Chapter 7 Evening, Eva
Eva
A low, rhythmic sound from ahead. Not fighting. Not shouting.
Music.
Old-timey fiddle music, mournful and strange, drifting up from the heart of the mountain. What the hell? Did this guy square dance with his victims?
Ten yards in, the tunnel spat me out onto a narrow service ledge that rimmed the old mine shaft. I crouched low, pressed my back against the cold stone, and looked down.
The Pit had changed. No crowd. No cage.
Just one circle of floodlights illuminating the center of the arena like a spotlight on an empty stage.
And in that circle stood Mr. 'I don't own a shirt,' with his back to me. His black hair hung loose down his spine, arms hanging casually at his sides.
The silver torc caught the light every time he breathed.
An elderly man sat on a crate twenty feet away, with a gray beard and overalls, eyes closed, passionately playing the fiddle as if his life depended on it, in a tragic yet beautiful way.
The tune was something else. Minor key, the kind of song that made you want to confess sins you hadn’t committed yet. It twined around my spine and pulled at something buried deep inside my chest.
I ignored it. Focus. The torc. The exit.
He was alone. This was almost too easy. Which meant it was a trap. Obviously, but he didn't know I was here. Did he? He wasn't moving.
Just standing there, head slightly tilted, listening like the music was talking directly to him.
I slowly eased my straight razor open, no click.
One shot. Get down low, stay behind him, cut the rawhide cord, seize the torc, and run like hell.
Simple.
The fiddle hit a high, trembling note, and my weight shifted; someone’s hand pressed firmly between my shoulder blades. I had only a moment to gasp before I was airborne, tools and razor raining down ahead of me, the dirt floor rushing up fast.
I expected him to catch me. Really, I did.
I twisted in mid-air, a half-assed cat reflex, and hit the dirt hard enough to rattle my teeth. My shoulder took the worst of it; pain exploded white-hot down my arm. I still came up in a crouch, empty-handed, with my razor gone, crowbar gone, and pride scattered somewhere in the dust.
He hadn’t moved. Still dead center in that circle of floodlights, like he was waiting for a bus instead of a thief who just fell twenty feet into his stage.
The old man kept playing, bow dragging slowly and sweetly across the strings as if nothing had happened.
I stayed low, weight on the balls of my feet, every muscle coiled to bolt. My shoulder throbbed in time with the fiddle.
He tilted his head, just a fraction, a gesture that said I'd finally gotten his attention. He turned slowly, and the light caught the torc, sending a silver spear straight into my eyes.
His gaze drifted to my shoulder; a flicker passed through his eyes and disappeared.
“Evening, Eva,”
His voice.
By everything unholy, his voice.
That low drawl was a physical thing, a rumble that rolled up from the soles of my feet and vibrated through my bones. He said my name like he’d been practicing it for years.
I didn't ask how he knew it. Instead, I straightened up, ignoring the pain, and spat a wad of clove-tainted saliva onto the dirt.
“Sorry,” I said, my own voice raspy but steady. “I was looking for the bathroom. Guess I took a wrong turn.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. It didn't reach his silver eyes.
“Bathroom’s back that way,” he said, nodding vaguely behind me with his chin. “But you’re here now. Might as well stay for the encore.”
The fiddle music shifted, becoming faster, more aggressive. The old fiddler’s eyes were still squeezed shut, lost in the music.
I rolled my good shoulder, kept my voice lazy even though my heart was trying to claw out of my chest. “Look, let’s keep this simple. Hand over the torc, I walk out, and we both pretend tonight never happened.” I flicked two fingers at the silver circle against his skin.
His smile spread, slow and sharp and beautiful in the way a knife is beautiful right before it kisses you.
“You mean this?” He tapped the torc once, lazy, like it weighed nothing and everything at the same time. “This ain’t jewelry, sweetheart. This is a collar.”
He took a step toward me.
I didn't step back. But every instinct I owned was screaming at me to run.
“I’m not anybody’s sweetheart."
“Aren’t you?” Another step. The floodlights carved every scar on his chest into shining silver. “Funny. Feels like I’ve been calling you that for longer than you’ve been alive.”
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.” I flicked my right hand open, palm up, the universal thief’s gesture: give it here and nobody gets hurt.
He looked at my empty hand like it was the cutest thing he’d ever seen.
Then he laughed, low and warm, the sound curling straight between my legs and making my knees want to fold.
“Eva,” he said, soft as sin, “the only thing I’m selling is mercy. And I’m fresh out.”
The fiddle screeched to a sudden stop. Silence slammed down so hard the mountain itself seemed to hold its breath. The old fiddler opened his eyes, looked directly at me, and nodded once before tucking the instrument under his arm and shuffling away into the darkness.
It was just me and him and the moonlight.
My whole life, I’d trusted my gut. And my gut was telling me that the smart thing to do was to lie down, play dead, and hope he got bored.
But I’d never been smart.
“I’ve faced down worse than a big guy with a god complex and a shiny necklace,” I said, my eyes darting around the arena, looking for my tools, for an exit, for anything.
“I’m sure you have,” he agreed. I could feel the heat rolling off his skin, and it licked mine. “Men with guns, men with knives. Cops, cons, priests with bad intentions. None of them had five thousand years of practice holding their breath for you.”
He lunged.