**NB. This story is as it comes – straight out of my head and may contain typos**
CHAPTER 10 – BLANE
“This is a gym? Are you certain we’re in the right place?”
Joseph mirrored my incredulity and rolled his eyes. “Only in Las Vegas.”
Or possibly Ancient Rome. Power Zone occupied a cavernous warehouse whose ambience could best be described as Colosseum meets strip club. Somebody with dubious taste had recreated a gladiatorial arena in East Las Vegas, and it was every bit as horrific as you might imagine. And also historically inaccurate. I’d visited the original version several times back in the day, and sand had covered the floor, not grubby industrial carpet.
The reception desk sat in a small kiosk recessed in a stone archway, lit by pink neon lights. As we waited for the toga-clad receptionist to finish with the customer ahead of us, Joseph knocked on one wall.
“Fibreglass,” he commented.
Cheap as well as tacky. Zion wouldn’t be winning any design awards. Or hygiene awards—the smell of stale sweat was overpowering. Thank goodness my apartment came with its own gym, otherwise I might have to put on a pair of sandals and purchase a membership at a place like this.
Or not. I didn’t feel inclined to give Zion a penny. After I’d tried researching Power Zone online and found nothing substantial—who didn’t have a website in this day and age?—I’d called a couple of acquaintances to ask about the gym and the man who ran it. The general consensus? Zion was a fixer who’d do everything from selling drugs to sourcing thugs in order to make a quick buck. The thugs were problematic enough on their own, but if Zion was dealing in illegal substances, that took my dislike of the man to a whole new level.
“What can I do for ya?” the receptionist asked. A badge pinned to her toga said “Minerva,” and I wasn’t sure whether that was her real name or a continuation of the Ancient Rome theme. Her hair was a spectacularly unnatural blonde, almost as white as her teeth, and her breasts defied gravity.
I offered a smile. “Who do we speak to about membership?”
“You want to join this place?” She studied us for a moment, chewing gum loudly at the same time. “You?”
Perhaps in hindsight, I should have worn sweats rather than a suit. But sweats were so…slouchy. “Excuse the attire—we swung by on our way to work. This place comes highly recommended.”
“Uh-huh.” Her tone said she didn’t believe that for a moment. “What do you do? For work, I mean.”
“I’m an entrepreneur, and my friend here is a lawyer.”
“Yeah, so they don’t allow lawyers in.”
“Is that a joke?” Joseph asked.
“The boss hates lawyers.” Minerva shrugged. “Ever since his divorce. His ex-wife was a real pain in the patootie, so I heard.”
“I should sue for discrimination.”
Oh, sure, that would help.
“How about we just don’t mention our occupations to your boss?” I suggested.
“You mean lie on the application form?”
Minerva’s tone was disapproving, but she’d said “they” don’t allow lawyers in, not “we” don’t allow lawyers in. No, she didn’t feel like an integral part of the business. She wouldn’t much care if we said we were astronauts as long as we ticked the right boxes. And in truth, Joseph was more of an astronaut than a lawyer—he’d travelled between worlds with me, but he’d never passed the bar exam. The sum total of his legal expertise came from Google, Netflix, and a dog-eared copy of Law for Dummies that my little sister had gifted him. But the human whose body he’d stolen soon after we arrived in Plane Five had graduated magna cum laude from NYU Law, so Joseph claimed knowledge by association.
“Why don’t we say he’s a professional hustler?” Joseph opened his mouth to protest, and I kicked him in the shin. “There isn’t much difference.”
Minerva giggled. “I guess that would be okay.”
“Do you think we could get a tour of the place before committing? It’s certainly…unique.”
“Isn’t it something? It was part of a movie set before Mr. Zionberger relocated it.”
Yes, it was “something.” An abomination. The former emperor Titus—who’d found himself in Plane Three thanks to his escapades with the Praetorian Guard—was proud that the Colosseum had stood as his legacy for almost two thousand years, but I wasn’t sure he’d be quite as thrilled when I told him about the tacky replica in Sin City. No, he’d be horrified. Every member of the Flavian dynasty had taken their construction duties very seriously. Thousands of slaves had toiled over the stonework for years.
Not that I planned on returning to my former home anytime soon. Running Plane Three had certainly had its enjoyable moments, but wrangling the realm’s most troublesome souls had been no walk in the park. Especially when my father began criticising my management style. Too much carrot, not enough stick, apparently.
“Which movie?” I asked.
“Uh, I think it was called Ben-Hur Over.”
Joseph snorted a laugh. “That doesn’t sound particularly mainstream.”
“You have a problem with adult entertainment?”
I kicked him again.
“No, no problem.”
“About that tour…” I reminded her.
“Oh, sure. I’ll take you through, and Nero can show you around.”
Nero? Was I meant to call him Emperor? He was a squat little fireplug of a man with an abundance of hair, not only on his head but also sprouting from his arms, legs, chest, and armpits. I pitied whoever had to clean the plughole after he showered. His muscles said steroid abuse, and his flattened nose said he’d been in one too many brawls. And lost.
As Minerva had done, he looked us up and down.
“You take a wrong turn?” he asked.
Plenty of them. A man couldn’t live for thousands of years without making a few mistakes. The question was, had I made another today? We rounded the corner into the gladiatorial arena-slash-gym, or rather, half a gladiatorial arena, because Zion appeared to have suffered from space issues when he decided to recreate Ancient Rome in a seedy part of Vegas. Instead of a complete oval, the arena cut off short at a wall, and a full-height mural attempted to recreate the effect. Badly. It didn’t help that someone had painted a Hitler moustache on the nearest rudis. And instead of the rows of treadmills, stationary bicycles, and weight machines I’d expected to see, we got cages. Four metal cages, plus a motley arrangement of mats and punching bags at the far end. This wasn’t a regular gym. In the nearest cage, two half-naked men were beating each other to a pulp. The coppery tang of blood hung in the air, along with the musk of fresh sweat.
“Now I understand the Colosseum thing,” Joseph muttered under his breath. “All they need is loincloths and a few lions.”
“And spears. Don’t forget the spears.”
I’d never forget the spears. On one particularly gruesome visit to Rome, I’d watched a man get impaled right in front of me. The spear went in one side and out the other. It was all so…barbaric. And to what end? Violence wasn’t a sport; it was a tool.
Unless you were in Plane Three, of course. In Plane Three, where pain was a way of life, we held regular sword-fighting contests, boxing matches, and extreme sports competitions. Last century’s “So you think you’re a warrior?” league had been a high point on the social calendar. And before you call me a bloodthirsty hypocrite, the rounds were judged on style and technique, not the amount of guts spilled, and the losers were already living it up in the Underworld—it wasn’t as if the winners could kill them again. The overall victor, a strapping Norseman named Ragnar, had defeated Ghengis Khan in a nail-biting final, an outcome Ghengis hadn’t been at all happy about. I’d been forced to put him on time-out after he threatened to set fire to the judging panel and curse their ashes.
“Can you give these guys a tour?” Minerva asked Nero, ignoring the “wrong turn comment.”
“Sure.” He waved a hand at the half-oval full of grunting men. “We got cages, we got weights, we got punching bags. There ya go.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
“What else d’ya want? A juice bar?”
“Everyone needs vitamin C.”
Nero doubled over laughing. “Hey, Zion. This smartass wants a juice bar.”
Zion was here?
I followed Nero’s gaze to the cage on our left and looked up. And up, and up, and up. Zion was larger than Goliath—I knew that firsthand. Nearly seven feet tall, with shoulders wider than my new Chevy Bolt. Zion’s arrogant sneer suggested he shared Goliath’s attitude too. The Philistine giant might have been defeated by David and a handful of pebbles, but he was still a cocky son of a bitch whose ego was bigger than his oversized body.
Zion threw one final punch that left his sparring partner staggering backward and studied us through the mesh of the cage.
“You’re in the wrong place, pretty boy.”
Guess again.
Zion didn’t know it yet, but I was exactly where I needed to be. And now I was left with a choice. Should I embrace my inner devil or play nice for now?
Joseph and I knew who Zion was, and we had an idea of the layout of his lair. Should we back off and formulate a plan, or push forward and demand answers? Both approaches had their advantages—and disadvantages. If we forced the issue, we’d tip our hand and Zion would know we were digging into Wren’s predicament, but we might also get the answers we needed faster. And with Caria’s life in peril, time was of the essence. Plus I quite liked the idea of having my apartment back. Wren was the first woman to spend the night in my space since I lost Nevaeh, and having her there was…uncomfortable.
But there was also something to be said for moving slowly. For stepping back, watching, and waiting. Seeing who Zion associated with. Climbing the tree slowly instead of leaping for the top branch and potentially losing my grip.
But I didn’t have long to make a decision. The cage door was open, and Zion was already reaching for his towel…
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What should Blane do?
Option 1 – Crack on and push Zion for answers.
Option 2 – Take the softly-softly approach.
Decision made: Blane is going to push Zion for answers.
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Go to Chapter 11
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