Chapter 5: Aoife (part 1 of 4)

  The contestants at Art Carmichael's fighting racket were bound by three simple rules. The first rule: no weapons.

  This normally meant that Aoife's usual opponents at St Marcus were lumbering brutes, the kind of men who grew up trusting their body to do their talking on the streets of Enfield, and perhaps had neglected the development of other faculties in the process. Most of these fights fell into a common pattern that had become trivial for Aoife to navigate. Before the start of the match, her opponents would storm out of the Kennel end of the ring before hurling vulgarities at her that would have made even Aunt Cara blush. Then, as soon as the bell sounded, they would invariably charge at her, convinced of a quick and easy victory, and find themselves rolling on the grimy stone floor seconds later, tearfully clutching their shattered nose or staring disbelieving at an arm that was bent the wrong way.

  But tonight's opponent bucked the trend. He was a slender, middle-aged man built similarly to Seth Marlowe. As the two of them entered the ring to cheers and jeers, he came over to her side to offer his hand. Such was the unprecedented nature of this gesture that Aoife had stood frozen for several moments before awkwardly returning the handshake.

  "Let us enjoy."

  What a strange thing to say. He said it with a strange accent too, through lips curled into a breezy smile. With his pale skin and dark-brown hair, he didn't look much different to most Thamesiders. Aoife decided on assuming that he was Gallic in origin.

  She gawked in stunned silence as the man returned to his end of the ring and disrobed to his waist. With his well-defined muscles exposed, it became clear to Aoife that this was someone who'd had some form of training. The thought was accompanied by a twinge of concern. Did she have enough strength and energy—enough fuel for her heat—to contend with a seasoned combatant? She must. She didn't have a choice. Whatever energy did remain, it had to be enough to win, to survive another week.

  Before her anxiety could grow further, the crisp sound of the bell cut through the noise, signalling the start of the fight. The man from Gallia immediately shifted his pose, placing one foot in front of the other and bringing his arms up to his chest. He started inching toward her, constantly shifting his weight this way and that. His stance was almost an exact copy of a fighter Aoife was intimately familiar with. Marlowe, her sparring partner and only friend in the business, had called it 'boxing', but it made no difference to her what styles her opponents employed. All that mattered was that she find a way to beat them.

  The second rule: no Magic.

  Just on one occasion, Aoife had seen what would happen to someone caught breaking the second rule. He had been a new addition to the Kennel, a young malnourished boy who had reminded Aoife much of herself when she had first started fighting here. His first opponent had been one of the brutes more typical of St Marcus, and none looked more surprised or frightened than the boy himself when he threw his hulking opponent across the ring and into the opposite wall. The furor from the crowd was immediate, and Mr Carmichael himself came down from his reserved seat on the mezzanine to appeal for calm, promising refunds for the night's wagers. The last Aoife ever saw of the boy was him being dragged back into the Kennel by several of Carmichael's men.

  Aoife herself routinely broke this cardinal rule, but the use of her blood tricks in the arena was judicious and subtle. She would never allow herself to perform feats of strength that obviously contradicted her small frame. She opted instead for swift, incisive attacks, the destructive effects of which were magnified by controlled bursts of her heat. This technique was something she rehearsed deliberately during her sessions with Marlowe, though—as with her family—she hadn't let her sparring partner in on the secret.

  As soon as her bout with the Galliard got underway, Aoife accessed her heat and brought it down to a low simmer. Her trusted and hitherto successful game plan was uncomplicated: sharpen her senses to better read and react to her opponent's moves, find an opening, then strike with a surge of heat. Thus far in her career, she had barely deviated from this strategy. She would admit to a healthy helping of luck on her first few fights, where she acted mostly on instinct against equally clueless opponents. But since she started training with Marlowe, her exploits inside the ring had become safer and more efficient.

  Tonight's opponent, however, seemed determined to throw a wrench into the plan. Unlike the standard brute, the Galliard did not close in straight away. Instead, he was content to circle around her, watching her reactions and waiting for her to make the first move. Aoife kept herself loose, ready to spring to action at any moment. Seconds passed with the two of them locked in this impasse, and the noise from the crowd first died down before crescendoing with impatience. Before long, fruits, cheese, and half-eaten pieces of bread started flying into view.

  "They want a show, no?" the Galliard yelled across at her, cocking his head and smiling in one corner of his mouth. "Let us give."

  With that strangely worded pronouncement, he took a wide step toward Aoife, and she instantly sensed that she was now within range of his fists. Experience with Marlowe had taught her that boxers relied on feints to create openings. What she needed to watch out for was the opponent's arm fully extending for a genuine strike. Her enhanced reflexes would allow her to react in time.

  The Galliard squared his right shoulder and lifted the elbow as if to jab with the right. No extension. Aoife didn't so much as flinch. He backed away immediately and did not follow with a strike from the opposite side.

  He went back to circling her, the corner of his mouth turning up further in delight. Around them, the crowd grew even more restless. Aoife pivoted to keep the Galliard in her vision, but she hadn't moved from her original position.

  He closed in again, squaring up on his right yet again. Anticipating another feint, Aoife watched for an extended arm, her focus shifting momentarily to the left side of his body where she expected the genuine strike to come in from. At the same time, she redirected some heat to her lower body, ready to dodge then counter.

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  But a fist was already in front of her face, much earlier than she had expected. It had been a genuine strike with the right—no feint. It came in so fast that she hadn't seen the motion. She refocused her heat and ducked, feeling a rush of air pass just above her head. Following her instincts now, she made to transition immediately to the offensive, eyeing the Galliard's exposed abdomen.

  But before she could launch herself, another fist came into view, impossibly fast. The Galliard had lowered himself as she dodged and was now bringing his left fist up to meet her midsection. Another change of plans; she sent her heat back down to her legs and twisted away from the fresh attack. Not quickly enough. His fist caught the right side of her chest. The momentum of the punch had the same trajectory as her own movement, which helped her roll away completely out of range. Then she straightened herself as soon as she was able, wary of follow-up.

  The Galliard did not pursue her immediately. Instead, he paced his side of the ring with one hand raised above his head, revelling in the crowd's appreciative roar, though he never took his eyes off Aoife.

  She squared up to him, her mind racing. To her dismay, she could feel the flow of her heat slowing, and there was a sharp, throbbing pain under her right breast. A rib or two might have been broken. The longer this fight dragged on, the more likely she would be to come out of it a few hundred quid short, severely injured, or possibly dead.

  The third rule: the fight ends when one party yields or is otherwise deemed incapable of continuing the fight.

  The first part of that rule was straightforward. The second part was more open to interpretation, though Aoife suspected that death would fit the definition. Having now sustained a debilitating injury and with her energy dwindling rapidly, she now needed to find a way to avoid becoming incapacitated.

  There was an easy solution to this. Aoife could simply yield. She would lose out on her winnings, possibly lose Mr Carmichael's favour and start seeing more unfavourable cards, making her life at St Marcus even more difficult going forward. If that came to pass, she could walk away from it all, and go back to being Aoife Griffin of Ember Lane, go back to her and her family's reality. She was a seventeen-year-old girl, surrounded by drunk angry men and engaged in a fist fight with a trained boxer. She was well within her rights to be afraid. She should have been afraid.

  Yet in that moment, none of those thoughts entered Aoife's mind. Her instincts, her desires, and indeed her entire being were all focused on a second solution—that of taking down her opponent before her body could fail her.

  And when that goal became clear in her mind, a familiar calm settled over her. The heat that was churning inside slowed until it washed over her in its new form. Gentle warmth bubbled within her bloodstreams, just as it had when she held Ma's hands earlier. She could still see and feel the Galliard's movements, his posture and shifts in weight, but the heat no longer ate away at her. Yet somehow, she knew that she could call it back within an instant.

  Aoife stepped toward the Galliard, and her opponent stopped his pacing to square up to her, arms raised in the boxer's stance. She continued her steady approach, intending to make the first move this time—intending to finish the fight.

  She entered his range again but the Galliard did not make a move, seemingly determined to let her have a go. She took the invitation and went in first with a left hook, expecting it to be blocked. Instead, he dodged, keeping his posture intact and taking a well-practised step backward. Then Aoife knew what she must do next.

  In a continuous motion, she followed her first attempt with a right jab, taking a step forward and appearing to put her entire body into the strike. She gritted her teeth as a fresh shot of pain exploded from her ribs, but was rewarded for her effort when the Galliard reacted as she predicted. He dodged once again, this time pivoting away from her punch and rounding to the left side of her body.

  Aoife had seen this move before, performed by Marlowe to put himself in a position to counter. To her opponent, she would have appeared to be off-balanced, having just put the bulk of her weight behind the missed attack. She would have appeared to be defenceless on her left side.

  The Galliard twisted his body and opened up his right arm, unleashing a heavy jab that—were it to land—would have broken more of Aoife's ribs. But his fist found open air. Aoife had crouched low, anticipating the attack, and in the same move, had turned to face him. For a split second, she had a clear view of his lower body, thighs parted to put weight behind his strike. She instinctively knew then her best chance of incapacitating him right then and there.

  Recalling nearly all of her remaining heat and channelling it into her left arm, she swung up at his groin. All of it connected. There was a dull thwap as her fist dug into the fleshy bits, and the man recoiled while letting out a surprised grunt. She could feel him falling forward, and quickly rolled out of the way.

  The crowd surged with loud and sympathetic exclamations, then a hush fell over the hall. Aoife got up off the floor, ready to pounce again, but quickly saw that there was no need. Her erstwhile opponent was doubled over, head buried into the floor and both hands held tightly over his groin. He did not move or speak but merely took quick, shallow breaths, his muscular back heaving and rippling with the effort. Occasionally, just the hint of a pitiful whimper escaped between his breaths.

  Then the fear that should have gripped Aoife earlier crept back in, and guilt came along with it. She did not know for certain how much damage she had done, but she suspected that at least some aspects of it would be permanent. The guilt, though, would pass, as it always did. Before long, she would remember that all that mattered was that she had survived another fight, and that her family were richer for it.

  Somewhere, the bell sounded three times. The crowd erupted in clamour once again, an incoherent mix of glee and anger, perhaps weighted more to the latter. Several of Mr Carmichael's attendants rushed into the ring and knelt beside the Galliard, who still hadn't moved. It might be some time before they could convince him to walk out of the ring with them.

  Aoife did not intend to dwell. She turned around, heading for the tunnel leading back to the Paddock. As she trudged, some of the more intoxicated guests leaned in from their seats, spraying spittle as they shouted obscenities. She did not so much as glance at them, though the fear and guilt crested again before she could slip out of sight.

  At the mouth of the tunnel waited Marlowe, arms crossed and leaning against the wall. He flashed a shining grin as she approached. "That was cold, Griffin. Even by your standards."

  This was apparently meant as a compliment. Aoife didn't break stride and merely nodded, in no mood for banter. Her mouth and throat were thoroughly parched and her ribs were starting to ache insistently, making her every breath an agony. Even the flutter she normally felt when she was near Marlowe was completely absent. She felt only exhaustion.

  Aoife passed Marlowe without a word and tumbled into the Paddock. She had one last order of business left in her busy day, a chat with her boss upstairs. But first, she was going to devour everything on the tea table.