Underneath it, there’s a rhythmic vibration…
Cheering.
“Hey, Kay,” Art says.
“Mr. Penngrove.”
The door opens, revealing a man with a tree-trunk neck and a clipboard in his hand who waves us through, and the sound crashes over me like a wave.
It’s a cathedral of violence.
That’s the only way I can think to describe it. A vast underground chamber, the ceiling arched, the walls lined with black padding that swallows the echo, similar to the basement that’s now above us. The floor slopes down to a sunken pit at the center, a concrete area wrapped in chain-link fencing from the floor almost to the ceiling.
A cage.
Around it, tiered seating rises like a Roman amphitheater, dark stained wood and leather booths tucked behind tinted glass. A full bar lines one wall, backlit in red, giving the whole space a hellish glow. The bartender—a stunning woman with strawberry-red hair—is pouring drinks for men in expensive suits and women draped in silk, none of whom seem disturbed by what’s happening in the center of the room.
Where two men are trying to kill each other.
They’re both shirtless, but have shoes on and dark shorts, their hands wrapped in dirty white tape. One of them is huge. Jet-blackhair, broad shoulders, arm muscles coiled like he was built for this kind of brutality. There are tattoos on his back and sprinkling down his arms, the most notable one a sword that runs the length of his spine. And he’s dodging a punch, then countering with a kick that snaps his opponent’s head sideways.
The crowd roars.
“Art,” I breathe through the nausea. “What the hell is this?”
His arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me close. His lips brush my ear, and the back of my neck prickles.
“A hub for the most exclusive ring of underground fighting on the East Coast.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Welcome to the Lye, Gin.”
My mouth floods with a sour taste, and I swallow twice to keep my expression neutral.
“Why isn’t that guy blocking?”
Art hesitates. “Sometimes the game isn’t about winning.”
The lights flicker, and the tattooed fighter glances up.
His gaze strikes me like someone reached around my heart and squeezed.
Every sound in the room thins to nothing. It’s just the cage, him, and a pull in the center of my chest I can’t explain.
He’s looking at me like he knows me. Like he’s been waiting for me.
Then a fist connects with his jaw, his head snaps sideways, and the spell breaks.
“That’s Lance,” Art says.
“That’sLance?” I twist to look at him. “As in your best friend?”
“One and the same.”
Lance goes down on the next hit. He doesn’t get back up.
The crowd erupts, and I glance around. Money changes hands. The lights come up, and people move toward the bar, laughing like this is normal.
The room tilts.
“He lost.”
