Page 36 of Heimlock

“You like people to be smilers?”

I look at Trinte, holding his gaze. Webs of laugh lines crease the edges of his eyes. “I like people who are themselves.”

His gaze heats my blood, his energy sizzling my flesh. The room fades away; all that exists is his attention. “How do you know they’re being themselves?”

The question makes me frown. “I don’t know.”

14

Age 25

Some doors are harder to open than others. The door to a restaurant? Easy. The door to the dentist's office? Hard. The door to a full cabinet of food. Easy. The door to your bedroom? Depends on who you’re living with.

This door … this red door is difficult. Right above it, Brawling Battle Gym is painted in white lettering.

From the other side is the scent of ball sweat and other body odors. Grunts are on repeat, like a broken but intimidating record. Men bigger, stronger, and taller than me are inside.

But I’m here specifically to make that a non-issue.

“What are you doing here, little girl?”

I whirl around, flames already at my fists, chest heaving. It’s a regenerator; well over a foot taller than me. Pitch black, almost seven feet tall, with pure white eyes. An inch-thick streak of red breaks weaves through his black hair. When he smiles, I nearly pee myself.

He looks down at the flames encasing my tight fingers. The terrifying smile widens. He looks up. “Is it a correct assumption that you’d like to sign up?”

“Is this okay here?”

“More than okay. That’s going to be a fan favorite.” He steps past me, opening the door. I jump back, keeping distance between us. He notes the response with a flicker of surprise across his midnight face, but says nothing.

I follow him into the brightly lit battle gym. It's far more packed than the sound indicated. All sorts of species exist in this space, more than I’ve ever seen in one place. Orcs, Elves, Gargoyles, a couple of Satyrs, Dragons, and even a group of Vampyres.

No females.

Dozens of eyes follow our movements; my gut instinct to flee blares an alarm. It’s okay. It’s safe. The regenerator greets a few fighters, but introduces me to no one. Looks linger, but no one says anything.

The regenerator leads me to an office, banging open the door. It’s small, with pictures of fighters all over the wall. A worn chair sits behind an equally tattered looking desk. He motions to the rickety chair in a corner.

“Have a seat.”

I stand at the doorway, ready to burn this entire place down if he tries to kidnap me. “Uh, who are you? I’m not going to sit in an office with an old guy who could just be the janitor on a power trip.”

The regenerator sits back in his chair, appraising me with steepled fingers. It’s a bit pompous. “Are you going to talk back like that during training?”

His even tone is far more disturbing than if he’d yelled at me. “Maybe. Are you a janitor on a power trip, or are you the guy I’m supposed to talk to?”

“I’m the guy who asked you to sit, which you’ve yet to do so. Either sit or get out.” It’s difficult to see facial expressions on regenerators, especially in a dim room like this. But I get the sense a janitor would’ve caved by now.

Closing the door behind me, I sit, spine straight. “What’s your name?”

“Richor.”

My eyes light up. “You’re Richor the Regenerator.”

“A little on the nose, if you ask me,” he says dryly. “But yes, that’s my stage name. Call me Coach.”

So he isn’t an egotistical janitor. “I don’t know how this works. I was told there’s training here. Figured it couldn’t hurt to stop by.”

“Why?”