I might not know where to find Roderick Vane, but I had an inkling where I’d be able to find his red-headed accomplice.
CHAPTER 4
For several days, I slipped in to watch the fights that all criminals knew went on near the dock, but the redhead I was looking for was never there. The fight ring was hidden in the shadiest part of the city, located at an abandoned warehouse along the riverbank where all the windows were boarded up. Lanterns swung from iron hooks suspended from the ceiling, casting swaying halos of light over the packed dirt floor where blood had stained the earth a permanent rust-brown. The scent of sweat mingled with smoke hovered in the air, and most thankfully, there wasn’t a single member of the Nightsworn to be seen. No one who was the least bit respectable would ever be caught here.
I wasn’t sure this morning would be any different from the last several days, when I hadn’t seen my target despite waiting through all the daylight hours and once late into the night. Men crowded around the makeshift ring, from dockhands with split knuckles to thieves who kept their hoods low. Coins clinked from palm to palm and wagers were shouted to drown out the ugly sound of knuckles meeting flesh, which rang out regularly, mostoften from the ring but occasionally on the sides as men drank too much and decided to settle their squabbles with their fists.
At the far edge, a narrow table groaned under ledgers and stacked coins, overseen by a heavyset man with a scar splitting his lip. I recognized several people here whose wanted posters hung on Ambrose’s office wall, but none had bounties large enough to be tempting.
Just as I had done for the past several days, I slowly scanned the faces in the crowd, and this time, my patience was finally rewarded.
A young man with red hair was climbing into the ring, facing an opponent somewhat larger and heavier than he was. The familiar redhead had packed on more muscle in the last several months since I’d seen him, but that mischievous, freckled face was unmistakable, and he was still wearing the same shade of dark green I remembered so well.
“The boy has no chance,” one of the spectators said, sadly shaking his head. “No chance at all.”
Other spectators agreed, all placing bets against the younger man.
“Wagers! Final call to place your wagers!” the man at the table with the split lip shouted, and I approached him.
“I’ll wager fifty gold shillings on the man with red hair.”
There were barks of laughter as the men around me shook their heads. “This isn’t a place for a boy,” the man collecting the bets said. “Go home to yer mam.”
“I’m good for the bet,” I said, pulling out my leather bag of coins. “Gold shines no matter whose it is.”
“Does your pa know you have all that?” the dealer joked, taking the bag.
“He won’t know because it’ll be back before he misses it,” I quipped. “Along with extra for myself. I think that boy will win, and I want to bet on him.”
“You’re thinking wrong, lad. But some lessons need learned the hard way.” The dealer took the bag and marked down my information before raising his voice. “Fight’s about to start! Gambling is closed!”
The officiant in the middle of the ring raised his hands, and the swell of conversation grew to an eager roar.
“Listen up,” he called, voice carrying easily over the din. “There are no rules in this ring, save that you don’t kill each other. Anything goes. You fight until one of you can’t stand or taps out, but if you kill your opponent, you’re on your own and the rest of us will all deny all knowledge of being here when the Nightsworn come for you.”
Dark laughter rippled through the crowd.
The officiant continued, “We’re not responsible for broken bones, knocked-out teeth, or bruises to your body or pride. Whatever happens in this circle belongs to the men inside it.”
His gaze swept over the gathered gamblers, all of whom were eagerly bouncing on the balls of their feet, waiting for the fight to begin.
“In this corner,” the officiant began, waving to Peter’s opponent, “is our reigning champion, the Dockyard Devil!”
A roar of approval came from the men, all clapping or punching the air with their fists.
“And on this side comes a new challenger”—the officiant gestured at Peter, who was grinning lazily—“the Flying Fugitive! Challengers, are you ready?”
Both Peter and the other man tensed and raised their hands.
“Fight!”
Peter’s opponent advanced and began swinging his giant fists. Peter ducked and dodged, nimbly sidestepping and weaving in and out without returning any blows of his own.
“This isn’t a dance, boy,” the larger man grunted with another furious swipe. He aimed a kick at Peter, who caughtthe extended foot and gave an almighty wrench so the man was pulled off-balance and crashed to the ground.
Immediately, Peter pounced, driving his knee into the fallen opponent’s stomach while also delivering a volley of rapid punches to the man’s throat and face.
A scream of protest came from the crowd as all the men leapt to their feet, grabbing onto the ropes surrounding the fight and stamping their feet as they shook the ropes.
