Sol’s eyes widened in a flash of fear as Kaleb’s teeth snapped down on his forearm. The trident fell from Sol’s hand. The weight of it hit Kaleb as it dropped.

The momentum of Kaleb’s leap pushed Sol to the ground, and he scrambled backward, trying to get out from under Kaleb. Even the youngest daimon knew better than to be on the ground with a transformed cur. Here, on all fours, Kaleb had advantages that the bipedal lacked. He wasn’t willing to lose that advantage either; he tightened his grip on Sol’s arm.

With his free hand, Sol punched Kaleb as hard as he could. The blow hit Kaleb under the eye, connecting with flesh on his muzzle and jarring the teeth that held Sol’s other arm immobile. Repeatedly, Sol slammed his fist into Kaleb’s face.

Blood—his and Sol’s—was filling Kaleb’s mouth. He released the arm and went for Sol’s exposed throat.

Sol rolled away, and Kaleb’s teeth closed on empty air.

As Kaleb stalked the bleeding daimon trapped in the circle with him, he felt increasingly energized.

Sol stumbled as he went for a pair of short blades. With a blade in each hand, he pivoted, watching Kaleb. He didn’t attack, and that alone was indicative of which way the fight was going. Typically, he was an aggressive fighter.

Kaleb darted in for another bite, but was rebuffed with a kick to the side where he’d previously been injured. As he pulled back, he realized that not only did his side no longer hurt, but his leg also felt fine. In fact, he felt stronger by the moment. Aya’s spell. As Sol weakened, Kaleb strengthened. Even in his animal mind, he understood that the healing energy she had promised him was coming from Sol. The witch had made it so Kaleb was leeching strength from his opponent.

Again and again, Kaleb charged at his increasingly unsteady adversary. Sol bled from several places, and although Kaleb had new wounds, each sharp pain almost immediately began to fade. Even the worst of the wounds Sol had inflicted were already beginning to heal. Every new injury healed quickly, as the energy that Kaleb now stole from Sol made the flesh knit back together with an unsettling tingling. It felt better than the pain relievers Zevi fed him after fights, better than the narcotics he had occasionally enjoyed over the years. Even as he was injured time and again, Kaleb felt like he could continue doing this for hours. He didn’t want that flood of strength to ebb, didn’t want to lose the surge of health that poured into his skin.

In a move uncharacteristic of curs, he struck Sol to injure, not to incapacitate, tearing small wounds in the bigger daimon’s chest and abdomen. Death will end the energy. Kaleb tried to force himself to remember why he should want Sol to die. If Sol stayed alive, the energy would keep filling Kaleb.

Sol slashed at him, and Kaleb let the blade graze his side so he could feel his body repair itself. He stayed perfectly still for a moment, staring at Sol and waiting for another pass of the sharp edges against his skin. His fur was matted with blood, but he wanted to feel that next infusion of strength.

The weakened, but not yet dying, daimon was speaking to him, but in this form Kaleb couldn’t understand anyone other than another cur. Sol bowed his head for a moment. His body was sluggish, and Kaleb knew it would take only one carefully aimed swipe of his claws to bring death to his rival. Not yet. He lunged forward, presenting his side as an obvious target, but Sol merely stared at him through glazed eyes.

Kaleb growled.

Sol spoke again, but this time he stumbled toward Kaleb. He bowed his head, hiding his throat, asking for mercy.

Kaleb backed away. He couldn’t make Sol raise his blade again, but he didn’t want him to die. With a snarl, he charged the circle, giving them both a shock. The energy rushed toward Kaleb, drawn from Sol again, and the combined pain of the shock and the loss of more of his strength and health made Sol fall facedown. Kaleb padded over to Sol and prodded the hand holding the blade. Sol didn’t react, so Kaleb nudged harder with his muzzle.

Then Sol’s lips formed a word, and the need to understand that word was urgent enough that Kaleb shed his animal form. Once he was no longer in his other shape, he understood words again. He stared at Sol.

“Forfeit,” Sol said. He repeated the word again and again, adding, “Mercy, cur.”

Kaleb straightened and stared down at Sol. Cur? Even now, Sol couldn’t give him the respect of a name. If he stays alive, I can keep taking his energy. Kaleb looked past the fallen fighter and saw Aya watching them. Her expression revealed nothing, but Kaleb saw her lips form the same word Sol had, “Mercy.”

Resisting the urge to bound to his feet from the surges of energy humming in his body, Kaleb stood slowly. He looked out over the mostly unmasked crowd and then settled his gaze on Aya. Watching her, he called to the assembled judges, “Break it. I’m done here. Sol forfeits. I accept. I want nothing else from him.”

There were gasps that he had accepted a forfeit, but Kaleb didn’t care. He shouldn’t have tortured Sol. All that mattered in that instant was getting away from the fight, the crowds, and the horror of what he’d done.

The circle dropped, Aya nodded, and the connection between him and Sol stopped as if it had been cut. The loss of that flood of strength made him falter as he stepped forward—and for that, he was grateful. If the crowd knew how not-injured he was, they would be suspicious. That he’d won this fight was surprising enough; winning without being exhausted or injured would be alarming. The blood covering his body hid the fact that the injuries he’d sustained in the fight were mostly healed.

The circle falling meant that the press of the crowd was upon them. Strangers touched him, their fingers coming away wet with the combined blood of the two fighters. Later, bits of cloth stained with that blood would be sold in the market. The twisted mementos were collected by the macabre and the zealous, and Kaleb wasn’t sure which group he found most unsettling.

“This way,” a spectator called, trying to summon him closer. Her hand was outstretched, fingers splayed, as she shoved herself through the swarm of bodies. “I’ll nurse your wounds, Kaleb.”

“No, here,” a Watcher called.

“I’ll match any offer,” a blue-masked daimon called. This one held out a marker with a sum that Kaleb would have once accepted, despite the sting to his pride and sickness in his soul that followed every time he’d been hungry enough to whore himself.

His emotions must have been obvious in his expression because the masked daimon added a second marker, thereby doubling the offer. Kaleb opened his mouth to negotiate, here in front of any and all watching. He was a cur, an animal of the lowest order, a daimon to be used by those who could pay for him. Even if he won, he’d still be that creature. Why deny it? If he were a better person, he’d have been revolted by stealing Sol’s energy. Instead, he had tortured the other daimon to prolong the theft. Instead, he was wondering if that connection was permanently severed. Aya might be terrible for creating it, but he was no less awful for enjoying it.

“What terms?” Kaleb asked the woman.

“No,” Zevi murmured. The younger cur had forced his way through the overly energetic crowd and was now directly beside Kaleb.

“We could live on that for months,” Kaleb replied just as quietly.

“So you fought and killed to be an expensive fuck?”

Kaleb’s gaze snapped to Zevi.

“Don’t let guilt change you.” Zevi shoved an eager spectator away from them with a snarl and audible snap of teeth. “You let him live. Even though you were transformed, you stopped. You gave mercy.”

The daimon with the markers had pushed to the front of the crowd. “One night. Only me . . . you can bring your . . . him if you want.” She pointed at Zevi. “I’ll pay extra.”