Chapter Three

The underground circuit led Erik all over the country as he worked his way up the invisible ladder. Other veterans competed, many of them unable to shake the need for combat. Thugs and jerks also filled the ranks, men who got off on fighting.

One of them would be in the ring tonight. Mad Matty was a good old boy, raised on the farm, who quickly discovered his skills as a local brawler wouldn’t go far in the civilized world. On the circuit, he was a welcome opponent, one who worked the crowd with his over-the-top roaring and yelling. He was as much an entertainer as a fighter, a valuable mix for the fight organizers.

He’d fought Matty before and found him easy to taunt into making foolish moves, the man’s ego running his body into numerous losses. Matty’s showmanship had gotten him on the starting card for the show, not just his fighting prowess.

Erik earned his spot by being a slow and steady fighter. Nothing flashy, just the basics, and it’d taken him to this level now.

He found a spot at the back of the building, his usual routine. The extra distance gave him a chance to walk in and settle himself, cruise into the mindset he needed to pull off a win. Erik carried his duffel bag with him, not eager to leave all of his earthly possessions in the second-hand car he’d driven from Arizona. Tonight, he’d be recovering in either a feather bed in a fancy suite with room service or sleeping in his car, parked at some truck stop.

He’d done both before.

The warehouse had graffiti spray-painted on the sides, the colorful tags scrambling for supremacy. The parking lot was already full, including a handful of limousines, the drivers glaring at anyone who came too close.

It was a hell of a change from the dingy nightclub basements he’d worked through over the past few months.

Erik nodded as he made his way to the side door, a pair of huge men standing guard. They checked a clipboard and verified his identification before letting him in.

“Follow me, please.” The bouncer headed to the rear of the building, clearing a route through the mob with his sheer bulk.

Erik followed, looking around to take stock of the setting. The glitter on the floor showed there’d likely been a party here recently.

Now a metal cage occupied the spot, spectators packed in on all sides. People stood on the rickety steel seats to see over the heads of those in front. Off to one side lay the high rollers section, roped off and holding cushy armchairs—no uncomfortable cold metal for these people.

A roar went up. Erik tensed up in reaction to the primeval yells, the ancient call for violence shooting through his veins.

They screamed for blood and battle, and he was ready to give it to them.

“Erik!” The shout brought him around. “Erik Harrison!”

Before he could speak, the large man had him in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground. The bookie gave Erik a shake before putting him back on his feet.

“Mike. Didn’t know this was your territory.” Erik rolled his shoulders.

“I get around. Saw your name on the card and had to say hello.” He tugged on the lapels of his dark blue suit. “Name like yours, it brings in the money.” Mike threw the bouncer/escort a glance. “Don’t worry, he’s not going to try and bet on himself—Erik knows the rules.”

“Won’t bet against myself, either.” Erik chuckled.

“Good. Wouldn’t take it anyway.” The dark-haired man lightly punched him in the chest. “Glad to see you here. You earned this spot.”

“And you’re hoping to earn some sweet money off my win.”

Mike spread his hands. “It’s what I do.” The sharp laugh rose over the noise around them. “Go show them how it’s done.”

“You got it.” Erik turned away, following the doorman as they continued through the crowd.

The locker rooms stood at the back, hastily constructed with long curtains and poles providing the barest of privacy to the fighters.

The bouncer escorted him, passing Erik off through another checkpoint and into the makeshift dressing room. As he stepped in, another man got to his feet. Judging from the dress shirt and tie, he ran the fight—or at least this part of it.

“Hey, Harrison. The boys at the front called in, told me you were here. I’m Struff, Dave Struff. Organized what’s going down tonight.” He swept his arm around. “Don’t worry, there’s another room for the competition. Not crazy enough to put you all together and see the sparks fly—save the fighting for the ring.” The short stout man offered his hand. “Glad you could make it. Had one of my regulars drop off the card and you came highly recommended.”

A handful of men stood around in various states of undress—his fellow fighters. Erik put his duffel bag down by one of the tables. Water bottles lay beside first-aid supplies, waiting to be used. “Bad for him. Good for me.”

“Exactly.” Struff gestured at the curtains. “We’ve got a full house tonight. Here’s how it breaks down. You hold your own through three five-minute rounds, three thousand. Pin Mad Matty on the mat, eight. You give me anything less and you walk out of here with nothing. Understand?”

Erik nodded as he picked up one of the long fabric wraps. He got busy winding the strips around his knuckles, crisscrossing his palm and down to the wrist. “And if I win, I headline the next card.”

Struff hesitated for a few seconds before nodding. “You put up a decent show and we’ll talk about it.” He glanced at his watch. “You’re on the undercard. There’s one more fight after this one, and then you’re on.”

Eric nodded, continuing to wrap his hands.

The organizer pressed a hand to his headset, listening intently. A second later, he pointed at a man at the far end of the bench. The man sat with his eyes closed, mumbling to himself.

“Chuck. You’re up.” Struff waved at Erik. “Get ready. Next one’s yours.”

He continued his pre-fight routine, warming up with jabs and hooks as Struff took the competitor out.

Focus.

He clenched his fists, feeling the fabric tight across his knuckles.

Focus.

Erik closed his eyes and drew a deep, long breath as he went through his warm-up exercises, shadow boxing invisible opponents.

Focus.

The roaring shook the curtains, the applause interrupted by the chanting and cursing.

Erik stopped and picked up a towel, wiping his face.

“You fought Matty before?” one of the other brawlers asked.

“Yeah. He’s good.” Erik smiled. “But I’m better.” He threw a right-hand jab, feeling the strength surging through his muscles. “Don’t let him get hold of you—he loves to grapple, and he’ll make like he’s going for your eyes.”

The fighter frowned. “But that’s…”

“Against the rules. He knows that. He also knows it’ll scare the shit out of you, break your concentration.” Erik nodded. “Not enough to outfight a man. Got to outthink him as well.”

Struff stepped back through into the dressing room, his face flushed and wet with sweat.

A fighter followed, scowling as he reached for an icepack. Blood streamed down his face from an open cut on his forehead, almost blinding him.

Erik stood still, his heart racing.

A cheer went up as the announcer screamed out Erik’s name.

The fight organizer grinned and pulled the curtain back. “It’s show time.”

…

Brenna tried not to gag at the smells washing over her. It was a mishmash of the worst mortals had to offer—tobacco smoke, marijuana, stale beer, and the vilest body odor. The doorman took her money and waved her through, wasting a few seconds to leer at her before moving on to the next eager customer.

She was one of the few unattached women. The others she’d spotted so far hung off some man’s arm like a valued trophy. They were there to see and be seen as they made their way to the elite section.

She pressed on, her leather jacket brushing against bare flesh as she made her way to the octagon representing the dueling space.

Something landed on her butt, grabbing and squeezing hard.

She spun and glared at the owner, a thickset man wearing a vest and no shirt, his jeans snug around his hips. He was in his twenties, his beard sculpted into a devilish goatee.

“Hey, honey,” he drawled. “You looking for a fine ride later tonight?”

She looked down where his hand sat, still plastered to her behind.

He yanked her close, showing off tobacco-stained teeth. “Come on, darling. You deserve a man, not those boys playing in the ring.”

“I do.” Her reply was matched by her grip on the offending fingers, bending them back with ease.

The grin turned to a scowl as he tried to not make any noise, his face contorting as she bent his entire hand back.

“I’ll find my own man, thank you. And he won’t be an uncouth barbarian like you.” She gave him a shove, sending him flying into a nearby group of men. As he struggled to stand, gesturing and shaking his head, Brenna moved deeper into the crowd. She ended up standing in front of the cage, the octagon dominating the center of the warehouse. One fight had just finished, the loser being helped out by two attendants. His head lolled to the side as he staggered through the wire door. The victor took another lap, screaming as blood trickled down his face. Finally, he exited to the crowd’s cheering, vanishing from sight as the audience closed ranks, yelling for the next pair of fighters.

Brenna flashed back to that moment on the battlefield, a rush of heat pouring through her veins at the memory.

It’d been a mission of mercy. The original attack had taken the medical convoy apart, leaving them immobilized and decoys to draw out would-be rescuers, like Harrison’s squad. Then the insurgents had fallen on them. By the time she’d arrived, the fighting had been over—the attackers pulling back to disappear in the nearby mountains and the reinforcements rushing to get to the handful of survivors.

She wasn’t there for them. She was there for the dead and dying.

The crippled man had been first, bleeding out into the hot sand as she approached. The woman was her next target, another brave warrior ascending to Valhalla. Brenna remembered thinking maybe Freyja would consider this one for the Valkyries, a welcome transfer into their ranks. There were others who she relieved of their pain and sorrow, sent them to their rightful rewards waiting for them in the Great Halls.

Then Erik challenged her. Called her out.

Goose bumps rose on her skin as she recalled her shock at his seeing her. It was supposed to be impossible, beyond the capacity of mere mortals.

But he shouted at her, brought her in close enough to weave his spell over her.

The kiss…

Brenna had never kissed anyone on the lips before.

She couldn’t explain the desire, couldn’t answer when Mother Freyja herself had demanded a response as to why she’d failed in her duty.

There was none to give. Somehow this man still had a hold on her, the image on the website reminding her of their original encounter. It clouded her mind, dulling her senses as she relived the moment again.

She gave herself an angry shake, drawing a frown from the man standing beside her. She wasn’t there to go over old memories; she needed to finish what had started over a year ago on the battlefield.

Find Erik Harrison and kill him.

Only then would she be able to retake her place among the other Valkyries and go back to Valhalla.

The thought snatched her breath away as the far cage door opened and a man stepped in.

Not Erik but his opponent.

Brenna raised an eyebrow at the hulking, bare-chested man thumping his chest as he circled the ring, encouraging yells and screams from the spectators.

She might not get her chance if this man had his way.

…

Erik strode into the ring, raising his hands as the crowd screamed their approval.

Matty let out a grunt, standing at the opposite side of the ring. The long dark hair was pulled back into a braid, swept back over his shoulder—a trap. Erik had seen others fall for the temptation, losing points for dishonorable fighting and giving the thick-necked Iowan sympathy votes.

Stunts like that wouldn’t be tolerated at this level of competition.

It shouldn’t be hard to take the giant down, having done it before. All he had to do was stay focused and pay attention.

Erik took his corner and nodded at the referee across the way. No assistants, no pit crew standing by to prepare Erik. Just a towel draped over the top of the cage for use between rounds and it would be pulled away when the bell rang.

The man waved them to the center of the ring. “Right. You know the rules. No eye gouging, no biting. The usual. Give a good fight, a clean fight, give ’em what they want, and we all walk away winners.” He looked from one man to the other, waiting for the approving nods.

Erik gave a brief jerk of his head, not looking away from his competitor’s bloodshot eyes.

Matty did the same.

“Right, then. Back to your corners.” As soon as the pair did so, he raised a hand. “Let’s do this. Three, two, one—fight!” He ran to the open door. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving the two fighters alone.

Matty charged at Erik, uttering a war cry as the audience cheered and stamped their feet. It set up an addictive rhythm, matching Erik’s racing heart as he ducked under the swinging arm. He laid a punishing series of blows on the large man’s kidneys before swiveling away, out of reach.

Another duck and punch with a jab to the belly, switching it up to make sure there was no routine, nothing to prepare for.

This would take time, but he could outlast the larger man. Matty’s bulk made him look threatening at first glance, but over time the giant would tire and lose his concentration, making it easy to knock him out.

Erik jabbed at the bulbous nose before leaping back, his plans made. Add in a flourish for the crowd and then he could deliver the final…

Something caught his attention, right at the edge of his vision. He snapped his head around as if someone had slapped him.

No.

He stared at the blonde woman through the steel diamonds.

In a blink, he was back on the battlefield, the eerie silence surrounding him as she took his friends’ souls and came to him. His throat went dry as he recalled his refusal, his demands that she explain herself.

And the kiss. That brief, life-changing kiss before she left him alone and bleeding out, the medics charging in to try and save him.

Erik had spent months thinking the wartime illusion signaled a break with sanity. He told himself it’d been a reaction to the ambush, nothing more. A hallucination brought on by the injuries and the trauma.

But he was wrong. Because his hallucination stood on the other side of the wire fence.

He studied her, trying to fit the mirage with the reality. No wings, no armor or lance. The black leather jacket and jeans suited her, the white blouse gaping open to show a flash of pale skin. She was real, and she was here.

Here.

A thick meaty hand landed on his shoulder, digging into his flesh.

Erik’s stomach sank, the rest of the world rushing back into focus as he remembered where he was and what he was doing. Or not doing.

Too late.