Dance of Devils

Chapter 2

The smell of liquor hangs over the bar, a dark echo of past times. Music blares obnoxiously through the stale air, moving the drunken customers like strings to a puppet. And flooding the entire club is the stench of sweat, with the occasional putridity of vomit. This is the type of place Bella would never be allowed to enter — a rotting prison that would banish the sweet child's innocence to the other end of the universe. A seed of fretfulness takes shape in Raven's stomach as she imagines her little sister alone in the ramshackle hut they call home, surrounded by the diabolical demons of darkness.

She had to leave her precious Bella at home again with no company, and guilt leadens her marred feet as she strides on. Her sister is probably trembling from the cold draught, tossing on their worn floor mattress without a blanket to shield her. But Raven has to fabricate the same deceitful lie every time her sister grabs her arm and questions where she is headed. Yet even the money she 'earns' is a rationed amount, affording only her and Bella's education — Raven was insistent on that front — and Bella's supper.
"Out for work, Bell..." the words spewing out of her mouth each week choose this moment to haunt her.

Gingerly, Raven rubs her temple at the distressing thoughts swarming around her. She squeezes her slender, albeit bony, figure between the clubbers, treading forward to reach the bar. Discretely, she raps twice on the bar table with her knuckles, a faint sound barely heard above the blaring noises. A latch clicks, and a hardly distinguishable trap door slides open at her feet. The girl does not bother glancing around to check if anybody is watching — no, they are all far too preoccupied and will be hungover in the morning even if they should catch a glimpse of her. Yet she cannot shake the eerie feeling that someone is watching her as she swiftly steps down into the arena, the trapdoor slamming shut behind her.

It is her fight now, and the opponent is waiting, a machete tucked into his belt. But the crowd roars as their favourite steps, fashionably late, into the sand and dirt stained heavily with blood of former matches. Applause rolls through the stadium, so much a thunderous fortissimo that the ground beneath Raven quakes. Blocking out the distracting resonances, Raven inspects the hulking frame of the man before her. His eyes gleam defiantly, arrogance clouding them as he sizes Raven up with a challenging sneer. A scar stretches from his forehead to his chin, an ugly red mark across his unflinching features. Broad shoulders lie atop his rugged torso, and the menacing grin he wears in response to his thin opponent does not go unnoticed.

Raven knows she is not much to look at, but her intelligence and sharpness on the grisly 'battlegrounds' have saved her skin more than once. Drawing her first untainted knife from her belt, she hurls it at him, and the audience's cheers consume the stadium in a raucous whirlwind. Vengeance masks her face as the blade whizzes towards him, right on its mark. The weapon glints as it catches the light, viciously embedding itself in the man's arm as he attempts to heave himself out of the way. Growling lowly at the pain, the man clenches his uninjured hand around the wound but another deadly knife follows suit. The force of it piercing into his stomach sends the man stumbling back, slamming onto the floor with such exertion that a cloud of dust arises. His scarlet body is surrounded by musty sand, and Raven clicks her tongue, looking utterly bored as her pupils roll to the top of her head. She cannot finish him off with an immediate death — cash rolls in only for the most heinous of deaths, dragged out with fitful tortures.

Stalking towards him with a sinister smile, Raven languidly holds out a bottle of tetrodotoxin with a frightening serenity. She paces around him, drawing out the suspenseful scene as she slips on a pair of leather gloves. The poison bottle tilts as she angles it downward, removing its cap with a chilling precision. A hushed silence cloaks the arena and the first drop spills, arcing beautifully onto the man's heaving chest.

But in that moment of vulnerability, a screech reverberates through the stadium, ringing out like a hand scraping across a scabbard. Raven realises too late what is happening and in one agonising strike, the machete sinks its serrated edge into her left ankle.

Pain shoots up Raven's leg, excruciation devouring her entire being. Hastily, she empties the tetrodotoxin on the man, disguising her limp with a bow as her opponent spasms, his arms jerking erratically. And it is not long before he falls to the floor in a limp heap of flesh.

A single clap sounds through the sea of static stillness. Then the crowd rises to their feet, screaming her underworld name with impossible vigour.
"Arsenic Assassin!" The whispers of it spread like wildfire, burning up the entire stadium in a raging inferno. Fists punch towards the heavens, cheers raising in decibels like a perpetual crescendo. Wads of cash rain down on her from patrons in the audience, illustrious gold flakes under the spotlight. Raven does not flinch, schooling her facial features into that of complacency as she picks up her dollar notes with a flourish. Retrieving her knives, Raven sweeps her eyes over those standing before her, green irises flashing with cunning. But there is one member of the audience that sits hunched on the bench, a frail, short silhouette among the burly figures in their standing ovations. Her face rests in swollen hands and she cannot even bear to clap, straight ebony hair covering half her face. Raven's lips twitch downwards in annoyance, the pain in her foot an old friend she ignores.

And she struts out of the stadium, sparing not one backward glance.