Obsidian Fire (The Raven Queen's Harem 4)

“For those of you that are new to the fights tonight, I’ll explain the process,” the shaman says, his voice echoing through the crowd. “Each Guardian will fight a beast from another realm. They do not know what or who they will encounter. Each fight is to the death. The survivor wins.”

“Magical death, right?” I clarify. I’d killed Hildi in our own battle in that ring. As long as you’re in the ropes the death is only temporary and symbolic.

“Yes, but I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

I know what she means. It’s impossible to think of them as losers in any fight, but I also know that they would not step into a ring without a worthy competitor. Whatever happens below will be brutal and the feeling in my stomach urges me to leave before it even begins. The thought is fleeting. They’ve each watched me fight my own battles and it’s time for me to do the same.

There are no further announcements but the men do shake hands. Clinton steps forward and the spectators scream and shout their support. A figure steps into the ring across from him. In the light he looks completely normal—not like a beast at all—and definitely physically comparable to Clinton.

“He’s fighting that guy?”

“He’s just a vessel—once the fight begins, the beast will emerge. It keeps the guards on their toes. They have no idea what sort of opponent will appear, but I did hear a rumor that they’ll be fighting their biggest fears.”

“Their fears?”

“The shaman does a spell and he’s able to figure out what the Guardians fear the most. That concept is incorporated in their opponent.”

Clinton, who is wearing nothing but long, black pants, clenches his fists as he waits for the signal to begin. His upper body is bare and even from up in the stands I can see the rippled muscles that cover every inch of his arms, chest, and back. He’s shoeless and from the glint in his eye I know he’s dying to get started.

It only takes a moment for him to get his wish. The buzzer sounds and his opponent steps to the middle of the ring. He’s a scrawny man, with pale skin and an excessive amount of hair on his chest and back. They circle one another and Clinton bides his time. I’ve fought him enough times to know he’ll never make the first move.

Turns out he doesn’t need to, as the man flinches and cries as though he’s already been hit. His back arches. His teeth clamp shut. He falls, knees buckling as Clinton, ever alert, stands by and watches it happen.

“What is this?” I ask, totally confused.

“He’s transforming,” Hildi replies. I can nearly feel the energy vibrating off her. She obviously loves this. She points to the ring. “Keep watching.”

The man rolls around the floor, painfully crying as his body spasms and jerks. There’s a final crack, like the sound of his back breaking, and I think maybe he died on the stage. That the fight was a bust, but no, something happens, a transformation like Hildi said. His hair lengthens, darkens, growing thick across his entire body. His face alters, turning into a longer, hair-covered snout. Rows of sharp, jagged teeth are revealed when he opens his mouth. It only takes a minute but the man is gone and an animal—or beast—takes his place. He growls and the sound reverberates through the building, echoing off the high, metal ceiling.

Clinton grins when the beast notices him waiting and I swear his body has grown in the last minute. Clinton’s biceps and calves are cut and massive. He appears taller—broader. The snaggle-toothed animal pushes back on his hind legs and pounces. Clinton meets him in the air.

Their bodies crash together and as much as I want to look away from the sharp teeth and tearing flesh, I can’t. Clinton is poetry in motion—pure athleticism. It feels like we’re watching them fight for hours but when I hear the final snap of the beast’s neck and the buzzer chimes, the clock says two minutes. Two was all it took.

Clinton raises both arms over his head, his chest coated in a slick spray of blood, and is declared the winner. His smile is proud. His fans ecstatic.

“So?” Hildi says, jabbing me with an elbow. “What did you think?”

I watch as the carcass of the beast is removed from the ring.

“We have four more to go?”

“Yep.”

“I think I’m going to need a drink.”

*

I have three. Drinks, that is, as I watch the Guardians battle beasts I now know are from the Otherside. They’re disgusting. First, there was the wolf-monster that Clinton demolished.

Then Damien clashed with a lizard-skinned beast with a tongue that acts like a whip. That fight goes on forever—twenty minutes—until Damien is covered in forked lashes all over his tattooed skin. Venom coats the amphibian’s saliva, making welts rise, but the Guardian cuts the tongue off at the throat and then ties it around the lizard’s neck, choking him.

Yeah, that’s when I order drink number four.

I’m less sure when Sam swaggers into the ring, his pants slung low around his hips. His muscles are lean beneath his black t-shirt, the color matching the short fur of the six-eyed, eight-legged, spider-thing that spews a greenish-yellow slime when he guts him with a blade that appears in his belt mid-fight. He tears off his shirt after the spider is dead, wiping the blade on the cotton. The women in the crowd swoon at the sight of his body and even I smile when he flexes and makes a show. I can’t deny that I’m impressed by his skill and speed. It’s a side of him I’m unaccustomed to.

Hildi leans into me and whispers, “Is he this arrogant in bed?”

I smile. “No, quite the opposite.”