CHAPTER TEN

THE GHOST

Kope and I silently climbed the stairs inside the arena. Our seats were halfway up the stadium, far enough back so Flynn wouldn’t spot us. The first fight had already taken place and the second was underway. Fans were rowdy as we passed. I was thankful for all the distractions giving me excuses not to make eye contact with Kope.

Energy surged through the air during intermission as the crowd geared up for the championship fight. Everyone was buzzing about “the Ghost,” Flynn Frazer.

“The Ghost?” I whispered to Kope, not able to look at him yet.

“He moves so quickly, his opponents never see him coming,” he explained.

I sat back and watched, finding the emotional climate of the room very interesting. I suppose I’d been expecting a lot of bloodthirsty negative energy at a fight, but I was way off. It was a happy crowd. Sure, there were some dark auras among the bright oranges, but the overall vibe was one of respectful excitement. Out of habit I kept my eyes peeled for demon spirits.

The lights dimmed and music began to blare from the overhead speakers—a thumping, tribal beat mixed with hard rock guitar chords. I stood up with everyone else, eager to get a look at Flynn.

His opponent came out first, wearing blue, bouncing on his heels and pumping a fist in the air. He bounced his way to the caged octagon, where he climbed in and did a series of air punches before making his way to the side where a man waited with a towel around his neck. The crowd booed. No love for blue.

A hush fell, and the music seemed to get louder. When Flynn slowly stalked his way into the arena, wearing all red with his eyes ablaze, the place erupted. I found myself clapping and leaning forward to get a better view. Nervousness clawed at me as I watched the Ghost take his time getting to the octagon, his crazed eyes on his opponent and an eerie smile on his wide lips. As far as scary taunts went, I’d say his was way up there. Gone was any sign of the big smile from his pictures.

The announcer came to the middle of the octagon and presented the first fighter, whose name I didn’t even catch. But when he announced Flynn “the Ghost” Frazer, I added my voice to the sea of cheers.

Everyone stayed on their feet when the match began. Flynn had a natural charisma. He paced around his opponent like a sleek red panther on a hunt, while the guy in blue bounced and hopped from side to side like a rabbit. Flynn’s opponent didn’t seem scared, but anyone could see that he should be. I was scared for him.

Flynn toyed with his prey, allowing the guy to make a few shots, but it was obvious even to me, who knew nothing about the sport, that the Ghost was biding his time. Otherwise the show would end too quickly. They parried for the duration of the first round, minor hits and blocks made. By the middle of round two, the crowd was growing restless, hollering jeers, wanting action.

Flynn was not one to disappoint. Like a whirlwind, he spun and kicked out his opponent’s feet, then slammed him to the mat, bringing forth a roar from the crowd. At one point the other guy gave a surprise knee to Flynn’s side. Flynn, now ticked off, swiftly flipped the other fighter over his shoulder, landed on top of him with an elbow to the sternum, and began to pummel his face. As the crowd worked into a frenzy, cheering him on for the knock out, I felt my anxiety rise. Flynn didn’t appear ready to stop anytime soon. The greed was kicking in. Get your win and get out of there, Flynn. When his opponent’s face oozed a substantial amount of blood, the ref finally pulled Flynn off and I breathed again.

Kope and I looked at each other at the same time. This match was over. Time to go. By the time we made it to the doors and showed our backstage passes, Flynn was being announced as the winner and still undefeated champion of his weight class.

We rounded the corner and looked back. Nobody else was in the hall, so we slipped through the door with Flynn’s name on front. We surveyed the space inside—a combination between a locker room and dressing room. Two wooden benches sat parallel in the middle.

A sudden flashback of Zania with a knife at my throat brought on a sick wave. How would Flynn react to the surprise arrival of two Neph? His hands and feet were weapons. And why didn’t Kope ever seem nervous? He eyed me as I gnawed my thumbnail.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I yanked it out. A text from Dad.

Get hidden NOW.

I almost dropped the thing like a hot coal. Who was coming? How close were they? Should we try to leave the building or just hide? I showed the text to Kope. We both spun, searching the room, seeing the closet door at the same time, and immediately moving toward it.

We pushed our way into the small cleaning closet that smelled of sweat and bleach. It was pitch-dark and cramped as I pulled the knob behind me. When I turned around to face the closed door, I must have nudged a bucket because there was a clanking sound of a mop hitting the wall and my heart hammered. Kope stood right behind me, and I could feel his fast heartbeat against my shoulder. There was no crack in the doorframe to peek through. We’d have to rely on listening.

I imagined the hallway we’d come down from the arena. I flexed my hearing that way until I found a group congratulating Flynn. Nothing sounded out of the ordinary. A short time passed before Flynn told everyone that he needed to hit the shower.

We were both utterly still, listening while Flynn came into the room. His bare feet slapped against the floor tiles as he moved to the corner for a shower. He cleaned up incredibly fast, then there were sounds of clothing rustling as he got dressed. I was beginning to think this was all a false alarm, until the pungent stink of cigar wafted underneath the closet door.