SICK HEART by Huss, JA (non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

We walk forward towards the Bull of Light command center and I look up, expecting to see my father pointing me out to his friends on the bridge.

He’s there. And he does point.

But my attention goes up one floor higher where a blonde girl stands in the window.

She takes a step back when she realizes I’ve noticed her, but reappears a few seconds later just before Evard and I pass through the door out of sight.

The stairs leading up are crammed with workers, but they press themselves against the open railings so we can pass. None of them look me in the eye.

Who was that girl?

Evard reaches for my hand, but I shake him off and shoot him a stern look.

“Sorry.” His voice is low, just a mumble. “But I don’t like this.”

“Shut up.” Maart’s words are harsh and curt. He’s not in the mood for whining. This is a fight day. First one in over a year.

First one Evard has ever been to, as well. Which explains his fear.

“Don’t be a dick, Maart.” Rainer grabs Evard and holds him in place as I keep moving. They stay several steps behind me after that. I can hear Rainer whispering something to the kid, but he’s being discreet, so I don’t catch the pep talk. I can imagine it though.

He’s gonna win, don’t worry. He always wins.

Which is true.

If you’re still alive at the end, you win.

And I’m still here.

Pavo Vervonal is no slacker, but I am going to win. He will lose. We trained together when we were small and he was good. But we went our separate ways a long, long time ago for a reason.

Only boys like me end up where I am.

He is no me.

Suddenly Maart stops and when I look up, I realize there’s a crowd of people on the landing just below the command deck.

“We just want an interview.” It’s an older woman making this demand. She’s still pretty. Was probably someone important twenty years ago. But she wears too much makeup and her clingy, revealing red dress is far too much for this sticky day.

Her cameraman stands behind her, his equipment perched on his shoulder, his eyes only on me. There is a flashing red light indicating that he’s already recording.

“You know press time isn’t for another three hours.” She’s not going to get anywhere with Maart. He has one job—keep all the no-brain fucks away from me. And he’s pissed about the ambush. You don’t have to know him to hear the anger in his voice.

“Just a word.” The reporter pushes her hands in the air, one clenched into a fist and holding a mic. “Just one question. It’s for Ring of Fire. One question!” Then her gaze lands on me. “Cort, do you think the prize is fair?”

She only wants me to answer one question and that’s the one she asks?

Like I give any fucks at all about the prize.

Nothing about this fight is about me.

Not one moment of it is about me.

Maart is beyond pissed now. “He doesn’t do interviews.” He shoves her out of the way, then stands in front of her so I can pass. Rainer and Evard come up behind me, but Maart hangs back to insult the washed-up reporter.

The mercs take over at the bridge and the door opens as I approach. When I walk through I’m hit with a rush of cold, conditioned air.

That feels good. I suck in a breath and smile internally when I hear Evard do the same behind me.

Then my father is walking towards us with Pavo’s sponsor. A little girl—blonde, striking blue-green eyes, pigtails, striped, sailor-suit dress—grabs the sponsor’s hand and giggles excitedly as they stop in front of me.

My father grabs my upper arm and squeezes. Then he pulls me in and kisses me on both cheeks before letting me go to turn towards his guest. “You remember Cort, right, Lazar?”

Lazar is pushing the little girl away, telling her in Hungarian to go upstairs and find someone called Anya. I take a moment to pause and wonder if Anya was the blonde girl I saw in the window.

The little girl pouts, but doesn’t argue.

Lazar has a Mediterranean look about him, like he spends a lot of time in Greece. Very tall, very tan—almost ludicrously tan. And his white linen shirt highlights this. His hair is blondish. Dyed. Or maybe it’s truly sun-bleached, but somehow, I doubt it.

Lazar offers me his hand.

I stare at it for a moment. Normally, Maart would run interference for me in this type of situation, but he’s still back near the door with Rainer and Evard.

I look back up, meet his gaze and narrow my eyes.

Lazar laughs. “Sick. Heart.” He says the words in two separate sentences, the way they are supposed to be said when spoken out loud, but something about it rubs me the wrong way. So when he takes a step forward and claps me on the shoulder—

Well, that’s it.

The next thing I know my knuckles are stinging, his nose is bloody, and several of the soulless mercenaries are pulling me off him and holding me by the arms.

Lazar wipes his hand across his upper lip as the mercs push me away. But then his tongue darts out to taste the blood and he chuckles. “Boy,” he says, meaning me—I am ‘the boy’—“you turned out well.” His accent isn’t thick, but it’s there.

My father does not apologize. But he does shoot me a look. “Go clean up, Cort. Grab a drink, for fuck’s sake. Calm down a little. The fight won’t start for seven more hours.”

“I have brought tribute.” Lazar’s teeth are stained with blood when he smiles at me. “It’s upstairs in the bar. You may have it early, boy. If you are man enough to take it.”

I shoot a dangerous, sideways glance at Lazar and find him smirking at me.

I suddenly want to kill this man. Not sure why. Not sure I need a reason why. I just