Chapter 38.

“I SAID ARE YOU READY FOR BLOOD?”

Mickey has genuine talent on the mic, and he’s working the crowd well.

“We’ve got two right fuckin’ monsters ready fer battle. On the left side, we’ve got Ciggs. Come on out!” Mickey yelled.

The left door opens, and a tall, dark-skinned man with a lean build walks out of it. His box braids hang loosely from his head, and he’s smoking a cigarette. The only thing he has on are black track pants as he steps onto the sand. He has no visible scars or injuries. Either this is his first fight, or he does not get hit a lot. People are shouting, whistling, and cheering for him as he walks out. Ciggs doesn’t wave or respond to any of the audience. He keeps his eyes trained on the opposite doorway.

“And his opponent: Lincoln Locke!”

From the other door comes an older man on the shorter side. He’s in good shape, but given his full white beard and salt-and-pepper hair, he must be in his late fifties or early sixties. His body is covered in barbed wire tattoos that originate from the giant lock on his back. Did he get a tattoo of a lock just because it’s his name? Like Ciggs, he’s shirtless but wearing gold boxer shorts. His only other accessory is two black rings he has on his middle fingers. The crowd once again explodes into cheering and clapping. I guess we are deep enough underground that none of the noise travels.

“No more bets’ll be accepted. So if you missed ya chance, tough shit. The fight will go on until one of them can’t continue. Only rules are don’t involve the audience and don’t fuck up the bar. On my count. TREE! TWO! ONE! FIGHT!”

The crowd goes dead silent as the fight begins. Lincoln makes the first move by clapping his hands together. He flings his arms out and barbed deep red chains slither out from his palms. Ciggs doesn’t react to the showcase except to slowly circle Lincoln while pressing his back against the wall of the pit. The chains drag on the sand but don’t make a single rattle as the two men size each other up. There is tension and excitement in the air as if the audience is holding their breath. Watching these two makes me think about how I would do in their place. I would have to compete in the regular human fights; my power does not augment my ability to fight. I have never been in a fight before. I should ask Vivienne to train me when things settle down.

Lincoln breaks the stalemate first. The older man smiles and whips his right chain forward in a blur. The speed of the attack is so fast that the younger man can’t react and gets his chest sliced open. The cut isn’t clean, a diagonal tear going down his torso, dripping blood onto the sand below. With age comes experience. Ciggs touches his chest, getting the blood all over his hand. He flicks his hand clean and rushes across the pit at Lincoln. The chain whips through the air, but Ciggs seems to anticipate it and jumps over it completely. Before he can punch Lincoln, the second chain wraps around his leg, lifting him into the air and then slamming him to the ground. Somebody gasps as Ciggs' body collides with the sand. Lincoln rushes to end the fight by bringing a chain crashing down on his head. Already over. The scales flip in an instant. One second, Ciggs is bound and about to have his skull split, and the next, he’s transformed into a cloud of thick smoke. What an unusual ability.

Lincoln lashes out with both chains, but they pass harmlessly through Ciggs in this form. The cloud tunnels at Lincoln as he’s mid-swing. Two human hands emerge out of the smoke to grab Lincoln by his shoulders as Ciggs transforms back to use his momentum to throw the older man into the wall. The crowd loves that, and even Isaiah is shouting next to me. Lincoln’s body hits the wall, and Ciggs’ smoke form shoots after him. The way he switches back is so seamless that it cannot be a Shifter ability. This fight is much more even than I originally thought.

Ciggs capitalizes and continuously punches Lincoln Locke in the gut and face. The man tries to use his chains to grab Ciggs, but they go right through him, leaving smoke trails behind. He can choose to transform parts of himself. It can be automatic, or he wouldn’t have been hit earlier. The older man takes another gut punch and coughs out a mouthful of blood onto his opponent’s face and chest. From our seating, Ciggs’ back is to us, so I happen to spot the smile on Lincoln’s face as chains burst out of Ciggs’ chest and face. These new chains attach themselves to the wall and shoot into the sand. The younger competitor changes into his smoke form, but the parts of his skin that have chains do not change. If the chains are considered part of Lincoln, then it makes sense that Ciggs cannot turn them into smoke. Seeing pieces of Ciggs’ skin floating amongst the smoke is interesting. It speaks to a flaw and limitation of his power. Does that mean he cannot change any parts that are connected to other people? Lincoln cannot hurt Ciggs, and Ciggs cannot move. Does that make this match a draw?

“I want that power, boss,” Isaiah said quietly.

“Ciggs or Lincoln?” I asked.

“Ciggs. I can think of so many possibilities with it. It would allow me to infiltrate anywhere. And clearly, it has combat use.”

“It would work well with your skillset. We can try to make it happen, but only after Kai and I have figured out the side effects of, you know what,” I answered.

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The fight has ground to a halt while Lincoln struggles to get off the wall, and the chains bind Ciggs. If nothing happens, no one will make any money, and I cannot see that going well for the O’Rourkes with all the Cowls in attendance. The smoke cloud thrashes in place above the ground, unable to escape. It slowly lowers down to the sand, the chains going slack as Ciggs changes back. The deep red chains are fused with his skin. What an odd power. Ciggs kicks Lincoln in the chest a few times before addressing everyone.

“The old man can’t continue, and I’d rather not kill him if I don’t have to. This is my win, regardless of these chains,” Ciggs said, rattling the ones on his body.

“What do we think? Do we stop the fight?” Mickey asked overhead.

Everybody in the room responds with boos and jeers.

“You heard em. Finish him, or you ain’t gettin’ shit.”

Instead of attacking the defenseless Lincoln, Ciggs just puts his hands on the man’s face. His arms turn into smoke, covering the older Cowl’s head completely. Is he trying to suffocate him? A coughing fit becomes wheezing as Lincoln Locke chokes, unable to get any air into his lungs. The crowd’s excitement rises as Lincoln finally collapses, lying still on the ground. All of the chains break down into drops of blood. Ciggs absorbs the smoke back into his body to reconstitute his arms to the sound of angry cries and uproarious cheers. Vivienne would love this kind of gladiatorial combat. I should bring her here at some point. He doesn’t stay to celebrate and immediately leaves through the door he entered.

“We’ve wasted enough time. I want to settle things with the O’Rourkes and get out of here,” I said, getting out of my seat.

Isaiah nods, and the two of us leave the sand pit area to look for Mickey or a guard who can bring us to the head of the O’Rourkes. Vivienne still has not responded to my texts. This is not like her. Am I experiencing worry for her safety? I can still feel my connection to her, so she is alive, at the very least. Hopefully, the O’Rourke head will not prove irrational or difficult.

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Isaiah and I follow Mickey and two guards through the locked door into a dimly lit hallway with a single door at the very end. Mickey seems very nonchalant about me being a Cowl, but the guards’ fingers haven’t left their triggers since we started walking. They think I am the dangerous one, but all I have is a gun. Isaiah could kill all of them with just his body. Just because he does not wear a costume or a mask does not mean he is powerless.

Mickey opens the door for us, and I walk in first, followed by Isaiah, the guards, and Mickey. The room is remarkably sparse, different from what I expected from Mickey's father. There is a faded suede carpet, paint peeling off the walls, and basic wooden chairs. A poorly handmade shelf has a few bottles of liquor on it, but nothing compared to what the Deckler family had in their basement. A safe as large as a fridge is embedded in the wall, and it looks to be a basic tumbler variety. How much money is in there? The only opulent item in the entire room is an ornate mahogany desk that the O’Rourke patriarch is sitting at. Is the room purposely worn down to trick people into thinking the O’Rourkes are poor small fries? Or are they just as pathetic as they appear?

The man is weathered and world-weary in a way I’ve only seen in people who’ve worked hard labor their whole lives. Tight, wrinkled skin that is blindingly pale with liver spots dotting his shaved face and bald head. His left eye is faded and muddy, but his right eye is focused like a hawk. He’s wearing a tailored suit that still manages to look large on his frail frame. His calloused, arthritic fingers drum against his desk. This will not be simple. He motions to the chairs in front of his desk, and Isaiah and I take a seat.

“These are the two who wanted to meet ya, Da,” Mickey said.

“I can bloody well tell that, boy. God above, I’m old, not fuckin’ daft. Get out of here, Mickey. Finn and Douglas are plenty to keep me safe. Go back to the bar and see how we did.” Mickey looks like he wants to say something but nods and closes the door behind him. “Me boy, he’s good, but he’s grown in age, not mind. Not a lick of sense between his ears. I am James O’Rourke, and I reckon the business you’re wanting to discuss involves that duffle bag of cash.”

I should be the one to speak as a show of respect. Will the voice unnerve him?

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. O’Rourke. I am Nobody, and this is Isaiah. We are here to,” I said.

“James. Please, lads, call me James,” he interrupted. Strike one.

“Well, James, we are here on behalf of a mutual acquaintance. They owe you a sum of money, and I would like to pay it off and an extra fifty percent as a show of respect. How does that sound?” I asked.

“Who is this mutual acquaintance we share?”

“Nicholas Holmes.”

“Ahh, the lawyer. So you’re saying you’re gonna pay off the fella’s full debt and an extra fifty for the troubles? Why that does indeed sound like quite the lucrative offer. The question is, why? What’s a couple of gangsters from out of town want with a lawyer from Quinstin?” James asked.

Mickey may be an idiot, but the apple falls very far from the tree. Why does he have to ask? I feel the gnawing itch in my brain from Offset. How can I spin the truth slightly enough to relieve the itch?

“He is uniquely suited to assist us with something. And that is all I am willing to say, James,” I answered curtly. Do not push me on this. If I am forced to explain the details of my plan because of questions you ask, I will wipe out the O’Rourkes down to the last man.

“And what if I decide I want to press the issue?” Strike two.

“I think that would be a mistake. And I think you would regret it,” I responded.

“Yeah? Boys, look around you. You’ve walked into the den of a lion willingly. What’s to stop me from just taking your bag of cash from ya?” James asked. Strike three.

Is he trying to extort us? Is he trying to extort me? He needs help understanding the position he is in. I do not have to pay him anything. I could have had Isaiah kill them all and just take what I want. “You would not survive the attempt.”

The two guards behind us shift slightly, probably adjusting their weapons at us. Isaiah is close enough and fast enough to shield me from the gunfire. Then he can kill the guards, and we’ll take the older man hostage. James O’Rourke isn’t smiling anymore. His hawk-like eye is narrowed, and he‘s looking at me hatefully.

“Are you fuckin’ threatening me, lad? Two nobodies, barely wet behind the ears, have the fuckin’ nerve to speak to me like that? Me and my family built this little kingdom of ours out of nothing but blood, sweat, and friggin’ tears. You think I’ll let a wee pup, barely dropped out of his mum’s cunt have a go at me? No, I got too much pride for that,” Mr. O’Rourke said, pulling a large revolver out from under his desk.

Too bad for you; my helmet is-