Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Chaos is carefully curated here.
CIPRIAN
On the morning of Celine’s next fight, Riven yanks the door open and wrinkles his Claymation nose like a rich lady’s pampered poodle let loose in a cow pasture by mistake.
“We want a shower,” I say.
“Incorrect,” he drawls. “Want indicates options: you both need a shower.”
Celine crosses her arms. “Whose fault is it that we don’t have that?”
“Win again, and maybe I’ll be generous.”
I wrap my arm around Celine and ignore my pounding heart. I’ve got to stay strong for her. She’s about to fight for Luca's, Alistair's, and Malach’s lives. She doesn’t need anything but rock-solid confidence from me.
Especially because the next part of my plan is going to piss her off.
“I want to fight with her,” I say, leveling the veydra with my most serious stare.
“No.”
They say it at the same time; Riven’s bored, lazy drawl overpowered by Celine’s angry shout. “I just got you back,” she says to me. “You aren’t going down there.”
I kiss her cheek. “I won’t get in your way. Let me help.”
Her forehead wrinkles, and her eyes sharpen. “If we both fight, we should each get to free someone,” she tells Riven.
He looks around as if he’s searching our cramped space for stowaways. “Are you hearing things, darling? I said no.”
“That’s too bad.” Celine pats me on the shoulder, her fingers stiff. “I tried.”
I roll my eyes. “You did not. You let him off easy.”
“I’m your captor, not your sycophant. Let’s go,” Riven snaps. “We don’t have all day.”
He steps aside, and the cold air slaps me in the face as I clear the threshold. “You should let the crowd decide,” I tell him. “It would be a good show.”
I don’t know this guy, but I need to figure out which buttons to press. Is he greedy? Hungry for power? If I know what motivates him, I can convince him that the only way he’ll get it is by giving me what I want.
“Stop it.” Celine grabs my hand and squeezes my fingers until the bones ache.
“Don’t be stubborn, hot wings.” I duck my head to keep Riven from hearing. “I could hide you with a nightmare, and you could kill whatever creature he sends after you in five minutes flat. Wham bam, we skip back to the birdcage and take a delicious shower.”
“It’s not worth the risk.”
“It’s not worth the risk or you’re not worth the risk? Because I disagree, loudly.”
“You’re whispering, Ciprian,” Celine says.
“The candle man is nosy.”
“I’m not made of wax,” Riven snaps.
“Could have fooled me.” I raise my eyebrows in faux shock. “Think about it, hot wings. You don’t want to let this dude boss you around, do you?”
She stops. The wind yanks two strands of hair free from her tight braids. “Ciprian, my ego isn’t as fragile or as valuable as any of your lives, much less all of them combined. I won’t risk you. I can’t. Please don’t ask me to.”
Her lip quivers, and I fold faster than a wet paper bag. “Okay, I’m sorry.”
“Pathetic,” Riven mutters. “You’re all pathetic.”
I bite my tongue. One day he’ll realize that he’s the pathetic one.
We walk in silence the rest of the way to the arena.
The crowd is obnoxious. Their cheers rattle my bones.
It’s unsettling, and it only gets worse when Celine enters the arena.
Just like before, I’m forced onto a pedestal next to Luca, Alistair, and Malach. The only difference is the lighting. My tube has a new green light at the bottom that half-blinds me as soon as Riven starts his introductions. The other three have red lights.
I adjust my feet to block as much of the eerie glow as I can, but it’s still obnoxious. If they were going to ramp up the production value, they could have at least installed a fucking dimmer switch.
Celine is calm and assured in the arena.
She glances at the guys, then looks away, her jaw clenched tight.
The crowd boos—they think she’s cold—and I growl.
Bloodthirsty idiots. They have no right to judge her.
No one’s ever forced them to fight to the death for the lives of the people they care about most. Celine is giving Malach, Luca, and Alistair something far more valuable than her attention: she’s giving them her focus.
I know it, and they know it too. As far as I’m concerned, everyone else can get fucked.
“Today, we’ll learn if the angel sinks or swims.” Riven spreads his arms wide, a game show host revealing what’s behind door number three.
He glances at me and winks. I frown. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Is he taunting me or trying to give me some kind of signal? I flip him the bird, and he grins.
“Pick your weapon, Celine of the celestial realm.”
She dips her chin and approaches the arsenal rock. At first, she reaches for the same sword she used last time. With her fingers hovering over the hilt, she freezes and scans the arena. As far as I can tell, it hasn’t changed. It’s still dotted with big trees and sandy, ice-encrusted boulders.
Celine turns her stare on Riven next. Thousands watch their interaction, but he holds her gaze without flinching—not even a ripple of expression crossing his face.
Lips pursed, Celine refocuses on the assortment of weapons. Skipping the swords, she digs around in the rock well, nearly burying her head inside as she sorts through the options.
Eventually, she pulls something out. It’s long and pointy—a weird cross between a spear and a crossbow? I squint at it for a second before it clicks. It’s a speargun. The projectile is attached to a rope, so she can retract it if she misses.
But why pick that? The uses are limited. If her opponent has wings, Celine might as well throw rocks at it. It’s meant for hunting underwater—
I gasp as I replay Riven’s earlier words.
Sink or swim. Celine is betting everything on the assumption that he was giving her a hint.
Gods, I hope she’s right. We don’t know where this asshole learned English or if the translation magic can even handle idioms. Shit, Riven could have said it on purpose to throw her off.
My fingers curl.
Then the arena begins to flood.
Water rushes in, seeping up from the ground and shooting out of massive boat-sized spigots on the walls of the arena. The ticker flashes with the odds, the crowd betting on her chances of surviving and who she’ll save if she lives.
Celine doesn’t hesitate.
Looping the speargun’s strap over her neck until it hangs against her chest, she darts toward the small grove of trees. Her wings shoot from her back, and she launches herself into the air right before they transform into heavy blades.
The momentum is enough to propel her to the lowest of the thick branches.
She grabs on, glancing up at her options, then down at the rising water. I wince. The rope on the speargun isn’t infinite. I don’t know what the range is, but it has one. Celine needs to stay out of the water while remaining close enough to kill whatever comes out of it.
A ferocious vibration shakes the arena.
The trees tremble, their needles quivering, then raining down on the water. My platform shudders. It’s not enough to disrupt my balance, but it is noticeable—and I’m nowhere near the source.
A wake appears, parting the water on both sides. Fifteen feet long, it churns through the man-made swamp, circling the trees one at a time.
Celine loops her left arm around the tree trunk and looks at Luca. He points at the water, then covers his eyes, leaving space between his fingers. Either the monster is blind or close to it? Celine nods and adjusts her grip on the speargun.
I eye the weapon, and my stomach flips. Hopefully, it’s as simple as point and shoot. Anything else will be hard to figure out while fighting for her life. Especially in this environment.
New snow is falling. It lands on the water and treetops, turning the arena into a bastardized winter wonderland. Even sealed in by the invisible barrier, I’m freezing my ass off.
I glance at the ticker; Malach’s favor with the gamblers has shifted.
Alistair is winning the poll today.
I don’t give a shit. If there was a way for every person in the stands to lose all the money they came here with, I’d root for that option.
The wake circles a tree about twenty feet from Celine, and I shake my head. The dumb thing will never find her this way. The fish, eel, or whatever the fuck it is, is basically in a barrel. Once it gets close enough, she’ll stab it, and we’ll be done with this twisted game.
Then the tree shudders. A horrifying squelching sound echoes up from the water as the trunk sinks—no, it’s not sinking, it’s being sucked down—gobbled up by whatever is lurking beneath the surface.
Mouth open, palms prickling, I watch the tree disappear until only the tip is visible.
The next tree in line, one closer to Celine’s perch, gets the same treatment.
My heart skips a beat. I was wrong. The monster isn’t the fish in a barrel; Celine is.
It won’t need sight or strategy if it eats her hiding places.
Celine watches the trees between her and the beast disappear like clockwork. If she’s scared, she doesn’t show it. When there are only two trunks left between her and it, she points the speargun at the tip of the wake, lines up her shot, and shoots.
A normal person would miss.
Celine nails it.
The wake flattens out as water rolls back into place with a few gentle ripples.
My shoulders dip. Is it over? Please let it be over.
I wait for Riven to call the fight; except he doesn’t. His eyes are glued to the water, and his face is glitching—bands of static overtaking the smooth amber mask.
Nausea crawls up my throat.
The surface of the water trembles, then explodes. Massive waves crash against the remaining trees and slam into the walls of the arena. The spectators in the first few rows get soaked, groaning and squealing as they find themselves unexpectedly in the splash zone.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the thrashing stops.
The line attached to the spear slackens. I let out a shaky breath, but no one cheers. Riven stares down without blinking, and his hand curls around the podium’s edge in a white-knuckled grip.
A strange anticipation spreads.
In the silence, I hear a low gurgle, water circling a drain, but on a massive scale.
The line on the speargun goes taut.
Celine clings to the weapon with both hands and wraps her legs around the tree. She’s the strongest person I know, but from the tension woven into every line of her body, I don’t think it will be enough.
Every instinct I have screams at me to help her.
I hammer my fists against the invisible barrier. “Let me fight,” I snarl.
A muscle beside Riven’s eye twitches, but he doesn’t look at me.
I kick the barrier and barely feel the impact. Again and again, I hurl myself against the magic fencing me in. Squeezing my eyes shut, I call on my nightmares. There’s a tiny kernel of magic inside me, but it’s sluggish. I can’t wake it up.
The branch Celine is braced against quivers from the pressure.
Please. No. I can’t lose her. I won’t survive it. I don’t know if I’m praying or if every piece of my mind, body, and soul is screaming to the universe for help. Let me help her, I beg.
Self-preservation tells me to close my eyes, but my heart won’t let me.
Celine glances at me. Smiles.
I can’t stop screaming.
She turns to Luca, Alistair, and Malach.
And I hear the crack.
Then she drops into the churning water and disappears beneath the surface.