Ace of Shades (The Shadow Game #1)(92)

He raced down a flight of stairs and into the room from his vision, following the word PIT painted in red on the walls. His wounded leg and broken rib throbbed with each hurried step.

Jac was still conscious. He staggered as the man—Sedric’s man, the same from the vision—punched him in the chest. Levi jolted for a moment, seeing his vision so clearly confirmed, and then he fingered the gun in his pocket. But shooting Jac’s opponent was a big risk—Levi wouldn’t be able to pay Sedric back from a jail cell, nor would prison protect him from the don’s vengeance. Besides, unlike Eight Fingers or Ivory, Levi wasn’t a killer.

He rushed to the referee who sat on a chair overlooking the pit.

“You have to stop the match,” Levi told him.

“Why is that?” the man asked, his eyes never leaving the fight.

“That boy’s only seventeen. He’s not of age.”

“You got a birth certificate?” The referee took a sip from his glass.

Jac tripped. His opponent kicked him in the back. On the other side of the pit, the man who’d killed Levi during his vision cheered Jac’s opponent on. Chills spread down Levi’s back—it certainly wasn’t a sight he saw every day.

He whipped back around to the referee. “Please.” Not something Levi said every day, either.

“Get lost.”

Levi spotted a bar twenty steps ahead, and he didn’t even stop to think—he ran. The bartender shouted as Levi jumped over the counter and grabbed two double handles of absinthe. He charged at Levi, but Levi was already leaping back over the bar and heading for the pit. Levi yanked open the lids and poured the alcohol all over the straw-covered ground of the ring. The referee whistled, but he ignored him. When Levi snapped his fingers, a spark flew out and ignited half the pit.

Levi jumped. He hit the ground and fell into the flames, but as he rolled out into the dirt, the fire on his clothes extinguished. Jac lay on the ground, deathly still. His opponent stared at the inferno with wide eyes, and the crowd above scattered and charged toward the stairs.

Levi grabbed the opponent and twisted him around. The man must’ve recognized Levi from Scrap Market, because he grunted when their eyes met.

“Tell Torren that if he lays a hand on Jac,” Levi snarled, “I’ll burn the flesh off his bones.”

Dangerous words to say to a Torren. It was the sort of thing any of the Torren cousins would take pleasure in doing to him.

Levi pulled the gun from his pocket. Before he could aim it and make a proper threat, someone else’s bullet hit the man between the eyes. The man wavered for a moment, blood trickling down his brow bone, nose and lips, and then he collapsed at Levi’s feet.

Above them, Jonas pocketed his pistol and motioned for Levi to hurry. No time to be fazed by the man shot two feet in front of him, Levi picked up Jac—the fire was gaining, and even if it wouldn’t hurt Levi, it would burn Jac—and carried him to the edge of the ring. Jonas grabbed Jac’s arm over the barrier and hoisted him over.

“Why did you help me?” Levi asked breathlessly.

“Who doesn’t want Pup to owe them a favor?”

“I...” To understate it, the idea of owing Scavenger a favor sounded less than appealing. “Thank you.”

Jonas snatched the black feather from behind his ear and set it on the referee’s empty chair, like a calling card. “You tried to save Reymond. I didn’t forget.”

Jonas headed for the stairs and left Levi in the burning building with Jac. Levi gritted his teeth. This time, he wouldn’t try to save anyone. He would save Jac.

Levi slapped Jac lightly on the cheek. The hideous black stitches on his eyebrow had unlaced, and the cut oozed with blood. “Wake up. Time to leave.”

Jac’s eyes didn’t open.

Levi threw him over his shoulder—which was no small feat, given Jac’s broad frame and Levi’s broken rib—and hauled him up the stairs and through the gambling room.

Outside, it was still night, though it felt like hours had passed. Jac groaned, stirring slightly in Levi’s hold.

“You should’ve forfeited, you thickhead,” Levi said. He wasn’t even sure if Jac had heard him. He stood his friend upright and slapped his cheek lightly again. “Walk with me. You’re killing me, here.” His leg, his rib, his everything screamed out in pain. Jac muttered something unintelligible and stumbled forward, the bulk of his weight still leaning against Levi’s shoulder.

When they finally made it to St. Morse, Jac was mostly lucid. Levi laid him on the couch, then handed him a glass of whiskey for the pain. He hurriedly rummaged around his drawers for first aid supplies—Jac was covered in scrapes.

Levi bent down to open the kit and winced—muck, his rib hurt.

Jac reached forward, and his fingers twisted around the buttons in Levi’s shirt. “You’re hurt. Let me help.”

Levi pushed his hand away. Jac’s split talent for taking away pain was inviting, but he knew better than agree. When Jac took away pain, it didn’t disappear—Jac carried it himself. No matter how many times his friend offered, no matter the circumstance, Levi always declined. His pain was his own, and Jac always took on more than he could manage.

“I’m stronger than you think,” Jac grumbled.

“But not as strong as you think.” Levi grabbed Jac by the jaw and opened his mouth. “That’s a nice missing tooth.” He stuffed a wet tea bag into the empty spot. “This will help the bleeding.” The scene reminded him of the Jac from three years ago, the one who’d depended on Lullaby to lull him and his pain to sleep, no matter the acts of rage and recklessness it triggered during the day. This wasn’t the first time Levi had played nurse, caught between worry and anger.