“Don’t do it.” Clay held on tight and forced my head onto his shoulder. “Don’t give him what he wants.”
As far as I could tell, what he wanted was to die horribly. By my hands. Wrapped around his throat. With that stupid smirk etched on his stupid face. Forever. Because after he was decapitated, I would shave his stupid hair and shrink his stupid head for a rearview mirror ornament to brighten my drives to the shop.
“Can this guy die already?” Leaning into my pose, I faked a yawn. “I’m falling asleep over here.”
As far as my fellow spectators were concerned, it was the right thing to say.
Their prince’s arm candy was bloodthirsty, ready to kill for him, and they ate it up with a spoon.
A chant began in the row behind me and picked up speed as it swept through the stands.
“Fight.”
“Fight.”
“Fight.”
“Ruger of Agonae,” the announcer thundered over the ruckus. “Fight or forfeit.”
The daemon settled into a ready stance, but Ruger grinned over his shoulder—then ran straight at me.
“Dreams do come true.” I touched my wand through my pants. “I can defend myself, right?”
For such a bulky daemon, the guy was moving fast. He also wasn’t deviating from his collision course.
“Oh, hell yes.” Clay tossed his snack to a nearby daemon. “You absolutely can.”
That was when I realized Clay had ditched his food, and it wasn’t to help me.
“Let's get physical,” he belted out. “Get down, get hard, get mean.” He clapped in rapid bursts. “Let's get physical and beat that other team.” He stomped as the daemons joined in. “Go, Rue! Go, Rue! Go, Rue!”
Six feet away from the royal box, Ruger leapt, claws out and fangs glistening.
I let him come, let him see I had no fear, let him register just how big the mistake was he had made.
As he started pinwheeling his arms, desperate to halt his descent, I unsheathed my wand.
Magic percussed the air when I tapped him on the quivering nose, and he burst into powdery ash flakes.
“Anyone else?” I fanned the gray flurries away from my face. “Or can I get back to watching the show?”
Whoops and whistles erupted in the crowd, and they picked up Clay’s chant, lifting it until my ears rang.
The two remaining challengers slinked to the forest’s edge then disappeared into the shadows.
Muscles tensed in the daemon’s calves, the instinct to chase riding him, but he allowed the cowards to flee with a disgusted grunt.
An orange-skinned daemon with flaming yellow hair jogged out to greet him dressed in a red leather suit with black shoes. A gold lavalier mic flashed at his collar, and a bodypack transmitter bulged at his spine.
“The winner and still champion,” the announcer roared, “Astaroth Xan Stavros, High Prince of Hael.”
Grinning like a fool, gore smearing his face, the daemon allowed the announcer to thrust his fist into the air.
After the obligatory grandstanding ended, the daemon jogged over and vaulted into the box with us.
“Congratulations, big guy.” I raked my fingers through his stiff and sticky hair. “You kicked butt today.”
“Rue okay?” He crushed me against his chest. “Ruger not hurt Rue?”