Dire Bound

Blood drips into my right eye. Once. Twice. It’s blinding and searing at the same time.

I wince, letting out a pained whimper. It fucking burns, blood in the eye.

The pain is real.

The whimper is not.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my twenty-three years alive, it’s this: women in pain give men confidence. It stirs up something instinctive, deep inside of them, that makes them believe they have the upper hand, even if every logical piece of evidence screams at them they do not.

Confidence makes men sloppy.

And sloppy men are easy targets.

We’re in some old emberwine warehouse in the Southern Quarter tonight, the air reeking of rotting fruit. Torches burn around the edges of the ring, illuminating our fight and casting everything else in twisting, dancing shadows. The crowd is hushed in anticipation, but even so, the room seems full.

Good. A bigger crowd means a bigger pot of winnings.

There’s a loud thump, thump, thump as my opponent slowly approaches me, his steps heavy. He’s a big, meaty man with a good six inches on me, which he undoubtedly thinks makes him powerful. He’s not the kind of person who understands how lethal grace can be.

“I’ll make you regret ever being born, little girl. You’ll need a closed casket.”

Goddess, this guy is a bore. But our audience is eating it up, if the frenzied roar is any indication.

More blood drips into my eye. He got me good with a right hook to the forehead, I’ll give him that.

I turn my head to the side, feigning weakness, my cheek pressed into the packed dirt floor of the fighting ring. There’s a flash of movement in the leering crowd as someone pushes their way toward the edge of the ring.

Lee. He must’ve just gotten off work.

He folds his muscular arms against his broad chest, his spotless messenger’s tunic making him stick out in this seedy place. Then he raises an eyebrow at me in amusement.

I can almost hear his deep voice saying: Stop toying with him, Meryn, and just end this so we can get on with our night.

He’s right, of course. I’d much rather be in his lap right now than face-down in this stinking pit.

Right, then. Time to finish the show.

My opponent grows closer and I moan again, waiting for him to reach the exact right spot. He doesn’t even see the trap I’ve set for him, even though it’s so obvious. Even though I play this move almost every fight.

He doesn’t want to see it, because I’ve made him confident. Certain that he will be the man to bring down Meryn Cooper, the infamous Alleycat of the Eastern Quarter.

Idiot.

Finally, he reaches my side, preparing to grab me, or sit on me, or choke me out—something predictable. Another roar kicks up in the crowd, the room full of frothing, drunken gamblers all praying that he’ll get me good, that their bet against the woman will pay off.

He leans down toward me, his foul breath hitting my face, and that’s when I do it.

I loop my leg around his and drive my heel into the fleshy back of his knee with all the force I can muster. Then I roll to the side, out of his way, and spring up onto my feet.

“Fuck!” He crashes to the ground, hitting it hard, making it shudder beneath me. The air rushes from his lungs in an audible whoosh.

The man pushes up onto his palms, but before he can get any farther, I strike. I kick him in the nose, relishing the sweet crack it makes as it breaks. Ruby red blood gushes down his face, dripping onto the floor. It knocks him backwards onto his ass.

Before he can try to recover again, I jump on him, kneeing him in the groin to keep him down. Then I pin him, peppering his face with more strikes. I’m not going for a kill; I fight dirty, but not like that. But I’ll be sure he stays down.

My knuckles burst open under their scars and calluses and blood drips between my curled fingers. For a moment, I let myself relish the adrenaline rush of the pain and the clear-headed focus it gives me.

Then I press a forearm on the man’s windpipe until he chokes, “Yield!”

I slap him open-handed. Just for the fun of it, just for the drama of his head snapping to the side. “Louder. With meaning. Let them hear you all the way in the castle.”

“I YIELD!”

The crowd erupts into angry mutters as I let go of the man, standing to wipe my blood from my forehead. The host of tonight’s shows, a portly man with a thick mustache, steps into the ring, hoists my wrist into the air and declares: “Alleycat wins! Next fight starts in twenty.”

Coins change hands, with the bounty going to the few who were wise enough to put money on me.

It always surprises me a little, the sheer number of people who bet for the other man. Even with the history to show them they shouldn’t.

A towel hits me in the face and I pull it off to see my trainer and neighbor Igor assessing me, his brown, weathered face unreadable. I duck under the sides of the ring and step over to him, my palm held out.

“Always straight to the coin with you, huh?” Igor grumbles.

“Me?” I bat my eyelashes, my voice high and sweet. “A refined lady like me would never think of something so crude as money. All I care about is tea and dresses and gossip.”

“Careful, you’re going to make that forehead wound bleed again.” Igor presses my winnings into my hand. “Good one, kiddo. Went on a little long for my taste, though. You should join a theater guild, with those pained cries of yours.”

I shrug, counting the coins and doing quick math. Eight silvers today, which will cover Mother’s medicine from the apothecary for the next two weeks. “You know the crowd needs to have hope, Igor. It makes it more fun for all of us if they think they actually have a chance.”

“Whatever gets you the win, kid.” He hands me a water flask and I gulp it down. “Davey is setting up a fight in two weeks for Colbridge. Remember that slippery motherfucker from last year? Fancy another go?”

I crack my neck, scanning the packed room for Lee. Even at my unusual height, it’s hard to see over the heads milling about the crowded floor.

“Sure, as long as you make certain the odds are against me. The apothecary has hiked up their prices. Apparently, some ingredients they need grow close to the front and have gotten hard to acquire. I’d like to see double this amount next time.”

Igor’s perpetual frown deepens. He’s an unhappy-looking person; always has been, for as long as I’ve known him, which has been my entire life.

He’s probably going to offer me help with mother’s medicine costs, something I’ve declined for years. I’m not above accepting help when I need it, but most everyone in the royal city of Sturmfrost, where we live—everyone in this entire goddess-forsaken country, actually—is struggling.

Our money, and our lives, goes to fighting the endless war with the Siphons.

I’m not about to take food off Igor’s plate. We’ll get by; we always do.

Just then, a warm arm slings around my shoulders and I’m hit by the clean smell of pine soap, a familiar scent that instantly puts me at ease. I lean against Lee’s hard body and look up into his face—the sharp lines of his jaw covered in a light scruff, his dazzling sea-blue eyes.

Lee shoots me a wicked grin that makes my thighs tighten and raises up a small clinking bag.

“Nice fight, kitten. Buy your sister something nice from me for her nameday.” He slides the bag into my pocket as I lean up, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling his face down toward mine, desperate for his touch.

Before I can kiss him, a throat clears and I glance up, my lustful brain gone hazy. Igor shifts awkwardly on his feet. Lee and I have been together for over a year now, but Igor still hasn’t gotten used to this.

“I’m going to go see Davey about the next fight,” Igor says, glancing away from us. “Leave you two at it. Find me before you head out, Meryn.”

He turns and walks away quickly, and I can’t help the laughter that spills out of me. “Poor Igor. I think we’ve scandalized him.”

Lee grins lazily down at me, his hands gripping my hips and tightening in a way that holds dark promise. He puts his mouth to my ear. “Glad he can’t read my thoughts,” he whispers, the heat of it sending my pulse into overdrive. “He’d never be able to look at me again.”

I move closer, but suddenly, a commotion kicks up. A disheveled man is pushing his way through the crowd.

His yellowed, unfocused eyes glare toward me.