Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

Into the Ring

London,1864

The roar of the crowd thundered in Gideon Hartwright's ears as he peeled off his shirt and approached the boxing ring.

He didn't know why he had come back to this city, but maybe it was because he'd been here twice before, both as a human and as a vampire, and that made it familiar to him.

Nine more years had passed since he'd last considered coming back here, and those years hadn't been good to him. He had drifted across England, doing his best to avoid people unless it was to drink from them. He had never seen Howard again, but the ache from their final night together still weighed on him.

One some level he knew that humans often reacted that way to things that they didn't understand, but that didn't ease the sting.

He wondered if there would ever be a time when he didn't feel like an outcast. It didn't seem like there was any place that he could belong, and after a while, the life of a vampire began to feel like a curse rather than the gift that Nicholas had promised.

Howard's reaction had made Gideon want to hide away from the eyes of the world. It had left him struggling to connect to anyone, and he didn't dare try to forge any romantic relationships. It was too dangerous.

But did that mean he was doomed to be alone forever?

Maybe he should have accepted the offer of that blonde vampire, Jemima, when he'd met her in Banbury years ago. He had wanted to forge his own path, and where had it got him?

A heavy heart and an empty purse.

Which was what had brought him here, to the bare-knuckle-boxing ring in one of London's underground gambling dens.

Many years ago, when Gideon had still been learning how to be a vampire, Nicholas had taught him to fight, insisting that no one should ever be able to hurt him like his father had once done. Gideon had thought that vampire strength was enough to protect him, but Nicholas had been adamant that he learn how to best utilise that strength.

Gideon hadn't boxed since leaving Nicholas, but everything he'd learned was still with him, just waiting to be used.

In the middle of a wide open space in the den, a ring had been erected, although Gideon was unsure why it was known as a ring when the shape was actually square.

A rowdy crowd surrounded the ring, some of them cheering the current champion, Sidney Batchler, a burly man with a huge, dark moustache that projected from either side of his face like tiny wings. He stalked the ring, blood dripping from his knuckles and sprayed in a fine mist across his face, lapping up the attention of his fans, and laughing at those who'd bet against him and lost.

Gideon had watched the previous fight, had seen Sidney smash his opponent's jaw, and then kick him in the head when he went down. That last move was strictly against the London Prize Ring rules, but no one cared. There was no honour here, no rules. Fighters won however they could.

He paused outside the ring, and Sidney paused too, looking at him with a smirk that could only just be seen beneath his moustache. Around him, Gideon heard snatches of people shouting, placing bets, calling Sidney's name, booing Gideon before he'd even set foot in the ring.

Truthfully, he didn't know what he was doing here.

He did not consider himself violent by nature, but he was in need of money and this was a quick way to earn it.

Maybe he just wanted to feel something again.

He was tired of being lonely, tired of wandering around the country like a ghost, tired of a world that feared and hated him for no reason.