The twinkling smash of finger bones as fist met face—the meaty bite of the jaw, with the added arpeggio of teeth knocking loose. Wet, sucking slaps as ribs popped and punctured the lungs they encased. Vera forced herself to lean forward for a better view of the brawling ring. There it was, the dry autumn-leaf crackle of a massive thighbone splitting in two. And now for the reigning champion’s signature move: a slow, rolling crunch up his opponent’s spine. It reminded her far too much of the harp lessons in her parents’ parlor that she’d left behind for this life. “And there you have it, folks! Another flawless victory from Jorn, fighting for the Stargazers tonight!” The announcer stepped into the ring, as far as possible from Jorn’s hulking, heaving, gasping mass. “Bad luck for the Bayside gang. But I’m sure they’ll cough up another challenger for next week!” The roaring, teeming crowd, frothy as the storm-tossed Bay of Dreams, might as well have been whispering for all Vera heard them.
