“Someone like me?”
“Inexperienced.” I throw the word over my shoulder as I head for the bank of elevators at the end of the hall. It’s better this way.
For the entire ride down to the lobby, I convince myself of the merits of my decision. Zamara is better off staying away from the races. Considering her station, the most she can do is watch. The cab doors part with their distinctive ding. I step out into the lobby, bare but for the front desk and a round table with a single stem of orchids curling out of a clay pot. I pause to rub the white velvet petals. Yes, I made the right decision. The boss wouldn’t have let me leave if he’d really been adamant about Zamara tagging along.
Across the street, over at Punishment Square, a gathered group catches my attention. The wide space the boss uses to teach those who have wronged him a lesson was empty when I stepped into Bitterblade HQ. I glance at the austere woman manning the front desk. She seems just as curious, but her duty to her post keeps her behind the desk.
My own curiosity begging cessation, I head for the revolving door. Once outside, a gust of wind whips my hair into my face. I pause, flicking the strands into place behind me. Then, looking right and left, I cross Main Street into Punishment Square. In my mind, I sift through the announcements I read this morning. No mention of a public punishment. The boss always makes a spectacle of those displayed in the square. Since I don’t recall any such news, the crowd gathered baffles me. The group stands unmoving and staring at the ground. I push my way to the front and immediately cover my nose and mouth. The air is putrid. The fetid stench of decay clogs my nostrils, hot as it enters the lungs. Without thinking twice, I take out my phone and press on the first name in my contacts list. The person at the other end picks up on the first ring.
“Brody,” I say, my voice muffled by my arm, “send a cleanup team to Punishment Square.”
On the tiled floor lies a naked guy, spread out. His mocha skin pale, lips blue, a fog in his once hazel eyes. Someone pulled out his entrails from a gaping hole on his stomach. No blood pooled around him despite the carnage. What catches my attention the most is the word carved across his chest.
“Hubris,” I say into my phone.
The line immediately goes dead.
Chapter Two
BRODY’S BICEPS bulge when he folds his arms in front of his chest. He cuts a stark figure, legs apart, brooding over the body on the autopsy slab. The flickering fluorescent light above us casts dark shadows over the sharp angles of his face. From where I stand beside him, I have a perfect view of his scar. The gash begins at his jaw and slashes downward in a jagged line that disappears into his collar and stands out from his swarthy complexion. The suit jacket he wears over his crisp white shirt hugs his back tightly, exposing the contours of hard muscle honed from years of maintaining peace. A peace always in flux as evidenced by the disembowelment display the cleanup crew finished clearing. With a tired sigh that exposes a moment of vulnerability, my mentor rubs a hand over his shaved head until he reaches the back of his neck. He stops there and squeezes.
After my parents died in a deal gone wrong, Brody took me in, taught me everything I know about protecting myself. He was my dad’s best friend. I like referring to him as my mentor, but he’s definitely more. Like an uncle from another mother. He brought me to Open Arms Orphanage, where I learned to race. I don’t just owe him my life. I owe him my soul—that of someone who lives for nothing but racing. I’d die for him if he asked. Yet I know he never will. Stubborn old fool.
“You’re getting old, Brody,” I say in a deadpan tone.
“Damn high blood pressure. It will be the death of me.” Another sigh follows his words.
“You? Die?” A snort leaves my nose. “I don’t think so. Even Death is afraid of the great Brody ‘Slash’ Jenkins.”
I succeed in squeezing a chuckle out of the usually serious man. The valley between his bushy eyebrows eases a fraction. Although his ebony irises, as dark and fathomless as mine, stay piercing. A majority of his attention remains on what we’ve been looking at for the past fifteen minutes before I broke the silence. The coroner ruled the cut running along the victim’s abdomen as the cause of death. The once-gaping wound has since been stitched. What disturbs me the most is the knowledge that the word on his chest was done perimortem. Meaning the poor guy was still alive when whoever killed him carved Hubris. It spans the entire width of his pectorals. I have to give points to the sick bastard for perfect penmanship. The precision of the cuts are works of art. Even the coroner noted how sharp the blade must have been. Suddenly my own knives strapped to my sides chafe. Yes, I only use them for protection, but considering the situation I’m in the middle off, I can’t help feeling a twinge of guilt. Despite the cool air in the room, a cold sweat beads along my spine.
“Tell me everything you know about him,” Brody asks, dropping the hand on his neck. He then stuffs both fists into his pockets. I guess we’re done observing. I turn my head slightly so he can see my raised eyebrow. The raven’s wing of his own twitches when he says, “IT is already gathering data on him. But I want your take before I dive
