The Darkening Archipelago Read Online Free Page A

and landed a solid right. Cole didn’t even see it. His left cheek took the whole force of the blow, and he dropped to the canvas. Frankie stepped back. Cole pushed himself to a sitting position and shook his head. A trickle of blood seeped from his mouth.
    â€œCole,” said Denman, standing at the ropes with the cellphone in his hands.
    â€œWhat in the name of God’s green earth is it?” said Cole, spitting his mouthguard into his gloved hand, a string of saliva and blood coming along for the ride.
    â€œCole, that was Mary. Archie Ravenwing is dead.”
    Cole stuffed his gloves into his gym bag and pulled on his leather jacket over his sweater.
    â€œCole, I’m real sorry to hear about your friend,” said Frankie Fingers from behind him.
    â€œIt’s okay, Frankie. I appreciate that. Hey, good fight.” Cole straightened, felt the stiffness in his neck and shoulders, and picked up his bag with his left hand. He extended his right toward Frankie.
    â€œYeah, good fight, Cole. You’ve really come a long way, man.” Frankie extended his hand.
    â€œPop any fingers this time around?” Frankie got his nickname because he dislocated a finger or two during nearly every fight — loose ligaments, his trainer told him — and it kept him from turning pro a few years back.
    â€œTwo,” he said, smiling. “But it ain’t no-thing.” He stepped toward the mirror and combed his hair into a point in the front. “And hey, I’m sorry about that last cheap shot.”
    â€œMy fault,” said Cole. “For twenty-five years people have been telling me to stay focused, not to let my guard down. Seems I’ve still got a ways to go.”
    â€œWell, you’re looking good out there, man,” said Frankie. “See you next week.” Frankie exited the dim locker room, and Cole took his place in front of the mirror. He straightened as he peered at himself. Not so bad, he thought. He’d dropped almost ten kilos since he’d been back in the ring. He was still a little soft in the middle, still carried fifteen pounds more than he liked, but progress was progress and he shouldn’t complain. He was aiming to be super middleweight by summer. Maybe then he’d actually take his shirt off when he fought.
    He examined his face. The twisted white scar that cut across his right eyebrow was still visible after ten months, and likely always would be. The disfigurement on his left cheek was also plainly evident. They were ugly reminders of his time in Oracle, Alberta last spring, when he had come face to face with a killer and had nearly become a victim himself. It was hard to believe it had been almost a year.
    He pushed back the memory and studied the most recent round of bruising. His left cheek was red and a little puffy. Maybe he’d put some ice on it when he got home. Or he might find a cheap cut of steak in his fridge and slap it on like they did in the movies. Either way, by morning he’d have a good bruise. He pushed his hair into some semblance of order and stepped out of the locker room.
    â€œHow you doing, Cole?” asked Denman Scott. Scott was seated on a plastic orange chair in the dim lobby of the East Hastings Boxing Club. He wore a jean jacket over a hooded sweatshirt and sported a tan flat cap on his closely shaved head.
    â€œI’m all right,” Cole said.
    â€œSorry about that. About distracting you.”
    Cole smiled at him. “I’ll never learn, it seems.”
    â€œAw, come on now,” said Denman, rising and moving toward the flimsy doors that opened into the night. “You’re looking really good in the ring. Really.”
    Cole smiled again. “I actually feel pretty good. Lighter, you know? I feel like my movement is coming back. Like I’m actually moving like a fighter again. But I’m slow with my hands, and when I fight a guy like Fingers, who’s what, half my age?