised to break a bone? Why would Bookerwantthat? He’s a doctor.”
The way Ziggy pats my knee is patronizing at best. “Because he’s a doctor.”
I don’t want to know what he means by that.
But the match has my attention now, and not for good reasons. I’m unexpectedly concerned for some guy called Foley, who I’ve never met in my life.
It’s not until the man takes his podium and I see the skeleton mouth tattooed over his own that I realize I have met him. Sort of. He drove through town once.
And fuck me. If it weren’t for those tattoos, he’d be hot as hell. His black hair is slicked back, he’s got the type of jawline that could cut glass, and his eyes look piercing even from here.
“I always forget how hot he is.” Hudson buries his face in his hands.
“You see him every day,” Hart says.
