Obsidian Fire Read online

  A woman two down from me starts chanting Bunny’s name. I glance down and realize that she’s wearing a headband with bunny ears. I see what Hildi means by lost minds.

  “This is surreal,” I say, more to myself than to Hildi. My eyes are trained on the ring where the shaman is announcing each of the men. Clinton, Bunny, Sam, Damien, and Dylan all step forward when their names are called. They look oddly blasé, as though this is a normal day for them. Who knows, it probably is.

  “For those of you that are new to the fights tonight, I’ll explain the process,” the shaman says, his voice echoing through the crowd. “Each Guardian will fight a beast from another realm. They do not know what or who they will encounter. Each fight is to the death. The survivor wins.”

  “Magical death, right?” I clarify. I’d killed Hildi in our own battle in that ring. As long as you’re in the ropes the death is only temporary and symbolic.

  “Yes, but I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

  I know what she means. It’s impossible to think of them as losers in any fight, but I also know that they would not step into a ring without a worthy competitor. Whatever happens below will be brutal and the feeling in my stomach urges me to leave before it even begins. The thought is fleeting. They’ve each watched me fight my own battles and it’s time for me to do the same.

  There are no further announcements but the men do shake hands. Clinton steps forward and the spectators scream and shout their support. A figure steps into the ring across from him. In the light he looks completely normal—not like a beast at all—and definitely physically comparable to Clinton.

  “He’s fighting that guy?”

  “He’s just a vessel—once the fight begins, the beast will emerge. It keeps the guards on their toes. They have no idea what sort of opponent will appear, but I did hear a rumor that they’ll be fighting their biggest fears.”

  “Their fears?”

  “The shaman does a spell and he’s able to figure out what the Guardians fear the most. That concept is incorporated in their opponent.”

  Clinton, who is wearing nothing but long, black pants, clenches his fists as he waits for the signal to begin. His upper body is bare and even from up in the stands I can see the rippled muscles that cover every inch of his arms, chest, and back. He’s shoeless and from the glint in his eye I know he’s dying to get started.

  It only takes a moment for him to get his wish. The buzzer sounds and his opponent steps to the middle of the ring. He’s a scrawny man, with pale skin and an excessive amount of hair on his chest and back. They circle one another and Clinton bides his time. I’ve fought him enough times to know he’ll never make the first move.

  Turns out he doesn’t need to, as the man flinches and cries as though he’s already been hit. His back arches. His teeth clamp shut. He falls, knees buckling as Clinton, ever alert, stands by and watches it happen.

  “What is this?” I ask, totally confused.

  “He’s transforming,” Hildi replies. I can nearly feel the energy vibrating off her. She obviously loves this. She points to the ring. “Keep watching.”

  The man rolls around the floor, painfully crying as his body spasms and jerks. There’s a final crack, like the sound of his back breaking, and I think maybe he died on the stage. That the fight was a bust, but no, something happens, a transformation like Hildi said. His hair lengthens, darkens, growing thick across his entire body. His face alters, turning into a longer, hair-covered snout. Rows of sharp, jagged teeth are revealed when he opens his mouth. It only takes a minute but the man is gone and an animal—or beast—takes his place. He growls and the sound reverberates through the building, echoing off the high, metal ceiling.

  Clinton grins when the beast notices him waiting and I swear his body has grown in the last minute. Clinton’s biceps and calves are cut and massive. He appears taller—broader. The snaggle-toothed animal pushes back on his hind legs and pounces. Clinton meets him in the air.

  Their bodies crash together and as much as I want to look away from the sharp teeth and tearing flesh, I can’t. Clinton is poetry in motion—pure athleticism. It feels like we’re watching them fight for hours but when I hear the final snap of the beast’s neck and the buzzer chimes, the clock says two minutes. Two was all it took.

  Clinton raises both arms over his head, his chest coated in a slick spray of blood, and is declared the winner. His smile is proud. His fans ecstatic.

  “So?” Hildi says, jabbing me with an elbow. “What did you think?”

  I watch as the carcass of the beast is removed from the ring.

  “We have four more to go?”

  “Yep.”

  “I think I’m going to need a drink.”

  *

  I have three. Drinks, that is, as I watch the Guardians battle beasts I now know are from the Otherside. They’re disgusting. First, there was the wolf-monster that Clinton demolished.

  Then Damien clashed with a lizard-skinned beast with a tongue that acts like a whip. That fight goes on forever—twenty minutes—until Damien is covered in forked lashes all over his tattooed skin. Venom coats the amphibian’s saliva, making welts rise, but the Guardian cuts the tongue off at the throat and then ties it around the lizard’s neck, choking him.

  Yeah, that’s when I order drink number four.

  I’m less sure when Sam swaggers into the ring, his pants slung low around his hips. His muscles are lean beneath his black t-shirt, the color matching the short fur of the six-eyed, eight-legged, spider-thing that spews a greenish-yellow slime when he guts him with a blade that appears in his belt mid-fight. He tears off his shirt after the spider is dead, wiping the blade on the cotton. The women in the crowd swoon at the sight of his body and even I smile when he flexes and makes a show. I can’t deny that I’m impressed by his skill and speed. It’s a side of him I’m unaccustomed to.

  Hildi leans into me and whispers, “Is he this arrogant in bed?”

  I smile. “No, quite the opposite.”

  She shakes her head in amusement.

  Although I’ve never seen Sam fight, I’m not surprised he does well. Sam is the kind of man that lives life with easy success. His stunning good looks are an easy cover for him being a brilliant solider. But when Bunny steps into the ring with his limp, useless arm, I grab onto Hildi out of fear. Bunny, my sweet, gentle artist. Surely, he’s adept. But he’s also suffered greatly. I am both filled with dread and eager anticipation to see what he can do.

  “Tell me he’ll survive,” I plea.

  “You don’t have faith in your own Guardian?” Hildi’s incredulous expression says it all.

  “I do, I just…” I swallow. “He got that injury protecting me while I was being a fool. If he fails out there it’s my fault.”

  Her blue eyes are hard. “If you learn one thing tonight, Morgan, it’s that you should never underestimate these men. Never. Not for a second. They’re smart, savvy, and made from a sense of commitment and passion that no injury or mere disfigurement could destroy.” She grips my hand. “But I will tell you one weakness they may have.”

  “What is that?”

  “You.”

  A roar ripples through the crowd and my attention is dragged back down to the ring. Bunny no longer has a limp arm. Instead a sharp, pike-like weapon is attached to the end. He slashes it at the the man across from him that has transformed into a rabid, drooling zombie.

  Just like in my battle with Hildi, the ring provides fighters with weapons and attributes they’d have in an alternate universe. But also like my fight, Bunny doesn’t need the weapon. I see the blood thirst in his copper eyes as he fights off his attacker. Or rather, attackers. The one man that entered the ring splits into six zombies that may be brain-dead but they’re fast with dirty claws and sharp teeth. Hildi tells me they roam the barren lands of the Otherside looking for flesh to eat. Bunny moves with a speed I never could have imagined. Leaping, kicking, and easily taking down the shuffling horde. A chill inc
hes up my spine as one gets too close to Bunny’s bare shoulder, his teeth perilously close. Again, it’s a foolish moment because it’s the final gain the zombie has in the fight. Bunny knocks him to the ground and stabs him in the temple with the end of the pike. I watch in fascination as my delicate artist-turned-savage-warrior rips the head off the body and holds it in the air on the tip of the steel pike.

  Hildi gives me a knowing look and I say, “Point taken.”

  “You must have confidence in them,” she tells me as the attendants at the ring clean the mat. “It’s paramount.”

  “I do,” I say, annoyed that she keeps bringing it up. “They’re my mates, Hildi. I chose them based on their merits—without even seeing this side of them. These men are complex, complicated creatures. You tell me not to underestimate them—you shouldn’t underestimate me, either.”

  A moment of tension sits between us but the final buzzer rings. Hildi can’t hide the look of excitement. I know that Dylan is her preferred Guardian and if he showed a sliver of weakness she’d consume him greedily. This shouldn’t be much of a surprise. He’s dark and broody, incredibly elusive, and even I haven’t managed to get him into bed.

  Yet.

  The other Guardians stand by the edge of the ring, each in various states of disarray. Their injuries healed the instant they stepped out of the ring but they’re filthy, covered in slime, dirt, and blood. Damien and Sam both drink from bottles of liquor. Women push through the crowd to get to them but security keeps them back. I hear their names shouted through the arena. As a group, they too only have eyes for their Sentinel. Who will he battle?

  “I’ve heard the game masters have something special set up for Dylan this time,” Hildi says over the increasingly energetic crowd.

  “Something special? Worse than the spider or lizard thing?” I don’t even fight the shudder inching down my spine.

  The lights flicker and the buzzer sounds. Dylan makes his way across the ring. He’s wearing tight, black pants and thick-soled boots. He pushes his hair back, revealing the taut arm muscles under his gray T-shirt. The difference between Dylan and the others is that all of his emotions are kept low under the surface. Only a few times have I witnessed them bubbling to the forefront. From what I’ve seen so far, I suspect the game masters know this, too, and will do whatever they can to push him to his limits.

  The crowd has started something different, a rhythmic stomping of their feet against the metal bleachers. After a moment the sound overtakes everything else. The entire arena is a wave of unified sound. I can’t keep my eyes off the man in the ring. He rolls his shoulders and faces the opposite side of the ring.

  The overhead lights flash across the ring and land on a very small person. A gasp ripples through the crowd and the stomping slows. I frown and ask Hildi, “Is that a child?”

  The Valkyrie tenses. “The game masters aren’t just toying with him physically but mentally as well.”

  “What?” I ask, but Dylan is walking toward the child—it’s a she—a girl, with dark hair and a flared skirt. A barrette glints in her hair. An unsettling feeling unfurls in my chest. “What is he going to do?”

  “What do you think?”

  The girl turns her head and my blood runs cold. I look over to the Guardians and see their faces drain, their complexions paling. I push past Hildi, past the others in my row and race down the stairs.

  There’s no doubt in my mind who that girl is.

  She’s me.

  Even while running, I can tell that he recognizes her—me. There’s a falter in his step as he flicks his wrists blades, shooting from the back of his hands like feathers on a wing. I reach the sidelines and the security guard holds me back.

  “Damien!” I shout, as he’s the closest. “Damien!”

  He turns, a deep line across his forehead, clearly confused about me being here. But he waves for security to let me pass and gives me a hand up to the edge of the ring.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, looping an arm around my waist. He squeezes me in next to Sam, who also does a double-take when he realizes I’m here. On the other side of the rails I spot Dylan circling my tiny doppelganger.

  “Hildi invited me.” I point over his shoulder. “What the hell is that all about?”

  Before anyone can answer, the mini-me, wearing a dress I distinctly remember, opens her mouth wide and unhinges her jaw like a snake. Her teeth jut forward, dripping with venom, and any hesitation Dylan has vanishes. He slashes across her body with the blades and I yelp, covering my eyes. Damien squeezes my side and I look up to see black smoke in the place of the girl. I stand straight and watch in horror as the form sweeps into a swirling tornado, spiraling up in the air. The whole arena is frozen in fascination as the mist takes shape. I notice the hair first. Then the lips. Damien inhales next to me and Sam’s hand slips into mine.

  The Morrigan, looking very much like me.

  Dylan retracts the blades and the sound echoes through the silent room. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small, oblong object. With a sharp twist it unfurls into a coil of leather. It’s a whip.

  “What’s happening here? Why is he fighting me?”

  The crack of the whip cuts off my questioning. Dylan circles the mocking form. She licks her lips and rests a hand on her breast. She speaks in quiet voice that I suspect only he can hear. Whatever she says hits him like a ton of bricks.

  He stares at her for the longest time and I think for a moment that he won’t kill her. His eyes grow cold, dark blue sapphires. She smiles mockingly and steps forward. “She can’t hurt him can she?” I ask.

  “She’ll do damage,” Damien says. He taps the side of his head before leaning over the barrier. “Destroy her, Dylan!”

  I can’t take my eyes off of the figment. She looks so like me. Her eyes, her face and hair. She’s a perfect replica. I spot the slightest wavering in his eye, a confusion. What is it about the Morrigan that has him so tied up in knots?

  “Dylan?” I shout. He looks over, blinking once. “Slay that bitch!”

  He jumps out of his calm and lunges for her. She punches back, many of her moves reminiscent of my own. I can predict each swing, each step. I know before she does when she’ll kick or duck. She and Dylan fight hand to hand, her dark eyes lit with fire following each hit. He clips her chin and her head snaps back. To my surprise, blood drips from her lip. She licks it and grins.

  He moves quickly, swiping her feet from under her legs. Bending down, he reaches for her throat and holds her in the air. The crowd jumps to their feet and the chorus of feet stomping begins again. The figure shifts again, right between his fingers, turning to smoke. Again it whirls through the air but this time over his head. Out of the mist, feathers stretch, creating a wide span of wings, followed by a beak and beady, dark eyes. The crowd gasps, crying out at the figure—we all know what it means. When the Morrigan sends her Raven, her enemy is dead.

  Dylan stands beneath the Raven, its shadow covering his face. Massive wings flap and I think he’s about to drop—surrender to the power of the Darkness. The bird coasts through the air, wings spread in victory, and I feel Sam’s fingers tighten in mine. Dylan moves just an inch—barely that—clenching his fist. The coil of his forgotten whip slithers across the canvas mat. He spins on his heel, the black tail flying overhead, ensnaring the Raven by the feet. He yanks hard, muscles bulging, pulling the bird back to the ground. It lands with a thud, no longer bird. No longer a body. Just the fading mist of magic that has just been defeated.

  The buzzer rings over the cheering crowd and the lights flash, signaling the end of the fight.

  Damien pulls me into a hug, clearly relieved the event is over. I release him quickly, pushing past to get to Dylan who shoves through the barrier to get off the ring. He doesn’t look at me or the others. His eyes are hard and tortured—focused on getting out of the arena.

  “Let him go,” Clinton says, holding me back. “Just give him a minute.”

  An
y other night I would, but not tonight. Not this time.

  I ignore him and slip away, following Dylan’s wake.

  Chapter Ten

  Dylan

  The crowd parts, fully aware they need to stay out of my way. I keep my eyes focused on the door against the far wall. If I can just get there, I can lose it in private.

  Even though they give me space, the spectators scream my name with such ferocity I feel it in my bones. I’m propositioned. I’m revered. There is no higher ranking in this arena than Guardian and after that spectacle they all want a piece of me or my brothers.

  A dark shadow flits across the corner of my eye and I clench my fist, looking for the handle of the whip, but of course it’s gone. So is the shadow.

  I’m losing my mind.

  The door is five feet away and I ignore every voice calling my name. Four feet. Three. Two…

  I slam my palms against the metal door and step into a blast of cool air from the prep room. I tear off my shirt and throw it on the floor.

  The door opens right behind me and I spin. The shaman stands between me and the door.

  “Get out of here,” I tell him.

  “Dylan, I did that for your own good.”

  I reach for a towel and wipe my face. “Are you fucking kidding me? I know I signed up for it, but that was brutal. You didn’t do that to the others.”

  “Yes, I did. I didn’t do anything to you. I perform the spell—you’re the one that willingly revealed to the world what your biggest fear is, and it turns out that it’s a little girl.”

  Something in my brain snaps and I charge toward the shaman. He holds up his hand, palm out, and an invisible barrier appears between the two of us. I slam into it full force and bounce back, crashing into the wall.

  “Get your shit together, Dylan. This war isn’t over.”

  He opens the door and leaves, engulfed in the sound of the crowd. I stagger to my feet and pick up the nearest object, a long metal bench. I throw it down the hallway where it slides until it crashes into the far wall. I punch the locker, slamming my fist into the metal, over and over and over, until the skin breaks and blood drips down my hand. The fight flashes before me. Morgan as a little girl, The Morrigan as an evil temptress, the symbolic raven.