Chapter 6
SIX
If caught, it’s over. Escape is a dream, and dreams are for fools.
CELINE
I sleep a little, but I’m too wired to truly rest.
The bed is too empty. There’s no heavy arm around my waist, no hair tickling my neck or cheeks. Gods, when did I get more comfortable sharing my bed than sleeping alone?
I sit up and tug the thin blanket over my chest.
Something about my cell is different. There aren’t any windows, so I can’t be sure, but I’m pretty sure it’s daylight. The cold feels different, weaker, like it can’t quite penetrate the log walls as easily as it did during the night.
There’s a shallow bowl of water near the fire, an oddly shaped pitcher, and a tray of food that wasn’t there when I fell asleep. I frown, not loving the idea that someone came in here while I slept. Was it the veydra or someone else? I guess prisoners can’t be choosers.
I sniff the food, then shovel it into my mouth. It’s some kind of greasy stew with tough chunks of meat that I could spend all day chewing and never cut down to size. I chew harder and risk a swallow. I don’t want to spend any more time tasting this than I have to.
Once I’ve scarfed it down, I wash off to the best of my ability using the bowl of water. I don’t have any of my normal products—they confiscated my backpack—but I’ll be damned if my basic hygiene suffers. I’m already grossed out by the suspicious bucket in the corner shaped vaguely like a toilet.
Next, I methodically braid my hair. The pull against my scalp is familiar. I’ve used this style so many times since I started fighting at the Mouth of Hell that I could do it with my eyes closed. Which is handy because there’s no mirror in here.
That face-shifting asshole knew I’d make good use of any sharp edges as soon as someone opens my door. It’s both inconvenient and satisfying not to be underestimated.
Moderately full, I take stock of my body and start stretching.
My routine is a mix of dance and fight moves, including all three splits, arm and leg rotations, and one hundred bodyweight squats with jabs, hooks, and uppercuts mixed in.
By the time my muscles are warm, a light sheen of sweat has formed on my lower back.
I drink all the lukewarm water from the pitcher, then examine it. Not ceramic or glass. I could probably break it—I’m pretty confident I could break almost anything with the right motivation—but it doesn’t seem sharp enough to make a weapon.
Still, I don’t recognize the material, so how do I know how it will break? Might as well find out.
I raise the pitcher over my head and throw it at the floor, yelping and dodging as it bounces directly at my face. What the fuck is this thing made from? Flubber? I stomp on it next, but even my foot rebounds faster than it should.
Picking the pitcher up, I examine the lip and the curved edges. Not a crack in sight. My eyebrows shoot up. It’s virtually indestructible; I’m impressed.
When the door opens with an ominous whine, I don’t hesitate, hurling the pitcher at the veydra with all my strength.
He ducks, and it sails over his head and hits the guard behind him, knocking him out cold. A flash of straight white teeth disrupts my captor’s living mask. Did he grin at me?
“Nice shot,” he says.
“It almost was.” I drop into a loose fighting stance. If he thinks I’ll let him anywhere near me, he’s going to learn the hard way what I do to people who enter my personal space without an invitation.
I don’t know what his face is made from, but I’m more than happy to treat it like the pitcher and experiment until something gives.
His lips quirk up at the corners, and he glances over his shoulder at the unconscious meathead. “You’ve incapacitated my guard, darling.”
“Tragic,” I mutter, then frown when there’s no pain from the lie. I had hoped the restraints were blocking my magic, but I’m not bound anymore. Time to experiment.
“You won the fight at the Mouth of Hell,” I say. Nothing. “This realm is lovely.” Still nothing. “My father is a loyal, kind-hearted man.” The words are ash on my tongue, but no matter how big the lie, my magic doesn’t register it.
It’s liberating and horrible at the same time.
“Are you finished?” The veydra cocks his head. “I have a deal for you.”
His cadence is sharp—this is important. Gritting my teeth, I drop out of my fighting stance and examine my nails. “Let’s hear it,” I say.
“You’ll fight.”
I yawn. “What’s in it for me?”
“One man of your choosing for each win.”
I narrow my eyes. “What’s the catch?”
“There’s no catch.”
“Cut the bullshit,” I snarl. “There’s always a catch.”
“Ah, you want to know what happens if you lose?”
“I don’t lose,” I tell him, raising my eyebrows to remind him exactly how our match in Vegas ended . . . with him covered in burns and cuts, dragged from the cage by Resker’s goons.
“I know, darling, which is why I didn’t mention it as a possibility.”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap, then curse myself for giving him a reaction. If I show him that he’s getting to me, it’ll only get worse. “If I did lose . . .” My jaw spasms from how hard I’m clenching it.
“How could that happen?” he asks. “You assured me it never does.”
I hiss, hating the amusement in his voice.
“I’m not cocky. I work my ass off because I spent my whole childhood getting it kicked.
I win fights, not because there’s no one better than me, but because I know what it takes to fall and get back up again.
I win fights because I know from many painful, firsthand experiences exactly how it feels to lose. ”
My skin crawls. I’m revealing a lifetime of abuse to my enemy, telling him things I don’t enjoy sharing with my friends or even remembering when I’m alone. He should know who he’s working for, though. Maybe he won’t care, but I won’t allow him the comfort of ignorance.
For a long time, there’s no sound besides the crackling of the fire in the hearth.
The veydra stands terribly still. I think I’ve surprised him. I brace for the worst as he clears his throat.
“I’m glad you’ve got a healthy perspective,” he says, his voice slicing through me like a whip. “For every fight you lose, one of them dies. The basilisk, the vampire, the demon, or the angel—it’ll be your choice. Darling. And if you fail to cooperate . . .”
He trails off, but his meaning is obvious. My blood freezes in my veins, and it has nothing to do with the cold gripping this cursed realm in its bony fingers.
Lose a fight and lose everything that matters to me.
Fight outside the lines and be punished with the only torment I couldn’t bear.
“Let’s go then,” the veydra says softly.
I trudge after him without question or complaint, stepping over the unconscious guard. On the outside, I’m calm, assured, and as confident as I’ve ever been. On the inside, I’m shutting down.
I barely slept without Luca at my side last night. If he stops breathing, will my lungs decide to do the same? And what about my heart? Alistair, Ciprian, Malach. Could I survive if they don’t?
Get in the zone. Fear won’t help you save them. My thoughts are harsh, but I know I should listen to them. The veydra holds four lives in his hands—but they’re everything to me. Even without my magic, my truth is clear: I’d rather die than lose them.
I have to win.
“Once you’re in the arena, your magic will be unlocked,” the veydra says. His voice is brisk, with none of the flirty rasp he used during our conversation inside the birdcage.
That’s what I’ve decided to call my personal prison. The raised, circular cabin—balanced on one leg like a stork—is too on-the-nose to ignore. Add in my metaphorically clipped wings, and there’s no escaping the similarities.
There’s a narrow balcony beneath our feet. Tumor-like, it wraps around the outside of my jail cell. Not wide enough for sitting and sipping; it can’t be considered a porch. It has more in common with a lookout, useful for spies and snitches and nothing else.
The veydra stops in front of one of the posts supporting the railing. It’s taller than the rest.
He hums softly, then pokes at the wood in a random pattern. I squint, but I don’t see any buttons. Magic, idiot. I try to memorize the order and placement of his fingers, but with no physical frame of reference to orient the code, it’s impossible.
“Damned cold today,” he mutters, not sparing a single glance for his buddy that I knocked out.
I scoff. I’m not about to engage in small talk with my father’s pet assassin. And, from what I’ve seen, it’s cold here every day. This realm is the opposite of the Fringes, where I spend most of my time sweating under stage lights or blinding sunshine.
The wind kicks up around us, cutting through my ratty sweatshirt. I refuse to shiver. Not in front of him. As far as he’s concerned, I’m an angel made of stone and nothing else.
A metallic buzz cuts through the wind, and I blink as an elevated walkway materializes in front of us. The rope bridge is made of gods know what, and it stretches all the way from my birdcage to the massive arena.
I stare at it in silence. It reminds me of the transportation pathways in the celestial realm. More rudimentary, sure, like using the tip of a butcher’s knife to eat meat instead of a fork, but the energy is similar. It’s buzzing with magic.
The veydra looks at me, then pulls his cloak off.
He walks to the edge of the bridge, holds the ragged hood up, and says, “In case you were thinking about jumping.” He thrusts what’s left of the white fur over the railing.
It glows cherry red before dissolving into ash and fluttering toward the ground.
“What good would it do for me to jump alone?” I glare at him. “I won’t leave them behind.”
There’s no point pretending otherwise. The veydra already knows all four of my weaknesses, and he’s using them against me in the cruelest way possible, all because my father is lining his pockets.
I’m not standing in front of someone with a heart, soul, and brain of their own. He’s little more than a puppet, and no matter how much he bleeds, he won’t be real until he cuts the strings controlling him.
“So loyal,” he spits the word. I curl my upper lip. He speaks of loyalty the way I talk about dishonesty, as if it’s a contagious disease.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
He freezes in the middle of shrugging back into his mangled cloak and eyes me. “Why do you care?”
“I like to know the names of my enemies before I kill them.”
He smiles, but there’s something bitter in the expression. I see it, even with the amber barrier between us.
“You can call me Riven.”
I frown. “Your real name—”
“Is lost,” he snarls, “to everyone but the gods.”
A horn blows in the distance, and Riven heads toward the sound, crossing the bridge in long, brittle strides, his limp from last night nothing but a fond memory.
I follow, but this bridge isn’t meant to be used by two people at once. It bounces, sways, and lurches with every step we take. I grip the rope railings with both hands, painfully aware of what will happen if I trip and fall.
Crossing the bridge requires such a high level of concentration that I don’t get a chance to study the arena properly. I replay Riven’s outburst as I walk.
The lost name is clearly a sore subject for him, but I’m not sure how to use it against him. Yet. I’m not interested in his past or his future. He’s a threat to everyone I care about, but as long as his actions impact me, I want to know everything about his present.
S’lach thinks he can use Riven to prove I’m as powerless as I used to be, but I can’t allow that. Not this time. I’m strong enough to fight and win, and I’ll prove it or die trying.
The unmistakable roar of a crowd reaches me—twenty times louder than the cheers and boos I’m used to hearing at the Mouth of Hell. That’s fine, great even. I can use that energy to fuel my anger.
“Any more questions?” Riven asks.
I shake my head and roll my shoulders back, bracing to fight.
My opponents don’t matter. They can’t. If I have to kill them to protect my guys, I will. I’ll accept the stains on my soul without complaint, but the less I know about them in advance, the better. The last thing I need is to picture Lyss or Dom before every killing blow.
I expect no mercy, and I’ll give none in return. That’s a truth I can live with—one I can kill with, too. It will have to be enough.