Page 85 of Sky Song
“I’ll make the arrangements.” Gus promptly disappeared. The other two shuffled excitedly before taking off after him.
“What arrangements?” Cricket addressed Ren sternly.
“They’ll put him in the ring,” he informed her matter-of-factly.
“What ring?”
“Actually, I better go make sure they don’t mess with the prep… too badly.” Ren rose.
Cricket grasped his arm. “What ring?”
“The fighting ring.” He deftly disengaged his arm and melted from view. Fricking alien.
Cricket rounded on her ‘friend.’ “Paloma!”
A thick fringe concealed the violet eyes. “I told you these guys were into fighting. It’s pretty lucrative with all the betting.”
Cricket gasped and leaned across the table to shout into Lyle’s face, “You’re not doing it! Forget the files - they’re crap, useless. We’re leaving.” An underground fighting ring, for fuck’s sake. This club was so not her vibe.
Lyle’s beautiful black eyes blinked, lazy-like, and he smiled at Cricket. Didn’t say anything, just smiled.
“Um, Emma. Cricket. Whatever…” Paloma began, also shouting to make herself heard over the music. “It’s a sport. A show. They have rules and safeguards against the hardcore stuff.”
Bitter, she felt betrayed, anxious. Lyle, with his gentle eyes and boyish smile, a heavyset, slow-moving alien on a life-sucking medication who couldn't even properly rest. What fighting ring?
“How much does Ren want for his work on the files?”
“I’m not sure,” Paloma hedged.
Liar. “I’ll find money. There’s no need for a fight.”
She took off in the direction of the bar. Elbowing aside drunk patrons that orbited there like icy gasses circled a giant planet, she braced her arms against the smooth surface, eyeballing the bartender as he served a drink. He was human, young, and she didn’t know him from Adam.
“I need to speak with the manager!”
“Say what?”
The wraiths on the stage decided to peak in their performance, and the decibel level had reached truly deafening proportions.
“Zaron? Is he around?”
“What do you want with him?”
“I have an urgent message for him.”
“What message?”
Goddammit. “They’re forcing an alien to fight in the ring. Zaron needs to stop the fight!”
The bartender’s face promptly lost all expression, and the patrons who heard her drew back like seawater at low tide. Oops. The fighting ring in Atticus was kind of like Hipper at Mr. Sulys’. It didn’t exist because everyone pretended it didn’t exist.
“Where the hell is Zaron?” she yelled, going hoarse from the strain of competing with the booming soundtrack.
“He was upstairs,” the bartender relented, glaringly unwilling to take on Cricket’s problem. “I’ll tell him you are looking for him as soon as he comes down. What table are you at?”
She pointed to their corner.
He nodded. “Shouldn't take long.”
