He laughs again, but the sound is drowned out by a clanging bell, followed by a cheer. The clamor is so alarming that my entire body goes rigid. Belatedly I realize the enchantment has begun to wear off. I stuff another piece of candy in my mouth, just as Monty’s hand gently braces my lower back.
He points to the floor, cigarillo between his fingers. “It’s starting.”
Something about Monty’s touch settles my nerves and I look to where he’s indicating. A fae male with green skin and a ridiculously tall top hat stands at the center of the stage. If this is about to be a performance, he must be the Master of Ceremonies.
The enchanted confection soothes the harshest edges of sound once more.
The kangaroo fae from the front door steps onto the stage with a glass fishbowl containing folded pieces of paper. The Master of Ceremonies raises a hand above the bowl. Then, with a snap of his fingers, a slip of paper appears in his hand. “Our first combatant,” he says, his voice carrying lightly over the now-softened din as he reads what’s written on the paper, “is Gabby Stabbington!”
A cheer I can only partially hear erupts in the room and the crowd parts to reveal a broad-shouldered fae female dressed in slacks, a short-sleeved linen shirt, and an apron splattered with what looks like blood.
I glance at Monty. “Her name is Gabby Stabbington?”
“No one uses their real names here. Though you might recognize her from the butcher shop on Sixth and Loam.”
I’ve never been to a butcher on Sixth and Loam, for I prefer the one on Third, since it’s closer to home. That does, however, explain the bloody apron. And yet…what am I about to watch? The Master of Ceremonies called her a combatant.
I pluck a fresh piece of candy floss from the fluffy bundle and pop it in my mouth. The announcer places his hand over the bowl again, quieting the crowd once more. With another snap of his fingers, a second slip of paper appears in his palm. “Our second combatant, Marshall Bruisemaker!”
“This is perfect,” Monty says. His forearms are propped on the railing again, which means he’s no longer bracing my back. I’m not sure why that disappoints me. It’s not like Ineedhis touch to calm me when I have my tasty confection to do just that. He flashes me a wide grin. “You’re going to like him.”
I glance back at the stage as a towering man steps upon it, his bare torso rippling with muscles in places I never knewhadnoticeable muscles. His jaw is square, his cheekbones high. He’s…
“A sexy storybook hero, yes?” Monty takes the words straight from my mouth. The stage clears of everyone but the two combatants and the clanging bell sounds again. At once, the two figures race toward each other. Gabby Stabbington sends a punch to Marshall Bruisemaker’s gut, but he hardly falters, swinging his fist into her ribs.
My mouth falls open. No wonder this is being held in such a suspicious location, on the fringes of the city. I’ve never heard of mixed-gender boxing matches—which is what I’m guessing this sport is. I’ve only watched a few friendly matches and always grew bored when there wasn’t enough blood. I’d seen more violent entertainment on an average Tuesday in the unseelie forest. But this…
This is something else. I’m about to ask why Monty brought me here when my eyes lock on the male fighter again. My focus settles on the flex of his muscles, the intricate dance of the veins that rope his forearms. The fighters turn, exchanging vicious blows, which gives me another angle to admire.
My head swivels toward Monty, my lips spread in an amused grin. “Thisis the solution to my model problem?”
“Bare-knuckle amateur boxing,” he says. “A great way to study anatomy, am I right? It’s fantastic entertainment besides. Less rules than a typical boxing arena, save for the obvious: no weapons, no magic, and no fatal blows. But like I said, this is legal. Mostly.”
I almost don’t catch the last part. “Mostly?”
He takes a final drag from his cigarillo, then leans in close, his chest almost brushing my shoulder. I freeze, my pulse quickening at his sudden proximity, until I realize he’s only reaching for the glass tray on the table behind us. He discards the butt of his cigarillo and returns to face the balustrade, oblivious that he gave me a momentary loss of breath. “The organizers behind this operation donate hefty sums to the patrol force, so the officers turn a blind eye.”
I stuff another piece of sugary fluff into my mouth. “Do you come here often?”
“Every Friday. What better way to release the stress of the work week?”
My chest warms as I recall that about him—his love for boxing. I can’t count the number of times he snuck away during The Heartbeats Tour to catch a match. I also remember him getting into a scuffle or two himself. There was even an incident I was involved in, when Monty confronted a lion fae who’d tried to take advantage of an inebriated Edwina Danforth. I’m still proud of the yelp that bastard made when I bit his ankles.
I face the stage again, just in time to catch a spurt of blood flying from Gabby Stabbington’s face as Marshal Bruisemaker’s fist collides with her nose. The crowd gasps, and I wonder if she’s done for. But she doesn’t so much as stumble back. Instead, she swings for his face in return. As he throws up his arms to block her, she pivots and jabs her other fist straight into his gut. Then another. He lowers his arms to retaliate, but her next punch strikes his cheek, sending his head snapping to the side. A final jab to the gut knocks him on his back.
The kangaroo fae hops onto the stage, acting as referee. He leads the crowd in a chant of counting. When Marshall fails to stand by the count of ten, Gabby throws up her fists in victory.
“Good ol’ Gabby,” Monty says. “Always reeling her opponents in by making them feel like they’ve got the upper hand. Only to utterly destroy them in a series of incredibly painful blows.” He cradles his ribs, as if Marshall’s pain is his own.
Applause erupts all around as Marshall slowly eases to his feet and meets Gabby at the center of the ring for a friendly handshake. I frown, watching Marshall and his magnificent muscles climb down from the stage and disappear into the crowd.
I cast a pleading look at Monty. “Wait, that’s all?”
“The night is far from over. Matches continue until midnight, but we have a few minutes until they select the fighters for the next bout.”
That sparks excitement in my chest, and I bounce on the balls of my feet, gobbling up another piece of blackberry-flavored fluff.
Monty chuckles. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Does that mean I’m right? Will this help with your illustration work?”
