Page 2 of Shattered Stars
“When?” I say, sitting up straighter in my seat, glancing at his face.
“Fuck, I don’t know. An hour or two ago.”
“What happened?”
“Summer started on her – wanted her to kiss my feet or some such shit. And Pig Girl retaliated – head butted her. Broke Summer’s fucking nose.”
I can’t help a chuckle, shaking my head in disbelief. She head butted her? Broke her nose? That pathetic scrap of a girl never ceases to amaze me. That’s half the fucking problem. I can’t predict what she’ll do next and it excites me like nothing else does; keeps me waiting, watching.
“She did that? Fuck! I wish I’d seen it!”
“Yeah, she did.” The corner of his mouth tugs up into a smirk. “It was kind of awesome to see Summer put in her place for once.”
I chuckle some more. Yeah, I bet that was something to behold. Then the amusement dies on my lips.
“Summer won’t let it stand,” I say, tugging on the gear stick and speeding us into the city streets.
“We’ll see,” he says, the half-smile vanishing.
We’re quiet for the remainder of the journey, both lost in our thoughts. I’m not as confident as he is about the girl being able to handle Summer Clutton-Brock. You don’t end up head of the cheerleading squad – most popular girl in the school – without perfecting your skills as a mega bitch. Summer’s had years of training and practice. She knows how to manipulate people. She knows how to tear them apart. How to make them suffer.
An unease brews in my stomach. I don’t want Summer messing with her. I want Summer as far away from her as possible. I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t give two shits about what happens to her. And yet I do. I’m far too interested, far too vested. I huff out air through my teeth. It’s clear I need to get a handle on myself and I’m even more impatient to arrive at the Warehouse.
The parking lot out in the far stretches of the docks, crouching in the shadows of the mountain-like tankers, is full to the brim. A mixture of priceless vehicles like mine, motorcycles and beat-up trucks. This place attracts all kinds. The very richest and the very poorest. All wanting to feel their knuckles split and taste blood in their mouth.
I lock up the car and add a spell or two in case some punk thinks he’s going to steal my ride. When I’m content, we wave our hands in front of our faces, dark masks forming over our cheeks and across our brows. The magic will prevent anyone from spotting who we really are. Then I follow Spencer through the maze of vehicles to the warehouse standing on the far side of the lot. There isn’t just one man guarding the door, there’s a whole group, each wearing a weapon strapped across his body, eyes shaded by dark glasses even though it’s the frigging middle of the night.
They nod when they see us both, parting to let us through without a word. They may not know our true identities, but theyrecognize us, nonetheless. They know we are here to fight, not to cause trouble.
We walk down an empty corridor and through into the towering space of this deserted warehouse, the noise hitting us immediately.
It’s not like the roar of the crowd at the match. It’s hungrier, more desperate, more fucking dangerous. It has the adrenaline leaping in my veins and my feet moving that much faster.
We can’t see the match taking place in the center of the space – the crowd is at least six people deep – but Spencer barges his way through, receiving no complaint and soon we’re standing at the front watching the battle.
Six men, all shirtless, blood on their hands and running down their faces, are dueling. Only it’s not like back at the academy. No safety vests here. No rules, no restrictions. You fight until your opponent concedes. Bones are broken, flesh ripped, muscles torn. It all gets fixed in the end. There is the occasion, of course, when things have gone too far, but that’s the risk you take. That’s why it makes the adrenaline buzz in my body. That’s why I’m bouncing on my toes, my magic sparking on my fingertips. It’s low after the match. But I don’t give a shit. I want to tear everything apart. Besides, I’m sure my magic, even depleted, is a hell of a lot stronger than most of the fuckers’ in this place.
We watch, side by side, as the three men dressed in dirty jeans grasp the upper hand, plowing their magic and their fists into the bodies of the other three men; this team dressed in sweatpants.
Magic swoops and spins in the air, the crowd ducking to avoid stray shots, pushing a man back into the ring’s center when he stumbles with the force of a fist.
One man ends up on his knees, his face punched again and again, until his whole body sways and his eyes lose focus. Hisfriend catches him by the shoulder before he face plants onto the bare concrete floor, and lifts his free hand into the air.
“Concede,” he calls out. The crowd groans, disappointed the fight has ended, but the three men in jeans roar, hugging each other, and pumping fists into the beam of lights erected overhead.
The adjudicator comes to shake their hands as the unconscious man is hauled out of the ring by his two friends, and a wad of notes is thrust between the three winners. Then the adjudicator is spinning round to face the crowd.
“One-on-ones,” he yells. “Any takers?”
I look at Spencer and he nods, both of us thrusting our fists into the air. Around the ring, several other men do too. The adjudicator strolls around the ring, examining each of us in turn. In front of me, he stops, peering through the holes of my mask and into my eyes. The magical disguise is powerful, but I’m sure many here tonight could take a good guess at my identity.
“Golden Boy,” he says, “we haven’t seen you in some time.”
I crack the knuckles of my right hand in my left, swinging up and down on my toes. I nod.
“Hmmm,” the adjudicator says, “who wants to see the Golden Boy fight?”
A roar erupts around the ring. They know I’m good.
