Chapter Three

Immediately the crowd notices: We’ve left the confines of the tunnel. We’ve been released into the wild. If they were loud before, it is nothing compared to now. Their screams meld into one, and it fills my eardrums like liquid lead. It is so loud I can hear nothing at all.

The glaring lights of the ring are still eighty paces away—I know the walk well, too well. A shoestring of space slithers before us, and fingers snatch at me with every step. Some yell, most boo. It is the Preme they are booing, not me. He’s the guest fighter, and an elite one at that. It is too bad I will disappoint them in the end.

I will be disappointed, too. I don’t like to lose. I wonder, as the faces wash into a blur around me, whether it is a good trait or bad. My mother would say it is bad, that it is petty. Everything is petty, I suppose, when you’ve been to hell and back. But my father would think it’s good, a killer’s instinct.

I find Maggie’s face in the crowd, and her lips are pressed into a tight line as she watches me. She doesn’t smile; she doesn’t yell. But she is strong-minded, and she knows I am, too. So she claps and nods encouragingly as I pass. Emerald cheers loudly next to her, and her hand clenches into a fist once our eyes meet. She believes in me.

It is a shame she didn’t get paired with the Preme. Muscles ripple under her brown skin like she was born for this. She loves it—the fight, the crowds, the pain. She is one of the best, and she might even have a chance against the Preme.

Hunter is next, and his face is paper-white. He doesn’t clap; he just gazes uneasily at the Preme. He is fearful for me, and it makes my insides squeeze so hard that I need a distraction.

So I set my face into its most disinterested expression and glance over my shoulder at my opponent. Arms jostle me, but I barely notice, just as he seems not to notice the hands that paw at his chest. I can see it in his eyes. Danger. But something resembling fear, too. They sweep over the crowds too quickly; that is his tell. When his gaze meets mine, I smile. “Scared, Preme?”

He says nothing. His eyes simply tick away, back to the masses. But his lips press together ever so slightly…

The disinterest on my face isn’t just for show. It runs deep, and right now it courses from the chambers of my heart through to my extremities. The first punch will hurt, yes, just like the sting of lemon juice. Then I won’t notice.

We climb into the ring and face each other under the lights. The ref has yet to follow, but once he does—once he climbs into the ring—the fight will begin. I shake out my arms and jump up and down.

But the Preme just stands there, staring to the side. And once again, he distracts me.

Finally I can take it no longer. “Wake up!” I shout from a foot away. I remember his words from inside the tunnel. “This is a fight, did you know?”

His eyes narrow as they meet mine. “You feel like joking around right now? What’s wrong with you?” He shakes his head, and I stop bouncing. My arms drop to my sides.

I take a step closer so he can hear every word. “Are all Premes this pissy? Oh, wait—stupid question.”

“Do all Means think it’s normal to beat up girls?”

I am silent. Now I know what is bothering him. He must have signed up for today’s fight on a whim, having no clue as to the rules—or lack thereof—that surround this most violent entertainment.

“I can’t fight you,” he adds.

I resume bouncing and smirk. “Who says you’re going to beat me up?”

He gives me a look. “Come on.”

Something inside me recoils at this unusual boy. At his gentlemanly nature. At his kindness. I liked it better when he was calling me a waste of his time. When he refused to listen to the ref. That is the kind of thing I expect from a Preme.

So my arm twitches, and I punch him. I punch him hard, a right hook to the middle of the face. It is a hard smash, completely unprotected. A sucker punch, and the crowd goes wild.

There are no rules, not here. The fight is on.

He stumbles back a pace, his hand moving instinctively to a nose that now bleeds. I wanted to draw blood, and I have. My next goal is to stay on my feet for as long as possible. Do maximum harm until he knocks me out cold.

I do not accept his refusal to fight.

My next punch is knocked away, and it makes my forearm sting. Our eyes meet, and I see he is mad. He meant for that block to hurt. I swallow a smile and attack again, manage to land a hit to his ribs before I’m pushed backward with shocking force. He is strong. The moment he decides to fight, I am done for.

“Stop it!” he yells. “You’re going to get hurt.”

I kick the outside of his thigh and see him grimace. “No quitters allowed.” I launch another attack, but this time he stirs. His eyes flash, and he punches, lands a firm strike to my cheek before I can land one on him.

It rattles my skull and lights fire to my skin, but then the sensation is gone and there is nothing left but dull, aching bone. I raise an eyebrow. “Looks like you can hit a girl after all.”

“It didn’t feel that bad, either,” he snarls.

He punches me low in the ribs, and I keel over, but only for a second. I force my spine to straighten.

“I might feel bad,” he continues, “if you were even the least bit pleasant.” He launches forward, and a small bullet of panic streaks through me, but instead of hitting me, he grabs my arms and forces them behind my back. He pushes me against the ropes. It is an unusual thing to do and one I don’t resist, not yet.

“You can’t move—it’s over!” he yells in my ear over the chanting of the crowd. “Tell the ref it’s over.”

Instead I drive my knee up, making him groan loudly, making his head knock backward with pain.

A heartbeat later, he cracks his skull into my face, and my eyesight is lost in a sea of red. My face is warm and slippery wet. The cheering fans sound a million miles away, and my brain sizzles from the impact. My neck feels like a wet noodle.

He is cruel, I think.

It was a cheap shot, a dangerous one. But I suppose I set the tone, punching before the fight began.

Before I can see again, he releases my arms and hits me square in the stomach. It sends bile to my mouth, and for an instant I’m transported back in time, to when I was just nine years old. It was my first fight, and my opponent was a thirteen-year-old boy, seemingly twice my size and with a fierce temper. The terror is what I remember. The twist of his lip as he toyed with me. I shook with fear, enough that vomit started up my throat, tasting just like now. And then he clobbered me. Strangely enough, I don’t remember much about the fight itself. Only the fear before it.

I give myself a shake, force my mind to the present. Relax, Eve. The lemon juice has spilled. The first jolt of pain—real pain—has arrived. The rest doesn’t matter. Not really.

I block his next punch with my wrist and ignore the stinging of bone on bone, instead landing an elbow under his chin that I know must jar his brain. Then I kick him again, full impact. Guys don’t often kick, so they never expect it.

Another punch of his finds me, this one to the jaw. This one hard. It knocks me down, and before I can pull myself up again, he is over me, his chest rising and falling quickly like he has sprinted across the Bowl instead of tossing me around ten square feet of it. Even with blood coating his face, he is handsome.

It makes me like him even less. I try another punch, but he grabs my fist and squeezes it until I wince. Danger streaks loudly across his eyes, much louder than before.

“Stop!” I shriek before I mean to. But my bones will buckle soon.

He freezes. “Stop? Is that what you said?” His head turns to look for the ref. He is desperate to be finished—I can see that. More desperate than me.

I use his momentary distraction to my advantage. My loose fist connects with his eye socket, forcing him back. It makes my knuckles scream, even through the wrapping. But it hurts him more, I am sure of it.

The crowd howls. It is a good fight; I am doing Blue Circuit proud.

“Stop fighting!” he screams at me. Instead I launch myself at him.

He punches me so hard I find myself on the floor before I know what has happened. When I open my eyes, there is only blackness. My palms feel the coolness of the ring floor, and though every cell screams with unbearable pain, I push. Up. Up. Keep fighting. At all costs.

But something hits me on the back of the head. Something hard. It feels solid, cold. Like metal. Are there weapons allowed in here? Maybe it was the Preme’s foot. Maybe it was his fist. Maybe it was his head. Maybe I should let sleep take me because that is all I really want to do right now. Get away from his flashing eyes.

If I could just lay my head down.

But it is down, I can feel that now. My cheek is pressed to the floor. Has it always been there?

Perhaps the fight hasn’t started yet. Maybe the day hasn’t, either. Yes, that’s it. I’m in my cell now. Go back to sleep, Eve.

I let my eyes fall shut, or maybe they already were. Next I let myself fall sideways. Down and away. Gone.