Kate 3 snippit (as promised)

                I crossed the floor to the wire door and stepped into the pit.   The sand lay placid.  In my dreams it was always splattered with blood, but now it was clean and yellow.  I crouched, picked up a handful and let it slide through my fingers.  Strange how it was cold. 

The grains of sand fell in a feathery curtain.  Memories came.   Heat.  Taste of blood in my mouth. Flesh sliced, bright red.  Dead eyes staring into the sky.   Blinding sun.   Roar of the crowd.  Pain – left shoulder, a werejaguar’s bite, side – a spear thrust, right calf – razor-sharp tail of a quick reptilian monster for which I had no name…

                “Like greeting an old friend, no?”

                I turned to see an older man looking at me through the wire.  Hard lines creased his face, worn and tanned to leather by years spent in the sun.  His face was wide.   His black hair, pulled back and gathered at the nape of his neck, was liberally salted with grey.

                “Hardly a friend,” I told him.

                Mart emerged from the black gate.  He crossed the floor, silent like a shadow, in his black suit, and sailed into the air, landing effortlessly onto the fence.  The man hadn’t heard him. 

                “Have you fought here before?”  His voice was tinted with light sprinkling of French.

                I shook my head. 

                “Where then?”

                “Hoyo de Sangre. A long time ago.”

                Mart watched me.  He had an odd look on his face.  It was definitely predatory, but there was a tint of something other to his expression, something disturbing and almost wistful.

                “Ahh.”  The man nodded.  “Ghastly place.  Do not worry.  The sand is the same everywhere.”

                I smiled.  “Here it’s cold.”

                He nodded again.  ‘That is true.  But it will make little difference.  Once you hear them clamor—”  he gazed at the empty seats  “—you will remember.  How long has it been?”

                “Twelve years.”

                His eyebrows crept up.  ‘Twelve?  Surely not.  You are far too young and too beautiful…”  His voice faltered.   “Mon Dieu, je me souviens de toi. Petit Tueur…”

                He took a step back as if the fence between us had grown red hot and walked away.