Demon and the Fox - 16. Cheater

There were sixteen contestants in the tournament. After Nick won against Laurel, he waited while seven other fights took place. He didn’t watch the fights. He waited his turn, sitting on the bench in his stall, holding his sword.

Nick could choose not to watch, but he heard everything. He heard the metallic clash of sword fights and the loud thumps of hand to hand combat that some contestants seemed to prefer. He heard the audience’s cheers. And the contestants’ frustrated shouts, yelps of despair, or strangled screams as they were defeated.

He heard Jun’s voice when she announced the beginning of each fight by stating the contestants’ names. But he zoned out and forgot their names right after she’d said them. Except one.

It was the beginning of the eighth fight. The last one before Nick went again.

“…versus Devin Cook,” Jun was saying and Nick bolted upright. “You may begin,” Jun said.

As Nick’s ears picked up the now familiar sound of shoes stomping the dusty ground accompanied by the clatter of swords, a million thoughts bounced back and forth in his mind.

Devin Cook. The man who had hurt Sasha; stolen Sasha’s powers, abused him, humiliated him, almost killed him. Devin Cook was dead? Apparently so, and he was here. Nick became restless. He looked at the light under the curtain, and his fingers itched to pull at the thick brown fabric.

The fight didn’t last long at all. Nick’s ears pricked as he heard the blood-curdling sound of someone’s scream of agony. A girl’s scream. So Devin had won, then. And pretty easily, too; either Devin was a really good fighter, or that girl should have never entered the tournament in the first place. Nick wasn’t one to judge, though. Without the supernatural abilities inherited from Malachy—abilities he didn’t even fully comprehend himself—Nick wouldn’t stand a chance either.

He resisted the urge to look at Devin. Seeing that guy now would only make him angry, and that would be pointless. Even if Nick won all his fights, and Devin won all of his own, they wouldn’t get to face each other off until the very end of the tournament.

Nick waited until Jun announced the next fight.

“Round two, fight one,” she said.

He pulled aside the curtain, waited for Jun to say his name, and then Nick stepped out. His boots stirred the dust and it stung his eyes. The brightness of the stadium was almost blinding, the heat almost too much, but Nick pushed through. He took a deep, calming breath as he stood in the center of the arena. The crowd was dead silent. Nick’s opponent was a man this time. Tall and strong with gray fighting gear and a mace in his hand.

The mace was black with very sharp and long silver spikes. Nick should have been afraid, but he wasn’t.

He exchanged a quick glance with Jun. She nodded at him from the judges’ panel, almost imperceptibly. Then Nick’s gaze flicked to the bottom rows of the stadium. He saw Cyan and Raven with Koda sitting between them quietly. Nick frowned. Cyan didn’t look well. He was too pale. Something was wrong. And Raven seemed to be holding Cyan’s hand.

There was no time to ponder what could be wrong with Cyan. Nick’s opponent was ready. Hefting his mace, he started to run.

Cheers came from behind Nick in the audience; another one with his fan club.

Nick breathed out, and everything slowed down. He let his powers fill him. It was similar to the feeling of a powerful drug kicking in. Except this wasn’t some external drug. It came from within, and Nick was in control.

He could see everything. The sweat on his opponent’s brow. The dust clinging to his gray clothes. The cuts and bruises from his previous fight. The blood stains on the silver spikes of his mace.

There were gasps from the crowd as Nick leaped to the side at the last moment, and the mace hit the dust where he had been standing just a split-second ago.

Nick’s second fight was as brief as Devin’s first fight had been just before. Nick never let that mace touch him. He never even needed to block it with his sword. Nick was so much faster than his opponent that he was able to find breeches in his defense; his black sword cut into his opponent’s skin.

By the time the fight was over, the mace had been dropped to the ground, and Nick’s opponent was passed out. But he wasn’t dead. Again, Nick let the other person live. He was carried out of the arena on a stretcher.

No cheers came from the audience.

Nick went to hide in his stall.

This time, he only had to wait while three other fights took place. The fights took longer though, because the contestants were better. Nick didn’t look.

Alone with his thoughts, he was starting to feel uneasy. What was the point of all this? Wasn’t life itself harsh enough already? When they came to Hell, people had to face their worst fears. For Nick it had been drowning, and he highly doubted he could have snapped out of it without Cyan’s help that first time.

And even if people managed to escape their fears, Nick thought, then they could enter some tournament to fight and hurt others? There seemed to be no escape from violence and meaninglessness, even in the afterlife. Then again, Nick supposed this was Hell.

Purgatory was no better; if anything, Purgatory was worst. Nick wondered about Heaven. He had asked Shay about it so many times. But Shay would barely ever answer his questions—especially not the ones about Heaven.

Thinking about Shay appeased Nick’s soul, if only because he was reminded that he had a reason for being in this tournament. He wasn’t hurting others just for the sake of it. Jun and Cyan had been pretty clear that this was his only way of becoming stronger. He had to play the game, he had no choice. And then, when he was stronger, he could find a way to get Shay out of Purgatory. And get his body back.

Devin won his second fight, too.

Good, Nick thought, clenching his sword’s hilt. Sure, he had a reason for being in this tournament. But kicking Devin Cook’s butt would be a nice bonus.

By the time Nick walked out to face his third opponent—a young man with shaved hair and a goatee sporting a black and blue striped sleeveless shirt—the audience seemed to have had a change of hearts. They weren’t cheering for Nick, but they weren’t indifferent anymore. Instead they were jeering at him. An unsettling feeling ran across Nick’s entire body as he heard distinctive booing sounds from the bottom rows to the very top seats of the stadium.

Some people were shouting, and Nick picked out keywords that sliced through the rattle of the crowd like knives in his ears. Malachy’s son. He’s cheating. Cheater. Abomination.

Abomination? Man, talk about a tough crowd.

Someone must have been spreading rumors about him, Nick thought. And they weren’t entirely wrong. Nick looked up at the guy with the blue and black outfit and the goatee. He wasn’t holding a sword—or any weapon for that matter—and his hands were wrapped in fingerless motorcycle gloves. So Mr. Goatee was one of the contestants who preferred hand to hand combat.

As the crowd jeered on, Nick’s gaze scanned the bottom rows behind his opponent. Raven was still there with Koda, but Cyan was gone. Nick’s heart sank. Was something wrong with Cyan? Raven’s steady presence reassured him, though; Nick chose to think that Raven wouldn’t leave Cyan alone if something was really wrong.

Amidst the panel of judges, Jun stood with her palms flat against the wooden desk before her. Nick hadn’t noticed before, but now he saw that two of the judges wore black and blue clothes. They were rooting for Mr. Goatee.

“Silence!” Jun shouted, sharp and clear. Her red top was very bright in the dusty stadium. Her long black ponytail spilled over her shoulder, and her kohl-lined eyes cast a merciless glare across the audience.

Jun got her silence. Nick glimpsed Lucas among the lower seats behind the judges. His face was a perfect mask of smugness. Nick wondered no more about who was guilty of spreading rumors.

As she stared in turn at Nick and Goatee, Jun said: “You may begin.”

Nick fell into his habit of focusing on his breathing and letting his powers fill him with their familiar tingling sensation.

But something was wrong. He couldn’t focus, not really. Instead of analyzing his opponent’s movements, he was very aware of all the blood splotches staining the dusty ground. There was so much blood that if it were all gathered in one massive stain, it would cover up half the fighting area. The blood of sixteen different people, including his own. Nick could smell it; rancid and coppery. It made him feel dizzy.

At the same time, he was aware—too aware—of countless scornful faces staring at him from all across the crowd. Nick felt trapped in the middle of this painfully bright, cruel dome. The door in his stall, the one leading out to the forest, Nick recalled, was gone. There was no escape. And he couldn’t breathe.

His lack of focus earned Nick the loss of his sword when Goatee threw himself at him. He lent a powerful kick in Nick’s chest, sending him flying backwards. The sword tumbled into the blood-stained dust. Goatee rushed to the sword and kicked it far away. Nick was still holding his chest and trying to find his breath.

Goatee ran to Nick and kicked his side so hard that Nick rolled over himself a few times before coming to a stop. Even though his body felt like one big bundle of pure, sharp pain, Nick tried to lift himself up on his hands. But there was no time. Goatee was at it again, jumping toward Nick and landing with his elbow crashing into Nick’s back, right in between his shoulder blades. A sharp bolt of pain exploded along Nick’s spine as he collapsed into the ground. There was dust in his eyes, and in his mouth.

The crowd cheered now. They cheered because he was losing. Malachy’s abomination of a son, the cheater, was getting his ass kicked, and they were loving it.

Goatee flipped Nick around and punched his face. Nick tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, and he felt sick. He rolled to the side, desperately trying to curl up on himself and shield his face in his arms. But Goatee forced him onto his back and punched him again. The crowd cheered on.

Was this how it ended? In such a humiliating way? With Devin surely watching from one of the stalls. And Lucas and Louis watching with their contempt, smiling eyes. And with Jun and Raven, who had been nice enough to help him, losing face because of him.

Goatee was getting ready to punch him for a third time. His fist was clenched tight, and the lean muscles of his arm were tense.

Thoughts rushed through Nick’s mind in a flash. If Nick died here and now, would he disappear from the world—from this one and the others? Or would he wind up in Purgatory again, with Olivia laughing in delight?

And he thought of Sasha in that stall where Nick had sat with Koda, covered in bandages. In the feeble light of one candle, Sasha’s eyes had glistened with all the distress in the world. Nick had promised him he would get his life back as soon as possible.

You need to hurry, was all Sasha said then.

Nick found the strength to roll over. Goatee’s punch hit the ground in a puff of dust. Nick coughed and spat blood but he clambered to his feet and held himself up nonetheless. The pain rippled his body like dark waves hitting him from opposite directions but he pushed through. He had to push through.

He made it look like he was about to stand firm and meet Goatee’s punches with his own, but instead Nick ducked and made a run for his sword. Screw hand to hand combat. He wasn’t Keanu Reeves. He didn’t know kung fu.

Goatee was after him in no time, but Nick reached his sword first. He grabbed the hilt, rolled over himself and leaped back up in one fluid movement. The crowd was as silent as a morgue.

Nick felt safer with his long black blade separating him from Goatee. He let his powers consume him; if he was a cheater, then he would cheat his way to the end. Nick didn’t care about control anymore. His body felt like he’d been hit by a truck, and Nick wanted the pain to vanish.

Goatee tried to maneuver around Nick’s sword and hit him, but Nick was becoming way too fast. The helplessness of losing himself to his demonic powers made Nick feel euphoric. His feet felt so light that he almost thought he could fly. Goatee hit nothing but thin air. For Goatee, it must have felt like fighting against a hologram; something he couldn’t possibly grasp.

When Goatee took a break to get his bearings, that was the end. Nick’s boots spun in the dust as he swept his blade in a quick, precise angle. Goatee had good reflexes, so he started to move away from Nick’s attack. But Nick’s sword was too swift. It slashed deep into Goatee’s chest. And when Nick pulled back in a flash, it was as if nothing had happened. Except blood spilled from the deep gash in his opponent’s chest.

Goatee looked at Nick with eyes that were just as shell-shocked as the soundless rows of people circling the arena. He fell to his knees, then facedown on the ground.

Nick didn’t turn to look at the reaction of the two judges wearing black and blue. He was already storming back into his stall, flapping the curtain shut behind him.

It was Devin’s fight, now.

Nick looked down at his blood-stained blade—red against black—and wondered if he had killed that guy just now. He found he didn’t care, and it frightened him. But the truth was that he didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t anymore. He was lost. And he just wanted this to be over.

You need to hurry.

Nick felt dizzy as he sat on his bench.

I’m trying, Sasha. I’m trying.

Nick didn’t know how long he waited. He zoned everything out. The sounds of Devin’s fight, the crowd’s reactions. He didn’t care anymore. He clutched his sword’s hilt so tightly that the engraved snake carved red marks into his palm.

But when he heard Jun’s voice, Nick sprung to his feet. Her voice, laced with defiance, ripped through everything else and rang deep inside him.

“Last fight. Nicholas Russell versus Devin Cook.”

When he walked out there, Nick wasn’t too shocked to see that Devin wore navy camo pants and a tight-fitting shirt that matched. The same dark blue shade Lucas and Louis flaunted. This time, Nick didn’t lack focus. He stared at Devin only, with no acknowledgment whatsoever for the rest of the stadium. Nick felt like he was in a trance-like state as he stalked closer to Devin. They stood on a bloody patch of ground, but Nick didn’t look down.

Devin’s eyes were so dark they looked like two black marbles. His nose was just slightly arched and his lips were thin. Devin Cook was not ugly, but when Nick looked at him, he was reminded of everything this man had done to Sasha, and he couldn’t help being disgusted by him.

As Nick stared down at Devin’s sword—a long plain steel blade, black at the hilt—he noted Devin’s two perfectly healthy hands.

An image flashed across Nick’s mind, of the coffee shop where Sasha used to work. Sasha backed into the counter while Devin held his arm so tightly that it was bruised, stealing Sasha’s powers—and not for the first time—while Liv pointed a gun at him so he wouldn’t move. And when Nick had showed up, he had slashed Devin’s arm with the sword Cyan had just given him.

The same sword Nick held right now.

“How are you doing, Nicholas?” Devin smiled pleasantly.

“I was just thinking that I really want to cut off your arm again,” Nick replied, “to see if it grows back again the second time you die.”

“Ouh,” Devin mocked, “burn.”

A shout came from the seats behind Nick. “Just fight already!”

Other protests followed in agreement with the first one.

Nick and Devin locked eyes.

“They don’t like to be kept waiting,” said Devin.

“Fine by me.”

Nick was trembling as their blades collided, steel against steel. Nick was letting his anger take over, and it frightened him, but he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t stand the sight of Devin.

Something was off, though, Nick mused as they exchanged blows. Devin’s attacks were weak. His hold on his sword was clumsy and unsteady; Nick was all offense, Devin was all defense. But even his defense was frail.

Nick wasn’t the only one who noticed.

Another shout came from the audience, along with agreeing retorts. This time, it said something along those lines: “How come Cook got so far? He sucks.”

If they were expecting an epic last fight, they were not getting their money’s worth. Nick lashed out at Devin and as he parried too weakly, Devin’s sword slipped from his grasp. Devin stepped back. He reached down to unsheathe a small dagger from the inside of his boot.

Devin bounced back so quickly that Nick was taken somewhat off guard; he was still busy wondering what Devin expected to accomplish what that tiny blade. When Devin leaped forward, Nick was too slow to duck, and the dagger grazed his shoulder. But that was all it did. As Devin tried to strike again, Nick’s hand flew upward and caught Devin’s wrist in a vice-like grip. Devin dropped his dagger with a hiss of pain.

Then with a shout Nick drove his sword hilt-deep into Devin’s stomach. Marble-like eyes stared at him as Devin’s lips parted. But no sound came out. Nick pulled back, wincing at the sound of the sharp metal sliding out of someone’s skin. Devin fell on the ground, curled up on himself, holding his waist.

The crowd was indecisive. Some people sort of cheered politely. Others booed Nick just like they’d done before. Nick didn’t care; he really didn’t, at this point.

Nick took off his shirt. He never wanted to wear that shirt again. It represented this stupid tournament, and Nick was done with it. So he used the shirt to wipe his blade clean. He wiped it for a long time, almost with affection, until the very last blood stain was gone from the gleaming steel. Then Nick threw the shirt at Devin.

“Here,” Nick said, “to stop the bleeding.”

Devin tossed the shirt away, preferring to bleed his guts out apparently. Nick turned away from him. He felt a violent shiver rip through him even though it was horribly hot inside the stadium. The guys with the stretcher were coming for Devin.

Nick’s ears buzzed. He barely heard Jun when she spoke for the last time.

“The survivors will be tended to, and the results will be announced shortly. We will publish a list with the names of the new Reapers, or Reaper,” she added, “if we see fit that there is only one.”

Jun, Louis and the three other judges gathered their papers. An unsettling feeling dug its way into Nick’s chest as he saw that Louis didn’t seem bothered in the least by Devin’s pathetic loss. Shouldn’t the judge rooting for Devin be troubled? Or maybe it was normal for the judges not to show any facial expressions, no matter—

Suddenly the giant spotlights in the ceiling were turned off. Nick started as the stadium was plunged into blackness. People didn’t seem to mind, though. Nick blinked and his eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. The spectators burst in loud chatter as they rose from their seats and made their way down to the exits. There seemed to be four exit doors around the fighting area, Nick noted as he saw tides of people pushing their way through those.

Nick was suddenly aware of angry-looking groups of people coming his way from different spots in the mass of bodies. Malachy-haters, maybe. The ones who had been jeering at him before.

They were still far. There was still time. On a whim Nick ran back to his stall, heart hammering. His instincts told him that the door would be there again. It didn’t make sense, but—

It was there. Nick detangled himself from the curtain and reached for his sword’s sheath and his shirt. He sheathed his blade, swung it over his shoulder, and clutched the crumpled black shirt to his chest. He could put that on later.

Nick opened the door and leaped out just as enraged people were starting to reach his stall. Nick closed the door with all his strength and then he felt himself being lifted off the ground. He flew back and fell in a patch of dried brown leaves. His heart was still racing.

The door was gone. The stadium was gone. No one was coming after him. The black winter trees seemed to stretch out for miles and miles in every direction. Nick let his head fall back in the leaves. His shoulder stung a bit where Devin had grazed him with that dagger, but he ignored it. Lanky raven locks fell into his eyes, but he didn’t push them away. He just looked at the sky. Black inky sky. With the hint of dark violet clouds, but maybe that was just his imagination. He never knew what was real and what wasn’t.

It was like nothing had happened. Like the tournament had been a bad dream. A dream in a dream; a nightmare inside a nightmare. And there was no waking up.

Nick loosened his fingers’ grip on the shirt against his chest, and threw one arm over his head. He just kept looking at the sky. And he listened to the sound of silence.