After the war, London is in chaos.
Packs are battling it out for dominance in the streets, lycans are killing each other in illegal fight dens. The Royals are being murdered.
All Juliet wants to do is forget - forget Sebastien, forget the wa...
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There were sixteen fights in the first round. I'd missed one while I was cleaning up in the bathroom, but I emerged from my confrontation with Michael in time to catch the tail end of the fifth. I slipped through the crowd, my bad arm lifted high above my head, until I found a good vantage point and then I forced myself to concentrate on the pit.
The more the fights dragged on, the more monotonous the violence became. It was the same thing over and over — skull bashing, the occasional spleen flung over our heads — and the crowd was becoming anaesthetised to the brutality, the roar dulling to a less-than-enthusiastic cheer. When the round came to a close, some of the spectators even left to go home.
"ARE YOU READY FOR ROUND TWO, HOWLERS?" the emcee called.
There was a renewed cheer.
"I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"
The noise levels rose once more and I winced, moving to rest my arm over my chest. I could feel the hot itch of muscle and tissue beginning to sew themselves back together, but Michael's saliva had softened the pain. I scowled as a renewed surge of anger began to build.
His mercurial temper was starting to fuck with my head. He'd threatened to kill me if I didn't stay away from him, and yet he was still trying to order me around like one of his underlings... after he'd refused, point blank, to give me the position. I flexed my good hand in agitation.
"He's going to get you killed!"
The certainty in his voice made me want to tear his throat out. He never would have thought that two years go; back then, nobody would ever have questioned my ability to handle myself. It was like there was a flashing, neon sign pasted on my forehead that read, BROKEN — and no matter how hard I scratched at it, it never quite came off.
Like falling in love with Sebastien had crippled me.
"NUMBERS 3 AND 8 — TAKE YOUR PLACE IN THE PIT!"
Two men descended the steps into the pit. One was covered head-to-toe in tattoos, the ink shimmering beneath the lanterns, and I realised the tattoos hid evidence of argentiserum torture. His opponent was missing half an ear and right before the whistle blew, he bared his teeth — most of which were missing.
The second round kicked off just as brutally as the first. They circled each other for a few seconds before 3 lunged, phasing mid-air and crashing down on top of 8 with claws and teeth poised at the ready. I winced. Bad move.
None of the fighters who phased in the first few seconds ever fared well, and all I could do was grimace when 8 managed to get a good grip on 3's body, flinging the dark, silver-shot wolf around the tracks like a rag doll.
Halfway through the fight, the sound of ripping flesh sliced through the roar of the crowd, and 8's arm came away in 3's mouth. Blood sprayed everywhere.
