Trail of Lightning (The Sixth World #1)(67)

Kai massages the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut. “If you do sign up to fight, do you think it will really get us closer to her?”

“We aren’t even getting into the arena otherwise,” Clive says. “Guy at the door said the fights are sold out. Participants and support team only, from what I hear.”

“I’m going to do it,” I say. “We need that fire drill and if I have to beat the crap out of a few thicknecks to do it, so be it.”

Kai stares at me a long minute before he speaks. “You don’t have to fight,” he says, holding up three slips of paper in his hand.

“What’s that?”

“Our way in.”

I take the tickets from him. “Where did you get these?”

“How did you get those?” Clive asks, taking the tickets from me. “Jesus, these are front-row seats.”

Kai shakes his head. “Do you want to go or not?”

I give the boys a grin. “Hell yes.”





Chapter 29


Despite the promised VIP status of our tickets, we are stuck in a haphazard line of waiting spectators, just like everyone else. It’s slow-moving, mostly because of the two Bear clan muscle doing a weapons check at the door.

“I’m not giving up my weapons,” I complain to Clive as we near the checkpoint.

“Looks like you’re going to have to,” he says.

Clive’s right. I watch a man a few people in front of me pull a nine-inch blade from his boot and drop it in the proffered metal lockbox. One of the Bear clan guys secures the box with a small key, pushes the box onto a shelf crowded with a dozen similar boxes, and then hands him what appears to be the only copy of the key, dangling from a length of rope. The man slips it over his head, obviously familiar with the process, and keeps moving.

“It seems pretty secure,” Kai says. It does seem like I will be the only one with key access to my stuff, assuming no one steals the boxes. I have to believe that at least in the fighting area, stealing is frowned upon. And severely punished. Keep the customers happy, keep the money flowing. That seems to be the motto of the Shalimar.

When we get up to the table, one of the big bouncers takes one look at me and his lips curve down in disapproval. He grunts and reaches down under the table to pull out an oversize metal box. Gestures for me to get to work. First off is the bandolier, then the shoulder holster and the shotgun. I strip the Glock, just to be sure, and then put it in the box. Then my knives, all three. I close the box and accept the key, and then Clive and I are moving through the line, Kai trailing a few steps behind. We pass the metal detectors and move closer to the gathered crowd and the main event.

“You’ve been to one of these before, Clive?” I ask as we filter into the arena. “How does it work?”

The arena’s not huge, but it’s not small, either. And it wasn’t down a rabbit hole or through a wardrobe, but it was through a door that otherwise blended into a detailed painting of the OK Corral. There’s probably room for two hundred people or more, which, considering we are still underground, is impressive. Not for the first time, I wonder who or what built this place. The actual fighting floor is a clean-swept area of dirt that’s been dropped down into the ground about a dozen feet. Risers that look like they’re salvaged from a high school gym cluster around the edge, affording the spectators an unobstructed view of the action happening in the center of the ring.

And there’s already been some action. We missed an early opening bout, and splotches of blood, still fresh enough to be wet, paint the dirt floor. Violence thrums through the air, speeding up my heartbeat, lighting up my nerves with anticipation. I have to admit I’m excited. The risers are filling up with what looks like it’s going to be a capacity crowd, and the atmosphere around the pit is electric.

“The first half of the night is tournament fighting. That’s what just ended,” Clive explains as we make our way through the crowd. We both glance at the bloodstained ring. “Each round the winner moves on, loser is out. Second half of the night is scheduled bouts. Sometimes tournament winners can qualify to get on the card. That’s where the big money is.”

I nod, understanding. “So if someone can survive the tournament, they can win their way into the card bouts. But the rub is they have no idea who they’re going to fight. And by the time they get there, they’ve been knocked around by a handful of amateurs and are probably not feeling so hot. Definite advantage to whoever’s already on the card.”

“It sounds stacked when you put it that way.”

“Maybe. But if you can generate some buzz with your tourney wins and then get on the card, I bet you can drive the bets up. Then you win your bout and you can take home some serious trade.”

“If you live long enough to count your winnings.”

“You fight to tap out in the open tourney, right? And then what? Edged weapons in the card bouts?”

He arches an eyebrow at me. “Have you done this before?”

“Never for a crowd,” I say. “But I used to enjoy this kind of thing with my old teacher. Not the betting, just the fighting. I know how it works.”

“You’re right. It’s tap out in the open tourney to qualify for the bouts, and bouts are edged weapons to first blood.”

“They let them do that?”