Location/General:
• Nathra — Nath-ruh
• Daranil — Dar-uh-nil
“Hatred paralyzes life; love releases it.
Hatred confuses life; love harmonizes it.
Hatred darkens life; love illuminates it.”
— Martin Luther King, Jr. —
Staying out past curfew and surrounding myself with enemies were two habits I needed to break.
One of these days I’d wisen up, but not tonight.
I yawned, wide enough to crack my jaw. The dim ambient lighting of the place made my eyelids droop, and the heavy stench of cigarette smoke dulled my usually sharp senses. What I wouldn’t give for a coffee right now.
Coffee wasn’t served in the warehouse district, though. Only hard liquor and about every form of drug imaginable. To my right, a rainbow array of bottles lined a black shelf behind the bar. I looked away from the tempting assortment as a slim shape sashayed toward my table. The girl, long-legged and way too young to be working this joint, sidled up beside me and trailed her fingers along my exposed forearm. I stiffened, but she didn’t take the hint.
“I’ve heard about you,” she purred, walking her pointed, red-lacquered nails up my bicep. Her other hand flicked aside strands of the red hair shadowing my face. I kept my expression neutral, reining in the sneer that threatened to twist my lips. She wanted something from me—all shifters did. But I wasn’t here for that. Never that. “Tarik. Or should I say ScarFae?”
I hated that name. Why not just call me Scarface?
The shifters who frequented The Pit loved their cheesy nicknames, though—the cheesier the better. But you’d think they could have come up with a more creative name for this seedy establishment.
Practically everyone here went by a pet moniker. Pets. That’s what my race called them. Shapeshifters had one master and waited with pricked ears for his call, like obedient lap dogs.
Sickening.
“Go home,” I muttered, watching the girl from my peripheral. She was pretty—for a shifter. I could acknowledge that. But young. Too young. “This place will pick apart your flesh and spit out your bones when it’s finished with you.”
Short fur suddenly darkened her soft pale cheeks. The pupils of her light brown eyes slitted. Long nails became talons, jabbing into my skin. I yanked my arm from her clutches and knocked my stool over as I stepped back. She laughed, the sound throaty and self-assured. “I’m not the one who should go home, Fae.”
She walked away before I could, her miniskirt-clad hips swaying so hard, I wondered how gravity hadn’t taken her out by now. Most of her kind knew to avoid me on nights like these—she must have missed the memo. I came to The Pit for one purpose: to fight in the cages.
I needed the release, the pure natural hum of adrenaline coursing through my veins. Better than any artificial drug. Sometimes I won, but more often than not, I lost. Didn’t matter. I would always be a loser in their eyes anyway. Lesser. They only put up with me because I was a curiosity—an anomaly. No other Fae dared step inside this shifter-infested den.
“ScarFae, man, you’re up next,” someone yelled over the thumping music. A hand clapped my shoulder and I almost lost my cool. The worst part about coming down here was the touching—and the nakedness. Shifters had no shame.
I strode through the scantily-clad crowd toward my assigned cage. A literal cage, with chain links and a steel lock keeping the fighters contained. I checked to see if my opponent was inside. He was. Stocky, tatted up, already vibrating with adrenaline from being surrounded by his kind. Typical shifter.
After I slipped through the gate, a bouncer clicked the lock shut, sealing us inside. Besides being knocked unconscious, there was only one way to lose a cage fight: using your abilities. But that was a joke. Shifters carried their abilities with them wherever they went. They were naturally strong, even in human form. Their reflexes surpassed humans and Fae alike.
That’s why Shapeshifters were top dog in this dirty city, and why I didn’t bother giving myself a pep talk. I wouldn’t win, but I would sink my fist into this shifter’s gut tonight—maybe break his nose if I was lucky. My blood sang at the thought.
A voice boomed through the underground, shaking me from my growing bloodlust. “My fellow beasties and the rest of you foul creatures, next up is Wolf Man and his challenger, ScarFae!” He drew out my moniker, making the word sound tough. But my concentration was solely on my competitor. Wolf Man? I snorted. And I thought my nickname was lame.
The barrel-chested dude must be a wolf shifter then. I held in a wince, already knowing how this night would end—with me limping home, a couple dozen bruises decorating my body. I was quick for a Fae—definitely faster than a human—but my tall, lean frame was no match for this guy’s muscular build. He was going to make puppy chow out of me.
When his yellow eyes met mine, I gave him the slow lip curl, the one that always freaked out my competition. Like they thought I was preparing to cast a spell on them. I stifled an eye roll. Shifters and their superstitions. Somehow they’d gotten the idea that Fae were also witches. Ruffling their feathers—or fur—was far too easy. He flashed his teeth at me when nothing happened. What, did he expect a light show?
Maybe he was hoping I’d reveal my wings. At the thought, an ache pulsed between my shoulder blades. I hadn’t released them in so long. The temptation was great—especially when I knew his reaction would be epic. But it wasn’t happening. He could grind me to minced meat and I still wouldn’t unleash my wings. The last time a Fae had broken the city’s wing ban rule, they’d been executed. A quick slice to the throat by the devil dragon himself.
I didn’t want to go out that way.
“You’re going down,” Wolf Man sneered.
How cute. We were thinking the same thing.
“I know.” I shrugged and he blinked, surprised. Point one for me. As the match began, there was no fanfare, no chick in a bikini to announce the rounds. Not even an official ref. At least I wasn’t forced to strip half naked, thank Gaia. That didn’t stop Wolf Man from doing so—he wore tight black shorts and nothing else.
The sight burned my retinas.
A rail thin man—ferret shifter was my guess—quickly recited the rules. Simple: knock out your opponent and win.
“You two ready?” the man asked in a reedy voice. I nodded. “Then in five . . .”
At that, a heady dose of adrenaline surged through my body.
“Four . . .” I settled onto the balls of my feet. “Three . . .” My eyes found Wolf Man’s. I winked. His nose wrinkled. “Two . . .”
Whatever you do, don’t stop. You’re the master of your pain.
“One. Fight!”
My vision bled red.
Thoughts switched off.
Instinct kicked in.
Kill the shifter.
I rushed forward, barreling my right shoulder into Wolf Man’s eight pack. He shuffled back a few steps, then flung me off him. I rolled but popped up, ready for more. Always more. I never wanted this feeling to end, this blinding blaze of hatred.
He came at me. Swung a brick-sized fist. Missed. I slipped past his guard, driving my own fist into his unprotected side. A second later, I paid the price for getting so close to a dominant wolf shifter. He drove his elbow into my sternum.