Chapter 7
SEVEN
Rooting for someone else to win gives you two opportunities to lose.
MALACH
Guards march us to a room attached to the inner wall of the arena. Three sides are solid metal, and the fourth is a roll-up gate made of gleaming iron forged in a lattice pattern. Each break in the gate’s framework provides a window into the arena.
Sand and ice fill the center of the massive, open-air coliseum.
Boulders are scattered in random formations, mounds of gravel and dirt simulate hills, and there’s even a small copse of trees at the north end.
It’s populated by smaller versions of the towering, hollowed-out conifer we sheltered in during our night in the forest.
The stands stretch high on all sides, and the clouds of hovering junk are easy to overlook because the bloodthirsty cries of the crowd overshadow everything else.
My hands ball into fists. I have a bad feeling about this.
“Where did these people come from?” Ciprian demands, his black eyes roaming angrily over the packed stands. “I haven’t seen a single apartment complex.”
“Some bound populations used to live voluntarily on the other side of the forest,” Luca says, his voice uncharacteristically wooden. “But these are blood tourists.”
Alistair raises his eyebrows. “Cute name. Do I dare ask why they’re called that?”
“They travel here from other realms—usually the more technologically advanced, peaceful ones.”
I scoff. “Bored fools seeking forced violence as a form of entertainment.”
Luca nods. “There’s no shortage of it here. The profits from the arena support the prison, or at least that’s what my parents were told.”
Ciprian paces the room and examines the walls.
I tune them out as I spot Celine behind a rolling gate on the other side of the arena.
Her hair is braided—she’s had time to prepare, at least—but this is all wrong.
She shouldn’t have to fight. Helpless anger rips through me.
It should be me fighting for her. Me destroying her father for the pain he’s caused. How did everything go this wrong?
Pain burrows into my skull, and my vision blurs around the edges.
“She’s here,” I say weakly to the others.
Luca grabs the bars of the gate, then jolts, hissing with pain.
“Don’t.” I pry his fingers off the latticework, wincing at the skin left behind. “It’s spelled.”
“Guys, the faceless creep is out there too.” Ciprian points to the raised platform in the center of the arena.
Shoulder to shoulder, we crowd the bars, getting as close as possible without touching them. When they roll up with a metallic groan, I freeze. What’s going on here? I trust nothing about this. Luca braces to run, but I slam my forearm across his gut as all the hairs on my body stand on end.
“Wait,” I hiss. “Don’t rush; it could be a trick.”
He bristles to argue with me as the door behind us swings open. In the end, we have no choice in the matter as four burly guards shove us out into the sand.
They separate and herd us onto four flat rocks.
They’re oddly round and free of ice. With Celine in sight, I don’t dare fight back, and as soon as the guards back away, the rocks shoot into the air.
I bend my knees to keep my balance, but the stone platform isn’t wide enough for me to brace properly.
I lurch to the side, and my face smacks against an invisible barrier before I can fall fifty feet to the ground.
More magic. Carefully, I test the bottom with the toe of my boots and the middle with the sleeves of my shirt to confirm my suspicions.
For all intents and purposes, this is a tube made of magic.
I don’t think I’m getting off this rock unless they want me to.
None of us will.
Celine looks between us; her lips pressing into a thin line.
A shiver runs the length of my spine. There’s a hardness in her brown eyes that I haven’t seen in years. She knows something. And whatever it is, it’s made her lock down. It’s a self-preservation method and useful for survival.
“Welcome to the Howling Pit,” the veydra yells. “I’m your host, Riven, and we’ve got a special treat for you today.” I glance at the crowd and frown. There are demons, shifters, and fae in the stands. Why is Riven making the announcements in my family’s radiant dialect?
Then it hits me, and I kick myself for my stupidity. He isn’t speaking a nish language—this is translation magic. Something is turning his speech into whatever the listener prefers. We have a similar device in the celestial realm, but the cost is exorbitant.
“Look at the angel,” he says. I wait to feel eyes on me, but they all stare at Celine instead. “She will make a choice, and you can wager on multiple outcomes!”
He pauses as the crowd roars, and I focus on her. From this distance, Celine should be small, but her determination has a weight of its own. It gives her a presence many spend their whole lives striving for.
When she meets my eyes, it’s as if there’s no gap between us. “Be strong, my truth,” I mouth the words and raise my hand. “Nai khirith, mash n’tel.”
Something flickers in her stare, and she lifts her hand for the briefest of moments.
I would give anything to take her place.
“Today, the angel Celine fights for a piece of her heart,” Riven says.
“If she bests her opponent, she secures the safety of one of these prisoners. If she loses, one will be killed. Either way, the choice will be hers. You have fifteen minutes to place your bets. Wagers will be twofold—first by predicting the outcome of the fight, and second, by correctly selecting who she will save or condemn: the vampire, the demon, the basilisk, or the angel.”
The crowd buzzes with excitement.
I hold firm, refusing to give them more fodder for their entertainment.
Along the rim of the arena, between the upper and lower stands, a holographic ticker flickers to life.
At first, I’m not sure what to make of it, then I realize I’m looking at the odds and a countdown.
A different color represents each of us, and the stats are updating in real time as the bets roll in.
The crowd is split evenly between a win and a loss, and I have a slight edge on being the one she saves. Angel to angel—with nothing else to go on, it’s the safest bet—but Ciprian isn’t trailing far behind. The mob clearly enjoys the drama of an angel-demon pairing.
It’s sadistic. The cruelest of spectacles. And the crowd is lapping up every drop. Blood tourists. Luca was right about them.
Celine ignores it all.
As if she isn’t being asked to do the impossible, she stretches and avoids glancing at any of us for too long. I don’t blame her. To maintain the best chance of winning, she must remain calm, and there’s nothing reassuring about the way the four of us have been trussed up and put on display.
I glance at the others.
Luca stands on his platform, rigid and resolute. The only sign of his nerves is the lip ring trapped between his teeth.
Ciprian acts deliberately nonchalant. Sitting cross-legged on the stone base, he throws two middle fingers at the crowd, then leans back on his hands.
When I get to Alistair, I find his eyes already on me. Red and wild, he nods once—a sign of respect or a threat? I’m not sure, so I nod back.
I kick myself for every wrong move that led us here, and the sabotaged gateway flickers through my mind. My magic activated our transportation and . . . my head aches. The memory itself hurts. No matter how many times I try to figure out what went wrong—
The countdown on the ticker hits zero, and a gong echoes around the arena.
A hush falls over the crowd.
My pulse throbs.
“Choose your weapon,” Riven says to Celine. A boulder cracks open, revealing dozens of knives and swords. There’s even a morning star, the club’s handle curved and sanded smooth in direct contrast to the spiked ball attached to the top.
Celine’s gaze flickers over the weapons, then back to the veydra. “Show me my opponent first.”
I roll my shoulders back. She’s smart to make the demand before choosing her weapon. Some of the options are flashy, but will be almost useless against certain supernaturals.
Riven raises his arms. “She wants to see her opponent. Shall we oblige her?”
The crowd cheers loudly; they appreciate her spirit.
After a flick of his hand, a metallic groan echoes from the opposite end of the arena.
A massive door rolls up, revealing thick calves attached to trunk-like thighs. Bare-chested, the male’s hair is buzzed on one side and matted on the other. The wild yellow eyes and trembling hands tell me immediately that Celine is facing a shifter. One struggling with control.
She stares at him, then strides to the weapons’ boulder and selects a longsword.
It’s gigantic.
Nearly as tall as her.
The crowd jeers. They think she’s too small to handle the weight of the folded, double-edged blade.
It will be exhausting, even for Celine, but she needs reach to fight an animal.
While there are a few visible bows and arrows in the armory, if this shifter has a thick hide or natural armor, they won’t be enough.
The shifter leers at Celine, licks his lips, then glances eagerly at Riven.
“Fighters, at your ready,” Riven shouts. “In three-two-one!” He brings his arm down, slicing through the air like a blade.
The shifter sprints toward Celine with no hesitation.
He runs up a slanted boulder wedged in the sand and leaps from the tip, transforming into a thing of nightmares. Two legs become four as he shifts into a horse and rider—entirely enmeshed and missing the external layer.
From the torso up, he’s a man, except his skin is marbled pink and white, the exposed muscle and bone connected by a network of throbbing blue veins.
Both heads jerk back, mouths wide open as they spew a thick, yellow-tinged smoke into the air. The crowd goes wild as the horse and rider scream in sync.
I look to the nearest tube for answers.