Silent Warrior (2 page)

2

H
er name wasn’t Silence, but it was the name her fellow Cage warriors used for her. The name worked as well as any; she’d never provided another.

Yet she wasn’t in a Cage. And her opponent was a scruffy, wavy-haired blond man with a grin like a clown on ecstasy.

Perhaps he was a skilled human fighter who lied when he said he was Sath. The thought rankled, because that meant she could be defeated by an incessantly chattering fool. His training consisted of the basest street techniques, but they were effective. That he’d recognized the same trait in her—despite years spent acquiring finer skills—was embarrassing. Her pride suffered, her ankle and jaw ached, and he still knelt above her like some conquering court jester.

Only, his smile was cold. She shivered beneath his hold and beneath the crushing sole of his boot. He looked like a man who could kill while flashing that same smile.

“You can ask to get up now,” he said. “This quiet thing is some mental fake-out, and I know it shouldn’t bother me whether you’re mute or screaming. But I want you to ask. Then we can end this and you can keep your lower jaw.”

Silence offered a smile of her own. Since volunteering to fight for the Asters, she hadn’t uttered a word to anyone in their complex. As far as they were concerned, she’d never spoken and would never speak. Not true at all. There in Kowloon City, she’d needed to out of necessity. Besides, even at the complex, she talked to herself. Alone. At night. She needed a reminder that she was still sane, although talking to oneself wasn’t the best indicator. She liked the reminder that she could still talk if she wanted.

But while fighting? This joker was right; the wordless intimidation she brought to bear was just another weapon. She’d resisted far worse than his threats.

The next pair of brawlers assembled at the entrance of the makeshift scrap of combat space. They were ready for her to forfeit, too. Even the referee gingerly entered the ring, about to make the call. The small Chinese man, who called himself Wu, had a shaved head and a dramatic mustache, which made for a memorable contrast. He remained her only contact with antiquities dealers and collectors. She fought nightly because his demand for cash was sizeable.

Wu caught her eye and smirked. “Another time, Silence,” he said in Cantonese.

No way.

The laughing killer was too pleased with having pinned her. Maybe he was a lying human, but she took advantage of his distraction. His boots hurt like hell. Spiked? She thrust her weight toward where he held steady pressure on her arm—leaning into the pain. She bit her tongue to counter the agony and to keep from crying out. Although he stumbled, he didn’t let go of her wrist. They rolled awkwardly on the floor. Puffs of sawdust obscured her vision.

The onlookers applauded and laughed along with the joke he’d suddenly become. Perhaps that would ease the sting of how he’d gotten the jump on her. Who fought without armor? Without weapons?

Someone like she used to be.

She kneed him in his exposed gut. Then she did it again—because she felt like it. The Asters’ cartel had sent her to catch a particular Dragon King, which had taken only a day or two, and she’d done so with her bare hands. The unfortunate bastard was languishing in a basement until the Asters arrived to take him to the compound. Which meant taking Silence back, too.

The walls of freedom were closing around her. Three weeks gone. Only two nights remained, and she still didn’t know if the other half of the Sath dragon idol was even in Hong Kong.

She was wasting time by letting this taunting blond monster think he could defeat her. It was time to play nasty.

A buzz-saw fury surged into her bones and fueled her blood. She wrenched the hand at her wrist and twisted until the smirking newcomer cussed. She hauled him by one calf and kicked his kneecap. A human’s bone would’ve broken, which answered her earlier question. He was most definitely a Dragon King.

The pain in her ankle still felt like the bite of an animal trap. She ignored it and pressed her advantage, as if harnessing a tornado in her body. Twirling arms. Snaking legs. Her clenched fists landed in his gut and down along his flanks.

He wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t unskilled—untrained, yes, but wiry and adaptable. Silence had caught him by surprise, but he countered with a rage of his own. His expression said the whole place could shake to the ground before he’d give way. Good. She wouldn’t want to feel any regret in snapping him in half.

Two Dragon Kings beating each other into the ground.

Their fists punched into one another at the same moment. Something in her wrist popped. The shock jerked up her arm, just as his eyes widened. He grunted in obvious pain. Silence landed on her ass. She scrambled back and stretched to retrieve her shield from the crowd, but she didn’t make it. Wu stepped between them. He held a cattle prod.

“Out.” He flicked his attention between them both. “Now.”

“Oh, hey. We aren’t finished.” The stranger was panting. His blue eyes glowed with manic energy. He looked as high as she felt, riding the crest of a fight in full swing. “We’ve got at least three more rounds before we start sawing off limbs using just fingernails and teeth.”

Silence’s angered stare collided with the other Sath’s, but she found unexpected kinship there. Underworld cultures around the globe knew of the Dragon Kings’ existence—part myth, part boogeyman. Here, where back alley violence was offered up in exchange for coin, the belief was very real.

“You need money,” Wu said to Silence. “So
out
. Or you don’t fight tomorrow.”

But the teasing violence in the stranger’s blue gaze was tempting.
Shake the ramshackle bar to the ground.
Together, they could threaten Wu until he gave up
all
his cash. Silence could spend her time on the hunt instead of fighting night after bloody night.

The Sath were patient, tradition-minded people. Impetuousness was not in their bloodline. That her opponent behaved in direct contradiction to the practices of their people was surprising. That a repressed place in her soul responded to his temptation was even more surprising.

Wu looked between them again, with a question stamped across his brow.

“Uh-oh,” the stranger said. “I think Wu here just realized who he’s dealing with. You wanna take the chance on what gift I possess? We can play gods of old and see how long your bar survives. Just hand over some cash and we’re outta here.”

“Shut up, freak,” Wu shouted. “Never in here again. Take four thousand from Kang and hope you make it out the back door. And you.” He stabbed a glare at Silence. “
You
go look for your precious piece of rock. You won’t get anything more from me.”

Silence unhooked the cheap armor and enjoyed Wu’s flinch when it smacked the floor.

“Gotcha, didn’t I?” said her opponent. He stood grinning, despite wrapping his arm around his stomach. “You don’t lose your temper often. That’s something, at least. I couldn’t get you to talk, but I got you to break your own rules. Fun times. Let’s do it again
real
soon.”

He was still winning this contest. How was he doing that?

The crowd parted as she tried to hide her wounded ankle. Blood was beginning to pool inside her boot, as if every other step landed in a squish of mud.

“You forgot something,” came a taunting voice.

He was holding her shield.

Chugging across the fifteen-foot corral, he caught up with her, using a loping stride that managed to seem unhurried. He was quick, infuriating, and had the remarkable ability to jump back up after a hard fall. She’d recognized far too much in common after only a few minutes. But then, combat laid people bare. There was no hiding how one reacted to violence.

Forget him. Just get the cash.

Silence stood toe-to-toe with the huge bruiser Kang and crossed her arms. He fished wads of bills from a drawer underneath the bar. She grabbed the money and shoved it into the inside pocket of her heavy leather shirt. Eyes followed her every move.

“I’m Hark,” he said, now shoulder to shoulder with her. “You can call me Hark, if you decide to speak. Or you can just say my name in your mind, with wonder and fear and maybe a hint of sexual curiosity.”

He shoved the shield into her hands.

“Another possibility would be saying
thank you
for helping intimidate a few bucks out of these bastards, or mention how I left my armor behind, or ask why I took it off in the first place, but I don’t think I expect any of that.”

Dragon damn it, he was like the fabled Chinese water torture.

“Which is fine. Not like I’m a stranger here in need of some guidance. Who to trust. Which dark corners to avoid so I won’t get a dick up my ass. That’s really not my thing. Is it yours? That’d be quite the sight. Have to admit it’s been a while—watching or giving. What d’ya say? That’d be a helluva lot better than sniffing man-sweat and trying not to get beheaded.”

As she made her way through the throngs of patrons, onlookers, and waiting combatants, Silence did her best to tune him out. She’d trained herself in that skill a long time ago. Running from the Sath Leadership that had hunted her for years—that was one thing. Being able to keep quiet while doing so was quite another.

She didn’t want to be a Sath. A hated Thief. Her greatest wish was to at least be able to walk across the sands of her homeland without the fear of suffering for her guardians’ unforgivable crime.

Hark of Sath was not only a reminder of her traitorous clan but also oddly charming and frustrating. No matter what he said, he never lost his freaky clown smile or the dead void behind his rich blue eyes. He was a talking demon with a magnificent body and an unnerving way of sliding needles just beneath her skin.

Even more unnerving was how that thought prompted her to remember the ancient Sath means of binding two lovers.

By the Ritual of Thorns.

It was easy to vow
forever
when there were only papers to sign and words to recite. What did the humans say?
For better or worse. In sickness and in health.

What a joke.

The Sath equivalent of marriage involved pain and intense trust. To purposefully suffer in tandem was a bond no one could break.

She gritted her teeth to keep the sound in. She’d never thought anything so absurd. The Ritual of Thorns? With any man? That only increased her fury at having been taunted by an untrained motormouth freak. She was not a woman to be owned.

Yet she’d been collared as a Cage warrior for the Asters for five years.

Most days that fact didn’t register, like something written in invisible ink across her mind. This stranger shook up her world. He was a free man making his own choices. Breathing his own air. Using his powers for whatever evil he did—and she was under no mistaken impression that he helped orphans and saved people from burning buildings. She simply envied that he had choices.

“Well, now,” Hark said. “He’s an ugly fucker.”

She jerked out of her reverie. Letting her concentration slip for a minute meant defeat—obviously. It also meant a moment when she’d nearly given into the temptation of screaming. Unleashing her frustrations for mere seconds would’ve been so satisfying.

A member of Clan Pendray—all wildness and stocky Norse build—stood in the rear exit. Hark, for all his chatter, was absolutely right. The man was an ugly fucker.

Silence widened her stance and gripped the leather handle inside her shield.

The Pendray crossed his arms. “I’m surprised, Silence. You let this dickweed bruise you up pretty bad.”

“I did get her, didn’t I?” Hark nodded. “Yes, I did. For a while, anyway. She’s like a fish or an oyster or something. They’re both quick
and
slippery. Unless oysters—no, they’re not quick. Anyway, have you ever tried to take her down? I didn’t see your name on the tournament slate. Maybe . . . you’re scared?”

Still the same gibberish, but Silence frowned. Hark had assumed a stance that matched hers, ready for another fight. His eyes were steady, assessing, dark with suspicion. He was a lucky jester with the rough education of a transient, and that meant knowing a threat when it stood before him. Silence had unwillingly received the same education.

The giant Pendray tensed, then relaxed as three human men flanked him. “I’d rather take her down in other ways.”

Hark laughed. The sound was like a bullet firing. “I’d lay my money on you losing your prick before getting it into her pussy. Want to give it a try? Dragon Kings can only be killed by decapitation, but you’re just that: a Dragon King, not a fucking starfish. Body parts don’t grow back. Oh, hey—more sea creatures.”

Hark’s keen blue eyes roved over their opponent’s scarred face. Silence noticed the man’s drooping shoulder, too, as if it had been dislocated too often. She already knew Hark would see that. He was too damn annoying to miss something she’d picked up on.

“Ever heard of Damien Hirst?” Hark continued coldly. “He cut up cows and called it art. Bet he’d have a field day with you and make a little money on the side.”