Chapter 11
DANTE
The Fossa reeked like a grave that had been ripped apart, and the bowels of the earth had spilled out to rot in the sun.
Never-ending heat baked the yellow-red stone by day and turned the air unbreathable. Dust storms abraded skin off bones. At dusk, the cold crawled in through every crack like ice, freezing damaged, torn flesh.
I lay on my side in the shallow hollow that served as my bed, facing the bars, my shoulder pressed into sandy grit, my still-healing ribs aching with every breath.
I’d stopped counting bruises after the first week.
Stopped hoping they would fade after the second.
By the fourth, pain had become a constant song, varying notes of throbs and stabs, a symphony of suffering.
A month had passed.
I knew because the routine had carved itself into me: wake, drag myself to the trough, drink rust-tasting water, fight, bleed, crawl back, try not to die in the dark.
That last part was getting harder.
The Fossa was an underground coliseum with no glory and no audience except our captors, who wore authority like a mantle and cruelty like a badge.
The “arena” was a wide circle of stone with packed sand at the center, ringed by iron grates and raised platforms where guards lounged with crossbows and whips.
Above, a narrow slit of sky blazed white or blue or gray, indifferent to what happened in here.
The prisoners were shadows of males and females who had once been living, thriving creatures, reduced to skin and bones and seething resentment.
Vampires, all of us, sent here to atone for our sins, or die because we stood up to authority, or—like me—simply because our existence was an inconvenient truth for someone more powerful.
I’d survived this place once, even though the Overseer and his witch turned me into a monster.
Then I’d escaped and found redemption in the arms of a female I didn’t deserve.
For the first two weeks, Emberline had been my only light against the darkness, my star in the night sky, those precious, fragile memories sustaining me against the enduring horrors of this place. Against the pain.
Against the demon, growing ever more powerful inside me.
Now, I kept every thought of my wife buried deep, in a place no one would ever think to look. Safely hidden inside my heart, a beautiful secret I hoarded for myself like a prize.
Where the Overseer’s corruption could never stain her. Where the demon’s hate could never touch her. Where ugliness and pain would not poison our love or ruin a single precious memory.
I’d made my peace, knowing I would never see my fierce, beautiful girl again.
Every scar had been reopened, every tattoo ripped, along with tattered skin. The seals that contained the demon were broken. There was nothing holding him back now except my fraying will.
The Overseer had starved me since that first day, and hunger gnawed at my stomach, my mind, my soul, and soon, I’d lose control, and my world would become nothing but fire.
That was what the Overseer was waiting for.
What I was fighting to avoid.
Before I lost myself, I had to find some way to die. Permanently. My death wouldn’t kill the fire demon trapped inside my mortal shell, but I refused to become a weapon for the Overseer’s amusement, for the crowd’s entertainment, but the longer I starved, the more that seemed inevitable.
A cough sounded across the corridor of cages—a wet, broken thing—then went quiet, even the dying knowing not to call attention to themselves. Attention meant pain, and pain meant you were dragged out of your cell by your ankles, then you disappeared.
But not without suffering first.
I dozed on and off, dreaming of the revenge I’d been cheated out of. Dreaming of Emberline. Of citrus and lavender and how her hair looked against her bare shoulders. Of a few weeks when my life had been perfect.
Then the fight bell rang.
My stomach clenched from what was coming, my broken ribs nowhere close to healed. One of these times, they would puncture a lung, and then… then I didn’t know.
I pushed myself upright, slowly, the world tilting precariously. My wrist was swollen where the shackles rubbed me raw. My knuckles were split, scabbed over, still bleeding from yesterday. My dry, cracked mouth tasted of iron and dust.
And, like always, I promised myself I would remain a vampire.
A guard stomped down the corridor, keys rattling. His face was hidden behind a half-mask of black metal, but I could tell he was grinning.
“Dominico,” he drawled. “You’re up first.”
I rose without speaking, pushing the pain to the side.
The lock clicked, my cage door swung open, and the guard shoved me into the wall. I didn’t retaliate. That was the first lesson here—save your strength for the arena.
He and another guard marched me out into the main pit. The sand was already hot, sticking to my bare feet. They’d raked the ring to hide the blood stains, but there would be plenty of them by the time the sun fell behind the mountains—some of them mine.
Maybe I’d get my neck snapped and miss the entire miserable day.
One could only hope.
The Overseer watched from the central platform, elbows resting on the railing as if he was enjoying a pleasant afternoon. Pale eyes trailed over me—searching for a sign I’d broken, a flicker of fire on my skin, the unhinged expression of a monster gone rogue.
I grinned and flipped the bastard off. Both hands, in case he didn’t take the hint.
He nodded to his guards.
The gate on the far side opened, and another prisoner stepped through.
A big male—even taller than me, broad-shouldered, with scars like carved lines across his arms. He was well-fed, in his prime, layered with muscle. One eye was milky, dead. The other burned with feral hunger.
They called him Brutus.
Because subtlety completely escaped these idiots.
The giant rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, and when he looked at me, there was nothing sane left in his gaze. Just bloodlust sharpened into violence and cruelty. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one being starved half to death.
The Overseer snapped his fingers, and the bell rang again, sharper this time. I dropped my weight back onto my heels, bending my knees, battered ribs screaming.
Brutus moved first, a blur despite his size. I was so weak, I barely had time to shift my weight before a fist slammed straight into my ribs. Pain exploded white-hot, and for a heartbeat, my entire world narrowed to the rush of bile flooding my throat.
I staggered, forced myself to breathe through the searing agony, then I stepped into his next swing, catching his wrist and twisting hard.
Bones snapped like sticks, joints torqued, tendons tore. He’d heal fast, but this would buy me a minute. Brutus snarled and yanked back, then drove his shoulder into my chest, driving the air from my lungs.
I hit the sand, teeth rattling. The crowd—if you could call starving prisoners a crowd—made a sound that was a half-groan, half-curse as his good fist came down like a hammer.
I rolled to the side, came up on one knee, and spat a dark thread of blood.
Hunger immediately clawed at me when I tasted it. My own blood was useless, but instinct didn’t care anymore. It just wanted. And wanted. And wanted.
Brutus lunged, and I ducked, the punch whistling over my head, and slammed my forearm into his throat, crushing his esophagus.
He choked, staggered, but didn’t go down.
Instead, his next wild swing caught my cheekbone, stars bursting behind my eyes.
My skin split, crimson misting the air between us.
I didn’t care.
I moved faster than him this time, twisting his other arm, driving my knee into his stomach, and when he doubled over, I hooked his planted ankle and swept my feet underneath.
He crashed to the sand with a grunt, trying to catch himself with two broken arms. With his bulk, that was a no-go, one shoulder popping out of joint. I followed him down, pressing my forearm across his throat, not to kill—but for him to submit.
He bucked beneath me. My broken ribs screamed, blood gushing from me, from him, hunger carving me apart at the coppery scent. My arms shook from the effort, his face turning red, then purple.
“Tap out, you fucker. Don’t make me do this,” I grunted. “Be smart, for once in your godsdamned life.”
His hand scrabbled in the sand, found a jagged rock. He swung in a clumsy circle, aiming for my temple, clipping my ear when I jerked back. Pain flared for a second, and warm blood poured down my neck.
The crowd hissed, then fell silent as the Overseer leaned forward, interested.
“You had your chance,” I hissed, catching Brutus’s wrist and slamming it into the sand—once, twice, three times—bones shattering until the rock fell from numb fingers. Then I drove my elbow into his jaw.
His head snapped sideways, and he went still.
Not permanently.
They’d drag him back to his cell, where he’d recover after a few days.
Someone started clapping, a slow and mocking sound. The kind of clap that made your insides shrivel up. I was too weak to stand, sand sticking to my blood-soaked skin. A guard hauled Brutus away by the shoulders, limp as a fish.
The clapping went on and on, and finally, I managed to lift my gaze to the platform, and the sight was another punch to my gut.
Giovanni was too clean for this place, too soft, in his pretend friar’s robe and sandaled feet. His round face was filled with cruelty and cunning, and because he was no longer in the city, no longer hemmed in by society’s polite rules, his civilized mask was gone.
Here, he could be himself—an apex predator amongst baser monsters, far worse than anything this cesspool had ever birthed. I met his gaze, still on my knees, but with my chin high.
“What a surprise,” he called, voice carrying effortlessly. “Still breathing. I’d so hoped to see your beast come out, but I’m told you’re being stubborn to the end.”
I didn’t blink. I didn’t bow.