After two weeks of raids every other day, maybe Quentin should’ve been tired or done with fighting. He wasn’t. The act of going across the city to attack and kill people didn’t do anything for him. If it could be done any other way, Quentin would’ve done just that, but violence was inevitable. Just like his time in the Colosseum, there was a dark part of him that enjoyed the thrill of battle and a sense of conquering. Razia thought he was a good man. She was wrong.

To his surprise, he wasn’t alone. Jonas seemed willing to follow him anywhere, but Bruce, David, Pete and the rest remained as enthusiastic about it as they had from the start, even when not every raid was profitable. The men had all taken their fair share of injuries and walked away laughing, with only two of the Shades deciding they were done with the action. The rest hung around either the Garden or Maggie’s Den, often taking up most of the tables there, to Maggie’s growing irritation.

Due to the street war, the Garden was on outcalls by appointment only, always with a bodyguard. The inns and taverns were a different story, with a couple of gladiators trying out positions as sub-pimps under him with the understanding that they were to provide a proper service for a cut, and that abusing the companions would be a very bad idea. Everything was falling into place. So Quentin didn’t know why he had a terrible feeling.

“If you’re feeling bad about it, then call it off,” said Razia, sitting on their bed. She looked at him through the mirror next to his dresser. Quentin was half dressed for battle, everything but the mask and weapons. “You’ve been getting lucky this entire time. You won’t be lucky forever.”

“I thought you wanted this taken care of,” Quentin grumbled good naturedly. “Now that I’m pruning the number of available people to attack the garden, you’re complaining?”

“It’s not complaining!” Razia insisted. She slid off the bed and came behind him, hugging him from behind and looking around his shoulder. “I’m just saying that you’ve really committed to this, and you can afford to rest a little.”

It was a tempting prospect. Quentin’s days and nights were a blur, blending at random times with taking care of the girls and checking in on poor Samantha, who was alive but still unconscious. Kelli remained with her, complaining to anyone who would listen but it meant neutralizing her for the moment. What little free time he had he spent with Razia late at night, but it wasn’t the same. The fight was his priority.

“I’d honestly do it if the guys weren’t already here and raring to go,” Quentin said with a sigh. He covered her hands with his before turning and facing her directly. “You know why I’m doing this. The sooner the Warlords are no longer a problem, the sooner we can go back to normal. This isn’t going to end until Christophe and Piro are dead. We have them on their back foot!”

Razia put her hand on his chitin armor. “And I appreciate that, so much. But lately you haven’t been doing anything for yourself. That’s all I’m asking you to do. Take a break, do something good for you. We could try branching out like we said…”

Again, tempting, but Razia didn’t understand. As much as Quentin loved the relative peace of the Moonlit Garden, in the grand scheme of things it was just a temporary reprieve. As long as they were in danger there was the fight. The fight called to him in a way she’d never understand.

“After today,” he said, bending over to kiss her forehead. “After today we’ll take a break and see how Cicero’s doing with things. He’s been keeping up his part so far. And you and me…we’ll see about branching out. Try some new things.”

Razia practically vibrated with excitement. “You’re going to love it, I promise.”

Quentin smiled. “But for now, we’re going to go south and kick the shit out of some Warlords again. Maybe this time Christophe will show his face.”

Just like that, her excitement disappeared. “Are you going to be okay if you do fight him again?”

He repressed a shudder. “I’m not going to lie to you,” he said. “Christophe scares me. I’ve never been hit that hard in my life. It was like the moment his fist connected with me, my body just failed and so he’d get in another hit, and…Yeah. I’m not going to underestimate him again. You can be sure of that.”

The idea that Christophe was originally set to face him in the Colosseum now seemed absurd to him. That would’ve been the first man to earn his freedom in ten years, and chances are they would’ve just cremated him after he died. No chance of coming back from that.

Quentin scooped his mask off the dresser and left his room, Razia following behind him. His house was no longer the same. Instead of just the lone lounger there were now several couches as well as a table and some chairs on the other side of the atrium, all filled with Shades. There were more lights and not just lanterns, and he’d allowed some basic rugs and some tapestries for the walls. It wasn’t as much of a tomb anymore.

Jonas stood from a chair to greet him. Like Quentin, he was armored up and almost ready to go. The past couple of weeks had been eye opening regarding the teen. He fought fiercely and with a speed Quentin couldn’t hope to match, decisively dancing in and out of battle. He was good, and someday would be great. “We’re almost ready to go. We really going to try talking today?”

It was a controversial move, but after two weeks of kicking the shit out of them, maybe it would work. The best way to win a fight was to make sure there wouldn’t be a fight. Maybe some of the younger members could be scared off without killing. As much as Quentin loved executing the raids, he still wasn’t fond of the bloodbaths that ensued. The best fights were ones where the enemy ran, disarmed, or were crippled but lived as an example.

“Yeah, I think so,” said Quentin. “If it doesn’t work we can always go back to plan A.”

“True enough!” Jonas grinned.

One of the few female gladiators, Bridgitte, ran in from the courtyard, panting. “Attack!” she called out. “On the Boulevard, Warlords out in force and their leader’s with them!”

Quentin and Jonas looked at each other. They’d been expecting something for a while, just not this big or close to home. An entire conversation passed silently in seconds. “Everyone arm up and get ready. We move as one!”

People got ready very quickly. Within five minutes of the announcement, Quentin and about a dozen Shades poured out of the garden and the courtyard, masks on. The guards looked to nearly shit themselves and raised their weapons, but the Shades didn’t attack and neither did neighborhood security. They were no strangers to the Shades moving in and out and there was no doubt about to be another complaint from the neighbors, but they could get in line.

His men rushed out past him, forming a line before Quentin arrived. The Warlords were there, right about to turn the corner down their street. The Shades were horribly outnumbered, but the others would get there eventually. The terrain would work in their favor if Quentin could maintain control.

Christophe stepped forward. “What’s with the mask, Freak? Did I bust up your face that badly last time we met?”

Quentin fought a shudder. It didn’t take much to remember the pain and the way his brain just stopped working with each hit. Instead he smiled behind the mask and tilted his head. “Sure did. Took me an entire week to heal that one off. This mask’s padded, so the next time you hit me it won’t hurt as much. I’ll be fine.” He stepped out in front as his men laughed. “You shouldn’t have come here, Christophe.”

“Why? What’re you going to do, run into my fist and die again?” He closed the distance until he loomed large over Quentin. “How did you get back up?

Fear came easily, and Quentin didn’t fight it. It was just like any other fight where nerves crept up on him. It meant that no matter what else he was, Quentin remained human. Christophe didn’t need to know that. He just shrugged, putting as much life into the motion as he could. It was no different than wearing his skull mask and fighting in the arena, the stakes just mattered more to him now.

“I’m the Darkstar’s favorite child and I’m going to keep coming back until I finally kill you.” He kept his voice as calm as possible, bored even. It did the trick. Christophe’s face twisted in a sneer.

“Then I guess I’m going to have to try harder to make it stick, aren’t I?”

The next thing Quentin knew the world flickered out of existence and for a brief eternity he didn’t exist. Then the pain came rushing in and reminded him he wasn’t dead yet, just knocked back into his men. They caught him and got him back on his feet just in time for the fight to truly start.

Christophe took a step back and let his men move forward. The Warlords were universally young and fierce men the city forgot. They had piss and vinegar and nothing to lose, but that didn’t mean they were good fighters. They crashed into the Shade’s shield wall, and with a shouted order from Bruce, the shield wall threw them back.

The men behind them moved forward as the wall dropped low and let the next wave strike. Swords and clubs and knives flashed and the first row of Warlords took some weapons to the face and chest. Then the attackers withdrew and the wall raised again. It happened in the time it took to let out a breath. The defenders advanced down the alley.

“What the hell is this, Quintius?” Christophe bellowed as more of his men tried again. “Too afraid to come out and fight me yourself?”

“Sure am!” Quentin called back. He motioned for them to advance and they did, creeping forward inches. The end of the alley loomed, along with dozens more combatants trying to force their way in. “You’ve got us outnumbered, I’m afraid. You could always go home!”

With a growl, Christophe pushed the line forward. The shield wall had only normal sized bucklers, not the proper shields the legion had when they did this tactic. Christophe reached right over the wall and grabbed a Shade by the throat. He yanked hard and flung the poor bastard into the middle of a bunch of Warlords. Their friend didn’t last long.

Quentin’s stomach dropped, and he wasn’t the only one affected. With an enraged cry, the line broke as the Shades went on the full offensive. Christophe’s dark, beady eyes glittered with amusement and triumph. Quentin made sure he was at the front of the line when they came out of the alley. He blocked one strike and thrust his sword forward, dropping a combatant. The man had no sooner fallen than a replacement showed up, screaming in Quentin’s face.

All around him, the battle raged about as well. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bruce use his superior height and reach to thrust a spear through a teenager’s chest. He lashed out with his foot to unstick the boy, falling back right before a sword strike could take him in the neck. Renee wasn’t so lucky. She darted forward, a knife in each hand, when a club came down on her head. She dropped to the ground and a few seconds later the bastards descended on her.

They were horribly outnumbered, their main advantage was failing more by the second, and the chaos of battle made control all but impossible. Quentin threw himself forward, tackling a Warlord before he could end Jonas. He hit the ground and rolled, coming back up in almost one smooth motion just in time to be stabbed in the chest.

The knife buried itself in the armor, piercing it and his chest but falling short of doing anything dangerous. The gangster had enough time to look regretful before Jonas stabbed him from behind and Quentin kicked him to the ground. The knife remained embedded in the armor and his chest, an annoying pinprick of pain throbbing in the background.

Christophe roared like an enraged beast, but the Shades continued pushing them back out of the alley bit by bit. The street opened up and Christophe remained surrounded by men, occasionally interfering to turn the tide of an independent fight. He was better at this than Quentin, he realized. He knew when to fight and when to lead.

Quentin trusted his men to fight and fight well together especially, but this kind of chaotic battle only happened at the Colosseum a few times a year and it wasn’t to the death. His Shades held their own well enough, but the sheer numbers worked against them. The Warlords may have been a chaotic mess of violent street rats, but even a horde of rats could kill a dunewalla if they put their minds to it. Quentin stayed in the front, shoulder to shoulder with Jonas as they deflected an attack only to counter it after.

They worked together well. With Jonas and Bruce by his side, the three of them did some damage. Enough to turn the tide maybe, before the Shades came all the way out of the alley and poured into the streets. The line didn’t disappear so much as it got wider and harder to defend. Out in the open like this, Christophe decided it was time to up the stakes.

“Come at me, Quintius!” Christophe shouted. The bastard remained unarmed and dangerous in spite of it. He stepped out into the open, motioning for his men to leave him. They spread out, giving their leader some space.

Almost immediately a Shade went for Christophe, bringing his sword down on Christophe’s chest. The blade hit clothes and skin, cutting through his tunic but not even opening a line in the Warlord’s skin. Christophe grabbed him by the skull and brought him down to his rising knee. The mask crunched and the gladiator fell. Christophe didn’t give him a chance to hit the ground. His other hand went around the poor man’s skull and together they twisted his head around until it snapped.

“The longer you resist, the more of your men will die! Give yourself up and they can walk away.”

Quentin paused, staring at the dead man. How many of them had fallen by now? Five? Six? Ten? They were running out of men. That’s when Quentin caught a glimpse of a welcome sight on the other side of the Warlord horde. The rest of his Shades came from the other direction, where they’d been getting lunch. They were going to meet up with the rest of them for the raid. It looked like a runner got to them.

“You sure about that, Christophe?” Quentin called back, stepping into Christophe’s range. The other Warlords ignored Quentin, fighting against Jonas and Bruce, who moved with him. “I think you’re going to die today!”

Sword and shield at the ready, Quentin launched himself at the bigger man. Christophe was waiting for him and swung out with one meaty arm. Quentin ducked it and slashed up at the skin. It did no damage, but by then Quentin danced out of reach, circling his larger foe. Christophe whirled around swinging wildly. Quentin’s sword caught his arm, but it did nothing to stop its momentum. The next hit wasn’t as bad as the others, but it still knocked the sense out of him.

He caught himself on a nearby building and moved before Christophe’s follow up could crush him. The Warlord’s fist crashed into the building. When he pulled his fist back part of the building came with it, dust and chunks of clay tumbling to the ground. Quentin kept his momentum and thrust his sword into Christophe’s gut. Once again it cut the cloth but not the skin underneath.

“How?” Quentin demanded, blocking Christophe’s next wide punch.

“You’re not the only one who can cheat death,” he growled. He raised his fist high. Without even thinking about it Quentin raised his shield to block an attack that never came. Christophe’s foot went arcing up into his gut. It didn’t hurt as bad as being punched in the face, but it knocked the air out of him. He managed to hold onto his sword and stay upright, but barely. He fell backwards again, struggling to breathe.

A quick burst of healing did nothing but make it hurt worse. He looked up helplessly as Christophe came for him, picking up momentum for the real attack that would either take Quentin’s head off his shoulders or feel like it did.

Bruce threw himself sideways into Christophe. He jabbed violently with his spear, doing everything in his power to break the skin and stab the man. The tip of the spear slid along Christophe’s skin, doing nothing for several seconds until it finally bit into his chest, right above the heart. The Warlord hissed, and the next thing any of them knew his hand was around Bruce’s throat.

“Bruce, no!” Jonas called out. Quentin wheezed his agreement, reaching forward, but it was too late.

The gladiator’s eyes widened. Christophe grinned and squeezed. His hand quivered with the effort of crushing his throat, but there was nothing to be done. He threw Bruce onto the ground, where the gladiator reached for his throat, struggling for air. It was an ugly, dirty struggle that didn’t last for long. As the battle raged on around them, the light went out of Bruce’s eyes.

Jonas screamed and went for Christophe, and Quentin was only half a second behind. Two opponents was probably a more fair match, but Christophe didn’t look too worried. He laughed even, swinging a lumbering fist at Jonas. It would take a lot more than that to catch the teen, and it gave Quentin the perfect opportunity to slash Christophe’s arm. Much like at the party blood beaded along the wound, but didn’t fall.

From the west, the rest of the gladiators pressed in on the mass of Warlords. They were surrounded now, fighting their best and still not falling but Quentin’s fighters hit their second win, shouting with triumph as they hemmed the Warlords in, making the circle tighter and tighter. None of it mattered to the three men locked in battle.

Christophe had all the grace and dignity of a raging bull, but he didn’t need much else. As Quentin and Jonas danced around him getting in little cuts where they could, both knew it would only take one good hit to knock them out of the fight. Hours and hours of practice fighting against each other and with each other had Jonas and Quentin in harmony, both with the same sword and shield and emphasis on speed and precision.

Little bit little, the giant was fading. It started as a persistent huff as he breathed. Then his punches came slower as more and more red showed on his body, little lines going nowhere. Quentin’s heart pounded with the thrill of battle, the sense of weakness. Christophe jerked and Quentin leapt into action, going for a killing thrust.

It was a feint. Faster than Quentin could believe, Christophe hurled himself out of the way, right as Jonas struck as well. Their attacks went towards each other. Quentin did his best to stop but momentum sent him crashing into Jonas. He had just enough time to avoid impaling his friend, but they went down to the ground together. Christophe’s foot came crashing down on Quentin’s spine a second later.

Quentin screamed in pain, unable to hide it. Something crunched and the agony faded into a ghost of its former self, like a finger burned long after it pulled away from the flame. He tried to move but couldn’t. Oh god, not this again. He braced himself for the pain this time, teeth clenched so tight he thought they might crack. When the pain came, it came all at once in a blinding white flash.

Before he had time to make use of his healing, Christophe picked him up and threw him at the nearest wall. Quentin collided with it, struggling to get to his feet. He was up in time to see Christophe grab Jonas by the throat and lift him high into the air. The teen struggled, but it was useless. A second later his mask came off.

“I remember you,” Christophe purred. “You were with him when I killed him. Say goodbye, kid.”

Jonas cried out as best as he could with his throat being crushed. Quentin screamed, an empty, wordless plea. There was no way to get there in time. There was no stopping Christophe from killing the last reminder he had of Demetrius.

Christophe jerked violently. And again, and again. Quentin blinked and saw little shafts of wood sticking out of Christophe’s chest and shoulders. And then more and more peppered him, sticking in his big stomach and even one in his neck. He dropped Jonas, clutching at his wounds, making an awful sound.

Quentin looked up. On the rooftops were Razia, Isa, and the rest of the girls, all holding bolters. Their most recent purchase, usable by anyone regardless of experience fighting. Razia flashed him a fierce grin before she peppered Christophe with more tiny bolts. Any one of them was enough to injure a man, even if not able to kill him outright. Enough bolts and anyone would fall, even a giant like Christophe, and the girls looked set to test that theory out.

“R-retreat!” Christophe shouted. The fighting almost paused as his men heard his words and struggled to understand them. Quentin picked himself up off the ground. With a strangled cry he charged Christophe. With nowhere to go now and a dozen new tiny injuries, Christophe barely had time to catch Quentin by the wrist.

“What’s the matter, Christophe?” Quentin hissed. “Afraid you might’ve bitten off more than you can chew? Stay a while. You promised to kill me, remember?”

Christophe’s arm wavered as he held Quentin off. Rage twisted his features into something inhuman. “I’m going to kill you, you moonkissed freak. If not today, then tomorrow or the day after. You have no future. You are dead!”

All Quentin could do was laugh. Even when Christophe snarled and twisted, pulling Quentin with him. The giant threw him into the crowd, crashing against his own men. Then he ran. He ran, and after a second’s hesitation his men followed. They broke through the western ring and went right back the way they came.

Less than half his men remained, and the ones who were left didn’t last long. The retribution of the Shades was terrible. Most of the wounded were dead by the time Quentin stood up and helped his gang to their feet as well. A quick check over their wounds and he determined they’d live. The same couldn’t be said for everyone else.

Of the nearly fifty gladiators he started the day with, nearly fifteen had fallen. Most dead, some just horribly injured. Either way, it was a bad day for the Shades. Quentin swallowed a lump in his throat. Now that the battle was over, the hangover came with a vengeance, clubbing him over the head with exhaustion and the dull ache of loss. His friends were dead. They won and drove the Warlords off, but at such a high cost.

“You okay?” Jonas asked him.

Quentin looked around at the carnage all around them. “No,” he said. “I’m not.”