Dark Life: Rip Tide (7 page)

To my left, a male voice said, “Hey, Levee, who’d ya bet on? I don’t know which one to go with.”

I was just maneuvering by a surf in a wheelchair when a man behind me replied in a low voice, “I can tell you who not to bet on. Drift.”

I froze, not daring to turn and reveal that I was listening.

“What’s going on?” the other man asked quietly.

“Can’t say here. Too big a crowd.”

“Bad?”

I didn’t hear the other’s reply. Maybe he did it with a nod.

“Know anything about the contender?” the first guy said loudly as if they’d been talking about the match all along. “Twenty-to-one odds makes him mighty tempting.”

“Bet there’s a reason for those odds and it ain’t good. These boxers pad their wins. But this surf’s write-up is a total blank.”

Chum, they weren’t going to say anything more about Drift. Not here anyway. And I’d learned nothing. Sucking in my breath, I turned and found myself facing a man whose sun-bleached dreadlocks were piled on his head like a turban. “I can tell you about the contender,” I said.

His tunic was sleeveless, and tattoos of the sun blazed on his biceps. He crossed his arms so that his hand rested on the hilt of the cleaver he had tucked into his belt. “Why would a fisherman tell me anything?”

“Because you have information I want.”

The surf grew very still as if he knew exactly what I was talking about. “Listening in, were you?” he asked softly. Suddenly he yanked the cleaver from his belt and thrust it toward my face. “Where I come from, nosy people lose their noses.”

Boxed in by the crowd, with the surf’s cleaver hovering an inch from my nose, I had no way to escape. I shot a look at the man beside the furious surf. With his eel-skin pants and boots, I guessed he was a whale-hand from one of the marine dairy townships. His shirt hung open to reveal bloody bandages wrapped around his torso. At least he didn’t look offended, too.

“The challenger is a friend of mine,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, though my heart was pounding in my ears. “And here’s a tip: You’d be a fool not to play those odds.”

The first surf said nothing, clearly still deciding whether to let me live.

But the second man spoke up. “You must be real buddies,” he scoffed with a wave of his arm, “if you’re stuck up here in the nosebleed section with the rest of us scum.”

“I wanted to see how it looked from up here. I can go down anytime I want.”

The guy laughed, clearly amused by me, only to stop short and touch his bandaged stomach with a grimace.

Rivulets of sweat were streaking the zinc on my forehead. The last thing I needed was for these two to see my shine and realize that I was a settler. I willed myself to stay calm. “You’ll see. I’ll head down in a minute and when I get ringside, I’ll take off my hat and give you a wave.”

The first man, still serious as a corpse, said, “Here’s a deal. You tell me about the challenger and I don’t throw you off Rip Tide.”

When I didn’t reply, the second guy spoke up. “Take the deal, fisherman. We’re on the seventh deck. If Levee tosses you off, I’d put your survival at about twenty to one.” He pressed a hand to his bandages as fresh blood soaked through them. Given the amount of blood and the size of the area bandaged, the pain had to be fierce. The fact the guy could carry on a conversation at all shocked me.

“Start with his township,” the one named Levee ordered as he thrust his cleaver back into his belt.

“He’s not a surf.”

Neither of them believed me. “There’s a reason why it’s called the surf boxing circuit,” the second one said.

“Does it say in the rules you have to be a surf?”

“What rules?” Levee scoffed. “But only surfs are tough enough and desperate enough to end up in that ring.”

“He’s both. Tough and desperate.” I lowered my voice so that only they could hear me. “He’s the leader of the Seablite Gang.”

Whatever they’d expected me to come out with, that wasn’t it. I’d actually taken them aback. So I drove my point home. “He’s got a Dark Gift. Those tattoos on his back and arms? They’re not tattoos. He can change the color of his skin. All in the blink of an eye. He can blend into the background so well the other guy won’t even see him.” I didn’t feel too bad about revealing this since Shade was the one who had told me to flaunt my Dark Gift. No way he kept a lid on his. I had no doubt he was going to use it to win today.

“That’s a heck of a story,” the second guy said, impressed though disbelieving.

“I don’t think he’s lying, Krait,” Levee said while eyeing me.

“I’m not. You’ll know it soon enough. And if you didn’t put money on those odds, you’re going to choke on your regret.”

He nodded. “Okay, fisherboy. I’m a gambling man. I’m going to take the chance that you’re telling the truth.”

“That information has got to be worth something,” I said, stepping into Levee’s path. With my family rapidly coming apart, what did I have to lose? “Please tell me about Drift,” I said in a low voice. “I have a personal reason for asking. I won’t repeat what you say.”

Fear skittered over his face, shocking me. He seemed like a different man from the one who’d threatened me just a minute ago.

As Krait unwrapped his bandage partway, he said casually, “How ’bout this: If the challenger wins, Levee will talk to you.” He looked at his friend. “What do you say?”

Levee straightened, regaining his bravado, and nodded. “If I make money on this match, lots of money, I’ll tell you what I heard an hour ago.”

“You
will
make money,” I said firmly. “Where will I find you?”

Krait smiled bitterly. “Right here. The only deck we’re allowed on.” The loose bandage fell away from his torso and I saw the stitched wounds. Unconcerned, he began to rewrap it.

“What happened?” The words were out before I could stop myself.

He glanced up, looking mildly surprised. Then seemed to remember that he wasn’t talking to another surf. “Accident,” he said curtly.

I nodded, not willing to push my luck by asking more.

Heck of an accident. From what I could tell, his mid-section had “accidentally” met up with some wickedly sharp teeth, set in a huge, powerful jaw. That much, I knew for sure.

I also knew that no shark took that bite. Though what did, I couldn’t guess.

As I headed down to join Gemma and the outlaws, I noticed that thuggish-looking men had taken up positions
on every level by the stairwell. To keep the peace or to keep surfs from wandering?

When I reached the stairwell for the second deck, the man on duty blocked my way. “Invite only for ringside,” he snapped. “And I know no fishermen were invited.”

Luckily, Eel came by just then, with a stuffed sack thrown over his shoulder. “Blue boy is with me,” he said. Seeming to recognize Eel, the man stepped aside and we hustled down the stairs.

Eel smirked. “Worried about your pretty skin?”

I ignored the jibe. “What’s in the bag?”

“It’s a tablecloth,” he corrected. “Would have been a crime to let that feast go to waste.”

When we reached the second deck, I glanced down to see water lapping at the bottom of the last set of stairs. The tide was coming in.

This level was less crowded and easier to navigate. We headed toward the core in the middle of the town, where Gemma stood by the railing. Other members of the Seablite Gang milled around her—not as dangerous looking as I’d remembered, but then I’d only seen them briefly when they’d come for Shade at the Trade Station. I spotted Shade tipped back on a stool, eyes closed as he rubbed a block of chalk between his hands.

At the railing, I took off my hat to wave up at Levee and Krait on the sundeck and saw them wave back.

Behind me, Eel spread out the tablecloth with its
jumble of food. When he straightened, he looked over at Gemma and me and snickered. “Aren’t you two sweet enough to spread on toast?”

“What?” I demanded.

Gemma turned, curious. Then, upon giving me a once-over, she said, “We match!” and broke into a smile. “Did you do it on purpose?”

In the time it took me to realize that she was talking about my zinc slather and her sari—which I had to admit were close in color—Eel answered her question. “’Course he did, sweeting. Who wouldn’t want to be matched with you?”

She beamed at me, which meant I couldn’t admit that it hadn’t even crossed my mind. Not consciously anyway. “Sure …” I mumbled, then noticed the outlaws’ varying expressions of amusement and disgust. At least the attendant had slathered the zinc-paste on thick. Even if the blue had me coming off like a sentimental moron, the density hid my shine, which right now felt as hot and bright as the setting sun.

“That’s Ty,” Eel told the outlaws, and then he gestured toward the one I could have picked out in a lineup—the big guy with sharpened teeth. Not that he was smiling now to show them off.

“Hatchet,” Eel said, introducing us.

Hatchet’s faint shine made his tan skin glow like ambergris—though I doubted he smelled as sweet. As he
looked me over, his black eyes narrowed in recognition. I’d been the reason he’d gotten his arm caught in a closing hatch a few months back. Judging from the way his fingers curled into a fist, he’d made a full recovery.

Pointing at the two outlaws by the railing, Eel said, “Trilo, short for trilobite, and Kale.”

If he’d said their names in order, Trilo was the wiry one who was so focused on the water in the drill well, he didn’t seem to have heard Eel. Out of all of them, he was probably closest to my age. The others had at least two years on me. The tall guy beside Trilo, Kale, didn’t come off as much like an outlaw as the rest. Aside from the scar on his cheek, Kale could’ve passed for a Topside apprentice with his combed brown hair, steady gaze, and knee-length buttoned vest. He was even civilized enough to lift his bottle of bladder wrack ale in greeting.

Next to me, Gemma inhaled sharply. “What’s in the pool?”

Only then did I notice that the water’s surface was churning with activity.

Trilo pivoted to look at us with eyes like radioactive algae. An eerie color on anyone, but against his dark skin with its faint shine, the acid green seemed to glow. “Eels,” he said, fingering the many charms that hung from his neck.

So that’s what he’d been staring at … with concern, no less.

Gemma made a face. “No wonder no one wants to fall in.”

Eel and Kale exchanged a look, which nudged my suspicion up another notch. “What kind of eels?” I asked.

“Lamprey,” Kale replied, studiously casual.

My gaze whipped to Shade. He must have known what he was getting into. But what sane person would agree to even boarding a raft that floated on a pool of lampreys? Forget boxing on one.

“Is there a net around Rip Tide?” I asked. “Is that how they keep them in?”

Eel nodded. “Wrapped around the town’s legs.”

Gemma looked from him to me, trying to gauge our expressions. “Are lamprey eels the electric kind?”

“No,” I said simply. No sense in freaking her out any more than she already was.

“Not even a spark,” Eel added, clearly with the same intent.

Hatchet grinned, revealing his transparent, jagged teeth. “They’re the suck-you-dry kind.”

I could have slugged him—even if he
was
a head taller than me.

“Meaning what?” Gemma demanded.

Eel shrugged like it was no big deal. “They latch on to a person. Kinda like a leech.”

“If leeches came four feet long with teeth all the way down their throats,” Hatchet chortled.

Seeing Gemma’s horrified expression confirmed it. Hatchet was officially my least favorite gang member.

Shade tossed the block of chalk to Pretty and stood. He seemed unfazed by the entire event. With that kind of confidence, the prize was as good as his, I told myself. There might be a few men out there bigger than him—though I hadn’t met them—but I couldn’t imagine anyone tougher.

I forced myself to approach him. “Thank you for getting Fife to talk to me.”

“You gave her a home,” he said with a nod toward Gemma.

I caught her eye. Clearly she hadn’t told Shade that she’d been living at the Trade Station for the past month. With a quick shake of her head, she let me know that I wasn’t to mention it now.

“Is that a pill bug?” she demanded, pointing at the broiled critter Eel was attempting to crack open.

I knew she was just trying to change the subject. Still, I couldn’t help but smile at Eel’s efforts. Holding the giant isopod by a hind leg, he banged it on the railing until its head popped off.

“You’re not going to eat that!” Gemma gasped.

After dunking the creature into a cup of salted oil, Eel offered her one of its insectlike legs. “Want a taste?”

She crinkled her nose in revulsion, so he put the end of the leg into his own mouth and slurped loudly.

She whirled on Shade. “Haven’t you taught them any manners?”

When he laughed, I was surprised at the warmth in it. And there was nothing sardonic in his response. “You’re welcome to try.”

Cheers broke out and echoed off the town’s steel decks. We all turned to look at the far side of the platform, where the champion now stood at the edge of the pool. Dark haired and mustached, the surf threw off his towel. His muscles gleamed with oil.

Several young men on an upper deck began chanting, “Speech! Speech!” The boxer raised his fists to them and snarled with rage.

“What’s that about?” I asked the outlaws.

“Gabion is mute,” Kale explained.

“And they’re teasing him about it?” Gemma asked, indignant. “That’s just mean.”

Kale hid his smile by swigging his ale, but Hatchet openly guffawed. “That’s just mean,” he mimicked, and cracked up all over again.

“Well, it is,” she snapped. “In fact, I can’t think of anything worse than making fun of someone’s handicap. Maybe he acts tough”—she jabbed a finger at Gabion— “but I’m sure it hurts his feelings.”

The others lost it then, including Shade, whose rumbling
laugh was as loud as it was deep. Only Pretty remained impassive, except for rolling his eyes when Eel started to choke because he’d cracked up while chewing.

I suppressed my own smile. “Making fun of Gabion,” I told her in a low voice, “is probably the nicest thing that’s going to happen in that ring.”

As Shade went to take his place, he paused by Gemma long enough to say, “I promise not to hurt his feelings. Can’t say the same for the rest of him.” He gave her braid an affectionate tug and stepped up to the gap in the railing. The cheers diminished noticeably.

Just as I started to feel bad for him, the crowd reacted with shouts of excitement and a wild burst of applause. Shade’s tattoos were sliding across his skin in a wanton display of his Dark Gift. The audience ate it up. No wonder Fife liked to show off the “local color.”

On the other side of the drill well, Gabion scowled at Shade’s newfound popularity.

Eel joined Gemma and me at the rail. “Now all Shade has to do is dump that ugly lug in the water.”

“All of him,” Kale clarified. “If Gabion has even one finger on the raft, the match isn’t over.”

“Well, that sounds easy enough,” Gemma said hopefully.

Eel raised a brow. “Sure, easy. Except that anything goes. Biting, spiking, head butting …”

“Gouging,” Trilo put in.

“Strangling,” Hatchet added.

“Stop that,” Gemma commanded.

I thought she didn’t want to hear any more gruesome techniques, but then she added, “Use a napkin,” and I realized that she was talking to Eel, who was wiping his greasy hands down the front of his shirt.

Grinning at her, he pulled the bandana from his head and daintily dabbed at his mouth.