Devil's Plaything (Playthings, #1) (3 page)

At her wince, he said, “You are unharmed?”

Her eyes widened for a moment, maybe at the anger that had knocked his deep voice two octaves deeper.

“Yes, thank you. I might bruise, but I’ll be fine.” She stuck out the hand that she'd retracted upon standing. “I’m Julie, by the way. Julie Manchin. I appreciate your help, Mr....”

“Let me escort you home, Julie.”

“Um, well...” She hesitated, seeming to consider whether to agree, her hesitance more than warranted by the night’s events. He intended her no harm, but no way was he letting her walk alone.

“Okay. It’s just up this way.”

They started off, and Julie, clearly feeling the effects of leftover adrenaline, talked.

“I suppose I should call the police.”

D’yavol balked at the thought. That couldn’t happen.

“But then again, it’ll take them forever to get here, and they probably won’t be able to do anything anyway. Yeah, I won’t waste the time.”

“Why were you walking alone?”

“That was stupid of me, wasn’t it?” She looked over at him. “Don’t answer that. You don’t have to. I was working a double and just wanted to get home, but the buses had stopped running, and I didn’t want to spend the money on a cab. Oh, well. From now on, I’ll just have to stay at the hospital until the buses start.”

“Are you a doctor, nurse?”

Julie looked at him like he had two heads and laughed. “Not in this life. I’m a custodian. And this is me. Thank you again. I don’t know what would have happened...” She shivered, the full force of the horrors she’d avoided clearly hitting her. It engaged D’yavol all over again.

“Take care of yourself, Julie Manchin,” he said and walked away.

He went to track down the Steel Hearts and formally introduced himself.

One of them ended up in the ICU.

••••

T
he buzz of his cell phone pulled him from his memories. He looked down at it, noting that, as expected, it was Demon, but didn’t answer. Instead he broke into a light jog to speed his arrival at his vehicle. D’yavol hated the things, but recognized their necessity. Still, he wasn’t ready to let go of thoughts of Julie quite yet. Even the less pleasant memories of Julie were preferable to the reality that he was without her. Over the year since that first meeting, she’d calmed him, soothed his soul. That need that had always crackled right beneath the surface, waiting, praying for a moment to come out, had been kept at bay. His work remained inordinately pleasurable, and he still craved the feeling, fist against flesh and bone, the dull
thwack
of a punch. But lately, he’d allowed himself to imagine a life beyond this. It was stupid; he was D’yavol, the devil. Nothing more. But still...

He pushed those thoughts aside as he reached his car, drove toward his destination the late, or early, depending on one’s perspective, hour leaving the streets mostly deserted, and parked in front of the nondescript warehouse on the industrial side of town that served as home base. A friend of Demon’s, some rich guy he knew from the old days, ran a string of companies, one of which was this metal-recycling facility that he allowed Demon to use. Some of the other guys preferred working out of the offices, or a fancy gym, but D’yavol preferred it here. Anyone who saw him knew what he was, and he didn’t want to waste time with the pretense and trappings of professionalism. Combat boots, cargo pants, a T-shirt, and his standard icy scowl were his uniform.

Demon met him at the door.

“I was on my way,” he said before Demon could even ask why he hadn’t answered his phone.

“Good. You look relaxed. Did you get enough rest?”

None, but he wouldn’t tell Demon that. The man got too worked up as fights approached, and he might have had a stroke if D’yavol confessed that he’d spent most of the night in a beautiful woman’s bed instead of focusing and training as he usually did. It was a testament to Demon, their friendship, that D’yavol even cared. Though D’yavol didn’t share the other man’s dreams, Demon had proven a loyal and worthy ally and was one of the few people D’yavol would ever consider trusting.

D’yavol laughed as he took his first good look at Demon’s attire. Today Demon was decked out in a suit and loafers, his hair slicked back. Undoubtedly, the intent was businessman or accountant, but Demon had missed the mark and was dangerously close to used-car kingpin. He was far from an accountant or a used-car salesman, but unlike D’yavol, he had aspirations beyond the ugly world they’d grown up in. He wouldn’t forget—neither of them could—but Demon, as he liked to say, had plans. What those plans entailed, he’d never really specified, but D’yavol wouldn’t deny his friend his dreams. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t give him shit.

“You’re going to sell cars today, yeah?”

“Fuck you, man,” Demon responded playfully. “Have you ever heard the term ‘dress for success’? I’m going places, and to get the part, I have to live the part.”

“What places?” he asked as he walked across the recycling floor, quiet at this hour but a hive of activity when the trucks started rolling in.

Demon followed close behind. “You know. Places.”

Despite himself, D’yavol laughed again. “Get a better suit.”

“Thanks for the advice, Tom Ford,” Demon mumbled as they walked across the plant to the sub-building located on the back of the property.

When the recycling plant was idle, D’yavol had free rein over the place and it was his playground. He unlocked the door and pulled it open, happy to be back in the sanctuary he’d found here. After spending time with Julie, he needed the reminder of who and what he was, and, outside of a particularly brutal fight, nothing brought that message home better than this sparring arena.

Sparsely furnished, the place had two main features: a nicked, polished-concrete floor and huge, high ceilings. D’yavol didn’t really know what it had been used for before, but it was a perfect place to train. The slick, hard floor forced him to stay mindful of his footwork or face a painful encounter with concrete. High ceilings captured sound and helped recreate the thunderous, ringing noise the spectators would produce even at the smaller sites.

He was surprised to see four other guys, Tony, Mark, Daniel, and Joey, already running through drills. D’yavol didn’t pay attention to fights he wasn’t in, but Demon, with his eye for talent and insatiable need for advancement, had seen these guys and thought they had potential, and after much pestering, D’yavol had relented and allowed them to train at the facility with him. He was
not
a coach, had no interest in being one, but he corrected their forms, gave them tips, and they’d fallen into reproducing his training routine. It hadn’t hurt that after a month of ribbing and insinuating that they could take the “old man,” as they called him, he’d challenged them to a four-on-one spar and beaten the crap out of all of them without breaking a sweat. Now their grudging respect boarded on idolization, but D’yavol did his best to shut that down.

He should be nobody’s idol.

“Tony, that jab is leaving you open. You always have to protect the flank,” he said as he walked across the floor. He had no formal training, but he was literally a graduate of the school of hard knocks, and there was nothing he hadn’t seen.

“What’d you find?” Demon asked as he plopped down in the chair behind the desk after they entered the room that Demon called his office but which was actually more of a makeshift locker room.

“Nothing specifically,” he said carefully. He was usually honest with Demon. Their years of friendship and Demon’s unwavering support deserved that much, but he hadn’t any shared details about Julie, only the vaguest description of their first meeting, and he intended to keep it that way though he wasn’t quite sure why. Even so, as far as Demon knew, D’yavol’s disdain for the Steel Hearts was strictly professional.

“No run-ins? Nothing?” Demon asked as he settled his large frame into the office chair, seemingly distractedly as he fiddled with his hideous tie, though D’yavol knew him too well to believe that for a moment. His friend didn’t miss anything.

“No. It’s quiet. Too quiet, if you ask me.”

D’yavol had lived in the city his whole life and been involved in its fighting circuit for longer than he cared to remember, and he knew well the rhythms of both. If people weren’t where they were supposed to be and matches didn’t happen when and where they were supposed to, it made him antsy. Over the last year, the Steel Hearts had been an increasing nuisance, with rowdy parties and in-fighting ratcheting up to petty and more serious crime. He figured that could account for the quieter streets, as sane people, those unlike him, tried to avoid trouble. But that was just a guess and something with which he was mostly unconcerned. The change in the fights, though, that was definitely a concern.

“You heard anything?” he asked Demon.

“Rumblings here and there. The Steel Hearts are looking to get in on the matches in a bigger way, but I don’t know if they have cash or a stake or a sponsor.”

D’yavol scoffed. He’d heard that a couple of guys claiming to be Steel Hearts had shown up at a couple of fights, were even allowed to participate at some of the grimier venues. It wasn’t a surprise really; these smaller, “unsanctioned” fights weren’t uncommon, especially for guys looking to make a quick buck, but staking in on bigger matches was an entirely different ball game. The circuit was an open secret around town, but it was still highly illegal, and the big-money participants, fighters, promoters, and patrons alike, valued discretion above all. Messes of the type groups like the Steel Hearts no doubt created wherever they went were avoided at all costs.

“Who’d vouch for those guys? They’re scum.”

“Hey, I thought we were the worst guys in history?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Demon.” The words were icy.

“I’m just saying,” he said, hands raised, “you seem to think you’re a monster, and I think you think I’m a sleazeball, so what’s got you so wired about these guys? They seem run of the mill, if a little rough around the edges.”

“You are a sleazeball, asshole, and I told you I saw them harassing some innocent lady.”

Demon shrugged. “It happens. We don’t do that kind of stuff, but we’d be out of business if we cut off everyone who did, so we don’t exactly have a moral high ground. What’s gotten into you, man?”

D’yavol was so angry he couldn’t speak. Demon’s words were right. They had no—
he
had no—moral high ground, the opposite, in fact. Helping Julie one time didn’t even begin to erase his sins.

“Nothing. Let’s drop it. Tell me about tomorrow’s fight before I go warm up.”

••••

A
s he entered the makeshift ring, a tight circle marked off by stacks of wooden pallets around which spectators crowded, the sounds of the screaming crowd, his opponent’s taunts, everything faded to a dim hum. He stared at the man across from him and felt that sharp tingle, the one he’d grown to love, the one that said he was close, oh so close, to being able to let go. That anticipation drowned out every other thought and feeling, and his heart began to race with it. Demon, who knew well enough not to try and talk to him, not now, simply patted him on the back and pushed in his mouth guard. Initially, he’d eschewed the mouth guard, all of the fancy accessories, actually, but during one bout several years ago, he’d been so deep in the bloodlust, his jaw clenched so tight as he did his work, that he’d cracked two teeth without even noticing. He hadn’t cared, but Demon, in mother-hen mode, had clucked until he’d agreed to wear one.

Mouth guard, tape, and shorts. That was all he wore. Everyone assumed he wore the tape for some competitive advantage, but in truth, he hated to see blood on his knuckles, hated washing it off. It was too strong a reminder, and he never, ever, wanted to go to that place again.

Standing stock-still, he looked as his opponent, bulky, overly muscled, and slow-moving from what D’yavol could see—this match would practically be a walk in the park—jumped around and screamed, directed lewd hip thrusts in D’yavol’s direction. These antics didn’t move him. Opponents were not to be taken personally; they were solely slabs of meat there to aid him as he exorcised his need to mete out punishment. But then the man turned, and D’yavol spied the emblem on his jacket. A Steel Heart, or at least a wannabe, based on the insignia. That changed things. D’yavol felt his lips curl, and his opponent, who had turned back to face him, faltered momentarily at the sight. D’yavol saw the fear rise in the other man’s eyes. Smart of him.

He should be afraid.

Cappy, one of the usual “refs” who’d been around as long as anyone remembered, gestured that they approach the middle of the circle, and when they had, grabbed each man by the wrist.

“You know the rules, gentlemen!” he screamed above the roaring crowd. “No kicking, no spitting, we go until one of you is unconscious! Now let’s have a good, clean fight!” he said as he let them go and stepped back.

Clean. What a joke. Rumor was Cappy had been in legit boxing a lifetime ago and had washed out, probably because of his gambling, but, even though the refs were mostly around to make sure that there was no flagrant cheating, that no one died unnecessarily, and were otherwise ornamentation, Cappy still held onto some of his old ways and beliefs about honor and technique and the “nobility” of it all. D’yavol knew better. There was no clean or good in these fights. It was punish or be punished.

Something his opponent seemed all too aware of as he grabbed and held D’yavol’s right hand while punching ferociously with his left, raining blow after blow on D’yavol’s abdomen. The blows were weak, irritating, and more importantly, left the man exposed. D’yavol stood still for a second longer, and then, without the slightest mercy, unleashed an unimpeded blow to the man’s flank.

The effect was immediate. The guy, D’yavol hadn’t cared enough to listen to his name, wobbled and his knees buckled. He let out a scream and grabbed his side, doubled over from the pain.

“Argh, fuck,” he said between gasping breaths, “I need help.”

None would be forthcoming.

D’yavol circled the man once, twice, eyes never leaving him, waiting for some hint that he could continue. Blood was flowing now, and D’yavol wasn’t ready for this to be over. The man writhed, and the crowd screamed for him to get up, but after the third circle, D’yavol knew he was through. No need to waste time; he wouldn’t get satisfaction from this pretender.