“I changed the stakes.”
Sparks groaned. He should have guessed Caleb would get greedy. An Adrenalite’s owner could choose to make a pit fight unfair, either by making it two fighters against one or by arming one of the combatants. Owners would do this so that the odds would be stacked against their fighter, meaning there would be a higher profit if they still managed to win. Normally, Sparks would take it as a compliment that Caleb believed he could win even at a disadvantage, but right now, that was little comfort.
“Damn it, Caleb. My life is on the line here.”
“Well I didn’t know that, did I?”
“I appreciate your faith in me. But also, I really don’t.”
Mole grinned at Sparks from across the arena. He twirled the knife between his fingers. You’re dead, he mouthed.
Sparks responded with an upright middle finger.
“Listen,” Caleb said. “I’ll cancel the fight. You’re too injured for it. We lose our reputation, and won’t be able to arrange any other fights, ever. But we couldn’t anyway if you die here.”
Sparks felt ashamed at the idea of refusing a fight. It would be worse than losing. “No. I’ll fight. And I’ll win.”
Caleb wasn’t listening. “I’ll go and—”
“I said I’ll fight,” Sparks said more forcefully.
“What? No way. If he kills you—”
“He won’t.”
“But—”
Sparks bared his teeth at Caleb. “I’m a pit fighter. This is what I do. So stand back, shut up, and watch me show this bastard just how much he fucked up when he threatened me.”
Caleb frowned. “You sure about this?”
“Completely.”
“Well… Don’t die, okay?”
“Don’t worry, I’d hate to disappoint your wallet.”
Caleb looked like he had something more to say, but he stepped back from the bars and one of the thugs took his place, holding an activation needle. Sparks held his arm out. The needle was cold, and the thug wasn’t gentle as he pushed the needle through the skin, but Sparks didn’t pull away.
He came alive.
A wave of heat swelled from his chest and washed over his entire body, warmer than the sun on a hot day. Every inch of his skin burned with raw energy. His hair stood on end, awake, alert. It was like he had been completely numb before, and only now could he feel his own body. It wanted to move. It needed to.
He jumped forward, energy pulsing through him with a rhythm somehow both irregular and musical. It was his rhythm.
Mole advanced, grinning, knife raised, the front of his shirt glowing blue.
Sparks beckoned him forward. “Come here and I’ll feed that knife down your throat.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
Sparks leapt forward and lashed out with a punch aimed at the gut. Mole spun to the left. He was fast. Sparks blocked a low kick with his shin, never letting his eye leave the knife.
His arm still ached and didn’t move as fast as it normally would. But it was functional enough. Besides, he wouldn’t need his full strength to beat Mole.
He feinted two quick jabs, then spat in Mole’s face.
Mole recoiled. Sparks took the opportunity and booted him in the thigh. He lunged to the right, then reversed the movement. He threw two quick punches, striking in sync with the pulse inside his chest. Mole retreated a step.
“Not so tough now, are you?” Sparks mocked. “Not without your two buddies.”
“Shut up,” Mole hissed through clenched teeth.
“As you wish.” Sparks pressed his advantage. Kick, left-handed punch, two right jabs. He gained another step forward. He laughed as he spun, every limb in constant, exhilarating motion. Scoring another sharp hit on Mole’s left side, he sped up his attacks.
Mole scowled.
Sparks winked.
And Mole’s foot slammed into his hip. Sparks stumbled back, off balance. His foot slipped on a loose floorboard, and he fought to regain his posture. The glint of the knife soared towards his neck. He threw up his right arm to block and a fire erupted in his shoulder joint, like an ember caught between the bones — his arm locked in place, unable to move.
Panic flooded through him as the blade sliced across his bicep. Blood sprayed against his chest and sharp spikes of pain ran up his arm. He cried out, fighting to block out the pain. He couldn’t let it distract him.
There was a crunch in his lower ribs; his recent bruises flared into painful existence again. Mole’s fist pulled back, then struck another blow. Sparks lurched backwards, head spinning.
Mole just laughed. The sound of it grated against Sparks reeling senses.
Sparks grabbed his bleeding arm with his other and gave it a violent tug. There was a click in his shoulder, a burst of pain, and now he could move it again. The cut wasn’t too deep, as far as Sparks could see through the blood.
Mole advanced steadily, still laughing.
He goaded me into being overconfident, Sparks realized as he backpedaled. The boy moved fast for his size. Faster than he had in the fight in the holding room.
Sparks dropped into a defensive stance. He had to finish this before he lost too much blood.
Mole kept coming. “Got no smart words now, do ya? You little—”
Sparks charged. The pounding in his chest beat frantically and he lashed out in swift blows to match it. His wound sprayed blood with each swing. He dodged under a knife thrust — blade passing just inches from his head — and landed his own punch to Mole’s gut.
Mole retaliated quicker than Sparks anticipated. Grabbing him just under the armpit, Mole hurled Sparks upwards.
Sparks’ neck crunched as he hit the roof. Icy shocks ran through his limbs. Then he was falling. The floor rushed up to meet him and knocked the breath from his lungs. Gasping, he rolled onto his side. The taste of blood was thick in his mouth.
A shadow rushed at him from the left.
On instinct, he grabbed the leg with both hands and twisted.
Mole howled as his entire body spun, helpless to resist the motion. Balance lost, he fell to the ground. The knife spun away.
Sparks crawled forward, clawing his way on top of Mole. He batted aside a punch, then pinned down Mole’s right wrist. The bastard writhed madly, his superior size and strength nearly throwing Sparks off, but Sparks grabbed Mole’s face and dug his fingers into his eyes. Mole screamed — a mad, rasping cry.
“You thought you could beat me?” Sparks snarled. “You’re weak! You useless, piece of—”
Mole’s grasping hand found Sparks’ shoulder, fingers tightening over the throbbing pain, and Sparks’ screamed. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Pain. Burning pain.
His world went black.
Next thing he knew, he was being dragged along the ground, pulled by his wounded arm. A loose nail in the floorboards ripped a gash through his shirt, tearing across his back. Cursing, he fought to resist, but it was hopeless. Mole’s grip around his forearm was so tight Spark’s hand was going purple. With a kick to the stomach, Mole sent Sparks skidding across the floor. His back struck the bars, winding him again.
Gasping, Sparks grabbed a bar and attempted to pull himself up. Before he could, Mole appeared above him. Sparks let go and tried to roll away, but Mole’s boot stomped down on his chest, locking him in place.
“You fucking traitor,” Mole roared. The knife was back in his hand, its blade reflected his blue light.
The pounding inside Sparks’ chest beat so fast he felt ready to explode. He gasped for air, barely able to breathe with Mole’s boot crushing his lungs. All around, the crowd howled, their words blending into a chant of madness. He thought he heard Caleb shouting. Something clattered against the floor to his left.