IT’S GIVING COMMUNITY THEATER #2
We pass through yet another walkway, but this time it’s a larger atrium than before. The floor feels oddly gritty. The space above is dark, making me think it’s a high ceiling, something the acoustics confirm.
More bright lights focus on a central space, creating a stage in the spotlit area. Which is where, on their knees, the people who spoke for us are waiting.
My eyes catch Maxim’s.
Bare from the waist up, that delicious chest of his is on full display. The others aren’t as blessed in the looks department.
In front of each person is a thickly padded red velvet cushion with a dagger on it.
The idea that I might have to—
No.
Maxim wouldn’t willingly offer himself up as a sacrifice. Even if he wants me to be a Veronian. So, this can’t be about murder, just control? Leverage?
“Stand beside those who’ll shed their blood for you. As we pass around the room, we’ll invoke the age-old contract between pledges and the society.”
My snarky brain translates that as a fancy way of describing an NDA. But mostly, I’m relieved that I have some snark left because that whole “shedding their blood” act is one I don’t want to commit.
While I wanted to strangle him earlier, I like Maxim’s blood in his body, thank you very much.
“Don’t worry. You only sign in my blood,” he murmurs in a voice so low I barely hear him.
I allow my shoulders to sink a hairsbreadth in relief.
“They’re making everyone complicit,” he continues as the first Gaul is approached.
A hooded man holds out a stone tablet that another brother places a piece of parchment on top of.
“Sign here,” the first entreats.
The Gaul picks up the blade, snags his inkpot’s hand, then slices his palm. Immediately, chatters start from the back and sides of the room, making me jump.
“They’re watching. Slice my chest—over my heart. It’s important. You’ll look strong,” Maxim instructs in that soundless Russian.
God.
The roaring jeers continue and the Gaul in front hunches his shoulders.
I’m guessing he’s a legacy who knows he’s failed.
Though, why his parent didn’t warn him…
I know this shit’s supposed to be secret, but that secret? From one legacy to another?
Two different brothers approach the Hispania line and they work their way down. We’re four deep so it’s my turn pretty quickly.
I grab the knife and hold Maxim’s eye as I slice across his chest, right through the pink, puckered flesh of that scar in the making.
He doesn’t flinch.
What kind of pain has he endured that this doesn’t hurt him?
His eyes are like ice blocks, but I can tell I did the right thing—even if I now regret how long I made the cut.
Behind me, a roar of delight sounds. Until now, desultory chatter has been the boring soundtrack to this bizarre display as people mostly chose to slice and dice forearms after the first Gaul’s unimpressive performance.
As blood drips down Maxim’s chest, the Veronian next to me insists, “Please sign.”
I lower my hand and let his blood coat one of my fingers. Then, lifting it to the parchment, I make a rudimentary signature. Beside it sits a regular goddamn fountain pen—so they do know they exist—and I use that to print my name.
“Clean your finger,” the brother orders.
“Nobody else has—”
“Do it.”
The only place I have available is my mouth so I suck it between my lips and clean it as best as I can, then hold out my hand to show them it’s blood-free.
Maxim’s jaw clenches but I don’t know why.
I soon learn that Wynter’s behind me because, tuning into the rest of the initiation, I realize we’re the only ones asked to do that.
A sexism thing or… I have no freakin’ idea.
Lights flare on once the rite is complete, revealing a larger-than-anticipated audience—over a hundred hooded men are seated in what I realize is an amphitheater.
“Stand and etch their number onto the cheek of your vouched.”
Maxim flows to his feet with an ease that’s pure poetry and dips his finger in his blood. I turn my head to the side and he writes, “IV.”
More brothers flood the room, items of clothing in their hands. One stands beside us, acting as a valet while Maxim dresses.
I wince at the immediate diffusion of blood through the white silk of his shirt but focus straight ahead as he fastens the buttons.
“You will be known by your house and your number until such a time as you are baptized into the brotherhood. Step over to the member of the house opposite you, one who shares your number, and take the dagger with you.”
“Kill.”
It’s a single word. So quiet he barely breathed it. But I hear the command and am reassured by Maxim’s guidance.
There’s a surety in that one word. A belief that I can do it.
It’s not like he’s asking me to take a walk in the park…
I have to assume he knows every secret in my arsenal, but I haven’t killed a man. So why the confidence?
Does he know I’ve been training with my brother-in-law in self-defense since I moved in with my sister?
Who am I kidding? Of course he knows.
But beating some punk’s ass and murder are two entirely different things. No?
Once I drift over to the other side and gather that I’m stuck with the great-great-great grandson of the oil baron, I accept that it might be easier to kill the fucker than I initially anticipated. He looks me over, the sneer faint, but I see it anyway. Like I’m a hooker for hire.
The urge to take him down a peg or two has me tightening my hands into fists as he spurns me. All while leering at my tits.
God, I hate men sometimes.
“We shall start at the beginning. Gaul I and Hispania I, assume your positions.”
Veronians shuffle us to the side, leaving Maxim on the opposite half of the amphitheater to me.
“You have three chances to impress us. This is the first. Do as you will within the bounds of what you find appropriate. First blood is all that we require.”
My brow furrows at Alaric’s instructions, even as I glance at Maxim.
For a man like him, used to the harsh realities of life on the streets, this pomp and ceremony must seem ridiculous. But he doesn’t appear indifferent. If anything, he’s staring straight at me.
To stop me from freaking out? To motivate me?
I need no such support.
He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with yet…
The last thing I’m feeling is scared or overwhelmed.
I’m stronger than I look.
The three fights don’t last long. At least, I don’t think they do. Time is nonexistent as Maxim holds my gaze. The Gaul beside me drawls something which has the V next to Wynter snickering, but I ignore them as we’re called forth.
I step into the pit.
Because that’s what it is.
I’m not sure how I didn’t recognize that earlier—there’s sand beneath us. Blood spatters it from the signing and the fights too. Some parts have deeper tinges.
It’s almost gladiatorial.
The Gaul steps into the center and I join him.
Much as before, a sharp, “Begin,” is the go sign.
The Gaul raises the dagger and tries to strike me, but he’s a fool, floundering around on two feet. The act unbalances him and I kick out, now thoroughly relieved I didn’t wear heels or I’d have to go barefoot.
Catching him in the stomach with a high kick, I watch as he staggers back a few paces then bares his teeth at me.
He runs at me like some Jason wannabe, the knife still high in his hand.
The others didn’t fight like this. They almost played at it. Maybe because they were guy-on-guy? Maybe because they realized first blood was literally all that was needed? Does this jackass think he has to prove himself because I’m a girl?
As I start to wonder what Maxim genuinely knows about this rite, the Gaul snags my attention when he powers the dagger down again in an arc.
I twist on my heel and then duck as his momentum almost grounds him. A roundhouse kick to the back of his knee takes him down. Using the tip of my steel toe, I teep him straight between the legs, aiming for his dick like Brennan taught me.
The Gaul screams in dismay and cups himself—like a moron, he drops his knife. It dunks into the sand as he curls onto his side, careering left and right like that will ease the pain.
As he bawls like a baby, I flick a look at Maxim, whose nod is barely perceptible.
Unlike this prick, I don’t channel Freddy Krueger.
Instead, I stomp on his shoulder, roll him onto his front, then I duck low, lift his head so he’s facing the crowd, and slice the blade across his throat.
A roar races around the amphitheater.
It’s in time to the pounding of my heart and the arterial spray.
As he gulps and gags from the open wound where his esophagus used to be, someone screams his name, but I don’t look up. I can’t. I just watch the flow of blood as it spurts loose, drenching my white tunic.
The unbearably insidious thrill of victory rushes through me next.
He made it easy to take him out.
If he’d been one of the others, looking to just nick my arm to get first blood, I’d have struggled to act upon Maxim’s order.
But he didn’t.
As he sputters and writhes in the sand, expiring at my feet, the hatred’s still in his eyes—a silent reminder that he wasn’t aiming to incapacitate.
“Kill or be killed.”
I can almost hear Maxim whisper the Russian equivalent in my mind.
“Take his coin, Hispania IV.”
The decree staggers me—a part of me expected retribution—but I reach into the only place he could put it: the same pocket in the matching tunic where I stored my own.
A brother rushes over. “Follow me.”
I obey as four others drag the still-dying boy off the sand.
I rejoin the first six fighters, well aware that they’re staring at me like I’m crazy.
Maybe I am.
I didn’t have to put myself through this, but I did it willingly.
A part of me speculates if my uncles knew this is what I’d have to do to be initiated, but I shove it aside. Familial dissension is the last thing I want, and if my sisters find out then... Well, I have no desire to fuck up their marriages.