Lowball: A Wild Cards Novel (41 page)

Abby turned up at that moment. Bill looked from her to Franny and back again. Gave a snort of laughter.

“You kids have a nice night,” Bill said and sauntered away.

Those About to Die …

Part Five

MARCUS HAD A PRETTY
good burn on. He was working his biceps, slow curls with the dumbbells. He looked down at the taut bulges of muscle, trying to focus, trying not to think about Father Squid, or Olena, or the fights, or Dmitri’s mind trips. He wasn’t having much success, but it was better to be doing something than lying on his cot. He didn’t notice that Asmodeus had entered the workout room until he spoke.

“It’s not all about muscle,” Asmodeus said. He strolled toward Marcus, his slim, lanky body at ease. “I don’t work out. Don’t need to. Five bouts, me on top every time. Bet you wonder how I do it, don’t ya?”

“Fuck you.”

A tick of annoyance flashed across the joker’s smug visage, gone just as quickly. “I thought Olena was taking care of that for you. But then again she’s not yours anymore, is she?”

Marcus glared at him, hating the fact that his mouth even formed her name, hating the way he grinned and let the tip of his tongue show. He knew what was going to happen before he did it, but he couldn’t help himself. He surged at Asmodeus, propelled by the long muscles of his tail. His weight-heavy fists swung up from his sides. He nearly smashed one of the dumbbells into the joker’s spotty face.

“Dmitri!” Asmodeus called.

The name was enough to freeze him. The ace strolled into the room, looking bored as ever. He leaned against the wall. His dead eyes fixed on Marcus, though without a spark of genuine interest.

“Yeah, they sent me with Dmitri,” Asmodeus said. He pulled up a stool and leaned back against it. “I’m not here to shoot the shit. Baba Yaga didn’t much like the way you handled your last fight. She wants me to school you.”

Resuming his curls, Marcus muttered, “I won, didn’t I?”

No one could dispute that. The fight hadn’t lasted more than a few minutes. The joker facing him looked like one of the ogres in that old animated version of
The Hobbit
. He had come at him with his massive mouth open, teeth like curved daggers. Marcus swiped his feet from under him with his tail. He pounced on his back while he was down and pounded his face into the floor. He could still hear the joker’s teeth snapping on the floor and saw them spinning away, dragging thin tendrils of blood. He’d bashed his face to pulp and hadn’t seen the guy since. Marcus wanted to feel more sorry about it than he did. It was wrong hurting someone like that. He knew that, but he didn’t quite feel it. Part of him found beauty in the broken teeth, the thin lines of bloody spittle they left behind.

“Yeah, you fucked him up real good, but Baba Yaga wants us to fight. Not to kill each other. And you could’ve made more of a show of it. That’s what I do. I string them along a bit before closing the deal. It was that shit with the audience that pissed her off, though.”

It hadn’t been enough to destroy the ogre. Marcus had been too enraged. He turned from beating on the guy to raging at the audience. He smashed into the glass. He bounced off of it and came back pounding and shouting. He thrust himself straight up and ripped and yanked at the webbing above the glass. He almost believed he could get through it. If he just tore hard enough, found a weakness. If he could’ve gotten through, he’d have ripped the spectators apart. He’d have torn at them, bit them, crushed them. Only when Dmitri entered his skull and dragged him into his own personal hell did he stop. It had been far worse than the first time.

When he came out of it, alone in his room—Olena nowhere to be seen—he’d nearly lost what sanity he had left.

“You do something like that again and Dmitri’s gonna spend a long time in your head,” Asmodeus said. “Bet. Just get your act together. Use your anger; don’t let it use you. Master that, and you’ll do all right. There, that’s my charity work done.” He stood. “I gotta go rest. Got a fight tonight. When it’s over…” He grinned. “… I’m heading to Poltava. Nothing like Ukranian pussy, is there?” He strolled away.

Marcus watched him go, feeling like each step he took away slammed another nail into his heart. Just as he reached the threshold, Marcus called out to him. “Hey! Who are you fighting?”

The joker spun on his heel, amusement—and challenge—in his eyes. “Why do you want to know?”

Marcus’s knuckles were sore from the knocking. Strange how he could pound flesh without a problem, but something as simple as knocking on a door made him wince. It wasn’t just the physical sensation that hurt.

“Father, it’s me! I’m not leaving until you open up.”

No response.

Behind him, life in the compound went on. Jokers lounging, tossing insults at each other, posturing. Girls. Drink. Amusements. In some ways it was all the same as when he’d first beheld the place. Things were changing, though, slowly, gradually, almost unnoticeably. The more they fought, the more the gladiators found the violence of the ring staying with them.

For Marcus, it was like a smell that clung to him. Sometimes he didn’t notice; sometimes he caught the scent and his muscles tensed and his face went hard and any and everything seemed like an insult. He’d bashed Wartcake in the face with his tray at the buffet table and would’ve done more, had he not felt Dmitri’s creeping touch coming over him. Afterward, he couldn’t even remember what had angered him. More and more, the trigger didn’t matter. Just the urge toward violence did.

Making it worse was that he didn’t have Father Squid to turn to. The night of his fight the priest came back stunned, shaken to the core, shame-faced and silent. He’d stayed in his locked room ever since. Marcus had tried getting him out several times. He’d been refusing to eat or interact. Not even Dmitri’s mind tricks seemed to affect him. He was beyond it all. Marcus had heard him praying. Once, he heard a repetitive thwack! thwack! thwack! He didn’t want to imagine what that meant.

Leaning in to the door, he said, “You can’t stay in there forever.”

Nothing.

“You think you’re the only one that feels like an animal?” Marcus snapped. “I got news for you. All of us feel that way! Some like it. I don’t. But … I’m getting tired of fighting it. You know? It’s hard. It’s easier to give in.” He paused, clenched his fist again and touched his knuckles to the wood. “What about all that stuff you said to me? How it wasn’t my fault. How it was this place that drove me crazy. If that’s true about me it’s true about you, too.”

There was a noise behind the door, a snuffling and murmur that he couldn’t make out. It sounded like some sort of prayer.

Annoyed, Marcus said, “Whatever, Father. I’m getting on with it. Just so you know, I’m fighting tonight. Didn’t even have to, but I want to. Yeah, I do. They took Olena from me. You probably think that’s for the best, but you’ve never been in love.”

The praying cut off abruptly.

“We got something. It’s real. It’s not like you think it is. She’s the only truly good thing in this place, and they took her from me. If I don’t do anything, Asmodeus is going to…” He couldn’t get the words out. “I’m not gonna let that happen. That’s why I’m fighting tonight—for her. What else do I have to fight for now?”

Out of words, Marcus felt the urgency drain away. He sighed and pushed himself away from the door. “Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say. I’m going. Guess I’ll see ya when I see ya.”

He turned and made it only a few steps away before he heard the door open. Father Squid peered through the crack, his face haggard, streaked with tears. “Marcus … You’re wrong about me. I did know love once. I would’ve done anything to keep her safe, or to punish the one that…” He cut off. He blinked and inhaled a long breath and said, “Come in, son. I’ll tell you about it. I’ll tell you about my Lizzie. And you can tell me about your Olena.” He drew back, leaving the door open for the young man to enter.

“Stupid move, kid,” Asmodeus said. “Stupidest thing you’ve done yet.”

The joker was slick on his feet. He moved as if sliding across ice, deceptive, graceful. In his skintight jeans and white T-shirt, he could’ve been a dancer in
West Side Story
. Only he wasn’t singing.

Marcus pursued him. He slithered with a purposeful fluidity all his own. He wanted to pound him, to feel his fists thudding against his face. Backing Asmodeus up to the ring wall, he snapped his tail around to one side, to keep him from fleeing to the left, and then he curved in from the right. He released his tongue. It shot from his mouth sopping wet with venom.

Asmodeus blocked it with the palm of his hand. The impact thwacked wetly, spraying his face and knocking his arm back. He spun away, shaking the sting out of it. Good luck with that, Marcus thought. His venom would work just the same. Skin contact. That’s all it needed. Marcus kept his sinuous curve around the joker, waiting for him to weaken. He wanted to see his face register the venom, and then he would come on swinging, beat the crap out of him, and then end it.

Asmodeus looked at Marcus. There was no awareness of his impending doom on his face. He grinned and wiped the moisture from his forehead. “Your venom’s crap,” he said. “It’s nothing to me but the stink of your breath. I’ve got a bit of reptile in me as well. I produce my own venom. Comes out in my semen.” His grin widened. “The ladies love it. Olena more than most. Says my spunk lights a fire inside her.”

Marcus lunged, swinging his fists with everything he had. Asmodeus tried to leap over his tail, but Marcus swiped his feet out from under him. As he fell, Marcus landed punches on the back of his head. It was sloppy, ugly fighting, but he kept at it, battering the joker until he was on his knees. Marcus grabbed him by the hair. He raised his head up, ready to drive him face-first into the floor.

Asmodeus began to convulse. Surprised, Marcus let him go. Maybe the venom was working now. On all fours, dry heaves racked the joker, making him look like a cat coughing up a hairball. As much as Marcus wanted to kill him, he wanted everyone to see how pathetic he was. He wanted Olena to see his humiliation.

Asmodeus, in one terrible cough, expelled something from his mouth. It hit the floor with a clank. He picked up the object, sprang to his feet, and slashed at Marcus’s chest. A knife. The blade opened a slit from shoulder to shoulder. It wasn’t deep. He punched at Asmodeus. The joker ducked under it and landed a jab on Marcus’s chin. As he spun away, his knife sliced a gash to the bone on Marcus’s forehead. It gushed blood.

Laughing, Asmodeus danced away. He gestured toward the audience, raising the knife and waving it about. “Here’s my talent, kid,” he shouted. “Give me enough time and I could cough up a samurai sword. That would be overkill in this situation.”

The two engaged again. Asmodeus slashed and dodged, landing kicks every now and then. Marcus didn’t want to risk his tongue, so he worked in close, pounding at him. He knew he was getting cut, but he didn’t feel it. He could barely see, but it didn’t matter. His own voice inside his head screamed at him to kill. It shouted and cursed and banged on his brain. The noise was incredible.