Chapter 299. Rat Fight III

Chapter 299: 299. Rat Fight III

Maisie

Quinlan flicked his wrist, tossing her a chip he must’ve taken without my notice. "I prefer longer odds."

The woman practically preened, tucking it into her bra and blowing him a kiss before melting back into the roaring crowd.

I glared at Quinlan, and he shrugged. "I’m a business man, cherie. I make investments."

"That’s just another word for gambling," I said.

"Oh really?" he blinked innocently.

The crowds roaring took a sudden hike, the new bloodthirst so intense, goosebumps spread across my skin.

Distress burned in my chest, spreading out like fire and my feet moved with urgency. Quinlan swore, coming after me, and the closer we drew to the front, the heavier the bond dragged at my soul, bleeding agony and fear into my veins.

I broke through the tight front line of the crowd and stopped dead in my tracks.

Beyond the mesh was a low grounded pit the size of a small field, whose floor was covered in a thick layer of sand. The sand was red and wet with blood.

There were four men standing and more than twice that number of bodies on the floor. My stomach twisted as a boulder of a man closed his hands around the head of a man and twisted, tearing it off his head.

The roaring went wild. "Reap-er! Reap-er! Reap-er!" they chanted.

And soon I realized I was hyperventilating. Mercer wasn’t among the men standing. I couldn’t see him!

I didn’t want to, but my eyes lowered to the bodies in the sand. One. Two. Goddess, please. I stopped my count at seven. Because the eighth body moved, stumbling to his feet drunkenly, red hair caked in sand.

My hands flew to my mouth. A strangled sob tore from my throat before I could stop it.

Mercer looked half-dead.

He was so horribly beaten, it was hard to place his face behind the cut, the scrapes and swollen skin.

He was in tatters and gashes, drenched in his own blood. His body swayed like he was going to fall but he hung back, shaking his head free of grit and raising his hands in a too-loose defensive stance.

It sunk in then that a fight to the death meant only one person came out of that cage alive, and Mercer was right in the thick of them.

The man called Reaper slammed a brass-knuckled fist straight into Mercer’s jaw and I gasped as Mercer’s head snapped back, blood spraying across the red sand.

But he didn’t even raise his arms to block the next blow within his line of sight when another fighter lunged, driving a knee into his bleeding ribs.

I heard the crack of bone.

"Mercer!" I cried, lunging forward and slapping my palms flat against the heavy iron mesh separating us from the pit.

But Mercer’s green eyes were completely unseeing, glassy and dead, as if his soul had already vacated his body. He was letting them hurt him. He wasn’t even trying. It was as though he wanted to die and was looking for the most painful way out.

Terror gripped me as I yelled his name again, but my voice got covered by thw roaring mob.

I glanced left at Quinlan.

He was slurping on a plastic up that smelled like booze, looking unbothered as he watched the fight from over the cup’s edge.

"Do something!" I screamed at him.

He thought about it for a second. Glanced down at his shirt. "This was a gift from Violette. I’m not getting it dirty by going in there. Besides, you said you didn’t come back for us. I thought you might want a front row seat on how good it gets when you leave." He grinned, flashing me his fangs. "Lovely show, isn’t it? Who knew gore could be such fun?"

I couldn’t help but stare at him. "Have you lost your mind?! He’s going to die in there!"

But he had gotten distracted by a new cup of booze. "Oooohhh," he purred pleasantly, sniffing deeply into the cup. "French? Parfait."

I got the impression Quinlan didn’t give a rat’s ass if Mercer was dying.

My gaze jerked forward again at the sound of smacking flesh and I caught the fresh blood spurting from Mercer’s temple.

He hit the sand.

"No! Mercer!"

Furious sobs tearing out of me, I dug my fingers into the iron links and pulled with all my strength, intent on ripping the cage off its hinges.

But the force must’ve tripped the security system because electricity surged through the mesh in a flash, and an violent shock ripped through my arms throwing me backward.

"Maisie!" Quinlan caught me from behind, his arms locking around my waist. "The cage not only keeps them in, but it keeps us out, too. You can’t get in or out until the fight is done."

Despair soaked into my bones as I watched Mercer stagger to his feet again, only to get beat down again. The Reaper grabbed his arm and wrenched it behind him, snapping bone from socket.

Mercer barely reacted, not even as he got being kicked at and stomped on. I pushed out of Quinlan’s arms, throwing my hands against the iron, slamming my fist into it over and over again, screaming in sheer frustration. "Get up, Mercer!"

The Reaper hoisted a heavy iron pipe, raising it high above Mercer’s skull for the killing blow. Mercer glanced up and did nothing, eyes falling shut in an eerily absent and serene expression.

It looked like acceptance.

"Mercer!" I yelled.

In that second, Mercer’s eyes open. Slowly, his gaze dragged across the roaring crowd and locked directly onto me as I hit the mesh again, tears blinding my vision.

Mercer blinked hard, his blood-caked brow furrowing as he looked again. The haze in his eyes shifted into doubt and then disbelief, almost like he didn’t really believe I was there.

And I didn’t have enough time to scream in warning as the pipe swung for his neck.

And met thin air.

He was simply gone... not.

He stood behind the huge man who had hit him. The man whipped around, but he was too slow. Mercer had his head in his hands rather intimately, and with an effortless twist, he snapped the mercenary’s neck and dropped him like trash onto the sand.

The crowd went dead silent.

Mercer pushed himself up, stumbling on weak, trembling legs. He began walking slowly toward the perimeter of the cage, staring at me, oblivious to the remaining fighters behind him.

He paused at the edge, and even with the mesh between us, I could smell him, feel my heart hurt for him.

My fingertips dug into iron and my lips wobbled. "What are you doing, Mercer?"

His eyes kept shifting out of focus and I couldn’t tell if it was the beatings, or if he was drunk. "Your hair. It’s brown again," he rasped, voice barely above a whisper.

"Let’s go home," I started to tell him when a fighter leapt onto Mercer’s back and I cried out when he sank sharp canines into Mercer’s neck, trying to shred his throat open.

Mercer let out a roar of annoyance and he reached behind his head, grabbed the fighter by the hair, even as he latched onto Mercer’s neck, taking a bite of his skin with him. And hurled him across the pit.

The man careened into another fighter, both of them going down in a crumpled mess.

Mercer didn’t spare a look back. He halted stopping from where my hands rested against the links. And he lifted his palm to rest against them, his chest heaving with ragged gasps.

He leaned in close, his nose twitching as he took a deep sniff. His green eyes were a tortured wreck.

"I’m hallucinating again... aren’t I?" he whispered, his voice trembling. He sounded lost. And fragile. "You’re not really here." He huffed a bitter laugh, pulling away. "Why would you be here? All I ever do is hurt you."

"I’m here!" I told him, tears streaming down my face. "I don’t want you hurt. Please stop this! Get out of there!"

I was losing him again. His eyes were glazing over distantly. In a desperate attempt to keep him present with me, I tried to reach through the links. It was futile, but our fingers touch briefly.

A violent flinch ran through his body and he took a step back like he’d been struck physically.

His eyes widened. "Maisie?"