Page 44 of A Vocation of Violence
I threw my elbow into his flesh and pressed forward, ignoring the taunt and the grasping fingers. My boots stuck slightly to the sawdust-strewn floor, each step a testament to the violence this place had seen. My heart thrummed an erratic beat, mirroringthe palpable excitement that reverberated off the stone walls and surged through the throng of spectators.
There, amidst the sea of revelers—gamblers, miscreants, lords in disguise—stood the ring, a square of rope and wood that was both a stage and a gallows. It was there that Darcy “the Dublin Destroyer” O’Dowd, childhood friend and confidant, would fight not just for coin, but for his honor amidst the whispers and lies.
The fact that he was still under suspicion for Vivienne’s murder was in no way a deterrent to the evening’s spectators. In fact, I thought her death had drawn more interest in the match. Now, Darcy was an upstart who may have used his violent Irish ways on one of London’s most beloved society scandals.
They knew nothing of the truth, and in that moment, it was difficult not to hate them for it.
A hush fell over the crowd as the two fighters stepped into the ring. I could scarcely draw breath, sickened by my own voyeuristic thrill even as my eyes devoured Darcy’s powerful form.
He climbed into the ring, the muscles of his back coiling beneath his skin, every sinew taut with the readiness of a predator. He caught my gaze for a fleeting moment, his eyes alight with a fire that spoke of more than just determination—perhaps desperation. His opponent, Lewis, loomed opposite, his own frame hewn from relentless toil and strife, his glare unwavering as he faced Darcy across the creaking planks.
The bell’s toll, a harbinger of violence, reverberated against the dank walls, mingling with the scent of blood and anticipation. I pressed closer to the ring, my heart thrumming in tandem with the collective pulse of the crowd—a cacophony of cheers and jeers that swelled like a living entity, hungry for the spectacle of brutality. It was a sea of faces awash with excitement and bloodlust, eyes wide, teeth bared in savage delight.
“Come on, punch the Irish git!” a brawny man bellowed beside me, spittle flying from his lips as he thrust a clenched fist into the air.
“Knock his bloody head off, Lewis!” another voice roared from behind, the words laced with a fervor that bordered on fanaticism.
As the first punch was thrown, a visceral connection between combatants and spectators ignited. I flinched at the sound, so raw and primordial—the sickening thud of flesh meeting flesh, an echo of the very pulse of this shadowed underworld. Darcy’s fist found its mark on Lewis’s jaw, creating an audible crack that sent a collective shiver through the crowd, a wave of energy that fed back into the ring.
A roar exploded from the crowd as the two fighters collided. Darcy was merciless, unleashing a barrage of punishing blows. The crack of his fists meeting flesh turned my stomach even as I silently urged him on. Blood sprayed, sweat flew, the crowd screamed for more. And there, in the midst of the frenzy, stood Darcy—brutal, dominant, magnificent.
An Irish champion worthy of the name.
“Fight, you milksop! Fight!” a woman screamed with a ferocity that belied her delicate appearance, her bonnet askew as she leapt to her feet, consumed by the frenzy.
I watched, rapt, as Darcy and Lewis circled each other like feral creatures, their bodies slick with sweat that caught the dim light—gladiators in a dance of death. With every jab and hook, every gasp and grunt of exertion, I felt myself drawn tighter into the web of violence woven within these walls. Blood sprayed, a stark crimson against the sawdust, painting a tale of pain and perseverance.
The fight was savage, primal. With each crushing blow, the crowd’s bloodlust grew. They bayed and screamed, demanding more violence.
In the midst of this carnival of carnage, I recognized the stoic silhouette of Jorah, his arms crossed as he leaned against a shadowed column—his eyes not on the fight but surveying the crowd, as if he were searching for prey among the predators. Beside him, George Tunstall watched the ring intently, his brow furrowed with a concentration that belied his vested interest in the outcome—a lover’s heart beat in tandem with his beloved’s fists.
A flash of gold caught my attention, and there, like a gilded statue come to life, stood Clarissa Fairchild. Her elegant poise was a stark contrast to the brutish revelry around her, and yet her eyes gleamed with a cold fascination, a cruel reminder of how closely intertwined high society was with the basest of human desires.
Nearby, Oswald J. Drumft’s thick Prussian accent cut through the din as he placed wagers with reckless abandon, his laughter booming like cannon fire. His hunger for victory was palpable, a reflection of his ruthless nature that made men wealthy and graves full.
And there, amidst the cacophony, stood Detective Grayson Croft. His presence was a silent sentinel, his keen eyes dissecting more than the mere spectacle of the fight. A guardian amidst wolves, his grim determination was a beacon to my own, a shared quest that bound us in purpose, if not in heart.
I gazed at him for a moment, and the rest of the world fell away.
Some of the bleakness dulling his vibrant eyes was my fault. As was the slope of his square shoulder, bowed ever so slightly in grief.
How much did he hate me now, for trying to keep this pain away from him?
How much of his fury did I deserve?
A roar drew my notice back to the ring. Darcy was relentless, stalking his opponent, chasing him around the ring. By now, the London Lion could barely raise his guard, overwhelmed by the Dublin Destroyer’s onslaught.
A server appeared at my side proffering a glass of deep ruby port.
“Oh, no thank you,” I yelled over the din. “I didn’t order a drink.”
“Compliments of the gentleman, miss.” He pointed in the direction of the crowing crowd, his aim hitting one of any dozen strangers.
None of them gentleman by appearance.
“Oh. Well… Thank you.” I accepted it with murmured thanks, relieved to wet my parched throat. As my fingers closed around the glass, they brushed a slip of paper folded discreetly against it. I slid the note from the glass and palmed it swiftly. It carried a weight far heavier than its physical presence, and as I unfurled the crisp fold, a chill slithered down my spine, as though the reaper himself had whispered my name.
The slanting script was instantly familiar, conjuring a wash of dread. The message was brief and chilling:
