Page 49 of The Tenth Circle
Except this one has tunnels leading to train stations and other creepy corners.
Some say it used to be part of the transit system, others say it was built as a bomb shelter.
And those in touch with reality know exactly what an underground railroad built by rich white men was used for in the nineteenth century.
Mass transit, yes. But not from fucking Broadway.
I guess it makes sense for the bloodlines of fascists to party like it’s eighteen-fifty-nine in the same torture chambers their forefathers built on the blood and sweat of innocent people.
Bet you won’t find that wholesome detail in one of Archer’s fancy Riverside pamphlets.
The sound of cheers and music vibrates off the walls as I make my way down the steps—growing louder the closer I get to the bottom. The second my feet hit the ground I’m blinded by the lights, so I spend the entire journey in the tunnel to The Pit with a hand shielding my eyes.
There are people everywhere—dancing, drinking, snorting, hooking up—and I’m stuck fishing through each of them, shoving anyone who dares to step on my Doc Martens. By the time I pass the threshold of The Pit, my heart is banging like a drum and my breaths are heavy with anticipation.
Along with everyone else, my attention is drawn to the fight taking place in the center of the room between Tyler Baxton and Wayland Castle, who are both in my illustration class. They’re sporting matching black eyes, bloody faces, and ferocious glares as they dance around each other.
Yikes.
Based on the screams from the crowd and wads of cash bets in the fight runner’s hand, I’d say I just walked in on one of Riverside’s notorious Fight Nights.
The nosey bitch in me considers pausing the goose chase to see what happens, but the glimpse of brass around Wayland’s knuckles has three days worth of pent up rage flooding my system again. I use their distraction to my advantage and look for any sign of the Royal Heathens.
Their Lettermans. Hats.
False sense of superiority.
I come up empty on all three, that is, until a familiar cackle erupts to my right, and I don’t need the volume down to know who it is.
My gaze shoots to Riggs, sitting on the backrest of a stone bench, surrounded by a group of feral cheerleaders—one of them snorting something special off the tiny spoon from the stash necklace he’s constantly wearing.
“Yo!” I belt out, pushing past one of the bitches to get to him.
Riggs’ eyes light up like a Christmas tree. “Well, lookie who we got here!TheHendrix Montgomery.”
The cheerleaders are not as cheery as I stop in front of them. “I don’t have time for your shit, Riggs.”
“Of course you don’t!” He laughs again and leans forward, arm swaying as he points a finger at me. “You’re on a mad mission.”
There is no intoxication level high enough to misread my bitch face, so the idiot gets zero credit for knowing this.
“And you’re gonna help me.”
Riggs leans back and pulls at his necklace, twisting it open to hold out the spoon. “With one for the road?”
I contemplate a bump, I could use the adrenaline, but decide against it for the sake of avoiding a bad high.
“Not with that, you dumb ass.”
Riggs helps himself to my share, then twists the cap back on and curls his lips. “You wanna know where my boy is.”
I slap the side of my head as a “duh.”
He pinches his nose. “I really shouldn’t tell you…”
“And youreallyshouldn’t piss me off.”
Riggs chuckles and shoves the shoulder of a girl next to him, wanting her to join in on the laugh at my expense. When all she offers is an eye roll my way, he cuts his losses and jumps off the bench to stand in front of me.
