The crowded boxing ring smelled like a gym and a bar, smoke over sweat. Mike had his glamour belt on, so he looked like a middle-aged Italian man with short black hair and a broad, hairy chest encased in a too-tight shirt.
The ring was well-used but the ropes were new. Mike got close to the ring. The wards were simple, made to stop magic, but Mike could easily get past them. As he touched the ring, a man in a black t-shirt came over to him. “What’s your bet?”
“Robillard and the Blue Hammer.+”
“Fifty on Robillard,” he said, taking out a wad of cash. He peeled off a fifty and handed it to the man, who gave him a torn half of a three of diamonds’ playing card. The back had the word “Sab” on it. The deck must have come from the Sabbat Club in northwestern Millennium City. The agent moved on.
Mike put a hand on the pole of the boxing ring in front of him. With his finger and his will, he drew a purple-tinged rune at the base of the pole. To his magic sight the pole shimmered purple momentarily, then faded. He controlled that corner. He hoped that one of the men would go to that corner at some point in the fight, so he could pull essence from that man. All the man had to do was touch the pole at the same time he activated the spell.
Next, he put his hand in his pocket. He felt the one-inch strip of material inside it, and he gripped it. When Teddy traded in his uniform for Scott’s new one, Mike cut off a piece of the uniform. Although magic didn’t use DNA, it did often use coincidence. The spell called for the essence that was closest to the essence on the uniform.
And there he was, Teddy DeWitt’s father, hi lighted in blue, next to the bar. He was laughing at something someone next to him said. Mike headed in that direction, threading his way through the crowd. At the bar, he ordered a beer and got it in a red plastic cup. He got close enough to see DeWitt clearly and to speak to him if he could.
Next to Mike was a man in a polo shirt and khakis, with bottle-bottom glasses, staring intently at his phone. Mike looked at him, deepened his voice and said, “Whachu doin’?”
“odds,” said the man.
“Who’s gonna win?”
“Hammer. Robillard is eight to one.”
“Fuck you,” said DeWitt, who overheard the conversation. “Robi’s got this.”
“He lost his last two,” said the man with the glasses.
“He’s pissed off,” said DeWitt, “He’s gonna win this one.”
Mike knew he had just lost $50, but it was to a good cause. DeWitt was grinning and laughing, and Mike could barely refrain himself from punching the asshole in the face. Instead, he clenched his fist at his side and forced a grin back.
A bell rang, and everyone vacated the bar, heading toward the ring. Fold was in this mess somewhere, Mike knew, probably in the front row with a prostitute. The man with the glasses said, “Nine to one,” before leaving the bar.
Mike joined the throng around the ring. He couldn’t see very well, and didn’t dare levitate. But he could see the corner that he had bespelled, and that was the important part.
Catcalls and whistles came from the crowd as he saw a black woman in a black bra and thong walk around the ring, grabbing the attention of almost every man in the room. In the light, she looked like she wore nothing but silver high heels. The announcer, a squat man that probably stood as high as the woman’s breasts, came out with a cordless microphone to announce the two men.
One man in blue trunks stepped into the ring. He was let in the corner opposite Mike’s enchanted one. Mike thought a silent prayer to the Fates for setting this up for him. A man in yellow trunks, stepped into the ring when he was announced. The man in blue trunks, Mike noted, had no left hand, but a solid ball of flesh and bone. The man in the yellow trunks was barefoot. Neither man had boxing gloves.
He only hoped that no one could see his enchantment, a dull purple other than the yellow wards that surrounded the ring. Robillard sat against the pole while he got ready. Mike held the spell at the ready.
The bell rang and both men launched from their corners. Robillard opened with a roundhouse kick to Hammer’s head. Hammer easily blocked it with his right, and punched forward with his malformed left arm. Robillard danced out of the way.
Mike didn’t watch the fight, though his eyes were on the pole. Nobody was messing with his wards; it seemed that no one noticed. At the end of each round, Robillard sat against the pole. Mike waited until round three. The instant the bell rang, he let loose with the essence stealing spell. Robillard felt something, because he stumbled and looked back at the pole. Unfortunately, that distraction was all the Hammer needed, and he pummeled Robillard with the ball at the end of his arm. Robillard went dropped to his knees.
The crowd roared as Hammer kept hitting him, pounding him with his deformed fist, until a bouncer finally pulled him off. Hammer held up his bloody left hand, and the crowd both booed and cheered. Mike could see DeWitt, stomping his foot and throwing something onto the floor, probably his half of the card, showing his bet.
Mike got away from the crowd as they gathered around the betting agents. He went to the rear, up a ramp and up to two body guards. “I gotta see th’ owner.”
“Who the fuck’er you?”
“I’m here t’ buy a marker.”
“Hold on.” The bodyguard left, and after a few minutes, came back, beckoning Mike. Mike followed him up another ramp and into an office.
Here were rich men with women beside him. One of these men was probably Fold in disguise. None of them looked his way, and he ignored them as well. The bodyguard led him up to a huge man with a pony tail. Mike had to look up at him. “You th’ owner?”
“Who th’ fuck are you?”
“I been through this already. I’m here t’ buy DeWitt’s marker.”
“DeWitt, huh? It’s 45 grand.”
Mike pulled out the wad of cash. “It was 42 last i heard.”
“He lost tonight.”
Jesus Christ, Mike thought, and peeled off forty-five thousand dollar bills. He saw the man’s eyes widen as he did.
“Okay,” said the man, and turned from him. Mike waited. The man turned back. “Whaddaya want, a receipt?
Nike shrugged, though that was what he was looking for. “Kick DeWitt out.”
“Pleasure,” said the man, and whistled to his bodyguard. “Escort Mr. DeWitt out.”
Mike followed the bodyguard downstairs. While the bodyguard went to the bar to grab DeWitt, Mike headed for the door. He could see the bodyguard grab DeWitt and pull him away from the bar, shoving him toward the door. Mike ducked out first and waited in the alleyway. He summoned a cigarette and lit it with a snap of his fingers. Mike was leaning against the alley wall when DeWit was shoved out the door, hard enough to stumble but not fall.
DeWitt pounded on the door and yelled, but no one let him in. When DeWitt turned from the door, he looked at Mike. “What?” he said incredulously.
“I own you.”
“What?” This time it was tinged with confusion.
“I just bought you. I own you, and I plan on collecting.”
“Fuck you, you shitassed guido.”
Mike stood up straight, walked casually to DeWitt. Then, lightning fast, he reached out and grabbed DeWitt by the front of his shirt. “Forty five thousand dollars is what you’re fucking worth.” The cigarette’s heat was on DeWitt’s cheek. All Mike had to do was lean forward a little, and he could burn him.
“What – what do you want?”
Mike let him go. “I hear you got a kid.”
“Yeah, I got a kid.”
“I want the kid.”
DeWitt was silent. He tried to look tough but he wasn’t doing a good job of it. “Or what?”
“Or I collect by taking each one of your organs out of your body one by one until the debt is paid. You know how much kidneys go for these days?”
DeWitt blanched, even in the white light of the alleyway. Mike grinned. “Kick the kid out by tomorrow night and send him here.”
“What – what do you want him for?”
“What do you fucking care?” Mike walked up to him, and patted DeWitt’s chest. “The kid or your heart. Your choice.”
