The Obsidian Pit was packed.
Holden went down the subway stairs and felt the heat before he saw the crowd. The air was filled with the energy of hundreds of people crammed into an underground space designed for half as many. The noise hit him like a wall. Cheering, shouting, the clink of glasses, and the ever-present bass thud of fights already in progress.
His gold mask was in place. His cloak covered everything else. He moved through the crowd like a shadow, and the crowd parted for him.
Word had spread.
After what he'd done to Gorge the Butcher, people were watching. They whispered. They made room, not out of respect exactly, but out of the instinctive caution people showed around things they didn't understand.
The bookmaker saw him coming.
The scarred man actually stood up from his chair, which was a first. His cigar was unlit, his ledger was open, and his smile showed too many teeth.
