“Why would I be surprised?” Lore managed to get out. “I have no idea who you are.”
A flicker of uncertainty passed over Castor’s face, but it vanished as he raised an eyebrow and gave her a small, knowing smile. Beside her, several men and women in the audience trilled and began to whisper.
There was no way to send him out without making a scene, and there was no way she was letting him out of this basement completely unscathed after everything that had happened. Lore turned to give the signal to Frankie, hoping that no one could see her heart trying to pound its way out of her chest.
The bell rang. The crowd cheered. She lowered into a fighting stance.
Go away, she thought, staring at Castor over the tops of her gloves. Leave me alone.
He hadn’t cared enough to try to find her in the last seven years, so what was the point of this? To mock her? To try to force her to come back?
Like hell he would.
“Please be gentle.” Castor raised his hands, glancing down at a split in one of his borrowed gloves. “I haven’t sparred in a while.”
Not only was he alive, he’d finished his training as a healer instead of a fighter, as planned. His life had played out exactly as it was meant to, without her there to interrupt it.
And he had never come to find her. Not even when she’d needed him most.
Lore stayed light on her feet, circling around him. Seven years stretched between them like the wine-dark sea.
“Don’t worry,” she said coldly. “It’ll be over quick.”
“Not too quick, I hope,” he said, another grin tugging at his lips.
His dark eyes caught the light of the bulbs swinging overhead, and the irises seemed to throw sparks. He had a long, straight nose despite the number of times he’d broken it sparring, a jaw cut at perfect angles, and cheekbones like blades.
Lore threw the first punch. He leaned to the side to avoid it. He was faster than she remembered, but his movements lurched. As strong as his body appeared, Castor was out of practice. It made her think of a rusted machine struggling to find its usual flow. As if to confirm Lore’s suspicions, he leaned a little too far and had to check his balance to keep himself from stumbling.
“Are you here to fight or not?” she growled. “I get paid by the match, so stop wasting my time.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Castor said. “By the way, you’re still dropping your right shoulder.”
Lore scowled, resisting the urge to correct her stance. They were already losing their audience. The basement floor shuddered as the crowd stomped their feet into a driving beat, trying to force a change in the tempo of the fight.
Castor seemed to read the room correctly, or he’d gotten splattered by enough drinks, because his face set with a newfound focus. The lightbulbs kept swinging on their chains, throwing shadows. He wove in and out of them, as if he knew the secret to becoming darkness itself.
He feinted right and launched a halfhearted punch at her shoulder.
Fury painted Lore’s world a scalding white. That was how little he respected her now. He didn’t see her as a worthy opponent. He saw her as a joke.
Lore slammed a fist into his kidney, and as his body curled, her left hand clubbed his ear. He staggered, eventually dropping to a knee when he couldn’t regain his footing.
She threw another punch, this one directly at his face, but he had enough sense left to block it. The impact reverberated up her arm.
“Keep toying with me,” she warned him. “See how that ends for you.”
Castor stared at her through the dark, unruly hair that had fallen into his eyes, his ivory skin flushed. She stared back. Sweat dripped off Lore’s chin, and her body was still pulsating with the force of the storm inside her. The swinging lights danced in his dark irises again, almost hypnotically. The last traces of humor left his face as if she’d clawed them off herself.
He shot forward, locking an arm behind her knees and pulling them out from under her. One moment, Lore was standing; the next, she was flat on her back, gasping for air. The audience cheered.
She raised her leg to knock him back away from her, only to hear Frankie’s pleasant voice call out, “No kicking!”
Right.
Lore rolled hard to her left, coming to the edge of the mat and onto her feet again. This time, when she launched a volley at Castor, he was ready, meeting her blow for blow. She ducked and bobbed, sinking into the current of the fight. Her lips curled into an involuntary smile.
There was movement at the top of the basement stairs as someone came down. That one look cost Lore—Castor reeled his arm back and launched a powerful blow into her gut.
She wheezed, trying to resist folding at the waist. Castor’s eyes widened, almost in fear.
“Are you o—?” he began.
Lore lowered her head and drove it straight into his chest. It was like ramming into a cement wall. Every joint in her body suffered, and her vision was dotted with black, but he went down, and she went down with him.
Castor rolled them so he was on top, careful not to crush her with his weight as he pinned her to the mat. Lore was gratified to hear him breathing as hard as she was.
“You died,” she managed to choke out as she struggled against the hold.
“I don’t have much time,” he said. Then he switched into the ancient tongue. “I need your help.”
Her blood cooled at his words, spoken in the language she’d tried to force herself to forget.
“Something is happening,” he said. The fight had warmed his body until it was almost burning to the touch. “I don’t know who I can trust.”
Lore turned her face away. “And that’s my problem how? I’m out.”
“I know, but I also need to warn you— Damn,” Castor breathed, then swore again in the ancient tongue for good measure. He shifted their positions so that Lore rolled on top of him. She was distantly aware of the audience chanting the mandatory eight count. Too late, she realized he was letting her win.
“You jackass,” she began.
His gaze was fixed on the staircase, on the figure she’d glimpsed before. Evander—Castor’s relative, and occasional playmate to them both when they were kids.
Van wore a simple black hunter’s robe, with a glint of something gold pinned just above his heart. His dark skin gleamed with the steam rolling down behind him from the kitchen, the undertone as cool as a pearl. He’d cropped his hair close, which only better served to highlight how devastatingly handsome he was. His eyes were sharp as he signaled something to Castor.
“Time’s up,” Castor said. Lore wasn’t certain if he was talking about the match or something else.
“Wait,” Lore began, though she didn’t know why. But Castor had already lifted her off him. His hands lingered at her waist a second longer than either of them seemed to realize.
“He’s looking for something, and I don’t know if it’s you,” Castor told her.
Lore’s head went light as his words sank in. There was only one he that would matter. She fought for her next breath. She fought against the static growing in her ears.
“You may be done with the Agon, but I don’t think it’s done with you. Be careful.” His gaze became intent as he ducked low and whispered in her ear. “You still fight like a Fury.”