The Monster of Farewell (Blacklighters Book 1)

  THE MONSTER

  OF FAREWELL

  BLACKLIGHTERS: BOOK ONE

  CATHERINE BLACK

  Copyright © 2019 Catherine Black

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations, and the incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and registered trademark owners of all branded names referenced without TM, SM, or ® symbols due to formatting constraints, and is not claiming ownership of or collaboration with said trademark brands. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover Art: Jessica Flynn

  Cover Model: Ceire Leech

  Printed in the United States of America

  "Black's humor and sharp wit are in full display in this outing. Together with the heart-wrenching drama and steamy, uninhibited passion, it makes for a wicked concoction that will have you turning the pages for more!"

  --Matt Winchester, author of Blood Racer

  "Catherine Black effortlessly offsets romantic angst with razor-sharp wit, and creates tense-yet-tender chemistry between her leads. [Tease] is an earnest, honest treat."

  --Chris Roll, author of Leave Them Laughing

  “Black definitely knows how to suck in the reader just to keep them up past their bedtime, and to keep them turning page after page!”

  --Cali Book Reviews

  For Christine

  Wouldn't be here without you, Boo.

  Once upon a time, in the woods of Farewell, there lived a monster...

  Mercury Havenworth

  I was born into violence. Even though I have no place in civilized society, no moral compass to guide me, and depending on who you ask, no soul, there is one thing I do have. Farewell. It's my home, my sanctuary, and my birthright. It's everything to me, and one day soon, I will oversee this feral matriarchy which gave me life.

  Kessler Lawson

  I'm finally home. After eight years of incarceration, I'm a free man. That means I'm also penniless and at odds with a world I no longer recognize, but whatever. It's all gravy, baby.

  Until it isn't.

  As an intricate cog in a machine rigged to fail, I soon find myself at the mercy of the justice system. Wedged between freedom and the man who put me behind bars in the first place, I'm given a choice: Help infiltrate the band of criminals ruling over Farewell, Missouri...or score a one-way ticket back to prison.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Mercury

  The black satin blindfold hangs limp and crumpled in his hand, soaked in the sweat of other women.

  “Do we need this?”

  It's a simple question; requiring a yes or no answer, but it's become so much more than that over the course of my lifetime. Yes—that was the answer in the beginning. Always yes.

  When I was a knobby-kneed, flat-chested sixteen-year-old who couldn't be trusted to keep her eyes closed, the blindfold was necessary. Now, seven years and twelve broken bones later, not so much. For all the other women here, that scrap of fabric is a requirement—a training aid. For me? It's merely an accessory, and a redundant one at that.

  I move my head from side to side, rigidly communicating to my trainer that we do not need the blindfold today. Across the room, someone scoffs. A woman. Another trainee. I don't even bother shooting her a look. Let her sneer. If she wants special treatment, she'll fight to earn it. I sure as hell had to.

  “Okay then.” My trainer—a man we call Ice—tosses the blindfold to the ground, discarding the material as if it means nothing, but that couldn't be further from the truth. It means everything here. “Into position.”

  The hem of my dress shifts and sways, caressing my knees with purple silk as I step onto the mat. Today, like every other, I'm draped in blood-stained armor disguised as feminine decoration. Here in the subdued lighting of the training room, it's impossible to discern stain from pattern. The crimson splotches blend into each pleat, like fallen rose petals deliberately painted onto the fabric. I'm expected to feel weak and exposed in this dress. Vulnerable, even. But I don't. I know these fibers so well, this second skin, and every time I slip my arms through the sleeves and tug the bodice into place, I become invincible.

  Ice cracks his knuckles, claiming a spot on the mat, rolling his head from side to side to loosen up. “Eyes closed, Mercury.” He doesn't have to remind me. The command is all for show and everyone here knows it.

  Positioned in my favorite corner, I take a deep breath through my nose and force my lashes together, crippling one of my most valued senses. My shoulders roll back, confident but firm, energy traveling all the way down to the tips of my fingers, urging me to curl each digit together into a fist. I've stood on this mat so many times I know every dimple, every groove of the rubber. The deep gouges where my nails dug in as I was dragged from corner to corner. A small rip on the very edge where my teeth tore through as I fought tooth and nail—quite literally—to keep from losing.

  Those marks, although old and worn, tell the story of my life. They illustrate the pain I've endured, the strength I've found, and the inadmissible fact that this—everything and everyone around me—will one day bend to my will. I haven't lost in years. Shut away from the world behind painted eyelids and raised fists, I am steady. Robotic and unafraid like always, even though today's fight is different.

  For the first time since I started down this road, my mother stands amid the gathering crowd, watching my every breath, anticipating my failure. Even in my self-imposed darkness, I know her blue eyes are wide and severe, her shoulders tense, and the fight hasn't even begun.

  “I'm gonna miss training with you.” Ice's boots pad quietly across the rubber as he circles. I tip my head to the side, ears honing in on each step, tracking him. “Unless you lose. Then we can spend another seven years training together.” His declaration ends with more breath than necessary, signaling an advance.

  I duck quickly. Wind from his attempted kick flutters my hair.

  “You can't just dance around me, Mercury. Not today. I need more than that. Strike!”

  Not yet.

  The heavy drop of a boot sounds to my left, followed by a grunt. He's advancing again. So soon. Air fans my face and I drop to the ground. He stomps, I roll, tucking my arms close to my chest. Everything is muscle memory at this point.

  “Hit me!”

  Not. Yet.

  A feminine scream erupts from my throat as fire blossoms through my chest when Ice lands a hit, but still, I keep my eyes closed.

  “You're about to lose,” he warns.

  Gritting my teeth, I suck in oxygen, feeling every indentation of his boot tread against my pulsing ribs, just before he strikes again, this time with his fist. It hurts. It always hurts, but I'm as accustomed to pain as I am breathing.

  Two shots. My lips curl. That's all I'm giving him today.

  It's late, just after midnight, and Ice is sweating, worn down from hours of training with the other women. I should let him get a third hit in just to be fair, but I can't risk it tonight, not when I have so much to prove to the woman who gave me life.

  I raise a fist to protect my face, knowing exactly how far away Ice is based on the volume of each controlled exhale, the intensity of the body heat he releases as he moves. The salty tang of perspiration hangs in the air between us, and each breath he releases tells me he smoked a cigarette between matches and had b
urnt brisket for dinner. Together, all of this paints a picture I don't need eyes to see.

  “You gonna screw around some more or are we actually—”

  I charge, heels pounding into the rubber, fists pumping, and I throw my full weight into Ice's torso, gripping his forearms as I knock us both off balance. It's a risk, but a calculated one. His breath rushes out, caressing the tendrils of hair near my ears, and a wide knee comes up between my thighs as we grapple on the floor, our sweat mingling together and making the fight all the more difficult, but that's what I want. He fights to get the upper hand, but I fight harder, using every muscle in my body to slam his back onto the mat.

  Three years ago I tried this maneuver on Ice and woke up in the infirmary. Today, it works, and the second I know the back of his skull is resting on the floor, I twist my shoulders, clasp my hands together, and use the force of both arms to ram an elbow straight into his jaw. There's a subtle crunch when I make contact.

  “Fuck!” Ice's barked expletive echoes through the room, silencing the sound of punches and grunting as everyone around us freezes. A second later, he laughs—deep and slow—the maniacal laugh of someone who doesn't understand humor any more than I do. “Well, I'll be fucked.”

  I crack one eyelid to find Ice situated below me, panting, his gray-eyed stare just as malevolent as ever, but he's smiling, showcasing a mouthful of teeth stained red.

  He's bleeding. I'm not.

  I won.

  Ice uses a strong, calloused hand to tap my bare thigh, just below where my skirt has ridden up, urging me to move from where I'm straddling him. His touch used to thrill me, it used to send shivers of girlish pride across my skin, but now I feel nothing. A drop of blood lands on my skirt when he coughs, adding to my tally board of wins.

  “Not bad,” he nods. That's all I get before he leaves the mat. This fight may have been a monumental step in my training, but to him, it's nothing.

  Blocking out the fire in my ribs, I smooth out the bodice of my dress. All that matters today is the look on my mother's face now that I haven't failed, now that I've proven myself. But when I look up, hoping to meet eyes filled with pride and maternal adoration, all I see is a flash of platinum blonde hair disappearing around the corner.

  “Yo, Mercury!”

  Disappointment taps at my skin like acid rain, but I shake it off before whirling around to find Eric waving me over. The blond trainer is smiling, like always, looking far more excited than he has any right to given the fact that his torso is covered in small knuckle-shaped bruises. To his credit, the guy can hold his own in a fight so he's not horrible to train with, but he's no Ice. Every step he takes sounds like he's tap-dancing across the floor, and every time he so much as shifts his hips or raises a fist, I sense it. But he's convinced he can beat me. One day. If I was the kind of girl who laughed, his arrogance would have me in stitches.

  “One more round before we break?”

  My hand raises between us, pointer finger extended. Eric knows me well enough to know what I'm asking.

  You? Really?

  “Yes, me, you asshole,” he laughs.

  It's a colossal waste of time, but I sigh and get into position on his mat, bending my knees and raising both hands. I'm fluid. Relaxed. Even when he flashes twin dimples that have every woman in the room pressing their thighs together in blatant, undisguised want. With his close-cropped hair and various war wounds, he's not classically handsome, but his smile holds some kind of power over the women here that I've never understood.

  “Close those pretty blue eyes.” There's a threatening confidence to Eric's words, as if he really thinks he has a chance, but I'm not worried. He may be an instructor here, but in the dark, I morph into what this place has made me. A fighter. A machine. A fucking monster.

  “Think you're ready to be a Blacklighter?” Eric doesn't advance right away, and this is something I've come to expect. Ice is always moving, always trying to elude me, but Eric doesn't just fight with his body. He plays dirty, burrowing into the minds of his adversaries, plucking out their fears and exploiting them for his own personal gain. “Hello? Earth to Mercury. I asked you a question.”

  I nod. Yes, I'm ready to be a Blacklighter. It's all I want. All I've ever wanted.

  “Speak! Use your words!” The volume of Eric's voice does nothing for me. I don't even flinch.

  “Yes. I'm ready.”

  “You ever been on the inside when that cage door slams shut? No. You ever stood in front of a crowd, completely beaten down, wondering if it would be easier to abandon your pride and yield? No, you haven't, so if I were you, I'd rethink your answer.”

  That's unnecessary.

  I'll never yield.

  Never.

  “Blacklighters are fearless, Mercury. Are you fearless?”

  Suddenly, everything around me shifts, and he's running, barreling toward me. I lash out quickly, ignoring the sting of worn out muscles in my shoulders, but my fist meets emptiness. Around the perimeter of the room, women and men chant, banging their fists against metal walls, creating a cacophony of sound that sets my head pounding.

  “Head down!”

  “C'mon, man! You've got this!”

  “Kick her ass, Eric!”

  “Hands up, Mercury! Pay attention!”

  I don't need their encouragement. I need their absence. But like the vultures they are, they're waiting to see if someone can finally tear me apart.

  Not today.

  Not ever.

  Wind kisses my jaw as Eric moves and I dodge out of the way before his fist can connect with my cheek.

  “Almost got you there.” His taunt is low, whispered, meant just for me. “Think I can get you on your knees tonight?”

  A finger trails down my neck, making my stomach clench tight, and I lash out, growling as I connect with flesh.

  One, two. Jab, jab.

  Eric coughs, laughing to cover the sound. “Come on, beautiful. You want an excuse to wrap those smooth legs around my waist? I'll give you one, just say the word.”

  Anger simmers in my gut. When he's close enough, I strike, miss, and stumble back. But the second I have my footing, another wind rushes past as he finally lands a decent hit. The pain is dizzying, but it grounds me.

  “You slipped.” Eric's voice is stern, a far cry from what it was mere seconds ago. “Don't ever let anyone get in your head, Mercury. They'll say anything to trip you up, and the second they know you're reacting to their words, you're done.”

  He's not screwing around today. My eyes flutter—a side effect from the pain I'm working through—but before they have a chance to open, half my face is covered with one sweaty palm. An arm comes around, pinning me to a naked chest, and white-hot fury rips through me as I thrash around.

  “It's dark, Mercury. You can't see. You're vulnerable. Backed into a corner. The cage bars are biting into your shoulder blades.” His breath comes in quick pants, just like mine, but his words stick. “What are you gonna do, huh? What will you do when they're about to strike? If you crumble, they'll win, and everyone will know exactly what it sounds like when Mercury Havenworth breaks.”

  “No!” I force the single syllable out through clenched teeth, spitting into his hand.

  “Then do something! You can't fail, Mercury! If—”

  He doesn't get to finish.

  A kick to the knee has Eric toppling, and I go with him, tilting both our bodies at the last second so I land on top, knocking the breath from his lungs. That should take him down a notch. Ample biceps make nice landing pads for my knees and I reach out, roughly exploring his face. Eyes...nose... I brush a thumb over his lower lip...before digging my nail in.

  He struggles, growling and flailing both our bodies against the mat, but I don't stop until I hear the faint pop of flesh ripping and feel a trickle of warmth slide across my skin. Then I let my tired muscles fall slack.

  More senseless cheering erupts.

  When I finally allow myself to look down, Eric is grimaci
ng, but his eyes are alight with joy as he licks blood from his lip. “Well...that sucked.”

  Yeah. For you.

  My legs feel like Jell-O as I stand and offer him a hand up, which he takes. Some of the trainers here may not be secure enough in their manhood for such a thing, but not Eric. Nothing ruffles him. Not even losing to a girl.

  “How many rounds did you go tonight? Before me, I mean.” He glances over, catching his breath. “Three?”

  I shake my head, holding up a single hand.

  “Five?” he chuckles. “Damn.”

  The two of us start cool down stretches as trainees begin trickling out the door at the close of the hour, one by one, leaving us behind. Even Ice rushes to leave. Without the thwacking of fists meeting linen or the slapping of skin reddening skin, the room is empty. Lifeless. Just cold bare concrete and graffitied metal walls. Pendant lights hang above our heads, humming quietly, flickering every few seconds.

  “Are you ready?” Eric may ask the question with a subtle smile, but I see the tension gathering at the corners of his eyes. He's wound tight tonight. “If you're worried about the initiation, I'm happy to stay behind so we can talk. Put your mind at ease.”

  I make a derisive sound in the back of my throat and shake my head.

  Nothing Eric can say will prepare me for what's about to happen. I've seen just as many Blacklighter initiations as he has, and we both know what to expect. Mayhem. Chaos. Blood and screaming and—if someone's particularly unlucky—body bags. Memories of young women falling to the cage floor flicker through my memory, but I'm not scared because I'm better. Stronger. The life of a Blacklighter—days of perpetual pain and emotional numbness—is what I was born into, and I'll be damned if I shirk away from that mere hours before I finally claim my title.

  “You know, I think I have you figured out.” Eric drops to the ground, taking a knee in both his hands, stretching it toward his chin. “The reluctance to speak, the isolation, the way you let Ice get a few hits in before the fight actually starts...”