He says words about sacred bonds and becoming one flesh, but I don’t hear. He says words about forgiveness and cleansing, but I feel dirty and used, punished but unforgiven.How could I ever be forgiven for the sins we committed here tonight? Or all the ones before?
He absolves us, but I feel spiritually bereft, forsaken by the God he says is with us now, when we leave this darkened den of sin and shame. He didn’t protect me. He watched, encouraged, instructed. When Saint turned me over and ravished my untouched places, he allowed it. When Angel dragged me back to the edge, then forced me over, I gave in, helpless to resist as he coaxed another climax from my bruised body, and the Father only looked on in approval.
I’m numb as he carries me out with the others. Not until he lays me down in my bed and unwraps me from the black robes do I see his face—Father Salvatore standing over me, unmasked and unashamed. Pain rends my heart again, but my words stick in my aching throat.
How could you?
“Do you want me to stay?” he asks, concern etched into the lines in his face.
I shake my head no.
“Are you certain, my lamb?” he asks, stroking back my hair, his gaze lingering on my lips.
I nod, and after a moment, he tucks me in, presses his lips to my forehead, and then slips out of the room. For a while, I only lie there. But at last, I slide from my bed and reach for my shoes, a familiar craving tickling my mind.
My fingers close around something else under the edge of my bed, though—paper. Heart hammering, I pull out the envelope. Flecks of dust cling to it, and I realize it’s been there for a while. I try to remember when I last reached under there. Did I ever open the letter Heath found at Christmas?
With shaking fingers, I break the seal.
“So also, when you see all these things, know that it is near, even at the doors.”
I crumple the note into a ball and hurl it into the trashcan, the tears coming at last. What good is it to have friends, to have a boyfriend, to have protectors, when I still get the letters? When I can’t even trust that it’s not one of them sending them? I don’t think they killed Eternity anymore, but I still can’t trust them. Saint hurts me every chance he gets, Angel will always choose the others over me, and Heath… Heath is a wildcard, unpredictable and unknowable.
I yank off the bottom of my shoe and call Dynamo.
On Friday night, I get ready, relishing the knowledge that I’m doing something bad, and this time, there are no cameras. Nate made sure of it, and he left me a device to detect them, so if anyone tries to install one in my room again, I’ll know. I feel strong and confident when I leave my room, as if it’s my right to leave campus in the dead of night, as if nothing can defeat me.
When they lower me into the pit at the Slaughterpen an hour later, the same sure sense of strength remains. I’m clear and focused, ready to fight.
“And for our last match of the night, we have a rookie, the Delicious Stacylicious,” Dynamo yells to the small, frenzied crowd already cheering and jeering. “She’ll be making her pit debut against everyone’s favorite, Merciless!”
I do my thing, riling the crowd for a minute before Dynamo hops out and leaves us on the packed, blood-stained dirt floor. I eye my opponent from behind my mask, sizing her up. No one but Dynamo would be so generous as to call her delicious anything. She’s short but stocky, built like a barrel of bricks, with a pockmarked face, small, piggy eyes, and a twitchy energy that indicates something beyond natural bravery got her here. That’s nothing new—probably half the girls who fight are hopped up and hoping for a miracle, for money to support their habit without turning tricks.
It’s not like an underground fighting ring is going to drug test participants who volunteer to come down here and beat the blood out of each other. If they did, they’d lose most of their fighters. The type who will stay off steroids and harder stuff, who make a career of this, go for a licensed MMA venue, not a bare-knuckle fight club in an abandoned warehouse. The fighters who end up here are rough and desperate, but we’re all accepted with no judgment and no questions asked.
And though there aren’t many rules here, you’re supposed to wait until after a fight to get your fix. It’s dangerous to fight high, when you can’t feel pain, have no self-preservation instinct, and are apt to beat someone to death without realizing your own strength. The crowd loves those fights, but I don’t. There’s no fun, no triumph, no art in fighting someone who’s not clearheaded. The few fighters I’ve put in the hospital were ones who slipped in their hits between entering the warehouse and their time in the pit.
Stacy steps towards me, fists raised.
“Come on, you stupid cow, hit me,” she taunts, grinning at me with stained, crooked teeth while she dances back and forth with the frantic energy of a meth head. “See what happens, bitch.”
I could call off the fight, but denying the crowd their last match of the evening after they already paid would not go over well. Judging by the ravenous roars from the bloodthirsty mob, they’re here for violence, and if they can’t witness it, they might perpetrate it. I swallow my uneasiness and go in slow. I’m not going to be able to wear her out, judging by her pinprick pupils. A quick knockout would be the most merciful act.
Before I get an opening, she swings. She’s fast enough, but with no skill whatsoever, and I easily duck and come back around from the other side, landing a left hook in her side.
She swears savagely, whipping her stringy ponytail as she rounds on me and throws another sloppy, overpowered punch. I send her reeling into the wall with her own momentum. She bounces off, staggering toward me with her broken teeth bared like a rabid animal.
I bop her nose with a jab, and blood explodes from it. I recoil, even though I’m fully covered by my nylon costume. She lets out a feral scream, diving toward me in a rage. I don’t see the glint of silver clenched in her fist until the last second.
“You fucking cunt,” she shrieks, jabbing it into my side. I twist away, but not before I feel a blinding slash of pain.
Fuck.
She cut me.
I duck her next swing, a wide arc with the knife meant to slice straight across my stomach. This psycho is out for real blood, and death along with it. When she slashes the air again, an uppercut meant to drive the knife behind my sternum, I crash a fist down on her arm. The knife flies from her grip, and the crowd noise rises to a deafening roar of indignation. They want to see fists draw blood, not weapons.
Stacy scuttles across the floor for her knife, a howl of fury tearing from her as she grabs it and twists, swiping for my legs this time. I jump back, then bring my heel down on her wrist. I can feel the crunch of her bones snapping before she throws herself at me, her teeth sinking into my ankle. Before I can detach her, three guys are in the pit with us, dragging her off. I cringe at the sensation of her teeth tearing at my flesh through my tights as two of the guys wrench her away from me. The last guy catches me as I stumble backwards, trying to get my feet.
