had a wireless microphone, and now he raised it to his mouth and said, “Welcome, friends, to Immortal Battles, where those with eternal lives gamble to lose them, and those with merely human strength learn what it is to be heroes!” He got some yells and applause. Next to her, Myrnin was standing very still, watching. Claire realized he was gripping her arm, holding her still. She didn’t know why until Vassily said, “And now, meet our mortal hero of the night: Shane ‘The Hammer’ Collins, winner of two previous bouts, survivor, and hunter! Give him a warm, Immortal welcome!”
The crowd cheered. Claire stood there feeling fragile and hot, like she’d been turned to ashes that might be blown away at any second, and watched as Shane, her Shane, walked into the steel cage, arms held high.
He was smiling, but his eyes were dead and haunted by the ghost of the man he’d been. Claire wanted to fall down. Myrnin’s hand was crushingly tight around her arm, but she didn’t feel like doing anything stupid; she wasn’t sure she could move on her own. It felt like a nightmare.
And then, of course, it got worse.
“And the challenger,” Vassily shouted. “Vampire novice, musician, aspiring champion, Michael Glass! This is a grudge match, ladies and gentlemen, years in the making! Now watch as—”
Vassily had miscalculated, Claire saw; he’d thought he could keep on vamping (pun intended) to drive up the betting, but Shane had other ideas. He did a long circle of the cage, and then, with unnatural quickness, he turned around and slammed into Vassily, who was still talking into his microphone. Vassily dropped the mike, but Shane had him by the collar of his fancy coat and threw him in a rolling, flapping heap on the floor. Before Vassily could get up, Shane was on him.
Michael pulled him off and held his arms behind him. “Stop,” he said. Claire could hear him, but she wasn’t sure the crowd could; they were all stomping and yelling, setting up a metal-crashing racket that drowned out most things. Michael wasn’t playing to the crowd. He was talking urgently to Shane. “Bro, stop this. This isn’t you.”
Shane did stop. He went still in Michael’s hold and his eyes closed. But when Michael let go, thinking he’d gotten through, Claire saw the smile twist Shane’s lips, and tried to yell a warning.
She heard Shane clearly when he said, “You’re wrong about that. Bro.”
SHANE
I’d been wanting to take a bite out of Vassily for a while, and hearing him go on and on about Michael, well, that was it. Michael frickin’ Glass. Mr. Perfect. He wasn’t just any vampire, now, was he? No, he came from a long line of human Renfields, all bending over for the vamps. Hell, Sam had even……
No. Something in me shut down when I tried to free-associate Michael’s granddad Sam into that mental rant; Sam, I knew, didn’t deserve it. I’d liked Sam. Hell, everybody had loved Sam.
Like everybody loved Michael. Mr. Perfect.
I jumped Vassily, and that felt good. It felt good to think with my body instead of the confusing tangle of hate and guilt and fear that was inside of me—to just be something, do something, without the higher brain getting in the way. I kicked him, but with the hardest angle of my foot. You don’t kick with the toes, not with bare feet; you use the side or the heel. I chose the heel, and put some momentum behind it, and felt Vassily’s ribs creak when the blow landed.
Nice.
Then Michael was pulling me off, and, dammit, he had me from behind. He had leverage and strength. Vassily got up and retrieved his microphone and scrambled out of the cage, slamming it shut behind him.
Michael said urgently, “Stop. Bro, stop this. This isn’t you.”
I closed my eyes and let my tense muscles go loose in his hold. Only an idiot would fall for that, but Michael liked to believe he could do anything. And he didn’t think I was very smart, anyway.
When I felt him release me, I was smiling so much it hurt. “You’re wrong about that. Bro.”
He probably had warning, hearing that, but I didn’t dive forward to get away from him. Oh no. I launched myself backward, pile-driving into him, and slammed us both down on the springy, booming canvas floor. The crowd was screaming; it sounded like thunder in my ears. The lights pounded down on my skin, and I could feel Glory in my head like a searchlight.
She wanted me to win. Win at all costs.
I twisted around. Michael was pinned under me and he was fighting to get up. This time I had the weight and leverage, and as long as I stopped him from getting organized, I could hurt him.
I wanted to hurt him.
“Shane!” he was yelling. I saw him but I didn’t see him, not clearly; he was a shape, a voice, an opponent, and who he was didn’t matter. He wasn’t a person; he was a thing, and I hit him full force in the face. Again and again. Every time, pain jolted up my arm and nausea followed with it, like I was drunk and tipping over into the throwing-up stage, but then it would recede and I’d hit him again.
I hit him with special force, and I felt a bone snap in my hand. One of the little ones—no big deal—but the high, bright snap felt like a flash of red strobe light going through me, and for a second or two after, my head was crystal clear.
And I saw a girl yanking on the cage door, trying to get it open. A tall girl in a ratty, torn raincoat and a stupid, giant hat that fell off as she fought with the door’s padlock, revealing shiny, close-bobbed black hair and a face as pale as any vamp’s.
“God, Shane, stop!” Eve was screaming, and pounding on the bars hard enough to make them ring. “Stop it! What are you doing?”
It was shocking, like seeing Alyssa standing there, and for a second I thought I did see Lyss, the way I’d last seen her, looking so pretty and smart and ready for anything, ready to die, and I couldn’t save her because I was a loser and I’d been weak, so weak. I should have opened the door even though it was hot, so hot, and I’d been passing out from the smoke.
I looked down.
I’d done some damage to Michael’s face, but it was healing. There was blood on the canvas and on my hands and dripping down his cheeks. Any human dude would have been ready for the hospital.
I realized that he wasn’t fighting back.
Easy money.
I pulled back my fist for another punch, and he didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away, either. He just said, “It’s not your fault, man. I don’t blame you.”
For some reason, that was the first thing he’d said that I really heard. It was almost like I was hearing my father’s voice again, saying something that I’d needed to hear every day since Lyss disappeared from our lives.
That it wasn’t my fault.
That I couldn’t have stopped it.
The truth was, the fire hadn’t been my fault. Nobody could have gotten to my sister to save her.
But this—this was my fault.
I sat back, staring down at him. His blue eyes were bloodshot, flickering with red, but he wasn’t going vamp on me even though I’d hurt him badly. He was just going to take it.
“It’s Glory,” he said. “You know that, right? Not your fault.”
Glory. I looked around but I didn’t see her. It was just a sea of faces now, screaming faces that didn’t care about me or Michael or anything but their own entertainment. Except for Eve, looking so stricken and horrified on the other side of the bars. She cared. Too much, probably.
“Bishop’s here,” Michael said. “They’re going to put him in here with you once I wear you down. I can’t let that happen. I have to stay in here with you. It’s going to take us both to get him. You understand? We have to stand up together, Shane.”
I did. I’d been right before; this was some kind of nightmare, some weird spell that was going to
