Carnival of Souls

changing, but before she could ask why, he told her, “We were running together today, and you fell. The bruises are from a fall.”

“But…” She nodded even as her mind fought to hold on to the truth of what had happened. The daimons, the blood, her hands — all of it was replaced with a hazy memory of a twisted ankle and bruised arm from tripping over something. A dog. One of those tiny little ones had darted into my path.

Mallory leaned on her father. “Why can’t people keep their dogs on leashes?”

Other people had arrived, and they were talking to her father. She tried to look at them, but she couldn’t focus. Witches. They were pulling a man and an animal into the back of a black van. She didn’t know why there were witches with her on her morning run. “Daddy?”

“Just a minute, Mallory.” He held her to his side.

“We have this, sir,” a woman said. Mallory blinked, but the witch was out of focus.

Her father pointed at her ankle. “Someone fix that. She can’t walk home like this.”

“Yes, sir,” another voice said.

Mallory’s eyes drifted shut, and when she opened them, her father was helping her into the house.

“Stay here.” Adam left her standing just inside the door and went into the kitchen.

She knew there was something she wanted to ask, but she couldn’t remember what it was. Mostly, she wanted to take a nap until her headache went away. The walk home from her run was hazy. All she knew for sure was that if she’d gone running alone like she did most days, she’d be hobbling home because of that yappy little dog that had darted into her path.

When her father returned, he had a trash bag in his hand.

“Thanks for coming with me today,” she said.

“Of course.” He walked her to the bathroom. At the door, he stopped. “I need the clothes you have on. Put them in the bag. Then take a good soak, and stay home today. Make sure to use the bath oils I made for you, Mals. That will make your head feel better too.”

Mallory did as she was told.

Good daughters always obey.

CHAPTER 6

AS KALEB DRESSED FOR the fight the next morning, Zevi paced around their cave so rapidly that Kaleb had to say his name several times before the manic cur heard him. Even then, Zevi’s only response was a curled lip. The mornings of a fight were harder every time, but today Zevi was in rare form. He’d obviously been awake for hours, trying to be silent, because from the moment Kaleb opened his eyes, Zevi was in motion. The pent-up energy that he’d been containing all but erupted.

“Zevi!”

All Kaleb saw in the blur was a flash of red eyes and exposed teeth, but in the instant before Zevi actually tackled Kaleb, he stopped and dropped to the floor in a heap of too-thin limbs. “I don’t like this.”

“I know.” Kaleb stroked his hand over Zevi’s hair.

“We could leave The City.” Zevi pushed against Kaleb’s hand and tilted his head. Despite years in The City, Zevi often seemed more animal than anything else. His childhood among quadrupedal creatures in the Untamed Lands outside The City showed even more when they were home — and when Zevi was anxious.

“Have I lost yet?” Kaleb asked.

Zevi snorted. “‘Lost’ is dead.”

“Or forfeit.”

With another headbutt, Zevi muttered, “Curs don’t forfeit. I know, Kaleb. I know. You wouldn’t forfeit. You need to win. It’s the only way for us to jump castes, but”—Zevi took a whimpering breath—“I’d rather stay cur than you be dead.”

Kaleb petted him for a few moments. “I’d rather die. This is not enough.”

The answering sigh was expected, as was Zevi’s resolute attitude shift. He stood, walked to the fire, and dropped several rolls of wraps into a large metal pot that simmered over the coals. He said nothing as he did so. When he was done, he collected his bag and went to stand at the mouth of the cave. “I’m ready.”

They walked in silence to the carnival. When it was first begun, the Carnival of Souls was where the witches had worked their arts and sold talismans to protect daimons from summoners’ circles. Of course, now, everyone knew that not many human-born witches could draw a daimon to the other world. It was The City’s witches who had been behind the summonings; they’d roamed both worlds then. Daimons who troubled them were summoned to the human world, where they were entrapped. Until Marchosias had stopped them, the witches were the daimons’ greatest source of death or imprisonment. Marchosias had been the lion at the front of the fight, slaughtering the oldest witches and their children to prevent another generation of their kind until they accepted the treaty that gave them the human world and left The City to daimons.

Centuries later, Marchosias was still pushing back the unending growth of the Untamed Lands, cutting away at the wild plants that the witches had set to flourish. He had changed things and continued working for the good of The City, and they all knew it. In return, they followed him absolutely — and fought for a worthy role in the world he’d carved out for them.

Some fighters, ones who forfeited after a good fight, would be chosen to serve in his militia. Others might be found deserving of trades training. The competition was as much a fight arena as it was a showplace where daimons could try to improve their lot in life, even if they had no actual expectation of winning. Kaleb, however, had a real chance at winning.

With no more acknowledgment than terse nods at those he knew, Kaleb made his way to the fight grounds for his match.

The wood shavings and sand under his feet were still wet from the judgments that had required punishments. Often, fresh shavings were brought in after Judgment Day, but the crowds were hungry for the sort of violence they’d been denied by Aya’s match. The still-bloody ground where the fight would happen today was testament to the expectation and hope that there would be ample blood spilled.

“Tell me again that you won’t die,” Zevi demanded as they stood at the edge of the circle.

“I won’t die here.” Kaleb pulled his boots off and handed each to Zevi. “Tell me you won’t forget the rules.”

“I promise.” Zevi ducked his head sheepishly. Neither mentioned the time that Zevi had launched himself at a fight circle and been summarily knocked backward like a bit of flotsam, but Kaleb knew that they both thought of it every fight. Seeing Zevi unconscious made Kaleb lose focus that day. It had nearly killed them both: Zevi from the force of the shock and the impact of the fall and Kaleb from a set of claws that ripped furrows down his chest and then tore clear through his stomach muscles.

Zevi shoved Kaleb’s boots into his bag. “Nic will draw claws fast.”

“I know.” Kaleb peeled off his shirt, but kept on the loose trousers he was wearing. He hated ruining another set of clothes, but he wasn’t going to strip bare in front of the audience.

Absently, Zevi accepted the shirt with one hand, and with the other he dug around in his bag. In short order he retrieved Kaleb’s mouth guard from the depths of the bag and held it out. “He’ll aim for a straight kill with you.”

“I know, Z.” Kaleb took the mouth guard, looked at it warily, and then handed it back. “I can’t use this for more than a minute today. I need my teeth.”

Zevi’s eyes widened as he realized what Kaleb was planning. “You don’t need to do that. You’re good enough to—”

“Bet security,” Kaleb interrupted. “No claws before third blood.”

The mingled anger and fear in Zevi’s eyes made Kaleb regret telling him. They stood silent, neither giving voice to the inevitable truth that Kaleb’s teeth would mean the fight would be bloodier faster.

“We need the money,” Kaleb said mildly.

“I could earn it.” Zevi held his bag open so that a tattered red mask was visible.

“No.” Kaleb smacked Zevi’s hand away from the bag. “I will take care of us, Z.”