Chapter 28
Daisy
Murmured voices tore Daisy away from her thoughts.
She had spent hours sitting on the cold floor, without food or water.
Without a bathroom. Thankfully she didn’t have to go, but others weren’t so lucky.
The healers had come and gone, most of them barely keeping an eye on their charges.
Most of those chained weren’t held in high esteem, and the healers didn’t want to trouble themselves.
Faelynn sat quietly, not talking to anyone. Her gaze was never far from Daisy.
A door opened at the side. Wheels squealed as they rolled along the tracks. Darkness waited beyond, occasionally interrupted by a wavering voice in the distance. A singer, perhaps.
They are getting ready to bring out the first champions, Daisy heard. Tarian, mentally speaking through the magical knife. Each of you will compete against a prisoner. The fight is to the death.
A stocky female walked through the wide doorway. She unrolled a scroll and looked around, spying a male at the edges and pointing. Two guards stepped forward from the walls to grab him, and a healer stood from the tables. She then chose another. They’d go first.
After that, in various increments of time, a dozen others followed. Only half of them returned. Of those, only three hadn’t been gruesomely injured.
From his seat, Tarian had a great view of the fighting arena. He played for her what he saw, allowing her to get a glimpse no one else would get. It would give her an edge.
It also jangled her nerves. She’d anticipated prisoners like she’d seen in the cells: starved, weak, and frail. Instead, muscled mammoths swung huge arms as they walked onto the floor, teeth missing and gums black. Full of rage and hate and fire.
They usually bring the frail and weak prisoners out first, yes, Tarian replied to her observation. The games have never started this viciously before. Serious contenders have been taken down. Nobles are shifting in their seats, either from anger or surprise. I’m not sure what’s going on.
The king had places to be. In the human realm, specifically. He’d been hurrying Tarian and Eldric along to get those chalices set, tested, and ready. They had all they needed. They just had to put them in the right order. The king wouldn’t want this taking up Tarian’s valuable time.
Very likely, Tarian murmured.
They still didn’t have an exit plan. Tarian didn’t have the right information to free himself from his shackles. Their time was running out, especially now, assuming the king was hurrying this along.
“You.”
Daisy looked up, finding herself at the end of the guard’s pointed finger. Her turn.
The butterflies in her belly turned ravenous.
I’ve done this before, she thought as the guards undid her manacles and Faelynn stood from her seat. I’ve trained with huge guys before. Magical guys. Skilled guys. This is not new, and their magic cannot hurt me. I’m fast. I’m agile. I’ve got this.
She took deep breaths as she stood. The guards’ grip on her upper arms was bruising, a warning that she should not try to run. No one had. Not yet.
She siphoned off a little magic from them for no other reason than to give her something to focus on. They tensed but didn’t otherwise react. It was, honestly, a perfect magic for her, rooted in thievery. As morally gray as a magic could be.
The darkness of the hallway swallowed them, almost no light with which to see by. Then they turned a corner, and a white glow surrounded a black object, the edges stained purple. A curtain.
The guards didn’t slow as they reached it. An unseen hand pulled the curtain back, and the light flared brightly. She squinted as her eyes adjusted and quickly looked around. Nobles in their finery lounged in their seats, little smirks pulling at their lips when they saw her.
“The human,” someone whispered as she passed.
“She won’t last a moment.”
The king sat on his dais, leaning against the arm of his throne. His eyes shone with interest. The princess’s eyes hardened, hate fueling her gaze.
Daisy tucked away her thoughts so they couldn’t eavesdrop.
Splatters and splotches of blood marred the pristine floor along her path, slick when stepped on. At the center of the room, where the nobles usually spun and twirled to the music, pools of crimson shone in the brightly lit space.
Tarian watched her approach with somber eyes. He leaned his elbow against the arm of his couch, his fingers lightly touching his jaw.
The guards shoved her forward. Her foot hit the slick edge of the puddle and slipped, throwing off her weight.
She could’ve stabilized herself. She could’ve bent her legs, centered her balance, and slid into the center. But that would’ve hinted at her skill.
Instead, she let her weight keep going, gravity dragging her down.
Her arm hit the floor and her hand thunked, jostling her.
She cried out in alarm, in disgust, her face a horrified mask of fear as she flailed within the evidence of death.
Blood coated her clothes and covered some of her weapons.
It matted her hair and wet the side of her face.
Shaking and distraught, she climbed to her feet amid uproarious laughter. Fae slapped their thighs and bent over in their mirth.
She looked sheepish as she caught movement from the side.
A tall male stepped into view, wearing furred briefs.
A leather strap across his torso held a serrated blade, and a ponytail with wavy hair fell down his back.
Corded muscle rippled as he moved. Each step held power…
but lacked balance. He was a warrior, but not a good one. Not of the caliber she was used to.
Magic curled around him. It swirled through the room and dusted the floor at his feet. She established a connection with it as his gaze raked over her. He sneered, not bothering to reach for his knife.
She quickly, and with shaking hands, grabbed for hers. Not her magical knife, though. No. A throwing knife, which she held as though it were a dagger. She bent her knees and braced, slipping and sliding as she tried to back away from his advance.
And the Oscar goes to…
She could feel Tarian’s confusion. She was even fooling him. Well done, Daisy.
The hard part would be winning while making it seem like an accident. She’d never done that before.
Do not take any chances, Tarian warned.
Yeah, yeah.
“Do not kill the human,” the king said as the other champion stopped at the edge of the bloody puddle.
She noticed his feet had extra tread for traction.
Her shoes were smooth soled, the ones Tarian had chosen switched out before being led out here.
They’d given her lot a disadvantage from the start.
“But you may break her into pieces if you wish.”
Tarian rubbed his fingers across his lips. He didn’t comment, but his eyes burned. He was not amused.
She had no idea why not.
Her lip trembled. She edged around the puddle until she was opposite her attacker.
Her magic started siphoning his slowly. She then had to release it from her body, because her vessel was full.
This was just practice and to see if taking from him would weaken him.
It should, but how quickly? She hadn’t tested that while fighting yet.
“Commence,” a voice boomed.
The male didn’t hurry. He walked across the pool of blood like he had all the time in the world.
She looked around her like a frightened rabbit and thought of all the ways this could go.
The male nearly reached her—she hurried out of the way.
He followed her without a change in expression.
It was almost like he was trudging after a petulant child who, when caught, was going to get dragged to the naughty corner.
She avoided him one more time, licked her lips as she looked back at Tarian furtively, then darted forward with her throwing knife. The male stopped, waiting for her, and she “tripped” when she drew close. She fell, slid, and crashed into his legs.
He reached down for her, not as fast as she’d expected or maybe not really trying. She slapped at his hands with one hand, screamed, and struck upward with her knife in the melee. The blade lodged home…right into his ballsack.
Tee-hee!
He jerked violently, and she increased the suction of her magic, pulling more from him. He didn’t notice, bellowing in pain and reaching between his legs where it hurt the most, bending, his knees wobbling.
She surged up, “off-kilter” and with a flurry of “panicked” movement.
Her magical dagger was in her hand in a flash, and her shoulder bashed into his solar plexus.
The force knocked his weight backward. She “slipped,” kicked out his foot with hers, and forced him to do the splits before he could get his knife.
His scream increased in pitch, and she had to work very hard not to grin.
Fuck she loved fighting dirty. It was so much fun.
His weight was still going backward. She clutched the strap across his chest to “keep from falling” and “accidentally” shoved her knife through his middle. It elongated on its own, really the best knife a gal could have, and she ripped him to the side as she “fell.”
He landed with a half-strangled cry, cut short by her landing on the knife, driving it in the rest of the way.
She scrambled off him, rolled and fell and sobbed, taking her knife with her.
Before she was completely off, she yanked her throwing knife out of his balls and gave a legitimate ugh as she did so.
Fuck that was gross. Dirty play was fun… until the cleanup.
She sat in a little ball, shaking and willing tears to trail down her blood-splattered face. It wasn’t easy. That had been a fucking good time. Though…she didn’t know if siphoning magic had made her enemy incrementally weaker.