My fist clamped on Jacques’s shirt. I held on to him to stop me from massaging my temples and feeding the headache. I pushed the pain down. This had my entire focus.
It was time for the Bedlam Boys to do what they do.
“The Crows say they’re innocent. We say they’re not. If you ask me, there’s only one way to settle this,” Jacques said, “and we’re in the right place for it.”
Someone whispered too low for me to hear. Their phrase was picked up by another, and passed on. Again and again, growing louder till two words ran clear in the night.
“Riot Royale. Riot Royale. Riot Royale.”
“Put me down!”
“Gladly,” Jacques said. “First, do you agree?”
“Agree to what?!”
He looked to Cairo. “Do you agree?”
“Yes,” Cairo said. “If Paris accepts me.”
Paris wasn’t alone. Amy, Zara, Presley, and Elise were silent pillars of support beside her. They nodded one after the other as she swept over them.
“I accept,” she said.
I held my breath, preventing any chance of a word escaping. I’d heard of Riot Royales and Gran had the same policy on those as she did Ruckus Royale: stay away.
This was their plan. This is why they wanted Jeremy brought here to a crowd that well and truly despised them. I gazed at Jacques. The man is a genius.
“To the ignorant cattle that forced their way into our home, daring to tell us what we need without bothering to find out who we are,” Jacques barked. “Riot Royale is a chance to get everything you want. Right here, right now, Cairo Sharpe and Jeremy Ellis will fight until one of you doesn’t get up. If Cairo wins—”
“The Crows get down on their knees and beg my sister for forgiveness.” He shook him. “On your knees! Then all of you pack your stuff, get the hell out of our town, and don’t come back. Ever.”
“Terms stated,” Jacques called. “Accepted?”
“Accepted!” the crowd shouted back.
Wide-eyed, I could hardly believe what I was witnessing. Riot Royales were old. The last one was when my father was a kid. We had easier ways of solving our problems these days. But then, this was Bedlam.
“Jeremy,” Jacques said. “State your terms.”
“What the fuck is going on?!”
Roan and Legend dropped his feet. Cairo hauled Jeremy away from the fire—though his hold on him was firm.
“It’s a Riot Royale, bitch.” Cairo threw him away. The crowd threw him back. “You’re fighting for the Crows against me who represents Paris, the Bedlam Boys, and our girl. You state what you want from us if you win. If the watchers accept, they all agree to hold us to your terms—by any means necessary.
“No one reneges on a Riot Royale,” he said. “Think of it like that marked shit they used to do at that school, Evergreen Academy. If you don’t put me down, our lovely audience will run you out of town. Slashed tires, break-ins, beating you up on the quad. Whatever it takes to help you pack your bags faster. The same applies to us if I lose, so name your terms, Ellis.”
“You can’t be serious.” Jeremy whipped around, face red, eyes wild. “This is a joke!”
“No joke,” Arsenio said. “This is your lucky night.”
He threw a rock at his feet. A piece of paper was strapped to it. I didn’t have to read it to know what it said.
“Burning cars and cowards in masks weren’t going to do it, Ellis. This is the closest you’ll ever get to forcing us out of Bedlam, so name your terms.”
Teeth bared, he snapped from Arsenio, to the watchers, to Cairo, and finally to me. My expression reflected nothing.
“Yeah, alright.” Jeremy ripped off his jacket. “When I win, the Bedlam Boys get the hell out of my town—tonight. Your false-accuser sister can kiss my ass literally. And that sweet house you’re living in rent-free”—he met my eyes—“becomes mine.”
I bristled. The implication was clear to me even if it wasn’t to anyone else. The Crows would own the house I told him I traded my freedom to live in. Either I moved in with Jeremy, or it was back to a motel till he got around to giving me that deed.
“Terms stated,” Jacques said flatly. “Accepted?”
“Accepted.”
The watchers moved on a cue, fanning out to form a circle in the clearing.
Moving into the makeshift arena, Cairo shed his hoodie and shirt.
“Rules are simple,” Jacques said. “It’s a bare-knuckle fight that does not stop until one of you do. No one is to help or interfere, but do not try to kill your opponent. If you do, the prosecution will have more than enough eyewitnesses at the trial.”
He motioned to the people holding Micah and the others. “Let them go. They’ll respect the Royale.”
Growling, Asher advanced on us the second he was free—his fist balled and rising above his shoulder.