“Not that,” Ninian said, and realized his voice had cracked. He swallowed, deliberately schooling his breathing. He was pretty sure he knew what the woman was talking about, and it made his throat close to think about—he’d seen people at the docks, the ones who sold themselves to survive and paid a gang for protection. “I won’t do that.”
“But he says that’s not it.” Brígh crossed back into his line of sight, frowning. “He’s not nearly intimidating enough to be a messenger. We don’t need any more grunts, and he’s too scrawny anyway.” Her eyebrows met, sending a crease through her long scar as Ninian did his best to remember what messengers and grunts did. His father had always taught him more about the practical world than his mother had, so… messengers traveled to other gangs to deliver threats and were usually the ones to demand payment from various businesses on gang territory. Grunts upheld the infrastructure each gang needed to support their strength. They maintained roads, patrolled markets, and did the heavy lifting.
Brígh was right that Ninian would be very bad at either of those jobs.
Finally, Brígh spread her hands. “I quit. What exactly have you brought me, Laoise?”
At that, a broad, crooked grin cracked Laoise’s face, and she squeezed Ninian’s shoulder. He jumped—he’d been touched altogether too much in the past few minutes, and he wasn’t okay with it. “This, Brígh,” Laoise said, “is a fighter.”
At first, Brígh’s expression didn’t change. Then, after a moment, she snorted blandly. “Bye, Laoise.” She shook her head and turned back to the trapdoor. “Say hello to Ciara for me.”
“Brígh, wait.” She hadn’t stopped smiling. “Give him a chance, eh?”
Grumbling, the woman turned around. “Give you a chance, you mean.”
Laoise shrugged.
Ninian blinked. “What?”
“They have to make sure you’re worth it,” Laoise explained. “Don’t wanna take just anyone, you know? You get killed in your first fight, that’s not great.”
Ninian bit his lip. Laoise sounded like she was referring to a tool that might break.
He took a deep breath—he had to keep his priorities straight. “If I’m good enough,” he asked Brígh, trying to keep his voice steady, “you’ll pay me?”
There was only skepticism in Brígh’s eyes. Somehow that was almost as motivating as the money—almost. “If you’re good enough to take on, then yes. Enough to eat and get yourself some clothes so you don’t freeze. If you’re useful, we don’t want you dying, you know?” She leaned forward. “If you’re useful.”
Ninian’s lip felt cold when he made himself stop chewing it. “What do I have to do?”
“I’d take you to the back lot,” Brígh said flatly, “and see how long you last.”
“I have to… fight you?” His eyes flicked over the woman’s scars, her height, her thick arms.
Brígh nodded.
Ninian took a quick breath and felt his hands twitch into fists. It wasn’t hard to find anger, not for this, and he held onto it tightly. “I’ll do it.”
Brígh closed her eyes, but Ninian could tell that she rolled them behind her eyelids. “Whatever, kid. Come with me then.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Ninian followed Brígh outside and around the side of the hovel. Laoise trailed behind. She looked expectant, though Ninian thought he saw the faintest hint of worry on her face. It wasn’t, he realized, for him.
“Hey, Ninian.” Laoise took Ninian’s arm and turned him toward her. “Give it your all, okay? You can do this.”
Ninian swallowed and nodded tersely.
Brígh had opened an iron gate that barred the alley, and she held it open to let Ninian pass. Laoise waited on the other side without being told, and once again, Ninian was struck by how familiar she seemed with the process.
“Okay, kid,” Brígh said, letting the gate screech closed. They’d come to the back of the building where an open lot hosted a number of dead weeds. Laoise watched through the gate as Brígh took a few steps backward, facing Ninian. She really was intimidatingly tall. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Despite the cold, Ninian unpinned his cloak and folded it into a pile on the ground. He cracked his knuckles against each other, letting out an uneven breath.
Brígh slid her feet apart, falling comfortably into a fighting stance. “Ready?”
Ninian tried to mirror the woman’s position. It felt clumsy. He steadied his breaths, letting the morning air brace him, and adjusted himself into something more familiar.
Brígh snorted. “Are you planning to dance with me?”
Ninian lowered his chin, narrowing his eyes. “I’m ready.”
The woman wasted no time.
In the time it would have taken to blink, Brígh had covered the distance between them and launched a fist into Ninian’s face. Ninian ducked just in time.
Brígh was a far better fighter than the man Ninian had bested on the street. She didn’t barrel past with the momentum of her lunge but pivoted expertly and threw another blow with the force of her turn.
Ninian turned out of the way so that the attack grazed across his chest.
Brígh’s approach was straightforward, Ninian realized, based more on power than cunning. She was direct, aware of her strength, and seemed determined to end the fight quickly.
Trusting his gut, Ninian dropped to the ground as Brígh’s blow went by and swept his leg behind the woman’s ankles the way he’d done with the man on the street. Brígh tripped for just a second but collected herself fast as Ninian sprang back to his feet.
Immediately, Ninian was on the defensive again, slipping sideways when Brígh threw two attacks in succession, one of them a sharp chop that would have nearly taken Ninian’s head off his shoulders if it had hit him.
He needed to get inside the woman’s range. Brígh was clearly very adept at using her fists, and Ninian’s arms weren’t long enough to land a strike from a safe distance. His mind was skipping fast, trying to recall every detail he’d ever learned—his mother may have taught him more manners than practical skills, but fighting was a stark exception. He knew how to do this. He just needed to think.
Once again, Ninian dropped to the ground. Brígh lowered her stance in reaction, but she had already begun moving forward. Ninian rolled to the side as she charged, and as soon as Brígh was before him, Ninian launched himself at the woman’s knees.
Brígh stumbled, and that was all the invitation Ninian needed to rise and swing his elbow into her nose.
Brígh cursed, cupping a hand to her bleeding face, but didn’t back off. With the back of her hand, she swatted Ninian across the face.
Ninian’s head snapped backward, and he crashed onto his back. Blinking stars out of his eyes, he rolled aside to avoid Brígh’s kick and then darted dizzily to his feet.
That had not been good. A single backhanded blow, and his ears were ringing. He could not afford to take a direct hit.
Brígh was more aggressive than anyone Ninian had ever fought. His mother had been determined that he learn well but had been averse to actually hurting him. Ninian now found himself needing to adapt fast; some of his skills had apparently been formed with the assumption that his opponent wouldn’t actually do him harm.