Poison Ivy: Echoes of the Underworld Series

By Maggie Kay

I was born into riches and quickly tossed into rags. Betrayed by my own blood, my life shifted into an endless nightmare. Every breath is a struggle to survive. 

As time passed, my cage became my weapon and my innocence became my strength, until the day I was sold to the highest bidder. 

I always thought there were good people, and then there were bad. However, recently, life taught me that there was a very fine line between someone's light and dark side. 

Elijah Jackson, my caretaker and the one paid to train me into the ultimate cage fighter, became my ally. Yet the kindness and warmth he offered only acts as a cloak to the monster within. Love was powerful, but was it enough to change someone? 

I'd been fighting my whole life, and when the time came, would Elijah fight for me, or would he send me to my end?

Vengeance ran through my veins. Every day I trained to become stronger, more focussed, and ready for the biggest battle of my life. 

I am Ivana Dobrev. I am Poison Ivy.

 

Poison Ivy is part 4 of the Echoes of the Underworld Series, but can be read as a Standalone

 

A Dark and Dangerous Romance, that will leave you fighting for your next breath. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maggie Kay
• Release date: Apr 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201079260

Book preview

PROLOGUE

IVY 

Papa! I scream, running from the front steps, tripping on my shoelace and face planting the gravel. I crawl the remaining distance over to him as he’s lying unconscious in the driveway, ignoring the sharp rocks that are stuck in my palms. 

Dark red blood pools around my father on the ground and stains his white shirt.

Papa, Papa! I scream, leaning over him, shaking his shoulders. Get up! I sob. He doesn’t budge. His eyes are wide yet unmoving as he stares vacantly into the sky. Papa?

Gunshots erupt around me, but I can’t move, can’t register anything. All I can focus on is my father. Please don’t die, Papa. I need you. I cry into his chest, his body is still warm, although his arms do not wrap around me like they always do. Placing my ear to his chest, I listen for a heartbeat. I feel around his mouth for breath. Nothing. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help him. Gunfire is still bellowing; smoke is thick in the air. 

I lay down next to him, ignoring the blood now coating my dress, and wrap my arms around him. Papa. Stay with me. I will keep you safe. I curl into his side and rest my head in the crook of his neck, closing my eyes, waiting for this nightmare to be over. 

 Ear piercing screams from behind me jolt me upright.

No, no, no. Lenin! Ivana, get off him. Get away from him! Natalya, my Papa’s wife screams at me, yanking at my arms so hard pain shoots up them.

Get away from him, you stupid girl.

Hot tears burn my cheeks as I look back down at Papa’s lifeless body. Natalya pushes me aside and falls to her knees, sobbing over my father. Alec, my older brother, knocks me over as he passes me. He looks down over me like I am mud on his shoe.

You are not welcome here, Ivana. Leave now. Go and find your mother.

But he is my Papa, too, I plea. His cold hard eyes showing no sympathy. 

You are about to learn your place in this house, little sister. You listen to me now. He barks at me. Go run to your whore mother, and tell her that her lover is dead, and she is next. He kicks my leg and spits on me. Now leave!

His words pierce my heart over and over as I wipe his spit from my face. With my head hung low, I take one last look at my father. Natalya has slumped over his body, her cries have turned into wails, and it’s too much to bear for a little girl. 

Slowly, I stand, taking in a deep breath before turning away. My steps fall into a sprint as I run to the servant’s quarters as fast as my legs can take me. 

Today was supposed to be a good day. Today is my tenth birthday, but I know today will be marked as the day my life changed forever.

ONE

IVY

FOURTEEN YEARS LATER

Taking one last look around the only home I have known for the past fourteen years, I run my fingers over the scratches in the doorframe, closing my eyes, envisioning my Mama carving my new height into it. She did that every year on my birthday. 

Today, I leave her precence behind. I only hope that the memories follow me.  Being here has somewhat made her still feel alive. So, I fear that not having the constant reminders of her around our house, the stables, and the training quarters, will make her fade away, and I will forever forget her beautiful face. While Mama made our home as cosy as she could, we did not have many luxuries. The cut, rough-hewn logs that made up our walls gave you splinters if you leaned on them. The floor sang a chorus of squeaks as you walked upon it, and the curtains were almost threadbare, but it was our home. 

An open fireplace was our only source of heat, which was never enough during winter where we would layer as many clothes on us as possible to try and keep warm and sleep cuddled up together. 

Mama was a British-born Russian. God rest her beautiful soul. My grandparents fled the Soviet Union during the cold war, entering the UK as immigrants. Then in 1996, she returned to Russia 1996 to explore her heritage and found a position as an Au Pair. She saw it as the perfect opportunity to learn more about her native culture. Little did she know, she would never step foot on British soil again. 

With so many families wanting their children to learn English, it was very easy to get a job. Initially, my mother thought she had been so lucky to score a position with such a wealthy family. She learned very quickly that there was more danger to their wealth than hard work or good fortune. My father was kind and generous to her, and she fell in love with him despite the perils. 

She lived and worked for him for twelve months, taking care of his children, and eventually, ended up warming his bed as well. Until one day, the evidence of their affair grew inside her belly. Me.

At first, my parents were able to cover it up and say the baby (me) was to a man my mother met at a bar on one of her nights off. But once I was born with the same emerald green color eyes as him and grew into a little girl, it was unmistakable that I was his daughter. Natalya, his wife, accepted me as part of the family out of fear that my father would leave her. That acceptance swiftly changed after his death.

It is now almost impossible to think that my father was a wealthy and powerful man, yet his daughter lived in such poor conditions. If he were still alive, though, that would not be the case. 

My Mamma fell in love, which ultimately became her death sentence and my life sentence. 

There are so many memories in this room. I look around again as my mind drifts to the past.

Mamma, Mamma, I panic, pushing against her on the bed. She grunts at me but doesn’t move.

Mamma, you have to get up. It is time to cook breakfast. It has been two weeks since we were brought to this compound and our new home. It’s not really a home though. It’s cold and dirty. Nothing like what we had when Papa was alive. Mamma has been so sad. I know how she feels, because I feel it too. I miss Papa. I miss him so much!

Mamma. If you don’t get up the guards will beat you. I shake her again. Please, Mamma. Please get up.

Eventually, she rolls over on her side and wipes away the tears from my eyes.

I’m sorry, my angel. She pulls me into her. I am so sorry. It’s alright, hush now. I will get up.

I hug tattered notebooks to my chest. They are the only things that are truly just mine in this place. My thoughts, my memories, my life here with Mamma, all bundled onto inked pages. I stole my first notebook, along with a pen, not long after we initially came here. I took it from the guard’s house when Mamma was cleaning it, and I would hide it under one of the loose floorboards beneath my bed, only taking it out at night when Mamma was asleep.

I open the front page and read it.

Mamma has not been the same since my Papa died. She does not smile anymore. Krill, my uncle, took over the family when Papa was killed. Mamma said that it was only out of respect for his brother and the fact I had Dobrev blood, that he let us live. I just don’t understand. Why would he want to harm his own family?

Uncle Krill said we could no longer stay at the house and sent us to live at this farm. It has some horses, but Mamma told me that’s just for show. Really, the only other animals at this farm are the men.

Our new home is a small log house that adjoins to a large barn. There are nine izba’s altogether. Each houses guards and men who are being trained to fight. I didn’t understand it at first when Mamma told me that Krill was a man of the flesh trade- buying young boys and raising them into brutal men. It was not until I saw for myself and watched their vigorous training, that it really made any sense. They were being taught to become ultimate weapons, all to fill my uncle’s greedy pockets with.

The guards at the compound are the only ones here by choice. Paid for their silence and skillset to train the boys. They take up three of the izba huts alone, each housing three men. They are here to keep everyone in line, keep the fear running thick, and to deliver the punishment for disobedience.

My Mamma is the new cook and cleaner. She keeps all the men and boys’ bellies full and their quarters in order. No small task, when at the moment, there are twenty souls that are imprisoned here with us. Each izba house is similar to the next one. Iron bars across all the windows, simple cot beds, basic shower, sink, and a toilet which is only cordoned off with a sheer curtain. 

Our very survival is dependent on our obedience, my Mamma tells me every day. Do what your told, and do not ever question it.

It’s the start of winter, and the days are getting colder and colder, but the nights are even worse. We have restricted movement due to the freezing temperatures, having to wear layers upon layers of clothing. Mikhail, one of the only trainers that speaks to me, told me that it is a real handicap when training. Whatever that means.

 The nights here at the compound are long and monotonous. There is nothing to do. With no television, no toys, I have read the only two books here a million times already. Mamma sings to me some nights for entertainment, and when we lay together in our bed to keep warm, she tells me stories about princesses and dragons.

Yesterday was a harsh day. The lined-up izba huts created a wind tunnel that whipped up a torrent of snow, lashing my face, giving me what my Mamma calls a winter rash.

The pipes have begun to freeze, so we have to get water from the barrels that are stored in the barn. You have to scrape the ice from the top before you can get to the water underneath and then boil it in pots over the fireplace. I hate it here. It is always cold no matter how close you stand by the fire. My skin turns a bluey color every time Mamma makes me wash. 

I miss my Papa. I miss home. I just want to go home.

I shiver from just the thought. I can honestly say that I never want to experience another winter in Russia. I hope whoever I am sold to lives in a sunny warm place. All I can do is hope. Hope for something, hell, anything better than this godforsaken place. Even though so much of it reminds me of my Mamma, it also carries the dark shadows of times that I would rather forget.

As I look out the window, Ilya and Roman pass by. Sixteen and already lethal. They have both been here the longest out of all the fighters, being only ten years old when brought to the compound. I remember their frightened little faces so vividly. They were the youngest Krill had ever purchased, small Russian boys with no clue to the world they were about to be thrown into. But, just like all the other boys that have come and gone, the chance for them to die young and innocent has long passed. Their final stand will not be glorious. It will be bloody and brutal, as I suspect mine will be. 

A black G55 pulls into the compound, the large iron gates closing behind it. It has been so long since I’ve seen what the world looks like on the other side of those gates in daylight. Every time I have traveled to a fight, it has been nighttime. What awaits me out there? Who will be the next monster that purchases me? Will he be worse than Krill? I honestly couldn’t imagine any worse than this. 

My brother Alec steps out of the vehicle. His dark eyes connect with mine through the glass. The pits of my stomach curdle. The evil bastard hates me, and I equally detest him in return. We share no sibling bond nor love, only half-blood that is as black as the Dobrev’s souls. 

If Alec is here, that means he has taken over after Krill’s assassination, and he is the very reason I am to be sold today. Turning to the fireplace, I throw my notebooks into the flames and watch my life burn away to ash.

TWO

ELIJAH

Wiping the sweat from my face, I nod my head to Isaac and Tyler as they enter the gym.

The clangs of barbells, grunts of exertion, and the padding of boxing bags are all too familiar sounds, like a soundtrack to my life. 

Preparing for this weekend’s fight? Isaac gestures to the boxing gloves sitting next to me on the weight bench. You're not thinking of coming out of your early retirement, are you now, old man? He winks at me with a cocky grin. Lucky he’s a good friend, or he’d be on his ass right now for calling me old.

I’m always prepared for a fight. I shoot him a smug look. Are you looking for one?

Tyler laughs, throwing me a bottle of water. I catch it and down the contents.

 Are you expecting a full house Saturday? Isaac asks as his eyes scan the room. The gym is full of men training. From the outside looking in, this is just a regular men’s boxing gym, and for intended purposes, that’s exactly what it is. Upstairs hosts my nightclub, The Chambers, where Friday and Saturday nights are the hottest places to be in the Bronx. Tonight, however, it’s my underground club that has all the men here brimming in anticipation.  

The house is always full, I remind him, picking up my gym towel. "Speaking of, I have a ton of shit to do in preparation for it, so if you’re offering to help, I will see you two downstairs after your session. I wink as I pass them.

Tyler fake laughs. Sure, Prophet, anything you need. 

Fight night always brings to surface memories of my old fighting days. It feels like an eternity ago, but it has only been a couple of years in reality. I once, too, like the men surrounding me, would have been preparing myself for the night ahead, and while I still train, I no longer stand in the cage. The constant slight ache in my left knee and shoulder is the ever-present reminder my body is past capable of withstanding the brutality that erupts in those cages. 

If it weren’t for my father’s death two years ago, which forced my retirement, I would have succumbed to my injuries and had to bow out anyway. At least this way, I am not left with further permanent damage. I miss it, though.

I loved the cage. I loved fighting. I lived and breathed every moment of it. The adrenaline, the notoriety, the pain, and of course, that rush of victory. It was and always has been my life. Growing up with a father who trained fighters and then went on to start this business I now own and run, I really had no choice in the matter, but I guess you could say, fighting chose me. No matter how hard you train a man, and teach him to be the best fighter he can be.  To truly succeed, you have to have fighting in your blood. Speed, skill, and strength can be acquired and developed along the way. But a true fighter has a natural hunger and drive that cannot be taught. A raw ability to challenge each move of his component. To get inside their mind and fuck with it. Instil a fear that weakens their composure and splinters their confidence. 

Everyone calls me the Prophet. It is because people that have seen me fight say that I am like a ghost as my opponent does not see me coming. They think that I can perceive my opponent's next move before it even happens. In some ways, that is true. But it is all in the reading of body language. A man’s ability to fight is written all over him. The way he carries himself, the rise of the chin, the rounding of shoulders, the way he walks, talks, even breathes. Study the man, know the fighter. I was very successful as a result of it. 

The elevator dings as I hit the lower-level floor to the underground club. Down here is where the action happens and money talks.

The sensor lights flicker on, illuminating the long hallway. Once at the end, I key in the code and unlock the entrance.

Being underground, there are no windows to let in any natural light. The air is cold and stale.  There is always an eerie feeling when this place is empty. It’s quiet now, but the mix of dirt, sweat, and blood still lingers in the air from the last fight. A stark contrast to when the place is open and alive with people. Down here gets hot and crowded, and the noises of chatter, laughter, music, and yelling combine into a single loud thrum that echoes throughout the room.

I have to blink a few times to adjust my eyes to the brightness of the purple LED lights that line the ceiling. For now, the tables and chairs are empty, the arena quiet, and the strip poles and podiums bare, but by 10 pm Saturday night, this place will be packed.

Viewing platforms circle a cage in the center. The staff will all arrive shortly, and preparations will begin for this Saturday’s line up. It’s the end of a quarter which means it’s auction night. The best of the best fighters with their richer than rich masters will fill the room thick with their greed.

Arturo, my club manager, makes his presence known as he walks out from behind the bar singing some song I have never heard of off-key. 

Hey, boss. He pauses his serenade to greet me. With his larger-than-life smile and sheepishly good looks, Arturo is very popular amongst my female staff and some of the men too.

What do you have for me? I say, nodding my head towards the small box he is carrying. 

"A gift or a bribe, whichever you prefer. It