Page 46 of Shattered Stars
Then he shakes his head and steps back and we pass through into the dim corridor beyond. I gasp for air.
“We made it inside,” Winnie says and I take a hold of her hand again and let her pull me into the main cavity of the Warehouse, the noise overwhelming.
I think there are more people here tonight than there was at the Cross-lantic match. Nearly everyone from school, plus many older people I don’t recognize: some dressed in well-to-do suits; others wearing worn boots and ripped jeans. There’s no stage, no raised platform, just people forming a ring under the rigged-up spot lights.
The crowd is at least ten people deep and I don’t know how we’ll actually see any of the fight. My stomach drops with disappointment.
Did I want to see him fight that badly? And why? Why do I care?
Because it might be my last glimpse of him, the last chance I ever have to see him, and despite the way he’s treated me, despite all the bruises I have from all the times he’s slammed me onto the ground, I can’t help this strange sadness I feel about it.
“There’s a bar,” Trent says, pointing to a man behind a makeshift table, boxes stacked up behind him, and bottles of beers resting on the table in front of him.
Trent orders three, then corrects himself, grabbing two and I follow them back to the ring of people.
“I can’t see anything, can you?” I ask Winnie. She shakes her head and I scan the crowd for a second time. I see Tristan’s golden head bobbing above the crowd somewhere near the front. No Spencer.
Then there’s an almighty cheer, so loud, the ground quakes beneath my feet. Winnie beckons to me and we push our way into the crowd as finally I catch sight of Spencer, caught in one of those bright lights. He strides through the crowd that parts to let him through. Then he’s standing in the center, wearing only a pair of shorts, his chest bare and for the first time I appreciate just how strong and powerful he truly is. Everyone is calling his name, shouting it, chanting it. But he doesn’t seem to notice. He stares blankly ahead, his face emotionless.
“He looks like he might kill someone,” Winnie says a little unsurely and I know what she means. Even when he was hating on me, Spencer was full of energy, power and life, all of it reverberating round him. You could almost hear it humming in the air, you could almost see the air shimmering. But now he’s still. That energy silent. It’s unnerving. Not like him at all.
I can’t drag my eyes from him and my bond tugs so hard I find I’m weaving my way unseen through the crowd, stopping at the front, right beside Ellie.
“Hey Ellie,” I whisper. “It’s me, Rhi.”
She smiles, then flicks her eyes to me and back to Spencer.
“I can see you,” she whispers. “Is the cloaker working?”
“Yes, only you and my friends can see me.”
“What’s that?” Tristan asks his cousin, his eyes fixed on his friend.
“Nothing,” Ellie says, finding my arm and giving it a squeeze.
I go to whisper to her again, but another, older man steps into the circle, dressed in a black shirt, a heavy chain around his neck. He lifts his hands to the air and the crowd falls silent.
“Dearly Beloved,” he cackles, “we are gathered here this evening in this great hall to witness the final fight of our dear friend, the Wolf. Named for his strength, his agility and his cunning use of magic. Undefeated in twenty-two fights. Can he make it twenty-three, can he leave us and head to defend our lands,” he pauses for dramatic effect, some of the bouncing bunnies near the front of the crowd sniffling, “on a winning streak?” He grins, peering round at the crowd. “Maybe not, ladies and gentlemen, because I have a formidable opponent for our wolf tonight.”
He spins around and holds out his arm. The crowd parts once again and this time a man strides forward: olive skin, dark hair, tattoos crisscrossing his body, rings in the lobes of his ears.
I gasp.
“It’s the Killer, everyone.”
I turn to Ellie, grabbing onto her arm.
But no one reacts with horror or dismay. In fact, they’re cheering, some of the older people in the crowd calling his name.
No one steps forward to take him out, to strike him down. Not even Tristan or Spencer, and in that moment I realize why.
They’ve all heard of the Wolves of Night’s notorious assassin. They’ve all heard the stories of what he’s done. They all know his name.
But no one knows his face. Very few have seen him and lived to tell the tale. It’s possible in this warehouse full of hundreds of people, only Winnie and I know just who the Killer is: Renzo Barone.
I twist around, searching for Winnie but I can’t see her anymore. I don’t even know if she’s seen him too.
The announcer is talking again, the crowd laughing and cheering but I don’t hear the words. I’m too lost in my own thoughts, trying to work out what the hell I should do.
