“Have you ever been to the Draka before, Dr. Morin?” Miloš said, raising his voice to a near shout.
Upon finishing the injections, several of Nikolić’s men had escorted Mason through the crowded stadium and up the stairs to one of the middle tiers, where a series of private boxes had been set up. Little more than folding chairs in groups of four sequestered from each other by waist-high curtain dividers, these afforded a birds-eye view of the entire fighting ring below. A champagne stand and ice bucket waited for them in Nikolić’s booth; his friend Miloš had already taken the liberty of popping the cork and pouring some for both himself and for Sofiya, who sat beside him, a half-empty flute in her hands.
Nikolić had yet to join them, however. He’d remained on the ground level, offering Mason a vague and somewhat mumbled excuse about having “one more business matter to attend to.” Mason had no idea what it might have entailed, but it was keeping Nikolić busy, that was for sure. Which meant he was stuck in Miloš’s company, which he’d decided was not such a bad thing, if only because it kept Sofiya safe.
“No,” he admitted in response to Miloš’s question. “It’s my first time.”
At this, Sofiya giggled, a high-pitched sound she immediately tried to muffle with her hand. Mason couldn’t help but turn to her in surprise. She was normally so stoic and quiet, and in the car ride, had been timid and afraid. When she met his gaze, she laughed again, color flushed brightly in her cheeks. “I…I am sorry, da?” she said in halting English. “I…I am…first, too.”
“She’s drunk,” Mason said, arching his brow.
“Da, quite.” Miloš tipped his head back and laughed. “Who do you think has been drinking all of this champagne?” He leaned over and topped off her glass, then held up the bottle in invitation to Mason.
“Yeah. Please.” Mason nodded, with another glance at Sofiya. “What the hell.”
Miloš grinned as he poured Mason a glass of champagne. “You’re in for a treat tonight,” he assured him. “Vladan’s told you the Draka rules?”
Mason accepted the flute with a nod of thanks. Taking a long sip, he said, “Don’t they just beat the shit out of each other?”
Miloš laughed. “Something like that, yeah.”
“Is good, da?” Sofiya said to Mason, pointing to his glass. She tried to say something else, but kept stumbling over her words. Turning to Miloš, she spoke in Russian and he chuckled.
“She says the bubbles tickle her tongue,” he said by way of translation.
“Yes, bubbles.” Sofiya nodded, giggling again. “They tickle.”
Isn’t she a little young for champagne? Mason wanted to ask, but then realized the ridiculousness of the question. The poor girl was in the United States illegally, living in a brothel, for Christ’s sake, her virginity in the hands—and wallet—of the man sitting next to her, his hand on her thigh, high above her knee. Mason tried not to visibly bristle, reminding himself he’d do a fat lot of good to Sofiya and Julien if he got himself shot for punching the smarmy son of a bitch in the face.
“So in Draka, the rules…they’re simple,” Miloš said. “Fighters earn one point for each punch, kick, elbow, or knee strike to their opponent. They get two points if they throw their opponent to the ground, and three points if they kick or hit their opponent to the mat. They can win by getting the most points in three rounds, or by knock-out.”
“Sounds easy enough,” Mason said. “Who counts the points?”
Miloš pointed toward the ring. “The judges do,” he said, indicating three men at a folding table, all dressed almost identically in nondescript suits, their receding hairlines all combed over and greasy, their eyes squinting against the glare of stage lights as they looked up at the ring.
Unlike those used in boxing, the Draka ring was more like a cage, encircled by chain link fencing at least ten feet in height, capped at the top by coils of razor wire. Nikolić’s booth was so close to the action that Mason could have literally leaned over and stretched out his hand to brush his fingertips against the edge of the wire, had he wished. The only point of entry or exit was a narrow gate through which a man now stepped; dressed resplendently in a dark suit and blood-colored tie, he carried a cordless microphone in hand and smiled broadly as he turned in a slow-moving circle, taking in the full breadth of the crowd.
He must be the ringleader of this circus, Mason thought as the man spoke into the microphone, welcoming the crowd to a burst of enthusiastic applause.
Miloš grinned. “It’s time, then,” he exclaimed, leaning forward to again grab the champagne bottle from its stand. As he topped off his glass, then refilled Sofiya’s, he glanced in Mason’s direction. “Some more champagne for you, Doctor?”
Sofiya tilted her head back, guzzling the wine. It didn’t take a genius to realize that beneath the bleary haze of inebriety, the kid was terrified. Not that he blamed her. Not one goddamn bit.
Scooting his chair closer to Sofiya’s, he managed a disarming smile. “Sure,” he said with a shrug. “I think it’s time for a toast.”
* * *
Julien couldn’t see for shit and that was the worst part. Worse than the sore spot on the back of his head where he’d been struck by the assault rifle, the gnawing ache that had formed in the muscles spanning his shoulders and spine from where his arms had been trussed together in the goddamn sex-gimp sleeves, or the muggy, musty air he kept sucking in and out of his lungs inside the thick mask.
He was effectively blind in the mask, and he hated it. He hated the dark, period. Lamar had sometimes locked him in that little, grave-like recess dug out of the floor beneath his library when he’d been a boy, and he had very vivid memories of lying in the dark, gulping for breath, convinced that his father meant for him to die there. He wasn’t claustrophobic as a result; too many years had passed since those days, and he’d learned to overcome the stifling terror that had once threatened to overcome him in tight or enclosed places. But he did still hate the dark. Especially with his telepathy out of commission, because then he really was blind; he couldn’t even see through the eyes of those around him, or rely on their thoughts, their perceptions, to give him some semblance of orientation.
He didn’t know where he was. He was on his knees, not because Nikolić had left him that way, but because it had been easier to keep his balance. With his hands and arms awkwardly bound, it was nearly impossible to keep his footing. The floor beneath him was concrete, cold and hard. He could hear the muffled bass line of distant music, and the more immediate sounds of footsteps and voices coming and going in rapid succession from somewhere close at hand. If he leaned slightly to the right, he could feel a wall with his shoulder. If he tilted his head slightly up from there, he could feel the bottom edge of a sink. He smelled human sweat, human blood, but most significantly, human urine and feces, which led him to suspect he was in a bathroom. Which made sense if the door could be locked; Nikolić would want him someplace where he could be locked in. The better to keep him out of trouble.
He froze when he heard the bathroom door squeak on its hinges, then quietly close. For a long moment, there was only the ragged sound of his own breathing inside the mask, but through the tiny air holes cut into the snout, he detected a familiar scent.
“Every time I turn around, you’re causing trouble for me, mišiću.” Nikolić said.
Julien turned his face toward the sound of his voice. “So sue me.”
“You busted up my lab, killed more of my men,” Nikolić said. “And my girl, Anna…you messed up her face.”
“She’s still got her tits. Put a bag over her head.”
“And always with the smart-ass mouth.” The tone of Nikolić’s lent itself to a bemused smirk. Julien heard the rustle of fabric as the big man folded his long, thick legs beneath him, squatting down next to him. “It’s almost time for the Draka.”
“I’m not fighting.”
“Oh, but I say you are.” Nikolić’s hand fell abruptly, heavily between Julien’s thighs.
“Get your fucking hand off me!” Startled, Julien twisted in recoil and fell onto his side, smacking his head and shoulder hard enough against the floor to leave little pinpoints of light dancing momentarily against the backdrop of his blindfold.
Nikolić reached for him again, his fingers curling around Julien’s cock through the front of his pants. “But I thought you liked it like this. I mean, I know you’ve fucked women before, but your preference is this, no? A man’s hands on you. His mouth. Or at least, one man’s hands and mouth.” When Julien’s eyes widened in surprise beneath the mask, his breath catching in a sharp gasp, Nikolić chuckled. “Oh, da. I know your secret now…your weakness.”
Julien felt him tug against the front of the mask, and then the blindfold panel fell away. The sudden shift from darkness to bright lights hurt his eyes, and he winced, clamping them shut. Then he heard Mason’s voice, soft and somewhat tinny, and his eyes flew wide again in bewildered alarm.
“I love you,” he heard Mason say.
Nikolić had his cell phone in hand, holding it out in front of Julien’s face. To his surprise—to his horror—Julien saw the grainy image of a digital surveillance recording, one that appeared to have been taken from a camera hidden in the ceiling of the room at the brothel in which he’d been held prisoner. He saw Mason on his knees in front of him as he sat, chained to the pipe, on the floor. Mason held his face between his hands, and had his forehead pressed against Julien’s.
“Don’t say that.” The sound of his own voice in recordings had always sounded alien to him, like that of a stranger. “I’ve done so many things…such awful things, Mason. I don’t deserve—”
When Mason kissed him onscreen, Julien couldn’t suppress a groan of dismay. He’d felt so vulnerable in that moment; for once, he’d given in to that vulnerability and allowed himself the luxury of that kiss. Now he railed at himself for his foolish naïveté—still alive and well, and getting him into deeper and deeper shit all the time, even now at two hundred and forty years of age. Of course Nikolić would have had him under surveillance, even chained and bound as he’d been. Wouldn’t he have done the exact same thing had their positions been reversed?
Stupid, he thought. Stupid, stupid—how could I have been so goddamn stupid?
“There is more than one way to skin a cat, no?” Nikolić remarked. “And I’m willing to bet more than one way Dr. Morin will prove useful to me.”
“No!” Julien cried, stricken.
“I liked the story you told me about your brother, though,” Nikolić continued. “The one who died. Victor, was it not? Phillip, he told me about him. He said Victor was an ass.”
His father’s words echoed in Julien’s mind, Lamar’s threats against Mason, brutal and unveiled: It would be a shame, would it not…? To disrupt a life so perfect…so blissfully unaware? …I will keep him naked and chained like a dog in my cellar for the remainder of his days, and for every act of defiance you offer me, boy—every argument or contrary plea—I will violate him anew.
Only this time, Mason was already a prisoner, as completely, utterly, and hopelessly at Nikolić’s mercy as Julien. And no other threat but this was needed.
“Don’t hurt him,” Julien said. “You son of a bitch, leave Mason out of this. If you touch him, I’ll—”
“…do nothing.” Nikolić cut in. “Not without my permission. Not anymore. You don’t feed without my say-so, piss without my say-so…” He slid his hand beneath the waistband of Julien’s sweatpants to grip his cock firmly, skin on skin. “…come without my say-so. You belong to me now.”
Molly. In Julien’s mind he could see the interior of his father’s library and that same smug smile on Lamar’s face. He could see Jean Luc holding out the whip for him, his mouth silently moving, forming the cruel taunt. It was funny how easily that iron clamp of dread closed once more in his gut. It had only turned loose of him since Julianne had screamed the news of Lamar’s death into his ear, yet there it was again, tightening through his groin, settling in his gut and twisting taut already with sickening tension.
“Get your hand off me,” he said, struggling to prevent his body from responding, to stifle his most primal of physiological reactions even as Nikolić began to stroke him up and down, coaxing him to an unwilling—but unpreventable—erection. “Get your goddamn hand off me!”
But there was nothing he could do; he could no more protect Mason than he could stop Nikolić’s sexual assault—or his own body’s reaction to it—and to his dismay, he realized that he’d never been able to. He’d always been the good little doggie, first whoring himself to strangers to pay for Aaron’s medical care, and then to his father to pay for Mason’s safety. He’d been Lamar’s slave—his bitch—and now he’d be Nikolić’s.
“No,” Julien pleaded, closing his eyes, gritting his teeth. He clenched his fists so tightly inside the restraint sleeves, he could feel his nails digging in deep, drawing blood from the meat of his palms. “God, please…!”
“That’s it,” Nikolić murmured as he worked his cock faster, harder. His voice had grown rough, his breathing rapid and sharp. “That’s it—come on. Come for me.”
“N-no…!” Julien uttered a soft, ragged cry as, despite his protest, his body yielded against his will, and the bitter climax shuddered through him like a febrile chill.
“That’s it,” Nikolić breathed again, as, at last, his hand fell still and he drew away. For a long moment, he simply knelt there, nearly panting, while Julien curled onto his side, drawing his knees up to his chest like he always had when he’d been a child and had wanted to make himself small—although it had never proven quite small enough to hide from his father’s belt or his wrath.
Whenever one of his johns had finished with him in Boston, he’d longed for this same futile security; whenever they’d fucked him and paid him, their scattering of coins glinting in the moonlight atop his bedside table, and he’d laid there alone in the dark like a discarded scrap of paper, aching, exhausted, lonely and ashamed, he’d wished not for death, but to disappear; to simply fade away among the shadow-draped corners of his rented room and not be. It had been a long time since he’d felt that helpless, that hopeless…but like a well-worn and familiar slipper, he slipped into those emotions all-too easily once again.
“This is a good look for you,” Nikolić said as he rose to his feet. Reaching down, he tugged at the front of his pants, where the outward swell of his own arousal strained against the zipper of his fly. “Broken at last.” He lifted his hand, glancing at a glistening spot on the back of his knuckle where semen had spattered. Lapping it away with the tip of his tongue, he dropped Julien a wink. “I like it.”
Julien closed his eyes, his body rigid with shame and disgust, as Nikolić turned and left the bathroom. Where only moments ago, he might have mustered defiant resolve, in that moment, all he felt was the crushing weight of humiliation and despair. He was no more than a rent boy again, just as he’d always been; a good little doggie tethered to the lead of a new master.
Oh, God, just let it be over soon.
* * *
A match had gotten underway, and that kept Mason’s babysitter, Miloš, entertained. More importantly, it kept his hands off of Sofiya and to himself, where they belonged. While he was busy standing at the rail, alternately cheering and cursing in Russian, Mason scooted his chair even closer to Sofiya’s.
He said her name, but it only drew her reluctant gaze for a moment. She wore a dazed expression on her face, but he couldn’t tell if she was upset or if it was from the wine. “Are you…?” he whispered, more mouthing the words than speaking aloud. “Did…did he…?”
He couldn’t finish. Jesus Christ, he couldn’t bear the thought; didn’t know what he’d do if the man had sexually assaulted her. When she shook her head, he felt a rush of relief, though whether for her or for Miloš—who he’d pretty much decided he’d castrate with his bare hands if he’d touched Sofiya—he wasn’t sure.
“Where have you been?” Miloš exclaimed in delight, and Mason looked up as Nikolić returned to the booth. “The champagne’s almost all gone. We got sick of waiting on your ass!”
“I had some business to finish up downstairs,” Nikolić replied with a sideways glance at Mason as Miloš embraced him warmly. “A little matter to discuss with your boy, in fact.”
Julien? Mason thought, blinking in surprise. “I…I wouldn’t call Davenant my boy,” he said in awkward protest.
“And speaking of the devil dog…” Miloš said, turning back toward the ring, where a new match was about to begin. The emcee had come to the middle of the mat again to announce the fighters; it was already bloodstained in places, and he stepped almost daintily around the spatters and smears. “I think he’s coming up now, da?”
“Indeed,” Nikolić said as Mason stepped closer to the railing to peer down at the ring below. His heart suddenly hammered, his skin glossing with an anxious, clammy sweat. All he kept thinking of was the night in 1818 when Julien had taken to a similar ring for an equally illegal fight—the Midnight Rounds.
I can take this guy, Mason. I know it, Julien had insisted, but he’d suffered a knock-out blow within moments.
He’s going to be killed, he thought in dismay. As he looked down over the edge of the booth, past the glinting coils of razor wire, he saw Julien being led by armed guards into the ring. The black leather dog mask remained over his head, the blindfold in place, but the sleeve restraints were gone, his arms and ankles unbound. As the guards pulled the mask off, jerking it over Julien’s head, he blinked, disoriented, against the dazzling glare from the stage lights.
“In the red corner,” the emcee called out. “Fighting under the management of Vladan Nikolić and weighing in at one hundred and fifty-three pounds, at just under five-feet, seven inches tall, comes a virgin to the Draka ring…!”
The crowd went wild at this, screaming and clapping.
“He’s a mixed martial artist,” the emcee continued. “Trained in karate, kempo, aikido, and Jeet Kune Do, as well as kokawa—Nigerian bare-knuckle boxing, Brazilian Vacón, Phillipino Yaw-Yan, Muay Thai, French savate kickboxing, Krav Maga…”
The list went on and on, a veritable tongue-twister of martial arts disciplines from around the world. How in the hell can Julien have trained in all of this? Mason thought. He wouldn’t put it past Nikolić for a moment to bulk up that so-called resume to make Julien sound more skilled than he actually was.
“That’s an impressive resume for a man his age,” Miloš remarked, sounding equally dubious. “He’s all of what…? Thirty years old?”
Nikolić laughed. “Age is only a number,” he assured.
“And in the blue corner,” the announcer continued. “Fighting under the management of Pavel Leskov, weighing in at two hundred and ninety pounds, at six-feet, six inches tall, with a record of seven wins and no losses, with five knock outs—Dwayne ‘Goliath’ Garin!”
The arena erupted in cheers again, even louder this time, as a huge man, almost as broad through the shoulders as he was tall by Mason’s estimation, lumbered through the gate and into the ring.
Nikolić expects Julien to fight this guy? Holy Jesus!
“You can’t do this.” Mason grabbed Nikolić by the sleeve. “Stop the match, Nikolić. You’re going to get Julien killed. He’s not fully healed yet. If he takes a hit to his chest on that side, his lung could collapse again, or—”
“He won’t take a hit to his chest,” Nikolić said.
“He’s going to die in there,” Mason snapped.
“This is what he was made for.” Nikolić shrugged himself loose of Mason’s grasp. “I’ve seen what he can do, and it’s extraordinary. He’s extraordinary—his entire body, literally a living weapon.”
A living weapon? Julien? Mason couldn’t wrap his mind around it. “You’re crazy,” he whispered, shaking his head, stricken. “You…you’re out of your goddamn mind.”
“Are you a wagering man, Dr. Morin?” Nikolić asked. With a nod toward the ring, he added, “I bet our gud pas there wins his match without taking a hit.”
“Against that guy?” Miloš interjected, turning to gawk at the towering hulk called ‘Goliath’ again.
Mason blinked at Nikolić. He’d seen enough of the preceding match to understand this was not the sort of contest in which one walked away without at least throwing a punch or two. Again he thought of the Midnight Rounds in 1818. He still remembered the crack of the Russian fighter’s knuckles as they’d connected solidly with Julien’s chin, and the heavy thud as the younger man had crumpled to the ground. He had the sinking feeling this was going to be even worse.
“No.” He shook his head. “No, this is crazy.” Curling his fingers against Nikolić’s sleeve again, he leaned closer, pleading. “Stop the match. Please. Julien can’t fight this guy. Just look at him, for Christ’s sake.”
With a laugh, Miloš clapped his hands. “If he won’t bet you, then I sure as hell will.” He reached beneath his jacket lapel and pulled out a leather billfold. “Your doggie’s going down, Vladan.”
“I don’t want your money, Miloš,” Nikolić said mildly. “I had something more…interesting in mind for our wager.” As he spoke, he turned to look pointedly over his shoulder toward the back of the booth—and Sofiya, who remained in her chair, her shoulders hunched and trembling. Her cheeks glistened with the tracks of new tears.
Mason blinked again. “What?”
“If I’m wrong,” Nikolić said. “I’ll let her go.”
“What?” Miloš turned to him in surprise.
“I’ll let her go,” Nikolić said again. “Put her in a taxi, give her bus fare, whatever. She’ll be free.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Miloš’s bright expression soured. “We had a deal, Vladan.”
“Renege on that,” Mason said to Nikolić. “Give him his money back. Do that, set her free, and yeah, I’ll take your bet.”
“He can’t do that,” Miloš said, glaring first at Mason, then at Nikolić. “You can’t fucking do that!”
“And if I win?” Nikolić asked Mason, ignoring Miloš altogether. “What’s in it for me, Dr. Morin?”
“What did he pay you for Sofiya?” Mason asked. “I’ll double the amount. I’ll triple it—in cash. First thing tomorrow, you and me, we go to my bank and I’ll make the withdrawal.”
“We had a deal, Vladan,” Miloš protested again. “I already paid you. You can’t just change your mind whenever you damn well—”
Nikolić pushed him aside, knocking him into the nearest chair. “Triple his price. In cash.”
“If you win,” Mason added. “But if I win, she goes free.”
“Agreed.” Nikolić nodded, extending his hand. “Do we have a bet?”
Mason looked down at the ring again, where Julien stood facing off against his opponent. . Julien’s fighting skills may have improved since the early nineteenth century—he may indeed have become, as Nikolić had noted, a “living weapon”—but that son of a bitch in the ring with him was still fucking huge. Even as cut as Julien was, his body nothing but solid muscle, lean and strong, he still looked very small and vulnerable in contrast.
He’s going to be killed, Mason thought in dismay. But at the same time, he knew exactly what Julien would say—what he’d stubbornly insist on—if he’d been standing there with them and had a say-so in the matter.
“Yeah.” Reluctantly, Mason accepted the proffered shake, feeling Nikolić’s thick fingers clasp firmly with his own. “We have a bet.”
* * *
Ikken Hissatsu.
Roughly translated from Japanese, it meant one fist, certain death. In the discipline of karate, this was more of a metaphorical than literal tenet. Those who practiced the martial art understood its implication—that a disciplined warrior could effectively end a fight with a single, well-placed, well-chosen blow, no matter their opponent’s size.
And holy shit, size is going to be a factor here, Julien thought, craning his head back to look up at his opponent.
In 1957, he and Aaron had traveled to Naha City in Okinawa, an island off the coast of Japan. Here, they’d spent the better part of the next two years studying the principle of Ikken Hissatsu, among others, under the instruction of Sensei Nagamine Shōshin, developer of the Matsubayashi-ryū karate style. He’d been a quiet man, stoic and endlessly patient, the sort Julien had often wished for in a father-figure; one who had put his hands on Julien not out of anger, or in violence, but to guide his movements gently, directing his hands, his legs in strikes to very specific target points, emphasizing the motions of each blow, not just the outcomes, and honing in his impressionable charge a keen attention to the deliberate placement of his strikes that Julien maintained to that day.
Thus, as he faced off against Dwayne ‘Goliath’ Garin, knowing that he had no choice but to fight if he meant to keep Mason safe from harm, it wasn’t with alarm or apprehension, but with a sudden, overwhelming sense of focus. He breathed in and out, slow and deep, the deafening roar of the crowd fading in his mind, yielding to the sound of air in motion through his lungs. He let his feet settle instinctively into a ready stance as the emcee prattled on into his microphone; as the man stepped back, ducking through the ring’s gated point of entry to signal the match was about to begin, Julien folded his hands into light, ready fists, his brows narrowed slightly, his gaze already locked on what he intended to be his primary target.
From overhead, the blare of an air horn sounded the match’s start.
Game on, Julien thought as the big man began to bounce, dancing from side to side as if inviting Julien to make the opening move.
Fair enough. Julien shifted his weight, drawing his right leg up and away from his body, his knee flexed. In the same split-second motion, he pivoted on his foot, cocking his leg as if aiming his knee, gun-like, up at the bigger man’s head. With that, he kicked him, his foot flying, piston-like, his weight behind both the swing and the blow. Before Garin could even raise his hands to try and block him, Julien’s calf smashed into the side of his head, catching him just behind the ear and sending him reeling sideways, stunned. There was a tangle of nerves there; more importantly, the inner ear was nestled beneath the skull plates there—where the body’s sense of balance and orientation was controlled. Julien’s kick put it pretty much out of commission for the moment, and Garin came crashing down like his Biblical namesake. When he struck the mat, he hit hard enough to send a shockwave of vibrations shuddering through Julien’s feet clear up to his shoulders.
Game over, Julien thought, because the son of a bitch wasn’t getting up again anytime soon. He’d have a headache when he came to—and probably a nasty concussion worth an ambulance ride to the nearest emergency room to check out—but no lasting damage.
For a long moment, the crowd remained silent. The match was over almost as soon as it had started, lasting no more than five seconds, tops. Then, as realization seemed to settle over them, they began to applaud. The sound grew, intensifying, and within moments, they were deafening again, uproarious with approval.
As the emcee returned to the center of the ring to grasp Julien’s wrist, raising his arm to proclaim him officially the winner, another air horn blatted, announcing the end of the fight. Julien swept the tiered arena with his gaze, squinting against the glare of spotlights. He found Nikolić easily enough, his box seats just above the perimeter of razor wiring atop the ring cage, almost directly in front of him. Nikolić was grinning, a smug, satisfied look on the son of a bitch’s face like Julien had just done him a huge goddamn favor or something. But more importantly, Mason was there, standing beside Nikolić, staring down at Julien with a mixture of shock and abject relief on his face.
It was a moment—a relief—Julien shared.
You’re alright, he thought, and goddamn the collar that stripped him of the ability to speak to Mason with his mind and reassure him. Don’t worry about me—I got this. You’re safe and that’s all that matters.
That’s all that’s ever mattered to me.
* * *
“Come with me, Dr. Morin,” Nikolić said after Julien had been led from the ring. The crowd had settled down, and the emcee began introducing the next contenders. “Let’s go see our victor.”
He clapped Mason heavily on the shoulder, drawing his gaze. Nikolić still wore a shit-eating grin, his cheeks flushed with excited, eager color. He looked like a little kid enjoying an afternoon at the circus—and for once, Mason felt inclined to agree with his sentiments.
He never even got in a shot, he thought, awed, as the crowd began to cheer. Holy God, Julien took that guy out—as big as a fucking tree—without him even swinging a single punch!
As he followed Nikolić past Sofiya, he couldn’t help but spare a remorseful glance in her direction. If she was disappointed that he hadn’t won her freedom, however, it didn’t show in her face. She’d come to stand at the rail, pressed between Nikolić and Miloš, her eyes wide, her attention riveted on Julien. He supposed he should’ve known better, should have suspected Nikolić knew something he didn’t, considering how much the larger man stood to lose if he’d set Sofiya free. To have wagered something—or in this case, someone—of such significant value to him should have been a clue to Mason as to Nikolić’s confidence, and he couldn’t help but feel ashamed that he hadn’t shared this same certainty in Julien’s fighting ability.
But how the hell could I have known? he thought. The only time I ever saw Julien fight was in the Midnight Rounds. Well, unless you count that night in the woods outside of the spring house, when Jean Luc came upon us…
He paused as memories of that night came rushing back to him. For a few moments at least, a floodgate of violent fury had seemed to open inside of Julien, and he’d been a stranger to Mason as he’d pinned his brother to the ground and beaten the shit out of him.
There’s nothing of your father in you, Julien, I promise you, Mason had told him years later—although there had been times like that night when he’d bloodied Jean Luc’s face that even Mason hadn’t been fully convinced.
Still, neither incident could have begun to prepare Mason for what he’d just witnessed in the Draka ring. Julien had seemed neither cocky, like he’d been at the Midnight Rounds, nor out of control, as he’d been with Jean Luc. Rather, his focus had been unwavering from the moment he’d stepped into the ring; it hadn’t been until the fight was over that he’d even seemed to take notice of the crowd.
Leaving Sofiya in the care of the guards, Nikolić led Mason from the booth. As they made their way down to the ground floor, they stopped repeatedly so that Nikolić could exchange greetings, hand clasps, and affable embraces with spectators along the way. Though they spoke almost entirely in Russian, their meaning remained clear: all offered their congratulations on Julien’s victory as if it had been Nikolić’s own. Nikolić kept his cell phone in one hand the entire time, shooting glances at it frequently as text messages buzzed in and out in rapid-fire succession.
“You know how much our boy won for me?” he asked Mason with a grin. “Twenty-five thousand dollars. One kick—twenty-five grand! And that’s only off my bet alone. I get a cut from the bookie off the total take.”
Holy shit, Mason thought.
“By the end of tonight, I’ll have a quarter million dollars—tax-free, U.S. cash,” Nikolić continued happily. “At least that much. Maybe even more!”
“He’s going to fight again?” Mason asked with a sudden, sinking feeling.
Nikolić laughed. “Again? I’m going to wear his ass out. I’ve waited a long time for this—twenty years. I mean to enjoy it.”
Mason felt a cold chill steal down the length of his spine, sending an uneasy shudder through him. He remembered Andrei telling him that Nikolić hated Julien for something that had happened in their past:
Vladan had met him several years before the war. He told me the strigoi—your Julien—was the reason he’d enlisted in the Army. He’d caused trouble for Vladan somehow with his uncle, and Draško sent Vladan away.
Nikolić brought him to a restricted area constructed behind the arena. Here, the combatants readied for the Draka, or had their wounds tended to after each match. They found Julien sitting on a bench in a common dressing area with lockers, showers, and toilet stalls. Flanked on either side by men bearing locked and loaded assault rifles, Julien sat by himself, his elbows resting on his knees, his head lowered. Other fighters seemed to give him a wide and deliberate berth, though whether unnerved by the sight of the guards or simply having caught wind of his one-kick victory, Mason didn’t know.
When the guards saw Nikolić approaching, they stiffened to attention. One of them rammed the butt of his rifle into Julien’s back between his shoulder blades to draw his gaze from the floor. His expression remained impassive when he looked up at Nikolić, but when his gaze settled on Mason, it stayed there, even as Nikolić uttered a happy exclamation.
“My boy!” Leaning over, he clasped Julien’s face between his hands and gave him a loud kiss on each cheek in cosmopolitan fashion. Mason expected Julien to flinch or draw away, to snap something back in sharp retort, but to his surprise, instead, he said nothing, keeping his blue eyes fixed on Mason.
“You did well,” Nikolić praised, tousling Julien’s sweat-dampened hair as he straightened again. “Very, very well.” In an instant, however, his smile was gone and when he reached again for Julien, this time it was to clamp his hand firmly against Julien’s chin and jaw. “You stupid fuck.”
Julien winced as Nikolić forced his head back. Brows furrowed, Mason stepped forward, drawing in a sharp breath to speak, but he stopped when Julien cut him a quick, alarmed gaze. Don’t! that look seemed to convey, and without lifting his arm from his side, he tilted his hand up, his fingers spread out in a Stop! sort of gesture.
“What are you talking about?” he gasped, his face twisting with pain as Nikolić tightened his brutal grasp. “I fought the guy! I did what you said…!”
The desperation in his voice took Mason back two hundred years—back to a cold day in November when Julien had followed him, barefooted and barely dressed, down the front stairs of his boarding house. Why didn’t Julien fire off some smart-assed quip or tell Nikolić to go fuck himself? He’d just taken down a guy who was bigger than Nikolić—why didn’t he fight back?
“You make it too easy, your odds get too low,” Nikolić seethed in a low voice; only Mason’s heightened sense of hearing allowed him to discern his words. Leaning down, nearly nose to nose with Julien, he said, “I won big on you this time, mišiću, because you were twenty-four to one. Next match, you’ll be only two to one at best. Everyone will expect another knock-out from you. Next time, you trade some jabs. Let him hit you. But not in the face.” He released his grip on Julien’s face, then clapped his cheek roughly. “I want to keep you pretty.”
“Okay.” Julien’s breath and voice shuddered from him simultaneously as he hung his head, his shoulders hunched. “Alright.”
“Lock him up again,” Nikolić growled to his guards as he turned to walk away. “I don’t want him getting any funny ideas in his head about trying to escape.”
Mason looked back over his shoulder as he followed Nikolić begrudgingly out the door. Julien looked up to watch them go, and again, for a moment at least, he met Mason’s gaze, fleeting and sad.
I’m going to get us out of this, Julien, Mason thought as the door closed between them. You, me, Edi, and Sofiya—all of us, somehow, some way. I promise.