Feuds Read online

  Kenny leaped at Cole, and the weight of him threw them both to the ground. Kenny lifted his fist. But Cole reached up and deflected him, grabbing hold of his wrist. Cole shifted his weight and pivoted his hips forward, freeing his legs from beneath Kenny’s bulk. In another second, he had Kenny completely immobilized in a triangle hold—eyes bulging, fat face red, shocked, and gasping.

  The fight was over.

  Then Cole felt Kenny’s teeth sink into his thigh. Pain ripped through him. He saw the blood in Kenny’s teeth. An overwhelming wave of nausea washed over Cole’s body from stomach to throat to mouth. Instinctively, he broke the hold, rolled away. Kenny was fighting dirty now—and the Priors loved it.

  He staggered to his feet, his vision swimming red, his head spinning. He inhaled for the count of three, exhaled for the count of three. No panicking. Let Kenny panic.

  Kenny came at him again. Cole dodged him, ducked, kept moving, dancing on his feet. He waited for the right opening. Let Kenny tire himself out.

  Then he saw it: his chance. Cole struck with his foot, hitting Kenny squarely in the chest. Like he’d expected, Kenny was unprepared for a kick. He stumbled backward, bumping up against the cage. The screaming of the crowd grew to a single note, like an alarm.

  Cole pounced. He pummeled Kenny’s head hard, bringing him to the ground, his knuckles crushing against skull, intense pain radiating from the contact point to his wrist. Cole released all the rage and sorrow he usually ignored, barely even feeling the crushing pain in his knuckles. Wham. He hated fighting for money. Smash. At night, when he dreamed about it, he was afraid. Crack. Parson wouldn’t own him right now if he’d withdrawn from the fights when he should have. Thud. He hit Kenny again and again. Six times, then seven. He couldn’t distinguish Kenny’s eyes from his mouth from his nose. It was all slick with blood. Cole’s heart pounded, and his own blood pulsed in his ears. End it, a voice said. If he’s out, you win.

  Kenny managed to raise two fingers. The signal of defeat.

  The final buzzer rang and cheers erupted from the crowd.

  Cole’s world began to shift back into focus. He glanced back into the crowd for Michelle’s wide-open face, but she was gone.

  A medic had already slipped into the cage to tend to Kenny’s skull. Kenny was half dead, and the realization made Cole lurch backward, grabbing his stomach. His muscles clenched as he bent over his knees, vomiting at the edge of the cage. The audience gasped. Let them, Cole thought. Let them soak up the drama. Killing wasn’t forbidden in the FEUDS, but it was against Cole’s rule book. How would he be able to look his mom in the face after killing a guy? It was all blood money, but there were limits.

  The noise around him increased to a roar, and Cole was glad for a brief second that he was protected by the cage. Supposedly in one of the FEUDS long ago, a winner was trampled to death by revelers before he could even receive his prize. Hands grabbed the cage bars, eager to touch him. Gens hoisted other Gen girls into the air, some wearing only little beaded bikinis and waving signs with his name on them.

  Through the haze, Cole could see the motion of the Priors cheering beyond the risers. They’d be gone soon, back to their luxury homes in Columbus, back to wash off the dirt that clung to them.

  “Great fight, Cole.” Cole stiffened as Parson Abel’s palm connected with his shoulder. “Let me walk you out.” Parson Abel, the CPM, was the only one with a key to the cage—despite the fact that the FEUDS were technically illegal. Then again, when had politicians ever not been corrupt? In addition to running Columbus, Abel’s duties apparently included being the person designated to lock fighters in and—if both were still alive in the end—let them back out.

  “Whatever you want.” Cole avoided Parson’s attempts at eye contact. Parson reeked like the cigars he liked to smoke. His white hair glistened with oil and shone silver like the blade of a knife. Cole wondered where his security contingent was; usually they followed Parson like puppies. Vicious pit bull puppies, teeth bared.

  “Nice fight, nice fight.” Parson Abel kept his trademark smile frozen to his face, chin dimpling as his cheeks stretched wide. He propelled Cole out of the cage and through the crowd. “Now all you have to do is beat out Brutus James next weekend, and you’re clear for finals.”

  “Right. Win against the guy who beat ‘Tommy the Toro’ within inches of his life. That’s it,” Cole mumbled.

  “What was that?”

  Cole shook his head.

  Just before he and Parson Abel reached the old tunnels, Cole felt a light tug on his wrist. Michelle stood behind him, her coal-black hair falling all the way to her naked waist. She was wearing a tiny red cutoff top. Her skin was dark and shimmery, making her look like a metallic statue. Her nails glittered against the skin of his forearm.

  “You looked good out there,” she told him, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her torso into his.

  “Thanks,” he replied, making an effort to extract himself from her embrace. But it only made her push against him more.

  He and Michelle had been friends for years, and although they had never actually hooked up, he knew that Michelle cared—that she probably even wanted to be more than just friends. But he wasn’t exactly in a place to get close to somebody. He couldn’t afford to lose focus over a girl. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her.

  “I wanted to talk to you—” Michelle started.

  “The time, Cole, the time,” broke in Parson Abel.

  “I’ll catch you later,” he told Michelle, peeling her fingers from his wrist. He signaled to Parson Abel that he was ready to go.

  “Don’t know how you say no to that,” Parson Abel said with a low whistle, smirking at Cole. “I hear they’re wild in bed.” Cole ignored the question in his statement, because Parson didn’t mean Michelle in particular—he meant Gen girls. No, Imp girls—the derogatory term used only by Priors.

  Abel led him into one of the dozens of offices that dotted the bottom of the site—shanties for the workmen who’d been running the demolition, now empty, abandoned—and closed the door. The “office” was lined with filth and rot, and it was dark. A rat skittered across the floor when Abel switched on a lamp, one of the dozen or so that had been installed to help the players and spectators navigate the underground.

  The FEUDS—which technically stood for Fights Established Under Demolition Sites—were held in various arenas that had been hastily constructed in the basements of the crumbling buildings that used to comprise the city, before reconstruction and modernization efforts made Columbus one of the wealthiest and most powerful cities in the New Americas. As a result, the fights were dirty. Everyone got dirty and fought dirty; you couldn’t help it. It was a voyeuristic sort of thing: you left with a sheen of dust and a gritty sense of satisfaction.

  “How much?” Cole asked when Parson closed the door. He wanted to take the money and get out of there. He needed to study, and pay the electric bill … and there was probably no food in the house.

  “You beat Kenny to a bloody pulp out there,” Parson remarked, ignoring Cole’s question. “It’s dangerous to lose control, Cole. Remember that.”

  Cole met his eyes, careful to keep his face impassive. Abel was always unpredictable. “I didn’t lose control,” he lied. Then he couldn’t help it; his eyes flicked again to the envelope.

  “It’s yours,” Parson said, extending it toward Cole.

  Cole reached for it a second faster than he should have.

  “Wait,” Parson cautioned, lifting the money just outside of his grasp. “I forgot to take my cut. You know, Cole,” he said, counting out his 50 percent of the cash. “If I hadn’t spotted you, if I hadn’t sponsored you, you’d be going nowhere fast.”

  Cole looked away. Even though it killed him to admit it, Parson was right. It was Parson who pushed Cole for the games in the first place, who paid his entry fees, who kept his meager salary coming. Parson Abel resumed distributing the stack of dollar bills and handed back the envelope
. Cole sifted through his winnings against the dim light of the makeshift office. It would last two weeks, maybe three if he was careful.

  “Thank you,” Cole said stiffly as he stood up.

  “Wait!” There was an unmistakable command in Parson’s tone. “Stop right there.” Cole sat back down, sighing. The simple motion of bending his knees hurt. “I have a business proposal,” Parson said, leaning forward. “Actually, consider it more of a prerequisite. For the final rounds.”

  “What is it?” Cole asked.

  Parson pulled a small photograph from his wallet and extended it toward Cole, his fingers touching only the edges of it, as if it were something precious he didn’t want to spoil. Cole grabbed it carelessly, gripping it between his filthy thumb and forefinger on purpose. Parson Abel offered him a tight smile. Cole had won that round.

  “I need you to get close to her,” Parson Abel said. “I’ll pay you for it. Ten thousand dollars. That’s what you need to get into the finals, as you know. I’m not quite sure how you could come up with that sum of money without my assistance.”

  Cole bent over the photo.

  “Here.” Parson Abel reached out and brightened the lamp, illuminating the photo. Cole squinted at the face in the picture and felt his heart stop. At first he thought it was Michelle, but then he saw that the features were too regular and perfect, the coloring a shade or two lighter. The image lacked all of Michelle’s defiance and rough edges.

  She was flawless. Soft brown hair floated to her shoulders, and bright—almost surreal—green eyes shone out at him. Cole ran his fingers over the photograph for a second time, and he could feel the hair beneath his fingers and the softness of her skin. Was that a mole on her chin? Cole touched it lightly. No. Just a speck of dirt.

  She was perfect.

  A zing of curiosity rushed through his whole body.

  “Lifelike, isn’t it?” Parson Abel commented, seeing Cole’s wonderment.

  Cole had never seen anyone so breathtaking. That morning when he’d woken up, he’d been convinced that Michelle was the most beautiful girl in the world. Now he knew he was wrong.

  But the girl in the picture wasn’t one of his kind.

  “A Prior,” he whispered, more to himself than to Parson. “You want me to get close to a Prior.”

  “Yes,” Parson said simply. “A Prior.”

  “Why me?” Cole looked up.

  “Let’s just say I’ve heard you have a way with the ladies.” Parson Abel jerked his head, indicating the hall down which Michelle had retreated. “It’s no secret that you’re a good-looking guy, Cole. Don’t you hear the way people react to you in the fights? No? Of course not.” Parson Abel smiled thinly. “People are hot for you out there. Men, women, everyone. That’s why I need you for this. It can’t be anyone else.”

  Cole frowned. None of it made sense. “How—?” he started to ask.

  “Leave the details to me,” Parson assured him. “And meanwhile, try to keep that pretty face of yours from getting hammered in the cage. Are we on?”

  Kissing a Prior was illegal. Even getting close to one could get Cole arrested. “Do I have a choice?” he said.

  Parson smiled without humor. “Smart boy,” he told Cole, slapping him on the back.

  3

  DAVIS

  “Welcome, Miss Davis.” The automated voice boomed out after Davis swiped her P-card at the front door of Emilie’s building. She crossed the lobby and stepped into the elevator, her six-inch heels ticking on the floor.

  “Reflection, please,” she commanded the system.

  She stretched her legs as she waited for her image to register. Her calves were sore from the extra two hours of practice she’d put in that morning.

  The elevator’s hexagonal design allowed Davis to check herself out from every angle as it shot to the 102nd floor, where Emilie’s party was being held on the building’s communal observation deck. Her legs were her best feature, muscled and defined from a lifetime of ballet, but now she tugged on the hem of her dress, worried that it showed too much. The glitter on her shoes drew attention to her slim ankles—but should she have worn heels that were a little lower? Fia had helped her select a navy dress that clung to her frame, and her chestnut hair spread over her shoulders in uniform waves. She thought her hair and makeup looked subtle enough; she just hoped she didn’t look like she was trying too hard.

  Davis smiled to herself as she remembered the gravity with which Fia had selected her outfit. Her sister’s eagerness to please was sweet—she so badly wanted to be grown-up. She’d asked Davis at least six times to take her along, even saying she’d bring a book so she wouldn’t bother anyone. Davis had kissed her cheek and promised her, as always, Won’t be long until it’s your turn. She wished she could tell Fia to slow it down a little, enjoy being a kid. There’d been a brief second when, exiting the house, she’d caught a glimpse of Fia leaning up against Terri’s shoulder on the sofa, Terri’s arm draped around her as they laughed at something on TV—and in that second, Davis wanted to swap places with Fia.

  Davis caught her reflection in the mirror—her eyes looked big and sad, and she righted it quickly, taking a breath and squaring her shoulders. She smiled at herself in the mirror, hoping the emotions would follow. She was just a few minutes shy of seeing her best friend in the world and having a night of fun. She needed this—a light, easy night with her friends.

  She turned sideways to catch a glimpse of her back. Fia had chosen well, she thought. She narrowed a critical eye, twisting to see better for signs of areas that needed improvement. Davis had always loved the lean sexiness of backs. They reminded her of old pictures of racehorses she had studied in history. The beautiful creatures had gone extinct fifty years before she was born, afflicted by a mysterious virus that some claimed to be a direct result of the last bad Tornado Decade. She always wished she’d been alive to see one, to sit on one’s back and fly through the city, away, far away from here.

  She straightened her shoulders. The shoulder blades floated, she knew, attached to the back by muscles and nothing else. This was what made the back so flexible but also so vulnerable. It was up to the ballerina to develop the connections that lay underneath. Discipline and strength were what kept everything from being too soft, from falling apart. She opened her purse and took out a small pill case full of her optimizers, shaking them into her hand. Davis swallowed the first pill, a little blue cylinder that was supposed to develop her spatial perception. Then she swallowed the purple one, the one that allowed her to take in more oxygen with every breath. Last was the pink pill, meant to help with brain cell regeneration. She might actually need a little extra regeneration-oomph that night, depending on how much she decided to drink. Just in case, she also took a yellow pill to help her more efficiently metabolize whatever Emilie had persuaded her parents to buy them.

  The counter ticked down from forty-two floors in a hologram above her. Emilie’s building was more than a hundred stories tall, but Davis wouldn’t trade it for her family’s more modest, sixty-story building if someone paid her. Davis’s bedroom window overlooked the river, but from Emilie’s you could see beyond that to the Slants.

  The elevator opened to a blast of cool air from the observation decks. Davis took a quick look around. As usual, Emilie had gone overboard with her party’s theme: Black Magic.

  An Imp waitress wearing a dark corset, feathered skirt, glittery black heels, and a white beaked mask carried a tray of steaming shots, the dark alcohol within the glasses smoky.

  A huge hologram of a pentacle lined one end of the roof, and the balcony was draped with sparkling red lights. Davis stepped around a cluster of velvet wing chairs: they were a nice touch, as were the gilded mirrors and brocade draperies that gave the roof deck the intimate feel it otherwise lacked. Trails of smoke seeped from every surface, obscuring Davis’s view but giving the rooftop an eerie effect, as though it was distinct from the building itself. Besides the absinthe, the servers were toting around t
rays of foie gras and champagne and wearing top hats and black bow ties. Emilie’s parents spared no expense for her legendary bashes. Emilie was notorious for using that money for a fully stocked bar, even though most of the guests were still a few months shy of the drinking age—eighteen in Columbus.

  Davis brought her necklace to her lips, eager to find Vera. The mouthpiece of her phone was hidden in a gold necklace she wore at all times. It bore her initials—D.M.—but it also masked her DirecTalk. All the girls she knew wore jewelry to hide their DirecTalks, but a lot of them switched it up from time to time. Most girls had a dozen gaudy diamond bracelets by the time they turned sixteen.

  But Davis preferred the simple gold chain she’d always had, a copy of one she saw long ago in a picture of her mother. The chain itself was a little flimsy—and Davis knew it was impractical. She ought to have reinforced it with a stronger, hardier one, but every time she thought about it, something held her back. She’d always loved the delicate quality of her mother’s original chain, and the way this one mimicked it.

  “Connect Vera,” she said into the device, clutching it in her palm. There was a minute of ringing, and Vera picked up. Davis held the necklace close to her ear, her voice connecting with Vera’s somewhere in the sound waves between their accessories.

  “Hey girl, you here?” Davis heard. Vera’s DirecTalk never failed to put Davis on edge. DirecTalks were supposed to sound like their owners, but something always rang a little off about them. There was a quality to a human voice that the machines could never capture, in Davis’s opinion.

  “Yup. I’m standing by the bar on … the east side, I think? Where you at?”

  “West corner by the white leather lounges.”

  “We’re about to play spins, hurry up!”

  “Be there in a minute! I’m going to grab a drink first. You want?”

  “No way. I’ve taken like five shots already.”

  Davis could tell Vera was tipsy, but she didn’t mind. She was so excited to see her friend that she found herself smiling broadly with anticipation. Vera was unpredictable and never boring. Some people were like that—they made every situation better, more vibrant. Davis loved traveling in Vera’s orbit. They had so many ridiculous memories together. Like the time Vera had flashed the bartender at one of Davis’s dad’s political functions for a free bottle of Grey Goose, and they’d downed a third of it in the stairwell behind the stage before pouring the rest out since it was disgusting to drink straight. Or the time she’d snuck Davis out at three in the morning to sing at the top of their lungs to “Fire Walk” on the roof of her building in honor of the new year, even though Davis was grounded. Or the time she’d picked up a kitten on the street on the way home from Oscar’s and insisted on taking it back to her place, where she’d promptly forgotten all about it and passed out and woken up the next morning to find that it had shredded half of her wardrobe.