The old brick building loomed before us. Its shattered windows stared down at us like hollow eye sockets, as if we were insignificant specs of dust. The bricks that weren’t stained with smoke from a past fire were maroon like the color of dried blood. Trash littered the property. Layers of graffiti, both good and bad, decorated the place. I wondered if Aengus Og had contributed at all.
Behind a chain-link barbed wire fence lay a makeshift parking lot full of Harley-Davidson’s, Lexus’ with tinted windows on rims, old-school muscle cars, and several spoke-tire Impalas marked with the RDN decal.
“Raza del Norte is here,” I said to Charice.
“You think my brother is in there now?” she asked.
“He’s inside. I’ll bet money on it,” said Rob.
The wizard nudged the hob. “Don’t you mean you bet your pot of gold?”
Rob tried to swat at the wizard but Nehemiah ducked.
Thick clouds of marijuana blew on the wind. A steady throb of reverberating bass pulsed in my chest, and if I wasn’t mistaken it was the Bay’s own, Mac Dre, in the sound system.
“Smells like skunk out here,” said Rob wrinkling his nose.
“Quiet,” I said. “How are we getting inside?”
We all looked at Nehemiah.
The wizard glared back. “What?”
“It was a rhetorical question,” I said. “Do your invisibility thing.”
“It’s harder without my staff.” He produced the white Birchwood wand from the depths of his trench coat. “Dang Cennétig. Can’t believe he still would not let me get a staff on layaway. You’re mostly to blame, Rob.”
Cat-Rob retreated behind my leg.
“Won’t they sense you using magic?” asked Charice.
“Naw, I’m using Chaos and funneling it through myself and turning into Bad Luck. They won’t take any heed to the type of magic that they themselves use. It flies under the radar, unless they’re actively looking for it. Which they’re not. Sean on the other hand will set off all the alarms. So once you go full Good Luck, there’s no turning back.”
The four of us huddled together as Nehemiah worked his magic making us invisible. We stepped onto the property through the chain-link fence and entered a metal roll up dock door.
It was like a scene straight out of a late 80’s or early 90’s era movie, like The Warriors, Red Dawn, or Escape from LA. Perhaps all of them combined. Flames leapt from open cylinder drums giving the inside of the old warehouse a soft glow.
A mixed crowd of women and mostly men circled around a mat in between two flaming drums. On the mat, two heavily tattooed guys duked it out. Sweat gleamed off their shirtless torsos. Blood and bruises colored their muscular bodies. They pummeled each other with bare knuckles as the crowd cheered and hollered, begging for more.
The crowd ranged from young to gray-haired. Heads that weren’t covered with bandannas were buzz cut or shaved completely, and a few teardrop tats were scattered on faces here and there. Every one of them had the grizzled look of a hard life lived on the streets, the look of cautious paranoia mixed with arrogant dominance.
My Keening scar spiked, but it wasn’t set off by anyone circling the crowd of fighters. I looked for the culprit that raised the hairs on my arms. My eyes fell across the ridiculously muscular red haired bartender and his partner, both of which had their hands full pouring draft beers into pint glasses. The bartender struck me as weird, with his red beard and soul patch with a thick handlebar mustache complete with top hat and scarlet suspenders over a black T-shirt. But as swollen as he was, no one was going to question his style or even hint that he was out of place. Plus everybody likes the bartender. But the Keening was not set off by him either.
No, my scar was being set off by the pale watchers, on a metal balcony at the edge of the fight in the shadows at the back of the warehouse. I guess that was the VIP section, as everyone up there was dressed a bit nicer than the low-levels on the ground floor. It struck me as odd that they were not watching the fighters exactly, but it was more like they were eyeing the blood staining the mat.
“Vampires at our 12 o’clock,” I raised a finger pointing at the skittish onlookers in the back of the room.
“That would be them,” whispered Nehemiah.
“How’s the invisibility holding up?” I asked him.
“I’ve got a few more minutes of this. This place is crawling with Chaos.”
“Also crawling with the remaining vamps that attacked us,” said Charice.
I nodded and focused my attention on the vamps. Sure enough, on the VIP balcony I could make out Flattop, and Count Pale himself. I realized that for them this wasn’t a fight in the sport sense, but more like two meat bags tenderizing each other before consumption.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
One of the fighters got knocked out cold. The thin mat did nothing to break his fall.
A roar went up from the crowd followed by a lot of bellowing laughter and swearing as cash exchanged hands. The winner, a tall caramel-skinned black guy with dreads jogged in place as a friend in his corner applied a thick dollop of Vaseline over his split eyebrow and dabbed his face with a dirty rag. After a few seconds a massive referee with a dinky head and boulders for shoulders who was basically a Zangief look-alike held up the fighter’s hand. “The winner of this match is Quent ‘the Caramel Crusher’ Davis.”
As if the guy knocked out cold wasn’t enough of a confirmation.
Suddenly the room quieted down. The clicking of high heels drew near. Moving towards the firelight, a tall woman in a sleek and elegant scarlet dress moved towards the front of the mat. All eyes drew to her. She looked like she could have been Rihanna’s more attractive cousin, if that was even possible. The fighter stopped jogging and the referee looked to her for a cue. It seemed as if everyone was waiting for her to speak, and they dare not talk over.
“Dearg Due?” I whispered to Nehemiah.
Nehemiah pursed his lips together and gave the slightest nod.
She jutted her chin, resting one slender hand on her hip. With the other hand she flicked hair as red as a knife wound out of her face.
“Looks like we’re having ourselves a good fight night?”
A cheer erupted from the crowd.
After a few moments she held up her hand for silence. “You’ve seen some pretty exciting fights. Who’s ready to see something special?”
Hollers filled the air along with some yips.
“These fights bring out the best of you. Only the strong survive. Those that do are destined for great things, and are rewarded. Let me give you a taste of great things to come.” She nodded at the referee who announced the next fight.
He was going to pick a new fighter, but the reigning champ with dreadlocks shook his head, beating his chest. “I’ll take whatever she’s got. Let’s see what’s so special.”
From behind the Dearg Due stepped a tall, lean gang banger. He was clearly of Mexican descent but he looked ashen somehow. Sickly. He ripped off his wife beater, and though toned, was not any kind of a physical threat to the reigning champ.
Realization hit me like a bucket of ice.
“No, it couldn’t be,” I whispered.
It was José.
Quent, the dreadlock fighter scoffed at him. “This some kind of joke?”
The Dearg Due lowered her chin glaring at him, and the fighter took a step back before resuming jogging in place.
The referee brought them together and they touched fists.
“Fight!”
Quent opened with a flurry of blows that would’ve taken me off guard. He was clearly an experienced fighter. But not a single part of his attack landed on the lean gangster. The tatted twig dodged every single punch and kick that came his way.
José waited until Quent gassed himself, then threw a single backhand, catching Quent in the jaw. The bigger man staggered back, hit with more force than the smaller man should have been able to muster. Quent split blood from his mouth, frustrated, and tried to shrug off the abnormal strength that had been displayed.
Quent went in for another attack, but as he was still cocking his arm back when José sidestepped and delivered a series of punches to Quent’s rib cage. Not even his thick muscles could withstand the damaging blows coming from the Dearg Due’s new pet.
But José wasn’t over. He unleashed a string of attacks at unreal speeds. Then, hefting the larger man over his head, José launched Quent into a wooden table that shattered under the weight of the tossed man.
As Quent scrambled to get to his feet, he grabbed a table leg and cracked José on the skull. Though the table leg splintered under the force of the attack, the lean gangbanger remained unphased, and instead, returned Quent’s attack with a devastating uppercut. Quent’s chin lifted skyward, then he sank to his knees, eyes glazed over in a daze, barely conscious. José grabbed Quent by the throat and hissed exposing his fangs, his eyes gleaming red.
“No!” It was all the Dearg Due said. Her shout stopped José in his tracks like an obedient pup.
Quent fell face first into the mat unconscious. It didn’t look like the dreadlocks absorbed any of the impact. Most of the crowd stood still in silent shock. A group of RDN members emerged from the crowd, surrounding the new champion. I recognized one of the gang bangers hugging José.
“It’s Justin,” said Charice.
I offered her my hand and she squeezed it tight.
Though she hated the lifestyle her brother lived, a part of her still loved him as her brother. I wasted no such emotions on the man. But I hadn’t grown up with him my whole life. Heck, Gavin and I didn’t see eye to eye either. But Gavin wasn’t involved in illegal activity that harmed other people. Justin was.
It was just crazy that we had confirmation that the Dearg Due was the top of the chain that the Raza del Norte gang ultimately reported to. It was a surreal realization when it all clicked.
The Dearg Due walked over to Quent and placed a high heel on his back. “Now you see the power I offer freely to those that would take it. Only the strong survive. Tonight’s winners have an open invitation to meet me upstairs.”
Apprehension hung in the air like dark storm clouds. One by one brave souls stepped forward answering her invitation to fight like some kind of wicked church altar call. She turned and exited the ring, returning to her entourage of vampires, her children.
And that’s when I noticed him.
He was gangly, had the face of a teenage boy, and looked about as out of place as a Panic at the Disco fan at an Eminem concert. He wore a designer V-neck with androgynous pants and shoes that were slim fit. His lips were drawn tight together, brooding as if he was above all of this.
He wasn’t very tall but, somehow he managed to look down his nose in disdain at everyone in the room. Shadows seem to cling to him as if he shared an essence with darkness itself, and his skin had a slight red tint to it, like a permanent sunburn. His orange hair was faded short on the sides, but his bangs were long, combed to the right, covering his eye, like he thought he was an anime character. He was definitely Donn the Red’s son, Diarmuid, the undead.
I was about to point him out but didn’t have the chance.
José stopped and spun on a dime. “I smell someone familiar,” he snarled. He sniffed the air until he faced our invisible group.
“Back away,” I whispered.
But José was too quick.
He lunged forward and swiped with his new vampire claws.
We all shifted back, but not before Nehemiah’s wand was knocked out of his hands, almost breaking his concentration.