Ascendants of Ancients Sovereign (Worlds of the Crystal Moon, Book 1) (3 page)

Like most red-blooded males, Sam surveyed the woman’s figure. He took the time to admire her long, shapely legs, and curvy hips. They were perfect. As his eyes moved upward, the coolness of the night only added to her beauty. Everything was exquisite, until his eyes focused on her teeth. They were the antithesis of her silky, brown, flowing hair. Her wretched smile exposed twisted gaps he could drive a bus through. Forcing a pleasant nod, Sam rushed inside.

The woman called after him. “Wait! Come back!”

A barrage of flashing lights greeted Sam as he stepped through the door. Almost blinded by their intensity, he somehow managed to work his way through the mob.

“Sam! Sam Goodrich!” a woman wearing a dark-blue, Dior, business suit and a large smile hollered. Her hair was pinned up, exposing a slender neck, and she was waiting next to the hallway which Sam had to enter to get to his dressing room. “Sam Goodrich, Martha Haige, ESPN. Will you take a moment to allow the fans to get to know you?”

Putting on his best smile, Sam responded, “Sure thing, Ms. Haige. What do the fans want to know?”

With cameras flashing and live video streaming throughout the Pay-Per-View world, Martha changed her tone. Her smile vanished and was replaced with a more serious expression. “You seem to be a bit of a mystery. I think the fans would like to know why a doctor would choose to fight. Why would a genius elect to be a part of the brutality? Can you help us understand what drives you to break your Hippocratic Oath?”

Sam searched for a response to Martha’s inquiry, but he was left speechless. The depth of her probing made him realize he could not answer because he did not understand the conflict within his own heart.

After an embarrassing moment of silence, Sam responded. “You’ll have to excuse me, Martha, I’ve got a fight to win.” He pushed past and hurried to the locker room, thinking,
Ravenous woman! You’ll just have to wait until the show is over before I give you an
answer.

The locker room door closed, shutting out the noise and providing a welcomed quiet. As Sam changed, one of his trainers readied the tape for his hands. He looked up. “Jerome, give me a minute, will you? Can you believe the audacity of that woman?”

Jerome gave an understanding nod, the light glinting off the gold ring in his ear. “You okay, man?”

“I wish John was here. I need him.”

“You don’t need John. You know he’s got to take care of the fam first. Besides, I got your back. We’ve got this under control!” Jerome patted Sam on the shoulder.

“Okay, okay. Just give me a minute.”

“Sure thing, bro, but you need to warm up, so think fast, alright?”

Sam watched as Jerome left the room. Martha Haige’s question continued to weigh on his mind.
Why don’t I know this? Why can’t I answer her questions? Dang it, John, I need you.

Despite Sam’s agitation, he knew John’s daughter needed her father more than he did. Little Fannie was in stable but serious condition after a hit-and-run while she crossed the school crosswalk with her bike. Sam would not have come to the fight, but John had insisted. During his flight, he said another prayer for Fannie’s well-being. She was simply too young to end up paralyzed for life.

Sam’s opponent was tough, a man from Brazil who held a Mixed Martial Arts record of 18 wins, 3 losses, with 17 wins coming by way of knock out. This Muay Thai specialist was a nightmare to face for his first professional fight, and everyone was betting on the Brazilian to hand Sam his first trip to the mat, knocked out cold. A member of the press had joked, “The good doctor will be able to stitch himself up to save on medical bills.”

After warming up, the time came to enter the cage, but Sam’s stomach had other ideas. He stepped into the hallway outside the locker room, grabbed the nearest trash can and vomited.

Disgusted by his weakness, Sam used the wall to push himself up. He wiped off his mouth and then leaned against Jerome’s shoulder.

The trainer pushed back. “Man up, yo! You got this, dawg. Use that genius head of yours, and get it out of the clouds. Focus! What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Sam knew Jerome was right. It was time to own the situation and think things through. He needed to take charge of his body and control his emotions.

As they made their way to the cage, Sam was sure his puddle of puke would become the cover story for the sports writers, no matter if he won or lost. Gaining further composure, he continued to walk down the corridor into the arena, enjoying the idea of the press twisting his loss of control into a global laugh.

When the cage door closed, Sam stared at his Brazilian opponent and nodded. He felt nothing, neither fear nor excitement. He stood still, evaluating the weak points on the man’s body, systematically calculating how he was going to take advantage of each area to attain victory. It was as if a switch had turned on inside his mind. He knew his body was prepared from his perfect 12–0 amateur record. With confidence in this fact, the rest of the sport was mental—the easiest and yet the hardest part of the sport for Sam. The good doctor was ready to go to war.

The referee stood at the center of the cage and pumped his fist. “Let’s get it on!” he shouted.

The two men met at the center of the octagon. They touched gloves and circled one another to size each other up. The Brazilian threw a few jabs that Sam brushed off with no real damage before countering with a powerful, slapping kick to the Brazilian’s right, inner thigh. The loud smack energized the crowd.

Again the Brazilian attacked, this time lunging forward with his knee, only to pull back and strike with a well-placed, right fist. Sam arched his back in an effort to soften the impact to his face, but his reaction was too slow. He stumbled backward and fell against the chain links of the cage.

The Brazilian followed, aggressively attacking and searching for the next opening. Knees, punches and elbows rained down, but somehow, Sam managed to push the Brazilian away to create the distance he needed to regain his composure.

Sam shook out the cobwebs.
Damn, this guy is good!
he thought.

The two men moved in, locked up, and grabbed hold of each other’s necks in a Muay Thai clinch. The Brazilian tightened his grasp, pulled Sam close, and now the doctor’s stomach and ribs found a new meaning for the word pain. His body screamed from the lightning-fast impact of the crushing knees, and before he knew it, another series of alternating knees followed, one finding the bridge of his nose.

Dazed, everything seemed like one big blur. Punches were now coming from all angles. Sam could feel the control of his muscles fading, but he had been trained to fight back. With a last effort lunge, he swung and somehow managed to find the chin of the Brazilian.

Hurting, both men backed off to regroup. Nearly 10 seconds went by before they re-engaged, an eternity for this type of sport.

Again, the Brazilian grabbed Sam’s head. He scoffed in a heavy accent, “You’re not ready for this. Go home, and leave the fighting to real men. I don’t wish to hurt a child.”

The Brazilian’s insult hit deep. It opened a floodgate and awakened the dormant rage inside the doctor. For Sam, everything in the arena melted away as the fight continued. It was as if his foe had begun to fight in slow motion.

Once again, the Brazilian taunted, “I said go home, Amateur. You don’t have what it takes, boy.”

At that, Sam pulled back, surrendered to the anger rising from the center of his being and allowed his inner junkie to be fed. He struck the Brazilian with a solid, left hook, and followed it with a crushing, right kick to his opponent’s mid-section. The kick caused the Brazilian’s ribs to burn as he took a step back.

Again they circled. Moving in, Sam landed a leading jab, followed by another powerful left hook.

The Brazilian countered with a jab of his own and followed it by shooting in for a takedown.

Lifting Sam into the air, the Brazilian slammed the doctor into the mat. A barrage of punches followed as the Brazilian worked from half-guard to push Sam toward the cage.

It was not until after a gash opened above Sam’s right eyebrow that he was able to counter the Brazilian’s weight. He threw the Brazilian off, stood and backed up while wiping the blood from his squinting eye.

Sensing the advantage, the Brazilian followed. He led with a jab and then dove in for another takedown, but this time Sam was lucky.

Despite the doctor’s wooziness, Sam brought up a right knee that pulverized the Brazilian’s face. Blood erupted from his nose as the Brazilian fell limp to the mat.

Sam could smell victory—a gloriously pungent aroma emanating from the adrenaline that refueled his body. He threw his weight on his opponent and rolled him over. “I am ready for this. Don’t ever doubt me!” he hissed.

Surrounding the Brazilian’s body with both legs, Sam listened to the crowd scream as he buried the heels of his feet into his opponent’s groin. He threw his right arm under the Brazilian’s chin, sinking it deep into his throat while Sam’s right hand cupped the inside of his left elbow to lock the hold in place. To finish the maneuver, Sam placed the upper part of his left arm behind the Brazilian’s head and squeezed with all his might.

With a momentary breach of control, Sam’s inner demon was appeased as it stole the fighter’s sanity. “Never doubt me!” he shouted. With a wickedness he did not know existed, Sam tightened his grasp for the kill. “Die, Bastard, die!” The demon within embraced the predator Sam had become.

Sam’s grasp was so tight, it took only seconds for the Brazilian to tap, and the fight was stopped. The doctor had just won his first fight with a rear naked choke submission—but his arms had to be pried from the Brazilian’s throat.

As Sam rolled free, he screamed—not because he was happy about his victory, but more because the fight had been stopped, and his enjoyment of the kill had been stolen. A few more moments passed before Sam was able to rise from the mat. As he did, he appeared relaxed, though his mind was still scrambling to find the sanity he had lost to quiet the rage still pounding inside.

The cage door opened. Jerome ran in and hoisted the doctor into the air. “You did it, bro! John-boy would be proud. C’mon, man, show the fans you love ‘em and enjoy the moment.” He dropped Sam to his feet.

It took a second to sink in, but once Sam reclaimed control, he smiled. He knew his fame was about to take another giant leap forward, yet his mind would not allow him to stay in the moment. He wondered what this new roller coaster would be like, and because of it, he was already planning months ahead.

Sam faced the announcer who had placed his arm around him for the interview. “That was one hell of a fight, Sam. How do you feel?”

Sam grabbed the mic and pulled it close to his mouth. “I feel awesome!”

The announcer laughed and then pointed to the cut on Sam’s head. “It looks like you’ll be stitching yourself up after all.”

Sam smiled. “How did I know you were going to say that?” He looked at the camera, winked and then flexed his pecs.

As the crowd screamed, a foreign sensation consumed Sam. Instead of the euphoria he was accustomed to, a chill spread throughout his body. Something was not right. As the interview continued, the arena faded into darkness.

To fight the awkwardness, Sam focused on the announcer. He reached out to shake the man’s hand, but as he did, an unexpected evil happened. The announcer’s eyes turned glowing red, and his smile transformed into a mouth filled with razor-sharp, pointed teeth.

Sam’s heart pounded. He tried to react, but he was unable to lift his hand to strike the threat. He was helpless and unable to respond to the orders coming from his mind. His eyelids turned heavy, as if he had gone days without sleep, and the overwhelming weight of his body caused his knees to begin to buckle. He did not understand why it was happening.

Then, as fast as the sensation came over him, it went away. The next thing Sam knew, he was being congratulated on a great fight and asked how it felt to accomplish such an unbelievable victory.

Realizing he had not collapsed to his knees, Sam took a second to regain his bearings. He looked again into the announcer’s eyes, but this time they were crystal blue, accompanied by a bright smile.

Confused, Sam shook off the illusion. “Umm … I’m happy,” he replied before continuing with a list of clichés. “I have a huge amount of respect for my opponent. It’s too bad one of us had to lose. I’m just glad it wasn’t me.”

The fighter managed an unnerved smile as the crowd cheered. He lifted his hands skyward to acknowledge them, but the urge to leave the arena outweighed his need to absorb their adulation.

Sam’s curiosity drove him to look back at the announcer as he stepped out of the cage. The man was staring at him. The fighter watched in horror as the red glow returned to the announcer’s eyes, and a mouthful of wickedly sharp teeth re-emerged to scream their silent threats.

Sam’s face showed his fear as he rushed to the locker room with his trainer on his heels. His thoughts were racing, but no rational explanation could justify what he had seen. He was stumped, yet his brilliant intellect knew, somehow, the red glowing eyes of the announcer and his pointed teeth felt familiar, but how and why, he did not know.