Page 10 of The Isles of the Gods
“Let’s hope there’s more to our prince than you think,” he counters.
“I doubt it,” I reply—and before he has a chance to respond, I jump down into the gap between the crates, shoving my way back through it again.
I have the strongest urge to look over my shoulder, but I make myself keep my gaze dead ahead. I don’t have time to think about him. There’s only one thing on my mind that matters, and she’s moored at the end of the northern dock.
Even if I have to swim across the harbor and climb up her side like a boarding pirate, by dawn I’ll be sailing for the north aboard theFreya.
JUDE
Handsome Jack’s Tavern
Port Naranda, Mellacea
The crowd roars like a monster as I lash out, flicking up my wrist at the last instant so I land the punch with the heel of my hand instead of my knuckles.
It’s a dirty move.
I don’t care.
The other guy staggers back, spitting blood and calling foul, and the crowd-monster surges around us as I dance on the balls of my feet, taunting him.
The boxing ring is underground, the only light coming from lanterns swinging from the ceiling. My long shadow sways beside me as I wait for him to recover his balance, my breath coming quick. It’s too soon to go in for the kill—the monster wants feeding first, and with my pulse pounding, skin slicked with sweat, I feel utterly alive. More than willing to provide the meal.
He wipes his mouth clear of blood with one bare hand, leaving a smear of crimson across his cheek, and raises his fists once again. This time he’s sizing me up with more care, pale eyes flickering over me.
Half his size, sure. But twice as fast.
I rake my damp black hair back from my eyes, meeting his gaze square on. And he’s the one who looks away.
Around us the crowd is a blur, but it’s becomingmymonster, just as it always does—roaring advice and protests, making bets and shouting for drinks. Light glints off glasses, acrid cigar smoke wafts through the ring, and I surge forward again.
The big man’s fist swings around with terrifying speed, and I jerk down to avoid it, teeth clicking together and sending a sharp pain shooting up to my temples. I push back up before he recovers, taking advantage of that moment he’s off balance to strike again, this time connecting above his eye, splitting the skin so the blood pours free, and the monster’s roar grows deafening.
He shakes his head like a wet dog, trying to clear his view. I dance in after him, weaving past a clumsy punch to land a blow under his chin, his head snapping back.
Then hands are grabbing at my shoulders, pulling me away. I shout, trying to wrench free, but the fingers dig in tighter, and now I register the voice in my ear.
“Jude, stop! Stop, can you hear me? Take a break before you finish it!”
Slowly I lower my fists and let the landlord’s men tug me backward, away from my staggering opponent.
A break, time for another round of bets—the larger the pot,the more my cut will be—and then I can finish him off. He’s stumbling to his own corner of the makeshift ring, swaying against the pairs of hands waiting for him.
“Try not to knock him down in the first ten seconds,” the handler behind me growls in my ear, hands tight on my shoulders, as though I need to be held back from lunging forward, overtaken by bloodlust. The grip is mostly for show, for the gamblers, though I have no trouble keeping my scowl in place.
This is my persona, what they want from me. The cold-blooded killer. The private school boy dragged down into the gutter, proof the rich are no better than them.
“Did you hear me, Your Lordship?” the handler growls again.
“Don’t call me that,” I mutter.Thatpart of it isn’t true. Never was.
“Keep clear of him, drag it out,” the man insists.
“I think I can resist him,” I say, never taking my eyes off the man opposite us, though he refuses to look at me. Beaten already, and both of us know it. “I go for much prettier guys.”
The man laughs in my ear, and someone offers me a towel to dry off my face. I let the roughness of the fabric on my skin block out the noise and light. Sometimes, if I’m tired enough, push my body hard enough, I can stop thinking, stop feeling, and justbe.That moment’s close now, and I want it with an ache that never leaves me.
But when I lift my head, Dasriel’s mountainous figure is carving a path straight through the crowd, like he hasn’t even noticed they’re there. He has his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off the emerald-green magician’s marks etched onto his skin, flames curling in on and consuming one another.
