Beta (20 page)

“No way,” Deirdre started to say.

Niamh interrupted her, speaking loudly enough to drown Deirdre out.

“Okay,” she said. “Who’s got a water bottle?”

She moved out onto the floor, received by cheers.

Deirdre wanted to tell her to stop. To not play Stark’s game. To let Deirdre take whatever punishment he’d mete out for her defiance.

But Niamh almost looked excited by the idea of the fight. Her cheeks were flushed, her smile broad, her arms open to the crowd. It was well known that Deirdre and Niamh were friends; after all, Niamh was one of the few people in the house who didn’t dislike Deirdre for being an Omega, and that friendship made her fractionally less popular by association. If Deirdre let Niamh beat her, surely it would do favors for her friend’s reputation.

What would Stark to do Deirdre if she didn’t prove herself to be the strongest person in the house?

“Don’t do this,” Deirdre whispered to Niamh, quietly enough that nobody else would be able to hear them. “I’ll take the fall for it.”

Niamh wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Let’s get ready to rumble!” she said, addressing the crowd.

They loved it.

What was she thinking? Was she
insane
?

Deirdre could still feel that small hit of lethe Stark had given her earlier in the day. It filled her with heat that brewed in the core of her belly, warm and liquid. It kept the fear from becoming overwhelming. And it made her mind clear. Deirdre knew exactly what she needed to do.

Whatever the cost, Deirdre needed to win against Niamh.

The swanmay had obviously decided she needed a victory, too.

She walked out into the middle of the floor, rolling out her shoulders, loosening her stiff muscles.

“Ready?” Deirdre asked, lifting her fists in front of her face.

Niamh nodded.

Deirdre visualized Stark’s face replacing her friend’s and unleashed her anger.

She expected to land the first hits, so she wasn’t prepared for the sheer force of Niamh’s blows. The swanmay’s elbow drove into her gut and emptied her lungs of oxygen. She slammed her forehead into Deirdre’s face hard enough to make her stumble, dazed.

The pain of it made Deirdre’s survival instincts roar to life.

The urge to let Niamh win vanished.

Anger followed quickly.

Deirdre trapped a fistful of Niamh’s ponytail and used the grip to throw her to the ground. She snapped her heel into Niamh’s face.

Niamh’s nose broke. Blood flowed.

The swanmay sank her teeth into Deirdre’s calf. Pain brought Deirdre down, and Niamh rolled both of them, trying to get on top. Trying to get the advantage. They were a tangle of limbs. A grunting, screaming mass of violence.

The swanmay used her fingernails with deadly abandon. She scratched, she kicked, she bit.

She was so much more vicious than Deirdre expected.

Niamh wanted the victory. Bad.

Deirdre should have let her have it. Losing to Niamh might mean that she would die—Stark would never accept a Beta who looked so weak—but at least she could stop punching her friend, stop making her bleed, stop eliciting those cries of pain from someone she cared about.

Truthfully, Deirdre would have been far stronger to choose death.

She couldn’t lose.

It was no surprise how loudly people cheered on the fight. Jacek’s quarter was loudest of all, stomping thunderously to egg them on. Niamh’s name was on their lips. Encouraging her to kill Deirdre. Take her down. Destroy the Beta.

Nobody cheered for Deirdre.

She was a mass of bruises, shaking from the healing fever, but somehow she got on top of Niamh. She pinned her down. And she punched her, again and again, beating until the other woman stopped fighting back.

Deirdre was beyond thought, beyond feeling.

All she knew was the crack of her fists against Niamh’s face.

Then Niamh went limp.

It took Deirdre a moment to stop punching. Her mind registered Niamh’s unconsciousness long before her reflexes caught up with her.

Deirdre had to force herself to stand and back away, sweat dripping down her neck, fists sore.

The swanmay didn’t get up. She was a crimson lump smeared across foam mats.

She had beaten Niamh. She had beaten her bloody, taking the victory that Niamh had so obviously thirsted for. And for what? To prove that she was stronger. To make all those cheering voices fall silent. To show Stark that Deirdre could leap any hurdle he put in front of her.

But at least it was over.

Deirdre turned to look for a towel, a bottle of water, a bullet to plant in her own brain.

Before she could leave, Stark said, “Tombs and Colette.”

Her head whipped around so she could stare at him.

Pitting her against Colette was just as bad as putting her up against Niamh in many ways. Colette was a sweet girl—as sweet as anyone in the asylum could be. She was also strong. Her upper body strength was far better than Deirdre’s, which said a lot, considering that Deirdre used her arms for parkour.

It would be a hard fight. And she was already tired.

A couple of the feline shifters grabbed Niamh by ankles and wrists, lifting her off of the floor, body sagging between them as they carried her to the healer.

Deirdre set her jaw and lifted her fists as Colette stepped out.

This was her punishment for everything. Embarrassing him in front of Melchior, defying him in private, daring to be kind to people rather than the cruel bastard he wanted her to be.

No wonder Stark hadn’t been beating her up as much. He’d gotten a lot cleverer about his sadism.

Deirdre shot him a look, and she didn’t hold back any of her emotions. She let every ounce of her hatred show in her face.

Stark turned and walked out of the room.

Seven fights.

Deirdre had been forced to go up against seven other shifters before Stark returned to tell everyone that they were done.

And somehow, she’d survived. She wore so much blood that she didn’t know what belonged to which of her victims anymore. Her body was struggling to heal the various cuts and bruises that had been wreaked upon her. She was too weak for that much fighting, too slow to heal.

Yet she had survived.

“I’m not going to heal you,” the healer said when he came around to her bed. “Knowing you, you’ll just be back with your face busted up again in an hour.”

“Fine with me.” She hopped off the bed and winced at standing upright.

Deirdre hadn’t really wanted the old witch to work on her anyway. She’d only gone to his infirmary because Stark had told her to, and she didn’t want to deal with the outcome of refusal.

The healer moved on as Deirdre limped toward the doors.

Niamh caught up with her in the hallway. Through a combination of shifter healing and the witch’s efforts, she looked as good as new, aside from the dried blood flaking off of her face.

It seemed wrong that their fight shouldn’t have left an impression, even a temporary one. It had hurt to fight Niamh. Shouldn’t both of them have shown that pain on their bodies?

“Heading to the showers?” Niamh asked, jogging alongside Deirdre.

The idea of getting back into those showers, naked and vulnerable, pushed Deirdre in just the wrong way.

She stopped in front of Niamh. “What the hell was that? It seemed like you wanted to fight me.”

Niamh rolled her eyes. “Dee—”

“We used to watch each other’s backs. You and me against the world—or, at least, the other girls at the boarding school. But as soon as Stark gave you an excuse, you tried to kill me!”

“He would have killed both of us if I hadn’t,” Niamh said. “I was doing you a favor. I figured you’d understand.”

But Deirdre was on a roll. She couldn’t stop. “It’s not just that. It’s—it’s everything. You’re so bloodthirsty and hateful and when Stark got you involved in his plans for the town hall, you didn’t even tell me. You didn’t share anything with me. I have no idea what’s going on between us anymore, but it doesn’t look like friendship.”

Niamh was stiff-backed, taking the verbal assault with the look of someone who smelled something foul. “I don’t get what you’re complaining about, Deirdre. You beat me harder than I beat you today. By a
lot
. If anyone should be angry, it’s me.”

“You made me do that to you,” Deirdre said.

She lifted her hands. “Stop right there. You’ve got issues, Dee. I’ve been patient with you since I know you cared about Gage and all, but this is stupid. I’m not the problem. You’re taking it out on me.”

Deirdre opened her mouth to argue—but then Stark came up the hallway, and the sight of him killed her words instantly.

“We’re leaving in an hour, Beta,” he said. “Get ready.”

The team that Stark assembled to retrieve the Infernal Blade was unexpected. From what Niamh had told Deirdre, she’d thought the winners of the fights would accompany them on the mission, but his choices included many of the losers.

Niamh was there, despite her rapid loss against Deirdre. So was Colette. Bowen and his wandering hands had also been selected. He hadn’t lost any fights in the training room that day—but that was because he hadn’t fought, which meant he hadn’t won anything, either.

And no Jacek.

The team wasn’t composed of the strongest members of the pack. They were the ones who were small and light, the people who would be likeliest to enter a secure area without detection.

She was surprised when Vidya showed up at the last moment, arriving with a backpack slung over her shoulder. She wore black leather similar to Deirdre’s. In fact, completely identical to Deirdre’s—it looked like Vidya may have taken the clothing from her dresser while she was in the infirmary with the healer.

Deirdre didn’t mind. She would have given them to Vidya if she’d asked. But it was discomfiting to see a woman who had been nearly catatonic gearing up to join them on another mission.

“Why did you invite her?” Deirdre whispered when she climbed into the front seat with Stark. He had assigned her the first shift driving.

Stark acted like she hadn’t even spoken to him. He handed his tablet to Bowen in the back of the van as Deirdre pulled out onto the road. “There are the plans. Everything you need to know. Study it.”

Bowen tapped on the tablet’s screen. “Hey, I grew up in this area. This says we’re going somewhere called…’Holy Nights Cathedral’? There aren’t any cathedrals out that way.”

“The satellite photos disagree with you,” Niamh said, snagging the device out of his hands.

“Holy Nights Cathedral,” Deirdre echoed. “What kind of name is that?”

Niamh scanned through the information.

“It’s for a small sect of some obscure religion called triadism. They’re run by this guy named Brother Marshall.” Niamh lifted the tablet to show a picture to everyone in the van. Brother Marshall was an attractive man on the cusp of his forties, with blond hair and heavy lines on his face. He looked more like a football player gone to seed than a monk. “I bet they’re worshipping this Infernal Blade. Dummies.”

Colette nudged Niamh with an elbow. “Don’t lie. You know you’re excited to be going after the sword.”

“It’s the Infernal Blade!” Niamh stopped trying to hide her delight. She was practically squirming with glee. “It would be like—I don’t know, if we found the One Ring or something. Nerdtopia!”

Deirdre almost laughed by force of habit, but then she remembered their earlier fight, and the smile slipped right off her lips again.

“Where’s the Infernal Blade supposed to be from, anyway?” Bowen asked. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Oh, this is a good story. You’ll love it. There used to be this demon named Lilith, right? She was a demon who created every living creature on the planet by sculpting them out of clay,” Niamh said.

“A demon made everyone in the world?” Colette asked, skeptical.

“I know, right? No big shock here, but Lilith was also a force of destruction. She had this poison touch that could turn anyone back into clay. One of her daughters, Yatai, got hold of that poison power, and she attacked a city with it.”

“And then Atlantis sank to the bottom of the ocean,” Bowen intoned.

Through the rearview mirror, Deirdre watched as Niamh slapped his arm. “Atlantis is fake, stupid.”

“Your story is fake too,” he said.

“If it is, then we’re wasting a lot of gas on this drive, aren’t we? This isn’t ancient mythology we’re talking about. It’s recent history. Ask anyone who works for the Office of Preternatural Affairs and they’ll verify it. Yatai attacked Las Vegas like five years before Genesis and turned half of it to stone.”

“Yeah, I’ll just ring up all my besties with the OPA,” Bowen said. “Oh wait, I forgot, we’re rebelling against those people.”

Niamh ignored him. “Anyway, when Yatai attacked the city, this badass bitch named the Godslayer killed her with a sword. A falchion. That falchion got infected with Lilith’s poison, and now that sword turns everything it touches to stone. Hence the Infernal Blade.”

“Isn’t that a comic book?” Bowen asked.

The swanmay grinned. “Soon to be a major motion picture directed by Christopher Nolan. But it’s true. It’s all true.”