Trials of the Chief: Royal Scales, #3

By Stephan Morse

Without his memories, Jay's body holds power that is beyond his understanding. Slowly, as he revisits old haunts, his memory begins to return in vivid flashes, but he can't make sense of the things he remembers. Each use of his abilities reveals something darker and more primal, building a need for release–a release that remains out of his reach as he can't tap into this need and what form it should take.

The Hidden could help but they have plans of their own which require Jay to stay clueless.

Without full access to his memories Jay can't tell friend from foe and flounders in a world he can't understand.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephan Morse
• Release date: Apr 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386239222

Stephan Morse

Stephan Morse was born the year 1983 in San Diego. The next fifteen years were spent slowly escaping California and surviving a public education system. Thus far he's made it to the Seattle (WA) region with little desire to go further. When not trying to shove words together into sentences Stephan spends time reading, catching up on sleep, and otherwise living a mundane life.

Book preview

1

Missing her

Sorrow comes in many forms.

Wolves grieve with food; some binge, some starve. They become prone to wild mood swings, turning violent or suicidal. This behavior is one of the reasons each pack has its own land. A haven where they can run or hunt as wolves while ignoring the trappings of humanity. After nightfall, they howl their good-byes toward the moon.

Elven funerals aren’t open to the public, not because elves are anti-social but because they are ritualistic. They smile while trading and interact in schools, but these relationships are all superficial. Only a few elves ever dare associate with humans beyond a passing friendship. In the end, all family deaths involve planting a tree over the deceased’s grave.

Vampires will praise those departed. The longer the life, the louder the praise. Betrayals are just as intense. Dirty secrets that come out decades later, when the cultural norm has shifted enough to be judgmental. Vampires honor the murder of their true friends with an obsessive vengeance.

Humans vary just as wildly.

I celebrated my sorrow by drowning in drinks. Not merely a single glass, but an entire supply chain of bottles, all filled with wonderful substances that induced incoherence.

Cheering from the front room rattled down the hall. Game night shouts reminded me that this bar was full of drunks. Lots of them. All swilling down a liquid problem solver.

Gradually the advertising and careful management helped this bar recover. Pack members had found someone new to shuffle drinks around then replaced one of the waitresses who quit. No one but me remembered her.

A few holdouts remained from the prior crowd; stubborn people consisting of me and the frequent barroom patron who thought plaid was a single color. He sat at the bar on the same stool, third one down from the end. He paid his tab faithfully every night, while mine came out in trade. And I wasn’t a lightweight when it came to liquor.

Four weeks ago I had vanished into a bottle and hadn’t come out—sobriety wasn’t an option. Using a glass was pointless—drinks were poured directly down my throat. The world around me felt blissfully dull. Nagging from my full bladder had numbed. Noise from the main bar was muted. No one came down here unless there was a real problem. It was safer for everyone that way.

I had been prone to bouts of physical expressionism upon other individuals. Hell. The wolves thought it was funny while matching punch for punch. Every now and then a new person would stumble in asking for a fight. As if I was the bars test of manhood. "Welcome to town, let’s go rile up Jay and see who’s still conscious in an hour."

I should have changed the television channel. Blurry pictures of last week’s ceremony flickered by on the screen. Each one fueling smoldering hatred. Only excessive alcohol maintained my lethargy. Two full bottles of rum had finally reached my shoulder blades.

Drinking solved nothing, but it dulled my thoughts. Consequently, I had no problems. When the booze ran out the world would come crashing in and demand attention. Each one of my issues had a name attached.

Evan was an elf who called me his Lord. The confusing designation brought me more trouble than happiness. He could tell me what I was in another six months. Too bad it was pointless this late in the game. I wanted to know who I was because of one person, and she had tied the knot with an unexpected suitor.

Candy was another elf who spent her time screwing me over—literally, and figuratively. Twice. A sneaky tramp. Making a deal with her had saved lives at a high cost. I couldn’t decide if I liked her or hated her. Probably both.

Daniel was theoretically my friend; he had played me more than once in the last year for an unknown goal. Sector agents had a motto, everything for the peace. That included keeping me in the dark about my life. He had been off doing who knows what since things fell apart for the second time.

The list didn’t cover half the people I dealt with. It left off the most important person. A female I shaped my life around one way or the other. I couldn’t even think her name without getting angry.

I needed new, uncomplicated friends. Assuming there was such a thing. Expecting a grown adult not to have emotional hang-ups was unrealistic. There might be five people without baggage in the world and they were only friends with each other.

Opening the desk’s bottom drawer was a downer. There were only two bottles to keep me company between now and sunrise. Drunk me was pessimistic about the odds of making it through the night. Six hours where I needed to stay calm enough to avoid doing something stupid or plastered enough that I couldn’t coordinate myself out of the doorway. Fifty-two hellish minutes of overtime should have rounded up to seven hours.

The stupid action I had been contemplating for a week was straight forward. Should I kill the muscle headed prick on the television?

Kill.

Livid thoughts coiled around my mind painting clear impressions. After weeks, months now, I understood. This wasn’t possession, psychosis, or telepathy. The strange thought patterns came from a suppressed version of myself that had been buried by necessity. I didn’t understand it all. More accurately, I didn’t remember.

Can peel his pampered hide. Disturbing what is mine. Takes Dangerous Mate away. Filthy hands.

If I hadn’t spent the last few hours being exceedingly plastered the man on television would have been dead by sunrise. Never mind his fangs, or the speed and strength that came with being a full vampire. Never mind that he was over a hundred years old and had experience on me. There wasn’t an ounce of fear in my body that he might get me first.

No sneaks. Can take the Tick easily. Know the home inside and out. Can feel every ounce. Is a home. Our home. Reclaim it.

Each person had a title that was fitting. My former girlfriend was thought of as Dangerous Mate. Most vampires were called Ticks. Evan was Incomplete Servant.

For the Tick’s safety, I personalized some drinking games. Every time the television screen showed his smug face next to hers I would drain another glass. Whenever their vows were repeated that would be two glasses. Speculation about the future, net worth, them dancing, kissing, her face beaming quietly up at his. Everything had a liquid equivalent. Two hours passed and I was down to one bottle.

It wasn’t that I could begrudge her. My ex sort-of-girlfriend, Kahina, deserved happiness. Just not without me.

Jay? The voice wasn’t timid, but it was whispery and apprehensive.

I barely glanced over my shoulder toward the doorway. The man talking was tall and gangly. His hair was uneven and I could see bald patches showing through. Everything about him, even the comically thick glasses, told you he was even less of a people person than I was.

What, Charlie? Despite all the drink there wasn’t even a slur in my voice. Anger kept parts of my brain functional.

I have jobs for you. If you want. If you’re not busy. I, I’ll understand. He wasn’t quite stuttering. Charlie had a healthy fear of interrupting my brooding mixed with serious social anxieties.

Fine. Give me a job, I said.

All right. His feet shuffled with every step. A moment later he was back with a picture and sheet of paper.

Tonight I had to be sober enough to earn my keep. There would be a cab out in the bar parking lot that would take me wherever Charlie had in mind. This had happened a few times recently. It wasn’t enough to keep me distracted.

There’s only a f-few… outstanding accounts left, he said.

Oh. That was bad. The need for my services would run out soon. Rum by the bottle wasn’t cheap.

Unless we s-start the business again, he suggested.

Not sure. I locked my vision on the television and tried not to hate the world.

We could, but we’d have to find a new front person. Julie, I mean I-I’m no good with that, and you’re…

Only the muscle, I said dryly.

Sure. The way he said it didn’t sound sure at all. It sounded like he was trying to say something but couldn’t find the right words and had given up.

I don’t know anyone.

Neither do I. Charlie’s shoulders sagged as he deflated.

He once worked the numbers for the betting and gambling this place had run. Julianne, our deceased boss and ex-owner of the bar, had been a bookie in her spare time. Not a huge operation, but enough of a side business to pad everyone’s pocket.

Well.

If we run out of jobs I can’t pay you as much, he said.

I’ll babysit the door." I shrugged but drunkenness may have blocked the action.

Maybe. Or we can off-offer maybe, tracking services. Not the loan stuff. Maybe a missing persons service?

Maybe. I drained a good chunk of the latest bottle and glowered at the television screen. It was showing another scene from my ex’s recent wedding. Hell. The media thought she was an actual Princess or something.

If you think of something, let me know. Otherwise I-I well, I may have to find another job.

Things must be bad if Charlie was thinking about bailing on this place.

I’ll consider it. I took a few tentative steps and found myself depressingly stable.

I had a couple in, in here last week. Seeking their son, Charlie said.

Yeah? I didn’t really care.

Run-away. Heard of a… referral. Offered five hundred. We could split that. It’s e-enough for a little while.

We aren’t front counter type.

No. Probably. I could try… maybe. See. Maybe put a-an ad, online, somewhere. We’ve d-done it, once, I-I think.

I guess. Another motionless shrug went through my head.

Yeah. Charlie wasn’t normally one for words. He kept his sentences even briefer than me. Here we were having a full-fledged conversation.

My head swam a little as the latest batch of swill processed. I said, I better go.

Charlie nodded and stepped into his office. I took the employee exit and checked the note. The handwriting was sharp and concise. An address, a name, an amount. He even wrote in likely locations to find the person.

My gut clenched when I saw the locations. This was the type of person I hated. Frequented all the wrong habitats. Fight clubs, betting arenas, brawl pits. Different names for the same idea. There was only one real contender for true enthusiasts. Bottom Pit. Chances were that was exactly where I might find tonight’s debtor.

I hailed a cab.

Traveling always took at least an hour. Didn’t matter if it was on the other side of town, a county or two over, three blocks away. Always an hour of uncomfortable car riding. The commute got me sobriety and ample annoyance. I had the driver drop me a few blocks away from Bottom Pit. He got his money and I got out.

I borrowed a retail store’s restroom in exchange for buying breath mints and water. It was late at night and the clerk was barely coherent. The clock above the door told me it was after one.

Perfect timing. Bottom Pit would be warming up to their main act. Fights were held near two in the morning. It ensured that even vampires could attend if they wanted. Wolves had no problem staying up that late. Elves rarely found their way into the betting grounds below. Humans made up the crowd’s majority.

Death wasn’t always involved but the ambulance drivers knew which nights to be aware. Bottom Pit didn’t even have to hide from law enforcement. Waivers were signed, and the best fights were always nonhumans. Mostly wolves. Secretly, I think everyone enjoyed it when the other races, vampires and wolves, killed each other off.

Contenders flew in from all over the sector, nearly seventeen packs had fighters in the last tournament I went to. That was five years ago. I had been a different person. Stronger, faster, more assured in myself. A creature who lived wholly in the now. I became someone else over the years. This worn sad sack of a man. It was like the bits of my life that made me feel normal had been muted and blurred. Static ground over entire batches of the past.

Exploration of the holes in my memory was a mission for sober Jay. Progress was nonexistent.

Bottom Pit had no signs outside, just a main entrance and a side one. Secondary doorways were typically easier and quieter. Fewer idiots to deal with. Bottom Pit was odd in that getting to the back door required passing by the front door. The place was half fortress and club security could decide to stir up problems.

The main entrance had bouncers wearing dark glasses standing outside. There were always three big guys guarding the doorway. Another four would be inside. Each one was built like an extra beefy linebacker. They stood, arms crossed and faces etched in nearly permanent scowls. Uneven teeth, the legacy of frequent fights, gave them a menacing air while slight bellies highlighted the size of their thick arms. I was a big man myself, but these guys were the next size up.

One scanned the line trailing along the building's side. The other two stood in the doorway creating a narrow space that Bottom Pit’s visitors would have to squeeze through.

I walked casually toward the side entrance off to the right of the main door. Past the small line of mostly human males. Past the swollen grunts at the door. One meathead lowered his dark shades in my direction. Orbs tainted with greens and yellows peered over the rims.

Abruptly he grinned and elbowed the other doorway bouncer. Soon they both had the same silly expression. They both gave a polite nod. I kept going past the strange greeting. There was no hassle, no names, no words, only a smile and acceptance of my presence.

They knew me. Or they mistook me for someone else. Perhaps I had hung out here a lot more than I remembered. Part time, maybe a fight or two. It was entirely possible there were gaps in my memory about this place. Some might come back to me as I thought about it.

There were two side entrances. One giant doorway for cargo trucks and the smaller normal sized entryway. No guards. On the other side of the metal would be giant iron bars that served as locks. All sorts of things went in through this door. Employees, the owners, fighters, take out delivery.

This place felt far too familiar but I hadn’t been to Bottom Pit for years. I knocked on the smaller door. It was the same knock I used when going to people’s houses. Firm and without hesitation.

Feet shuffled as someone muttered just inside. A grate in the middle of the iron frame slid open and two eyes peered out. The face was older but vaguely familiar.

Dunno you, the man inside said and slammed the tiny slit.

Two voices conversed on the other side. The metal barely muffled their routine. They argued and then the peephole slid open again.

Who are you? he asked.

Former employee, looking for someone.

It slid shut again and they talked further. There was a grunt and shuffle of feet. The same face opened up the slit and peered out. It was easy to see the scars and a nose that had obviously been broken more than once, mute testimony to the many fights he had survived. A few new scars were layered across his cheek that hadn’t been there years ago.

Password? he asked in a dumb voice.

Little pig, little pig, I said.

It had been a password when I worked part time in this very building. The pair behind the door may not remember me. Both of them had been hit on the head so many times that they were as scrambled as I. It might have been that charm around one of my limbs messing with their perception.

The metal slit clanked shut. Standing here was bringing back memories of this place. I vaguely recalled how it would look from inside. Pure iron flowed through the building. Elves shied away from Bottom Pit for a reason.

I sighed and tried to get a feel for the words on the other side of the wall. To feel them echoing into their surroundings. It took a bit to unfurl my mind. To picture the nearby world as mine. That was the key to any abilities I had. Ownership. By perceiving something as mine I could feel it as if it were an extension of my body. It also made me stronger and faster, though just how strong and fast I could get was uncertain.

Flipping the mental switch of ownership was harder now than it had been five years ago. It was also easier now than a month ago. That other voice took heed of our location.

Familiar. Feel blood. Ground through the building. Much. Some mine. Something else here. Been here. Many times.

The thoughts were murky. My brain censored itself in an attempt to prevent me from remembering everything. It skipped, mused, and pondered an idea that I couldn’t quite grasp. Incomplete thoughts were becoming a habit when I tracked.

Want to know if they will obstruct me. Between me and what is mine. May reconsider. May break them. Unsure. Can feel the words. Sink into cloth. To wood. To unnatural stone.

He knows the champ’s password, Mud Wall speaks. Bigger. Body displaces more air. Dull. His words hang with drool.

Yeah, but is he the champ? Shorter. A quiet anger. Roughly shuffles grainy paper. Folds. Refolds. Leaves sharp creases.

Nah, looks like a chump.

Chumps ain’t champs, wrong password, tell him to go away.

What if he was a champ?

He’ll know the rest. Second creature turns. Feet grind onto dirty concrete. His hands hold something. Paper, magazine. Rolled up. The eyehole slides open.

Go away. The mutilated face was a wary distance away from the hole. Probably been poked in the eyeballs once or twice. I shook off my other senses and spouted the second half.

Open up or I’ll huff and puff, I said. Hell. Whoever made these passwords based on nursery rhymes was a moron.

The little slot closed again. Their words were loud enough that I didn’t need to use my senses to pick them up. These came through unfiltered by my strange thought process.

He knew the rest, the stupid one said.

Stop hassling me then. Let him in, his shorter friend grumbled.

Yeah but we don’t know him, and he ain’t food.

Moron. I’ll check. If there had been a third person behind the door this might have been amusing. Their banter almost felt normal. Nothing had changed in the years I was gone.

Rusty dragging preceded a fourth opening of the peephole. Eyes looked out at me. They looked up, then down. Then back up and down again. To the side, one arm, then the other. I wasn’t wearing a jacket tonight so there wasn’t a lot of room for concealed weapons.

Finally, it closed. Then the door opened and a short round man greeted me. He didn’t offer to shake hands. Both his limbs were busy with a bag of microwaved popcorn.

Hey, John, the roll of flesh said. Long time no see. Come on in before the rabble notices.

I strode into the building. Another part of my past that had been buried with everything else. Parts of it were coming back to me just by being inside this room.

Hey, Barnie, I greeted the short, round man.

The second guy was named Ted. No one liked Ted because he had the IQ of two squirrels fighting over the same nut in a field of acorns.

John? Ted said.

John, you remember John, used to work here back when the old Boss was still coming ‘round. Barnie sounded grumpy half the time, friendly the other half.

Barnie had been in the business for so long that any sense of morals had been ground to dust. It didn’t make him a jerk. He was decent enough until the orders came down. I had seen the man aim shotguns and shrug just before pulling the trigger.

That’s back a ways. Years, Barnie. Ted was my size, not a wolf or anything. Just a big guy who had more muscle than brains. We got along fine until he drank. He was a mean drunk.

Yeah. Hey, John, The old boss left a skirt in charge. The new Boss Wylde’s a fiery bitch who wouldn’t know a good time if it pried her legs apart. Keep clear. You know, else our business ends. Unless you’re gonna fight. Let me know. I’ll get one of these suckers to put some money on you, Barnie said all this while pulling his chair out and plopping down in front of a television playing old movies.

Huh, I said. I didn’t remember fighting down here.

Easy money, yeah Barnie? Ted had a silly look on his face now that he was away from the door.

Oh yeah. So you warn me, the squat man said.

Sure, I agreed.

Anyway, she’s down on the floor. Champion fight tonight. Long odds are four to one against the newcomer. Some quick little fuck. Barnie nodded, mostly to himself.

Not here to bet.

Nah? Well, everyone should have some playtime. Whatcha after? Girls? Drinks? Barnie always did most of the talking. Both were focused on the screen blaring out cheesy lines.

Collections, I stated.

From the Boss? You ain’t that stupid, Barnie said while Ted turned his bag of popcorn upside down. The large man grumbled. If she doesn’t kill you I’d have to. Fucking stupid.

No, I told him about my latest job. The guy I was after frequented places like this and if tonight’s fight was a champion bout then there was no other place he could be.

Oh yeah. That guy. Fight night, yeah. Downstairs on the left. Prick’s probably chasing titties. Barnie turned and threw a few kernels from the dregs of his bag at Ted. Where’s that twat with the checkered shirt? The one you had to drag out last week.

Table four, Ted answered. The big guy never tore his eyes away from the television.

See, told you. Downstairs on the right. I didn’t correct Barnie. We weren’t that friendly. Table four. Listen, you keep it quiet okay, John? Barnie smiled with no emotion. Boss don’t like disturbances, and I’m not in the mood for work tonight. I’m on fucking vacation.

Fucking vacation, Ted echoed, still staring at the screen.

All right, I said. No arguments would come from me. Barnie was the type to bring a rocket launcher to a knife fight.

I went through the door toward the main rooms. The fights and more would be going on downstairs and there were things to do tonight.

Oh, and hey, Barnie said. I turned back to look at him. Welcome back. The short man eked out a sliver of real feeling.

Chasing titties, Ted mumbled. John. He puffed out air then spoke one final line, No stray hands.

I nodded and walked out of the back, past a restroom and break rooms. Extra paths were ignored and my feet traveled straight for the main floor. Stepping out in Bottom Pit proper brought back a rush of memories. One in particular.

The ladies of Bottom Pit didn’t wear a lot in the way of clothes, which was a dangerous thing for a single and emotionally damaged man like myself. Of course, this whole place was out of touch with my recent habits. It was similar to a smoker taking his first drag in weeks. I would call it like an alcoholic taking his first drink in years but I had no idea what that was like.

It was a good thing Ted had warned me. Each breath brought a heady rush of feelings. Hell. I wasn’t angry right now. I was excited. I wanted to watch people beat each other senseless. I wanted to see blood splatter against the walls down below. Chasing down a piddly debt was secondary to having a good time. This was an excellent way to distract myself.

The wet sound of a fist colliding with flesh with incredible force rang throughout the room. Cheers followed. A giant metal cage housed two men pounding each other. People in suits screamed at the sides, cheering and jeering in equal measure at those inside. Ladies who wore more on their heads than the rest of their bodies wove through the crowds. Liquor flowed from platters. Scenes like this would jumpstart anyone’s pulse. It was hard to say which vice was more appealing; the violence, women, or drinks.

Why not all three?

I had only been single four weeks. Long enough to realize that life was going to continue on no matter what I felt. Too short to be serious about anything. Not that it stopped me from looking. I had practice in not being a sleaze ball about it. It was impossible to be effective if I became distracted by every rack that jiggled by.

John! One of the large suited grunts waved over the heads of patrons and employees. He made his way through the crowd like a steamroller. Anyone in his way got pushed aside. John, hell, man, been ages! The grunt greeted me with a handshake. Hasn’t been the same since you left.

Ain’t that the truth. I smirked. Nothing had been the same since I left.

My brothers said you’d passed by the front. He had the same disfigured teeth that the other three bouncers out front had. His words were hard to understand around the lisp. Didn’t believe it. Thought they were screwing with me. John! Fuck yes.

Yeah, here on a job. We casually made our way to a clear view of the fighting cage. This wasn’t the main stage. Just a warm up. There was a cage, and then there was The Pit. I doubted that I would be around long enough to see those grounds in use.

Yeah? The grunt looked me up and down. It was awkward being sized up like that. Not gonna jump in The Pit?

Hadn’t planned on it, I answered.

Damn. You want in, you tell me, there’s a whole new crowd of suckers in here who don’t understand how one-sided the match would be. We'll give you a welcome home brawl, you’ll love it. He grinned. His name wasn’t coming back to me like Ted and Barnie’s had.

Maybe later, I offered.

Yeah, hey, I gotta continue the rounds. You know how it is. I’ll tell the rest of the family you’re here, we’ll catch up on old times. He placed a friendly hand on my shoulder. I nodded. He still had that broken smile as he waded through the crowd. Hey! he shouted at someone in the distance.

It was nice to know that people remembered me. Better yet, they were willing to bet on me over their own fighters. My reputation was intact down here. Or maybe they just wanted to see me get my face beat in. I vaguely remembered the bouncers being semi-sadistic. They didn’t always care who was on the other end. Their love was for the fight.

Somewhere around here was my target. I didn’t own anything of his. Had no pull to go off. Tracking would have to be done the old-fashioned way. Asking for directions. I stopped a waitress and managed to keep both eyes up top. There should be an award for that.

She made a disgusted face once I mentioned the table I was headed to. Table four was down the middle of the room, not left or right like Ted and Barnie had said. I took a drink from her platter and dropped down a twenty. The waitress, or showpiece, hard to tell which, went about her rounds. I’m not ashamed to admit I peeked as she walked away. A simple glance put a smile on my face.

I sat down quietly with drink in hand. The table was intended to seat three or four people, but everyone had crowded the front lines. There were a blissful few minutes of peace between me and the concoction.

Liquid was swilled down in a blur leaving me fidgety and worried. What if this was the wrong table? The wrong person? I riffled through the jacket that had been left behind. No money. No credit cards.

There was a sector card that confirmed my location as correct. Steven Gates. Twenty-five years old. The face pictured was wearing a sheepish grin. Next to that was an employee badge that identified him as a computer tech who worked for EXI, whatever that meant. The logo wasn’t helpful.

Was he a computer geek who spent all day staring at a monitor or electronic board? No wonder the man spent time somewhere exciting. Too bad he decided to throw down money in the wrong places. I managed to shove his cards back into a pocket when the man himself showed up. His face wrinkled in confusion then smiled like everything was a joke.

Awesome fight up there! Say you want to help me get closer to the front? I could slide in behind you. You look like a good battering ram. The man was fit, but just on the goofy side of good looking. Brown hair, brown eyes, looked like he was full of shit half the time.

I didn’t have a quick response.

No? That’s cool. Hey, keep the seat warm, I’m gonna grab another drink. Steven rushed off.

He seemed like an excitable idiot.

I scanned the crowd. There was no real hurry to complete our transaction. Steven either had enough to pay Julianne’s back, or didn’t. A few drinks and a good time wouldn’t hurt him.

Besides, I was having fun. Whatever Bottom Pit put into that mixer I grabbed was strong. It brought everything firmly into fuzzy land. There were no news channels on here, there was no one talking about the latest high profile wedding. No, here the cameras were all on the fights.

Betting tickers scrolled along multiple walls. Odds on this fight and the next fight. Minimum bets and expected payouts for wins. None of tonight’s fighters were house sponsored. Another part of the display told me there were twenty minutes until the main event. The current champion would go against an up and coming challenger from a few counties over.

Might be worth a glance. I doubt anyone would begrudge my wading up to the front to look in on the proceedings. I could hassle Steven when he came back then go about my night.

Only Steven didn’t come back. With ten minutes left to the fight, I started getting antsy. Had he ditched me? Unlikely since his stuff was here. I grabbed the jacket and used it as a link.

Dense. Air hard to move in. Heavy with yells. Exciting. Pulse pounds with the cheers. Remember. Yes. Past distracts me.

My head shook to get thoughts back in line. They kept trying to drift toward the cages and waitresses alternately. Attracted by different things for different reasons.

Find the Pink Meat. Cord connects to jacket. Goes somewhere up. Not far. Can wait. Want to watch the Gladiators.

The gathering of people made it extremely hard to focus on the cord that would connect Steven’s jacket to the person. Drunk me tracked horribly. Normally I could follow the ethereal connection through the swirl of other sight and life energy toward my destination. My submerged mind had other desires and vetoed this work assignment.

Getting out of the chair was more challenging than expected. Being two bottles under hit me hard. There was another refill on my table. I didn’t question my fortune and took it.

I staggered the straightest curve I could manage over to The Pit. It felt so familiar. The Pit was a huge hole beneath two layers of metal grating that anyone could walk across. Forty feet down and fifty feet in diameter. The dugout floor was ringed by metal cages. Above that were two layers of alcoves that people could watch from. Spectators could also watch from the cameras. Metal shook as I walked across. There weren’t many gathered and the early birds would grab the alcoves first.

Down below, around the walls of the ring, there were handprints indented into a clay-like surface. Each one a champion. Immortalized, or as close as a fighter could get. There was a yearly tournament held for the true champion. The winner had to impress their hand into the wall without any aid. Only one human had ever won out of the multitude and his handprint was the lightest. The human had survived against intense odds and retired quietly, broken but proud.

I wandered back to the table where another drink was waiting, as heavy on the liquor as the prior one. The aftertaste was an exciting bite of sour apple that cleared my nostrils. The emotions I felt all night were growing intense. Excitement and anger coursed through in equal measures. The hair on my arms raised and a chill ran down my back. My shoulders rolled and neck cracked.

Steven hadn’t moved. His jacket was a terrible connection.

Drinks good? A large hand slapped me on the back.

I spun and found myself looking at two of the large bouncers. The differences between the two were obvious. The weavings in their hair, their posture. One was clearly in charge and he was talking to me.

Yeah, I answered.

Good. Good. It’s better than the normal swill. Think of it as a welcome back. On the house. This security man had a controlled slur too.

Thanks. My throat felt dry and itchy.

Enjoying the view?

My gaze was distracted by one of the bare-chested ladies striding through the room. She had an attractive lilt to her step. I steeled my face in an effort not to flinch as though I had been caught. These bouncers wore heavily shaded glasses and could possibly get away with gawking.

Yes, I said.

One of them swiveled his head and nodded to the waitress. She smiled faintly and continued her route.

Not the flesh. Both men smirked, almost pack-like in their unison but far more disturbing. Almost a filthy leer. The Pit, brother, the place where boys become men! Our own little proving grounds.

Yeah. Brings back memories, I responded easily. This place felt good, and foreign, as if a second home.

I’ll bet. You keep drinking. Enjoy yourself. He nodded.

Sure. Emotions rolled over me like a surging tide. The shivery excitement was growing sharper. It ebbed and flowed over my whole body as the crowd cheered at the latest fist hitting someone.

The brothers