Chapter 87: Quentin Versus Christophe

This entire charade was fucking stupid. Christophe snapped his fingers, pointing to his feet. A nearby slave tentatively came up to him, holding up a tray of drinks. It did not meet his eyes. Christophe took first one, then another, and a third drink and threw them all back. He let out a belch and motioned for the slave to go. This charade was stupid, but at least he didn’t have to face it sober. If he did, he was going to crack and end the moonkissed’s staring permanently.

Christophe was more than used to people staring at him. He was huge, he was scary, and more often than not he was covered in blood and bellowing. Most of the time it was with fear he richly deserved and earned. It wasn’t too often it was pure hate, but that’s what was coming out of Quentin’s eyes from his spot across the room. The pale bastard had a scowl that made his face look like a grumpy fish, and he wasn’t alone. His men stared at him as well.

“I know I’m pretty, but aren’t you surrounded by bitches?” Christophe called out, gesturing between them. “Find one of your girls and spend some time with her instead of eye-fucking me. It’s getting unnerving.”

The men talked to each other under their breaths, too low for Christophe to hear over the shitty music playing as the party pretended to go on like normal. Looking around, Christophe realized he was out in the open, alone save for the few men they brought. Those bastards had a table to themselves, sitting and drinking so as to not raise suspicion about their ‘peaceful’ intentions. If Cicero had a mind to, it wouldn’t be too hard to have men with bolters rain death down on him, and there would be nothing anyone could do about it.

The thing about being a gang leader and dealing with other gang leaders was respect and reputation. It all came down to appearances. Now, the Warlords didn’t have a great reputation for talking things out. Part of Christophe was surprised Cicero went for it, but Piro had read that situation perfectly and here they were. They did have a reputation for following through on their threats, so maybe the tightfisted bastard knew they weren’t lying about burning the north down if they didn’t come back. It wasn’t stable, but it was still a form of safety.

Christophe shifted from foot to foot, tempted to find a place to sit down even at the cost of making himself look less dangerous. Now the talk included Quentin, who turned his back to Christophe to speak to the others. It was more heated now, but not for long. The five men with him stood in a line, arms crossed. Sighing, Quentin turned around and closed the distance between them.

“The man you had killed,” he started.

“Don’t care,” said Christophe, mirroring the gladiators’ pose. “He was collateral damage on a mission gone wrong. Shit happens. Not my problem.”

It was hard not to smile at the stricken look on the pimp’s face, so Christophe didn’t bother to try. He smiled pleasantly, basking in the hatred rolling off the man.

“I’m going to make it your problem,” said Quentin.

“And how do you intend to do that, freak? Planning on breaking the truce?” Christophe looked him up and down. His smile only grew wider. “I would genuinely love to see you do that.”

Quentin swallowed hard. His hands balled into fists at his side. Behind him, a blonde pretty boy fingered a blade at his side. Oh, if he tried, Christophe could have some fun with this.

“I have no intention of breaking the truce. If we don’t resolve things peacefully then it will mean war. If it leads to war, I’ll deal with you then.”

Christophe burst out laughing. If people hadn’t already been watching him, they were now. “You’ll deal with me? You and what army, Moony? If war happens then my men will take your streets and butcher every last half qala piece of ass you have. I will personally kill you with my bare hands. And you know why?”

Quentin shrugged.

“Because it’ll be fun. I don’t give a rat’s ass about you personally. You’re just another dumb bastard who believes a whore when she tells you she loves you. If it wasn’t you, it’d be some other idiot. And if it was, I’d kill him too. I’d kill anyone getting in the way of me stealing the last moments of life away from that uppity cunt.”

Christophe breathed in the man’s anger. Quentin was seconds away from violence, but he held himself as still as a statue, jaw set. Must’ve struck a nerve. So Christophe chased after it, smiling the entire time. “Oh, does that hurt? One way or another I’m going to end her life. There’s nothing you can do about it, nothing Piro can do about it.”

Quentin closed the distance between them, each step slow and purposeful. Behind him, the gladiators stood up straight, and Christophe’s own men got out of their seats. He stopped about a foot away, looking up into Christophe’s face. “You going off plan, then? Won’t your boss be upset?”

The logical, reasonable part of Christophe checked out. What remained was two months worth of impotent rage, finally finding an outlet. He could’ve handled some insults, some bravado, or even threats. All of those would’ve been worth a laugh. Quentin had to hit on the one thing that would drive Christophe to drive his fist through Quentin’s face. The pimp went sprawling back into his friends who caught him.

The music stopped. Face after face turned to look at Christophe. He stood there panting, struggling to breathe through the sudden spike of anger. His knuckles hurt, but the pimp definitely hurt worse. He got back to his feet and faced Christophe, wiping away blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked impressed, but not worried. Oh, that was about to change.

“Question for you, Quentin Quintius,” Christophe called out for everyone to hear. “The truce is broken. You going to leave me to Cicero’s hirelings or do you want to settle this yourself?”

Piro came up to him, looking excited more than disappointed. Razia was back with Quentin, checking his face and whispering something to him. Piro waved at him until he got his attention. “Christophe, my man! Excellent timing.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I just told her about killing anyone she dates. Now you can demonstrate for me!”

Christophe shook his head. “Looks like war then. Might as well get the lead problem out of the way.”

Quentin stared him down. Christophe saw the battle in his mind, whether to deal with it himself and risk losing or leave it up to Cicero’s men and lose respect as well as the chance for vengeance. Most men pretended to be better than they were. Vengeance was always a safe bet. “I’ll settle this myself.” Beside him, Razia shook her head vehemently.

“Excellent. Kiss the whore goodbye, Moony.” Christophe left them behind and charged down another serving slave. He took the drinks from them and shot them back one by one. Three drinks before a fight to the death was a classic ritual. When he got back, the floor was cleared of all people, most of whom went upstairs to watch over the railing. Quentin waited for him there, sword in hand.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“You opposed to blades?” Quentin flourished his weapon with a flick of his wrist.

“Use whatever you want,” said Christophe, standing a few feet apart from him. “I meant it when I said I’m going to kill you with my bare hands.”

Mr. Cicero cleared his throat from above. “On my mark, you may begin. Mr. Q, try not to make too much of a mess.” The room chuckled nervously. Cicero waited a beat, then said, “Go.” The room erupted with applause, cheering Quentin on.

Quentin wasted no time in thrusting forward. Christophe had been expecting it and slapped it away with his left hand. The blade cut into his skin as he deflected it, but that was fine. It gave him the perfect opportunity to slug the pimp across his stupid scowling face. Christophe’s fist sank into his nose and carried on. Quentin hit the ground and rolled.

Christophe charged at him, each foot slamming down slow but craterous. Quentin had climbed to all fours and was almost up when Christophe kicked him in the stomach. He rose, only to go crashing back down to the ground again. “Look at this sad sack of shit,” he shouted. “Talked a big game, but where is he now?”

The pimp climbed to his feet, looking shaky. His breathing was ragged but there was no panic on his face. Not yet. Pain, sure. Pain in spades. But if he was still able to stand, he wasn’t hurting enough. “You’re pretty strong,” he said. “But that’s not enough!”

Quentin feinted, and Christophe fell for it. He twisted again, and while one foot was in the air Quentin struck him in the side. The blade sank into his flesh, hurting magnificently. One of his rings warmed, slowing his body’s bleeding down to nothing, paused for the time being. He grabbed Quentin by the sword arm and pulled him in deeper. For the first time that night, there was something like fear on his face. Uncertainty.

“Ouch.” Christophe grinned through the pain, squeezing Quentin’s wrist with all of his strength. The pimp cried out, silenced by thud of a fist slamming against his face again. He staggered backwards but stayed on his feet. Pulling out the blade, Christophe tossed it back to him.

Quentin took it, confused. His eyes drifted to Christophe’s side. It wasn’t bleeding much, if at all. Moving hurt and every second was agony, but Christophe understood how fights like this worked. You weren’t just fighting the person, you were fighting the war. You were making a statement. For that he’d endure anything. It’s not like this puny little shit was a danger to him.

Christophe advanced, lumbering forward. Quentin froze. There it was, that split second of indecision, that ounce of fear, that deciding factor in a fight. He barreled right into the Pimp, scooping him up in a bear hug and lifting him off the ground. He squeezed and squeezed until bones creaked and groaned and the moonkissed bastard screamed out in pain. He kept going until he felt the pop and then he dropped Quentin to the ground.

“No!” Razia screamed, running to his side. He stared up blankly, choking on his pain. Or lack of it, if it went like some of the other people he crushed but left alive.

Christophe strutted around the room, holding his fists skyward. Piro clapped enthusiastically for him, but other than that the room was nothing but hushed whispers and murmurs. So much for the man of the hour. So much for Razia’s protector. The Warlord couldn’t help but grin at his easy victory. From the ground, Quentin screamed in agony. That settled that.

“What did I tell you, Piro? Should’ve come up here ourselves to handle it the first time,” he said, laughing. Piro laughed along with him, until suddenly his face fell. A second later the sword pierced his back, sinking in until it hit his ribs. The ring on his finger burned hot, a second source of scorching agony, but the enchantment held and the worst of it was blunted. He turned around, moving ponderously slow.

The moonkissed was back up. Huffing and puffing and looking like he wanted to pass out, but he wasn’t broken. Well, Christophe could fix that.

“This really, really hurts,” Christophe said through gritted teeth. “It’s still not enough.” With the sword still in his back he lurched forward. Quentin backed up but didn’t have the speed to save himself. Christophe’s fist crashed into his face, and a second later he crashed into Quentin on the floor.

Raising himself up he rained ponderously slow, heavy blows down on Quentin’s face. Again and again, all while his whore screamed at him to stop. He punched the moonkissed until there was no more fight left in him, and then he punched him until he went limp, save for the sporadic twitch. Christophe stood up. Reaching behind him he grabbed the sword and pulled it out, nearly dropping to the ground when he did. Just to drive the point home, Christophe took the sword and buried it in Quentin’s guts.

“I think I won,” he said, laughing. The pain was taking over now, making everything slow down and speed up in waves. He turned to Razia, on her knees with a hand over her mouth. Gods, how he wished he could bottle this moment for later. And the next moment. She only registered he was coming for her when his hands went around her throat and he lifted her into the air, squeezing.

Razia clutched at his hands, trying to scream or beg or plead and unable to, and all Christophe could do was laugh in her face. Gods yes, even if the wound killed him it would be worth it just for this. Just to feel the life leave the bitch’s body. It wasn’t the long, drawn out affair he’d planned for and lied to Piro about abandoning, but it would --

The world went white and his hands stopped working. The whore collapsed to the ground, hacking and coughing for air. The smell of thunderstorms pierced through the brain fog. Christophe whirled around to find Piro with his pinky and thumb spread, an arc of lightning traveling between them. He was surprised, and he was pissed.

“That wasn’t part of the plan,” Piro said.

“Not for you,” Christophe laughed, swaying in place.

The clearing of a throat above reminded him of their audience. Cicero said, “It was a clean-ish fight. It was an honorable end to a duel. Your quarrel with Quentin is over. Ms. Rashid remains under my protection. Touch her again and my hospitality goes away.”

“Not a worry Mr. Cicero,” Piro called back, putting his hand on the unwounded part of Christophe’s back. “We’ll be on our merry way and see you at the negotiation in a week. I do believe our statuses have changed and you might want to reconsider terms.”

It wasn’t what Christophe wanted, but he couldn’t have it all. He looked over to Quentin’s fallen form. Razia was on her knees next to him, holding his hand and talking. Tears poured down her face. Oh, that was beautiful enough on its own. Her pain would marinate and make her death taste all the better. Abruptly, the gladiators took it on themselves to form a human wall between him and the moonkissed’s last moments.

“Then go in peace and may the Wanderer watch out for you in your travels,” said Cicero.

Christophe and Piro collected their men and left the party behind them. The entire time, he couldn’t help but wonder if this would be the time honor would break and the guards would turn around and murder them all. It was the same every time he had a tense meeting. One of these days, honor would give out for the need for blood. Or maybe that’s just what he’d do.

“So,” Piro said after they cleared the manor and got into their carriage. “Trying to kill Razia. You said we could let her live, so long as she paid her dues to you.”

Christophe eased himself into the seat. As much as it hurt, pressure helped ease the strain of the magic keeping the wounds from killing him entirely. The magic drew on his own latent magical energy as well as the energy of the other rings he wore, but there was a limit and he was nearing it. “Maybe I changed my mind. What does it matter? The bitch is still alive, I got to have my fun, and her bodyguard of the week is dead.”

“It matters to me,” said Piro. He pounded the top of the carriage and the driver got moving, the sudden lurch jolting Christophe’s wounds. “It matters because if I want to keep her for myself, her being dead ruins things a bit. Isn’t taking her freedom enough? She’s going to have to deal with so much shit you give her, death would be a kindness.”

It had been weeks of Piro begging and pleading and explaining his case on why it would be better to let her live. The only thing that made it stop was agreeing to it, so Christophe lied his ass off. He’d still lie his ass off if that’s what it took. “It wasn’t intentional. You get stabbed in a fight, you’re ready to go after everything you see until your body gives out. The plan’s still good. And I still get to hit her every time she disrespects me.”

“I would expect nothing else, brother.” Piro smiled. “Her days of disrespecting us are done. By this time next week she’ll be back in my lap, terrified every second of what you might do to her.”

Then again, that sounded appealing too. Maybe Christophe wouldn’t kill her right away.