Katsumi smiled. ‘So, you do still care.’
‘Leave. I’ll be out when I’m done.’
Her brows rose. ‘Drink the blood now.’
‘You like to watch. Is that it?’ He stepped toward her and went for a more menacing tone. ‘I’m not here for your entertainment, ane-san.’ He laced sarcasm into the Yakuza term of respect for little sister to remind her how far she’d fallen. ‘Get out.’
She crossed her arms. ‘No. I won’t have you go in there weak. I have a lot of money on this fight. Drink it or you can forget I ever offered to help you.’
He snatched up the bag, sank his fangs into the plastic, and drank. More, more, more. The blood was almost sour, like the barely remembered taste of citrus, so different from the complex, drugging sweetness of what ran in Chrysabelle’s veins. Or maybe it had just been so long since he’d had human blood that he’d forgotten the taste. Either way, he couldn’t understand how Dominic made any money off his fake comarré if this was the best of what they produced.
Finished, he tossed the bag down and waited. There was no rush of power, no sudden jolt of his heart beating with temporary life, no flush of heat. Had there ever been before Chrysabelle’s blood? No, not with human blood. No wonder nobility paid any price to own comarré. The blood in their gilded veins was more addictive than any human street drug.
Which made him a junkie. More. He exhaled, trying to drive out the rising need, but failed. More. The craving to taste her again surged hard within him, as bitter as the aftertaste left by the inferior product coating his tongue. More. His skin craved hers, that warm flesh that spun his head and recalled his days in the sun.
‘There now,’ Katsumi cooed. ‘Isn’t that better?’
Yes, more blood, more blood now. Hell, no, it wasn’t better. All it had done was rouse the voices and remind him of one more woman who’d betrayed him. Mal cracked his knuckles. ‘Let’s go before I change my mind.’
‘Take your shirt off. The cover charge was double tonight and they expect a show.’
Hate was too weak a word for what he felt. He yanked the shirt over his head. ‘Happy?’
She eyed him with a hunger that made his inked skin crawl. ‘Very.’ She pushed the door open and gestured down the hall. The noise of the crowd awaiting the next fight rushed in, filling his head with flashbacks of worse times. ‘You know the way.’
He shoved past her. Behind him were the holding cells for all the others who would fight tonight. And die. Like you. Ahead of him lay one entrance to the Pits. Through the holding cells and out the other side was another entrance. Right now, whoever he was about to fight was standing there, waiting for the signal to enter and begin.
If that combatant was Ronan, not killing him was going to take every shred of control Mal had. Which wasn’t a lot to begin with. The beast rattled its chains in agreement.
He stopped before the woven steel grate that marked his entrance. A weird dizziness spun through his head. He blinked hard to clear away the fog at the corners of his vision. Just phantom feelings of being here before.
‘Feeling all right?’ Katsumi asked.
He didn’t bother making eye contact. ‘Perfect.’ Control. He needed control. He shifted back to his human face and inhaled. The familiar stench of death – the tang of dried blood and ash – surrounded him. Behind that were traces of silver and stone and the scents of the audience. The voices moaned for more.
‘Good luck, then.’ Her footsteps faded as she walked away, replaced by the muted announcement on the other side of the door. A thin, tinny resonance underlay everything he heard. He shook his head to clear it, but it clung to every sound.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the fight you’ve been waiting for is about to begin.’
A loud cheer went up. He could practically hear money changing hands.
‘Fringe versus noble in a fight to the death.’
So definitely Ronan, then. The crowd was going to be disappointed when it ended clean.
‘And now, without further ado … our combatants!’
The steel grate shot up, leaving faint trails of light behind it. What the … ? He rubbed his eyes before walking into the arena.
A small tremor of panic filled him as his feet crossed familiar ground, but he ignored it. Time to die, monster. That was an old feeling from when he’d been weak and desperate for blood. He walked through to a deafening swell of noise. For a moment, it was as if he’d never gotten away from this place. He closed his eyes and focused. This time was different. This time he was strong.
The sharp clang of the other grate rang out from across the pit. He opened his eyes. The sound echoed in his head the way it once had in his dreams. Ronan, also bare-chested, walked through the opposite entrance, raising his arms to the crowd in a foolish display of confidence. Let him parade around like the cock of the walk. His fall would be that much harder. Drink him to death. Drain him dry.
Ronan stopped preening long enough to narrow his eyes at Mal. ‘I’m not going easy on you this time, old man.’
Mal glanced at the flames shaved into Ronan’s close-cropped hair and the gold hoops dangling from his ears. ‘Nice hair, Irish. Did you pretty yourself up for me, or did you figure looking like a girl would make losing easier to take?’
Ronan smiled, showing off inferior fangs. ‘Blather all you want. I’m going to clatter your arse just like old times.’ He leaned in. ‘Except this time, I’m going to kill you when I’m done playing.’
‘Playing is all you’re going to do, whelp.’ Mal notched his head from one side to the other, cracking his vertebrae. Another wave of dizziness hit him, and he rolled his
