Angelfall

“Got it. And the answer’s still no. Besides, there’s no guarantee I’ll win.”

“No.” Dee gives me an over-the-top used car salesman’s smile. “We’re looking for a guarantee that you’ll lose.”

I burst out laughing. “You want me to throw a fight?”

“Shhh!” Dee looks around dramatically. We’re standing in the shadows between two buildings, and no one seems to notice us.

“It’ll be great,” says Dum. His eyes shine with mischief. “After what you did to Boden, the odds will be so far in your favor when you fight Anita—.”

“You want me to fight a girl?” I cross my arms. “You just want to see a cat fight, don’t you?”

“It’s not just for us,” says Dee defensively. “It’ll be a gift to the whole camp.”

“Yeah,” says Dum. “Who needs television when you’ve got all that water and laundry suds?”

“Dream on.” I shove through them.

“We’ll help you get out,” says Dee in a sing-song cadence.

I stop. My brain runs through half a dozen scenarios based on what he just said.

“We can get the keys to your cell.”

“We can distract the guards.”

“We can make sure no one checks on you until morning.”

“One fight, that’s all we ask.”

I turn to look at them. “Why would you risk treason for a mud fight?”

“You have no idea how much I’d risk for an honest-to-God mud fight between two hot women,” says Dee.

“It’s not really treason anyway,” says Dum. “Obi’s go

“Why?” I ask.

“Because he wants to recruit you and that guy you came with. Obi’s an only child, and he doesn’t understand,” says Dee. “He thinks keeping you around for a few days will get you to change your mind about leaving us.”

“But we know better. A few days of singing patriotic songs ain’t going to convince you to abandon your sister,” says Dum.

“Got that right, brother,” says Dee.

They touch fists in a fist bump. “Damn straight.”

I look at them. They really do understand. They’d never leave each other behind. Maybe I have a genuine ally. “Do I really have to do this silly fight to get your help?”

“Oh, yeah,” says Dee. “No question.” They both grin at me like mischievous little boys.

“How do you know all this stuff? About my sister? What Obi’s thinking?”

“It’s our job,” says Dum. “Some people call us Dee-Dum. Other people call us Spy Masters.” He wiggles his eyebrows up and down dramatically.

“Okay, Spymaster Dee-Dum, what did my friend bet on the fight?” It doesn’t matter of course, but I still want to know.

“Interesting.” Dee arches his brow in a knowing fashion. “Of all the things you could have asked when you found out we deal in information, you pick that one.”

My cheeks warm despite the frozen peas on my jaw. I try not to look like I wish I could take back my question. “What are you, in kindergarten? Just tell me already.”

“He bet that you’d last in the ring for at least seven minutes.” Dum rubs his freckled cheek. “We all thought he was crazy.” Seven minutes is a long, long time to get hammered by giant fists.

“Not crazy enough,” says Dee. His smile is so boyish and pre-disaster that it’s almost possible to forget we live in a world gone mad. “He should have bet that you’d win. He woulda raked it in. Man, the odds were so far against you.”

“I bet he could take down Boden in two minutes,” says Dum. “That guy’s got bad-ass written all over him.”

“Ninety seconds, flat,” says Dee.

I’ve seen Raffe fight. My bet would be on ten seconds, assuming Boden didn’t have a rifle like he did the night he caught us. But I don’t say that. Doesn’t make me feel any better that he didn’t jump in to play the hero.

“Get us out tonight and you’ve got a deal,” I say.

“Tonight’s awfully short notice,” says Dee.

“Maybe if you could promise you’ll rip Anita’s shirt off…”  Dum gives me his little boy smile.

“Don’t push your luck.”

Dee holds up a slim leather case and dangles it like bait. “How about a bonus for ripping her shirt off?”

My hands fly to my pants pocket where my lock picking set should be. My pocket is flat and empty. “Hey, that’s mine!” I make a grab for it but it disappears from Dee’s hand. I hadn’t seen him move. “How’d you do that?”

“Now you see it,” says Dum, waving the case. How it got from Dee to Dum I have no idea. They’re standing next to each other but still, I should have seen something. Then it’s gone again. “Now you don’t.”

“Give it back, now, you thieving bastards. Or the whole thing’s off.”

Dum gives Dee a sad clown face. Dee arches his brow in a comic expression.

“Fine,” Dee sighs. He hands me back my lock picking set. This time, I was watching for it, but I still didn’t see it moving from Dum to Dee. “Tonight it is.”

Dee-Dum flash identical grins at me.

I shake my head and stomp off before they can steal any more of my things.

CHAPTER 20

My back snaps, crackles, and pops as I try to stand straight. It’s dusk, and my work day is almost over. I put my hand on the small of my back, my body craning slowly to straighten like an ancient crone.

My hands, after only one day of scrubbing clothes in the washtub, are swollen and red. I’ve heard of dry, cracked hands but never really knew what that meant until now. After only a few minutes of being out of the water, my palm has cracks that look like someone took a razor blade and sliced the skin. It’s freaky to see your hand all cut up, looking too dry to even bleed.

When the other laundry drudges offered me a pair of yellow rubber gloves this morning, I turned them down, thinking only prissy old people used those. They gave me such a know-it-all look when I turned them down that my pride wouldn’t let me ask for them at lunch.

Now, I’m begi

I look around, stretching my arms, wondering when this Anita person is going to attack me. I’ll be really pissed if she waits until my workday is over. What’s the point of getting into a cat fight if you can’t even weasel out of an hour of hard labor?

I take my time stretching. I stretch my arms above me and arch my back as far as it’ll go.

My neck hurts, my back hurts, my arms and hands hurt, my legs and feet hurt, even my eyeballs hurt. My muscles are either screaming from hours of repetitive motion or stiff from hours of being held still. At this rate, I won’t have to throw the fight, I’ll lose it honestly.

I pretend not to watch the latrine duty men walking toward us as I stretch my legs. There are about ten of them with Raffe hanging in the back of the group.

When they are a few steps away, they start stripping off their filthy clothes. Grimy shirts, pants and socks get tossed into the laundry pile. Some get tossed into the trash pile. Raffe dug the ditch instead of working on the truly toxic part of the latrines, but not everyone was that lucky. The only thing they leave on are their boxer shorts.

I try very hard not to look at Raffe as I realize he’ll be expected to take his shirt off. He might be able to explain away the bandages under his shirt, but there’s no way he can explain away the blood stains exactly where wings would have been.

I stretch my arms above my head, trying not to look scared. I hold my breath, hoping the men will move along and not notice Raffe lagging behind.

But instead of moving into the buildings for a shower, they grab the hose we’ve been using to fill our tubs. They line up to hose each other off. I could kick myself for not anticipating this. Of course they’ll hose off first. Who would want latrine workers to walk straight into the shared showers?