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57. No Victor
🕑 Added 2021-06-11 03:18:37 +0000 UTCDust settled across Saemel’s face. His scowl vanished, replaced by a blank stare. Saemel staggered forward, dragged by his own momentum.
Smiling, Twain sidestepped neatly.
Toes kissing the ribbon, Saemel drew to a halt. He shook his head and blinked. “I… wha…?”
Twain kicked him in the ass.
Saemel’s arms flew out, spinning for balance. He tripped over the ribbon and out of the ring.
“First round! Victor, Twain!”
The crowd went wild. Cheering, screaming, the roar defeaned Twain. His ears drooped instinctively and dimmed the roar somewhat, but not enough. Biting back a wince, he raised a hand to the crowd and backed toward Spar. “Tag out?”
“Oh, you know it,” Spar said, a grin on his face. He gestured Twain faster, faster.
Opposite them, Saemel looked around. “I lost? How? That can’t be right!”
The burly man shook his head. “Tag out or concede.”
Saemel’s face distorted. His hand clenched around the club. “That drow cheated!”
“Anything but magic is fair play. Hell, you’re the one on shaky footing with that summoned weapon of yours,” the man replied.
“We demons always use these!” Saemel protested. He scowled at the man, whole body tensed, ready to attack. The club twitched in his hand.
Arms crossed, the man lifted a single eyebrow, unimpressed.
Saemel spat and backed away. With a dismissive gesture, he banished the weapon. He reached out and grabbed Mare as he passed. Red nails bit into her blue flesh. Eyes narrowed, he snarled, “You’d better win, if you know what’s good for you.”
Mare flinched, head turned away from Saemel. She nodded, once, short and nervous.
Saemel released her. Pink blood stained her shoulder where his nails had been.
Spar’s eyes narrowed. He pushed Twain back and stepped into the ring. “Yeah, I’ve got this.”
Twain nodded. He sat back and checked his vial of fairy’s breath. Two, maybe three shots left? I’ve got to be careful.
Mare swept her hands gracefully before her, hands tucked down. A pair of silver fans materialized. She flicked her wrists and caught them, flourished in front of her face, then snapped the fans shut and twitched them behind her back. Pink blood rushed down her arm. She bowed respectfully to Spar.
Spar bowed back.
“Ready! Fight!”
Mare threw her fans, one, then the other. They arced toward Spar, one high, one low, slashes of silver in the afternoon sun.
Spar snatched the first out of the air and stomped the other to the ground. He dropped the fan he caught and walked toward Mare, slow, deliberate.
Mare backed away slowly. Stumbling, her body tense, ready to bolt.
Steadily, Spar caught up to her. When he reached her, she froze. Big eyes stared up at him. He loomed over her, almost twice her height and easily twice as wide, pure muscle through and through.
Twain held his breath. What’s Spar up to?
Almost too fast for Twain to catch, Spar bent down and scooped Mare up into a giant bear hug. Mare struggled. Spar whispered something in her ear, his lips almost brushing her ear, and she glanced at him, then stilled.
One step at a time, Spar walked for the ribbon.
“Mare! Fight! Fight him, you bitch! Fight!”
Mare looked at Spar. He shook his head, gently.
Damn, and I thought I was cheating, Twain thought, flabbergasted. I guess things really do work different for hot people.
Boos rang out from the crowd. “Boring!” “Fight! Blood!” “C’mon! Listen to your husband, fight!”
Twain glanced at Spar. The unicorn strode forward evenly, not a single catch in his step. At the edge, he gently set Mare down out of bounds beside Twain.
Straightening, he flashed her a smile. “I don’t usually let women ride me, but I’ll make an exception just this time.”
Mare nodded, head ducked, face hidden behind fluffy bangs.
“And hey, do me a solid and dump that asshole, alright?” Spar added, thumbing over his shoulder at Saemel.
Mare glanced away.
He turned and pointed up, at the booth high above. “Hey you, I won. That’s a ring out, right?”
“Ah… er, victory, Spar,” the announcer declared, expression as unsure as they sounded.
“Boo!”
“Boring!”
“We want a fight!”
The burly man stepped forward. Facing the crowd, he shouted, “Hey, listen. Them’s the rules, alright? He won.”
“Rematch! Rematch!” the crowd shouted.
Spar clicked his tongue. He stared up at the crowd, uncowed. “It’ll end the same way.”
Saemel stomped toward Twain. Startled, he backed away. "Hey, fight's over."
Saemel ignored him. He grabbed a handful of Mare’s blouse and drew back his fist. Mare flinched, hands up.
Twain’s eyes went wide. He lunged. "No!"
Crack.
Saemel fell backward, blood streaming from his nose. Mare screamed and reached out for him.
Spar wrapped a careful arm around Mare and turned his other hip to Saemel. He shook off his fist, splattering blood on the floor. Voice deep, he growled, “You touch a woman like that again, and I’ll put you in the ground.”
Saemel glared up at him, gold eyes vicious. He touched a hand to his nose, saw the blood, and lowered it. “You don’t know what you did.”
“I saved a woman, and I’d do it again,” Spar declared.
The voice rang out from on high. “What’s this? Spar struck Saemel after the match finished! Is it…?”
The burly man stepped between Saemel and Spar. “Spar, disqualified.”
“A DQ! Spar is out!”
Twain blinked. “Wait, what about me?”
The burly man shook his head. “I’m sorry, but unless you have another partner—or can find one by your next fight—you’re out as well.”
Saemel blinked up from the ground. He wiped the blood away and stood, sniffing. “We… then, did we win?”
The burly man sighed. “A loss is a loss. If Twain here can’t find a partner, then this match has no victor.”
Saemel bared razor-sharp teeth. He lunged at the burly man, then spun at the last second and marched away. Pointing beside him, he commanded, “Mare!”
Mare pushed away from Spar. She hesitated, looking at Spar, then Saemel.
“Mare!” Saemel pointed again, more fiercely.
“You don’t have to go,” Spar said softly.
Mare stared at him one more second, then shook her head and ran after Saemel.
Spar sighed and watched her go. “What a waste of a good woman.”
