Page 7 of A City of Smoke and Demons
Jem’s expression was grim. ‘Ez, you know as well as I do what happened to her.’
Ezra kicked at the ground. She’d be swinging by tomorrow morning, that tiny neck snapping like a twig. ‘Fuck the Gendarme,’ he muttered.
‘Don’t draw any attention to yourself,’ Jem said firmly. ‘I mean it.’
‘Bit difficult at the moment,’ Ezra began. ‘There’s a big fight and—’
‘For fuck’s sake, Ezra,’ Jem snapped. ‘Refuse.’
‘You know what happened to the last person who refused a request from Maddog, don’t you?’ Ezra asked hotly. ‘Believe me, I’d love to. My fucking hands hurt from the bloody bar fight that Hernan, the idiot, started three nights ago. You think I like beating people senseless? I never told my new employer who I was, but he seems to know anyway and gets some kick out of ordering me about. What am I supposed to do, Jem?’
Jem sighed. ‘This is shit. I’m sorry, Ez. This is so shit.’
Ezra didn’t have the luxury of choosing what he would or wouldn’t do for his new boss. If he could leave London, he would, but the Gendarme watched the roads in and out of the city, so he was stuck, at least for the moment.
‘How’s work anyway?’ he asked.
Jem blinked. ‘You have never, in over a year, asked me about work.’
‘I’m asking now.’
His friend glanced at the river. ‘There was a body a few mornings ago.’
‘A body in the Credges—who’d have guessed? Knife fight? Bullet wound?’
‘He’d had his chest ripped open and his heart removed,’ Jem said. ‘Enough detail for you, Ez?’
‘Who would do something like that?’ Ezra frowned. ‘That’s rough, even for down here.’
Jem smiled. ‘You bored? I didn’t think you missed the Gendarme.’
Ezra snorted, then cleared his throat. ‘Why do you come here, Jem?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jem paused. ‘Could be that despite being a pain in my arse, you’re my friend.’
Ezra gave him a weak smile. ‘Thanks.’
Ezra really didn’t like fighting; but he was, unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, good at it. Fights were held in the basement of Maddog’s club, and tonight, it was filled with smoking, cheering men.
The ring was a timber platform in the middle of the room. There were no barriers separating the fighters from the spectators. Sometimes, a boxer ended up sprawled on his back in the middle of the crowd and was hauled upright and thrown back by eager hands.
Ezra, stripped to the waist, made his way to the ring, rolling his shoulders to release the tension from his muscles. His hands were still tender, one of the knuckles probably broken.
Pain was a strange thing. Some people did everything they could to avoid it, some accepted it as part of the life given to them, and some, like Ezra, enjoyed it. Almost a year ago, withopium clouding his brain, Maddog threw him in here, and Ezra learnt something about himself.
He liked being hurt.
Part of him thought he deserved it. That it was punishment for failing to do his duty, for letting the others down. Part of him relished being hit, seeing the bruises blossom on his skin the next day. But part of himlikedit, and he’d never realised that part existed, not until that night. Each drop of blood meant something to him. Each punch he took was a reminder that he was living, because the dead can’t feel.
He climbed onto the platform, glancing around at the crowd, noting the eagerness and the bloodlust on their faces. That surprised him as well. His old job had been to protect people, but seeing these faces and their chilling anticipation of what was to come made him think that maybe people didn’t need protecting.
After that first night in the ring, Ezra saw things differently. He started to understand that maybe he wasn’t the only one looking for an escape, one that only pain and blood could give.
It was self-destruction, but it was one of the only things he had left.
Ezra’s opponent was broad-shouldered, tall, his body a lot bigger than Ezra’s wiry frame. The man’s backer was a bowler-hat wearing gent standing close to the ring, hissing words of encouragement to his fighter.
The bigger they were, the harder Ezra had to hit them. He flexed his fingers, then held out his hands as one of Maddog’s girls wrapped his knuckles in cloth. She gave him a wink and stepped away. Ezra swept his gaze over the crowd again. A woman’s face caught his eye. There weren’t usually women down here. She was standing a few rows back, blonde hair glowing in the dim light. She smiled at him, and then, her facechanged. Her features flickered in and out of focus and for a moment,her blue eyes were black, her lips lost their colour, and her rosy cheeks melted into the sickening pallor of death.
