Page 19 of Villains Never Die

The man who entered the ring was surprisingly small, much shorter than the previous fighters who were built like mountains and oozed rage from their pores. He entered the ring with unnerving calm and the kind of smugness that comes from many victories. Idiot. If there was one thing I had learned from my business, it was never to feel so victorious as to let one’s guard down. Sweat already shone on his bald head in the heat of the club. His unfazed demeanor did not stop half the crowd from roaring, stomping, and cheering his name.

His opponent received the other half of the spectators’ appreciation. The announcer said he was a promising newcomer, to which he responded by letting pillars of flame burst from his hands and scald the ceiling, which raised a second wave of shouts. It did not rattle the first man who approached until they met in the middle of the room.

And then the fight began.

There was no hesitation, no test. The two men came at each other, fists and magic flying. Their magic seemed basic, all elemental things magicians learn as children—fire, water, air, earth. Nothing impressive. When they failed to do more than scorch and drench each other, the smaller man turned to the weapons table and wrapped his hands around a scarred baseballbat. He swung at his opponent, who dodged and kicked the other man’s legs from beneath him. He fell to the ground and rolled, clutching the bat fast to his chest, refusing to drop it. Rising to his knees, he swung hard at the other man’s legs and bought himself time to stand as his opponent bellowed and collapsed hard under the weight of his own bulk. He brought the bat down on the man’s back—once, twice, thrice. The man did not get up.

Another win to feed his false sense of security.

The crowd booed at the brief fight, and the half who had bet on him settled into their seats with crossed arms and palpable disappointment.

The winner raised his arms once and turned in place before he walked out of the cage mostly unharmed. The same cleanup crew removed the loser and prepped the cage for the next fight. I focused on the ones who neared the weapons table, but they were too fast and efficient for me to see what was happening. Most of them wore gloves. I suppose it kept blood and saliva and whatever else off their skin.

There it was, though. When they exited the cage, a single knife caught the light among the weapons. The crowd around me shuffled, completely oblivious as anticipation buzzed through the room like an electrical pulse.

“And now,” the announcer declared, “tonight’s main event!”

Two fighters entered the ring one after the other. They were roughly the same height and weight, both shirtless and muscular. One had long black hair pulled into a knot on top of his head. The other had a long scar through one milky eye.

They squared up on either side of the cage, and the scarred one glared with his one good eye.

“You’ve seen them in the cage before, but their last fight took an eye, and I think the loser might be back for blood tonight! Lee ‘The Death Dealer’ Paris versus Jacob ‘The Eye of the Storm’ Dodds!”

Every single person in the room, aside from me, roared. The building shook with shouts, stomps, and clapping hands. I was too busy watching the fighters circle one another, showing off more than the previous competitors and riling up their fans. I cataloged each pass Paris made near the weapons table. He was subtle, but I noticed him take stock of his choices.

A bell rang and Dodds launched himself at Paris. No punches, no playing around, just straight to the floor with bruising force that knocked all the breath from Paris’s lungs. They grappled for a few minutes, passing the upper hand back and forth with neither of them gaining the advantage. Tired of rolling around with him, Paris shoved his knee into Dodds’s stomach and sprang to his feet. Dodds was only half a second behind him, finding his footing with the grace of a dancer. He closed the gap between them and punched low and close to Paris’s frame—stomach, ribs, back. Places that would leave pain for the next few days, if Paris had days left to feel it. He tried to break away from the assault and finally escaped with a somersault across the dirty floor.

He stood next to the weapons table, hand whipping out to grasp the handle of the hunting knife laid out among other choices. Gray was right…and so were the spirits.

The moment he tightened his grip on the weapon, his eyes lost focus. His head swiveled from side to side across the arena, and he collapsed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

The crowd exploded, then fell eerily quiet as they noticed the blood, the complete lack of movement or breath. A dead Death Dealer ruined in front of them—not the entertainment they came for. They’d still talk about it for days, and the ones who were gluttonous for violence would come back and bet double on Dodds the next time. I laughed, imagining Rook trying to piece together what happened as I slunk out of the building.

***

For the next four days, I slept harder than the dead. I even took Sunday off. They say self-care is important, right? All was quiet from Rook until my phone buzzed with a text message in the middle of the night as I soaked in the massive jacuzzi tub in my bathroom. I picked up the phone, somehow knowing it was him before I even opened it.

Rook: I know it was you.

What was me?

I lay back against the edge of the tub, the glow of my phone illuminating a rare grin.

Rook: Don’t fuck with me.

How good does that kiss taste now?

Rook: I’m going to fucking kill you.

And then, a second text right away.

Rook: And you were the one who kissed me, England. Enjoy the time you have left.

I set my phone aside, completely unbothered by his threats. Let him stew in his defeat. Maybe he’d shut his gaping mouth for once now that he’d lost the star of his show.

Without Rook bothering me all the time and taking up too much space in my head, I could return to business and spend more time on my extracurricular research. I’d gotten payback, and I’d cured my ridiculous obsession.

That was my fatal mistake. Like the fighter at Rook’s club, I let my guard down—just this once—so sure that I had won.