Abel (Sabine Valley 1)
Her dark eyes flick over my face and those of my brothers’ behind me. “What grievance have you brought to us, Abel Paine?”
“My brothers and I were wronged by the leaders of the factions present.” The space naturally amplifies my voice, but even if it didn’t, everyone would hear me. They’ve all gone silent. “Seven fights for the seven lives they’ve ruined.”
She studies me for a long moment. The Herald has never stopped someone from engaging in ritual combat during Lammas, but she still has the authority to do it. “Who will be fighting?”
“I will.”
“You’ll stand in proxy for your brothers?”
“Yes, Herald.” Things aren’t traditionally done this way, but that’s going to work in my favor tonight. Those fools will look at me and think that there’s no way I can possibly win seven fights. They’ll happily wager the things they can least afford to lose on that assumption. And then I’m going to shove their failure down their throats and make them choke on it.
The Herald tilts her head to the side. “And the stakes?”
“For every fight I win, one of my brothers chooses a Bride as restitution.”
Her eyes widen ever so slightly. “A high price.”
“So was exile.”
At that, she nods and turns slowly to meet each of the faction leaders’ gazes in turn. I’ve avoided looking at them until now, but I can’t avoid it any longer. First up is Aisling, queen of the Amazons. She’s a fierce bitch and looks every inch of it—a lean white woman with hard, green eyes and pale blond hair braided back from her face. I once watched her gut a man and walk away without so much as a hitch in her stride.
She sent her warriors to set my childhood home on fire the night my father died.
Now to Ciar, the Mystic’s leader. He’s a grizzled white man with a cloud of gray hair who looks like someone boiled him down, papery skin stretched tight over muscles and tendons. He likes to pretend the gods speak through him and uses it to rule his people with an iron fist. He’s also got thirteen wives at last count and dozens of children.
It was his order that provided the drugs that sent our household to sleep, killing dozens in the fire.
And finally the person I’ve both dreaded and craved seeing. I stand there and stare up at the man who was once my friend. Eli Walsh. He’s filled out since I saw him last, a white guy with long-ish blond hair swept to the side and black frame glasses. He always was too attractive, and now he looks fucking flawless. Someone who didn’t know better would assume he’s as useless as he’s pretty, and he likes to play up those perceptions. In truth, he’s nearly as deadly as I am.
His father slit my father’s throat and would have killed every single one of my brothers if I didn’t take them and run for our lives.
All while Eli stood by and did nothing.
He’s taken our future, our territory, everything.
The Herald raises her hands. “The stakes are fair. Send your warriors.”
I turn to my brothers. Six faces that I know as well as my own, and none of them look happy. They’ve locked their shit down, and they trust me to take care of this. I pull my shirt over my head and toss it to Broderick. “Wait on the stairs.” If something goes wrong, he’ll get the rest of them out.
He shakes his head, a small smile pulling at his mouth. “Never could resist a chance to take off your shirt.”
“They want a show. I’m going to give it to them.”
“Uh-huh.” He nudges Gabriel, our youngest brother, with his shoulder. “Let’s give him room to work.” He gives me a long look. “Don’t die.”
“Please. As if these assholes could kill me.” Technically, fights on Lammas can go to the death without repercussions, but that’s not on the agenda tonight. If I slaughter my way through seven of their best people, it will turn the city against me. We’re back, and we’re here to stay, which means playing this clean. Even if it’s only obeying the spirit of the feast, rather than the explicit rules.
The faction leaders spend ten minutes communicating, and then seven people move out onto the sand. I study them the same way they’re studying me. Three women—all Amazons—and four men. Two of Eli’s people. Two Mystics. I only recognize two of them. This should be interesting.
The first steps forward. It’s one of Eli’s people, a Latino man built like a prize fighter. He’s light on his feet as he approaches me. I roll my shoulders and take a slow breath.
Eight years of exile. Eight years of fighting and scraping and clawing for survival in a world that wants nothing more than to eliminate me and my brothers.