Page 102 of Psycho Beasts

I sighed dejectedly. “Not good. This Mafia training will probably kill me.” I thought about the millions of things I had to complain about, but tried to be positive. “At least I have the numb. Or the song of the hunt. Still can’t believe all half warriors are hearing voices inside their heads.”

“What? No, they aren’t.” Aran said with confusion as she puffed out smoke.

I looked at her. “Demetre said that he also heard the song of the hunt, aka the numb. So he’s hearing voices.”

Aran shook her head. “I remember talking to him about it when I was younger. He said it was bloodlust, a compulsion to kill. He never said it was a voice.”

I took a long hit of the drugs. “Well, fuck.”

Now that I thought about it, he hadn’t said explicitly that he heard a voice; I’d just assumed it was the same.

A sinking sensation weighed me down.

Terror for all the things I still didn’t understand.

“Did you get some type of bodily enchantment done today?” Aran asked, sensing my despondency.

“No, why?” I asked as the drug kicked in and the headache that had started when the don announced I couldn’t form a pack with the men blessedly stopped pounding.

Was she still going on about the flames?

“Your muscles are very large, oh impressive Mafia one.” She grabbed my bicep and squeezed while wiggling her eyebrows. “Very firm. If you know what I mean.”

With a cloud of smoke burning my lungs, I made a mental note to marry Molly.

“And they told me I was crazy. Bastards.”

* * *

“Protect your face!” Molly yelled as she slammed her knuckles into my nose.

Inspirationally, I did not protect my face in time.

“Protect your stomach!” Molly yelled and slammed her knuckles again into my now-very-broken nose.

“What the fuck?” I sputtered in indignation.

Molly just smiled like she was having a grand time and hadn’t been grinding my bones to dust for the last three days.

She’d taken one look at my sparring and announced that since I was physically built so much smaller than my opponents, my best odds of survival were through defensive maneuvers.

Therefore, for the last three days, I was only allowed to dodge Molly’s attacks.

She’d said, “No one is going to announce where they punch. Each morning, you start out decently, but you get tired and become sloppy as shit.”

Molly’s fist flew with exacting precision.

It was a beatdown.

A beatdown I desperately needed because in the fighting ring a few feet over, Clarissa was running her hands over the men.

Touching their arms, giggling, leaning into their personal space.

Every day, she grew more familiar with them.

Every day, the men allowed it to happen and did nothing to dissuade her. They seemed to welcome the attention.

Sometimes, when I’d glance over at their fighting ring, I’d catch the men staring at me.

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