La Misericordia, Ciudad Juarez

The Prisoner Prince stared into Anton's eyes. The shadows made his face into a predatory mask, eyes and teeth catching the scant light far too easily. The silhouettes in the corners of the cell watched, each one radiating a palpable, debilitating fear that rolled off the Beast like vapour from a warm kill on a cold night. Something about their curse made it impossible for Flores to look directly at them. Only corner-eye glances of blank, dark faces.

"El Hombre Palido." the Prisoner Prince rumbled, his steady voice crushing the silence. "Don Medina, he is called here. I gave the City Market to him. As Regency."

Flores simply waited. The only light source in the small concrete room was a flickering closed-circuit monitor, displaying a grainy fight between two men; bloodied convicts grappling furiously as they traded blows. Guards would heave one against each another whenever a combatant was knocked back or the fight began to lull.

"Those were humbler times for for Don Medina. Now, I find the tribute he sends me to be insultingly thin."

He turned to the monitor, his face betrayed no emotion past idle interest - except for his eyes - the eyes seemed to drink the desperate conflict in like wine. And they went dark as he faced Anton, the sick satisfaction ebbing away. The Prisoner grasped a bowl of ash and teeth in one hand. Anton's tribute. It'd been more complete when he'd delivered it two nights ago.

"Your tribute pleases me, Senor Flores. You petition me for my blessing? In murdering Don Medina?"

"I do, Senor Hurones."

Anton kept his voice firm against the Fear permeating the room. The Prince studied Flores' face for a time. Perhaps a minute. It seemed a whole lot longer to Anton as he wondered whether the Sight was being used.

"You have it," the Prisoner answered, finally. His voice put Anton in mind of a falling slab. "One of his men is loyal to me and will aid you. Beyond that you are on your own. Now I expect him dead. To disappoint me would not be wise."

"No, I don't imagine it would," Anton answered.

The fight on the screen was over. It'd ended messily. Guards dragged one battered man from the concrete floor while the other lay crushed and bleeding, his head misshapen. The Prisoner Prince turned his head to Anton, his tone strangely lighter, almost curious.

"Who did you bet on?"