More than a hundred people—mostly men, but a woman here and there too—are poised on the chairs all around the fighting ring. They’ve been talking, both in friendly conversation and in argument, and the moment they spot me, their excitement rises.
A few whoops of encouragement reach my ears, but plenty of scoffing and guffaws come too.
“Look at that little thing. How’s she going to beat anyone?”
“He’ll crush her like a twig.”
“They’ve got to be kidding with this. Where’s the real fighter?”
Those are the newbies in the audience—the ones who’ve never watched my previous matches. The ones who know hush them ineffectively, but they’ll find out how wrong they are soon enough.
My five-foot-one, one-hundred-and-five-pound frame is what makes me such a big draw and earns my keepers so much money at the betting table. No one ever seems to get tired to the spectacle of me taking down an opponent twice my size.
I let the voices wash through me, unaffected by them or by the stink of sweat, stale beer, and adrenaline that permeates the arena. My focus is narrowing down to the raised platform ahead of me. I stare straight ahead as we walk to the ring.
Just as we reach the steps, an icy wave of dizziness washes over me. I have to lock my knees for a second so they don’t wobble.
I grit my teeth in annoyance. Get a grip, Riva.
I can’t let anything these people do get to me. I can’t do anything butwin.
A guard unlocks the door on one side of the metal cage that surrounds the ring and shoves me inside. Normally I’d keep my balance without a hitch, but tonight I stumble just a bit.
Another flicker of cold shoots through my nerves, fracturing my concentration. What is wrong with me?
A hulking man with scars zigzagging across his bare chest and arms postures at the other side of the cage, clad only in horrifyingly neon green training shorts. He spins the machete he’s selected from the weapons he was offered and laughs like he doubts he’ll even need to use it.
Only my opponents get the benefit of a weapon. It’s to make the fight a little fairer for them, though they rarely see it that way at first.
I flex my fingers and turn toward the guards to have my cuffs unlocked through the bars. As they fall to the floor with a clank, I tuck my cat-and-yarn pendant under the neckline of my tight tank top.
It’s a risk keeping it on at all, but I don’t dare leave it back in my room. It’s a miracle my keepers have let me hold on to this one thing from my past life to begin with.
I’m not giving them the chance to take it away too.
I turn back toward my opponent, and the referee blows his whistle for the match to begin. That’s the only way he’ll intervene until it’s time to declare the winner.
The boss likes it best when the fight is to the death, ending with a throat slashed or a skull cracked against the bars. But while my keepers can force me to fight, they can’t dictate how.
If I have any other choice, if I can simply knock the other fighter out to end the match, I’ll do it, even if it’s harder.
Across some two hundred opponents, all but eighteen have left this ring alive.
The hulking man with the machete takes a step—to the side, rather than right at me. He might be confident, but he isn’t stupid.
We circle each other at opposite ends of the ring, studying each other’s movements. He’s big, but I know from experience that the bulk will slow him down, requiring broader motions while I can be swift and precise.
At least, normally I can be. A little of the dizziness lingers in the back of my head. My feet push through the air like they’re wading through shallow water.
A twang of alarm goes off inside me that’s beyond simple frustration. Somethingreallyisn’t right. Across two hundred fights, I’ve never felt like this before.
I flick my claws free from my fingertips, willing my feral side to the surface. My ears tickle where I know the shells have turned pointed and lightly furred. Inhuman strength thrums through my limbs.
But it’s not quite enough.
The man lunges at me. I should have picked up on the shift in his intentions in the wafts of pheromones he’s giving off, but my senses have dulled.
I fling myself to the side on legs that now seem to be pushing through mud rather than water. Too slow.