by Lucy Auburn
I'm sure eventually his father will let him loose. Ares has always had a soft spot for his firstborn son. A soft spot that makes him equally hard to his cries of pain.
I need to look to my own plate instead of worrying about him—and concentrate on my own goals.
Tomorrow, I'll go with the other godbloods to watch the arena tournament, and hope my new tentative friendships don't perish in the arena sand.
On my way there, I'll scout every nook and cranny, and figure out once and for all how I'm getting out of here.
The Ares gold on my skin seems to warm at the thought.
Soon its death magic will all be mine, and just like the bars on that cell, it'll crumble to dust.
* * *
Four guards lead our cellblock towards the arena. The path is through the communal area and down a hallway I've never been through before; locked gates guard it at both ends, and they don't unlock the far gate until the first one has been closed. Once there, the guards turn to survey us, and motion for the prisoners to form two groups.
"Fighters to the left. Spectators to the right."
We form up, Portia slinking to her side of the hallway, her bright blonde hair held in a high ponytail. Though she's tried to look fierce all morning, it's obvious she's afraid of what will happen once she's down there on the arena sands. Unlike almost all the other fighters, she's not on any one team, doesn't have weapons or armor advantages from previous wins, and can't even sponsor herself. It's against the rules. So it'll just be her and that stubborn moxie of hers down there fighting against brutal warriors with fighting-style godblood running through their veins.
I want to wish her good luck, but it feels like an ill omen. So we just meet eyes and smile tightly, both of us knowing this might be the last time we see each other. As the guards march her group of prisoners towards the left, to the preparation area where warriors are held before their fights, the other guards lead us to the right, towards the stands.
Despite myself, I feel a little tremor of anticipation go through me as we walk through the widening corridors towards the arena's seats. There are already people in the stands, waiting for the fighting to begin; boxes near the front, where gods and godbloods must gather to get their entertainment. I feel a little trickle of paranoid alarm, afraid Ares may have changed his plans, but there's no sign of him. I would know if there were—his golden armor and haughty attitude suck all the air out of a room and draw every eye towards him.
The only warrior who's ever commanded more attention or had more eyes on him is Aleksander. My mother used to say that when Alek was born, he took some of the sun from Ares' shield, biting off a chunk of it and swallowing the golden stuff. Ever since the God of War has been a little smaller, less bright, and year by year his firstborn son grew strong enough to eclipse him.
"If it wasn't for his mortal mother," she told me once, as we watched Alek knee his warhorse around a company of fighters, "Aleksander would be the God of War."
I asked her what she meant, and she turned to me, her eyes sparking with golden fire. "I mean that Ares would be dead by now at his son's hand."
At the time I found it hard to imagine. Now, though, I wonder. Ares apparently brought his firstborn son back to life—then threw him down here, not once but twice. Some part of him must fear his son even as he loves and dotes on him. Maybe he's heard the rumors too.
It's impossible, though.
Gods can't be killed.
Especially not by the hands of godbloods.
Not even their own offspring.
The guards lead me and the small trickle of spectator-prisoners high up into the stands, where we can see the arena from a distance. One stands on the left aisle of the seats, the other on the right, boxing us in. Soon we're joined by others; looking around, I see room for at least a few hundred more spectators, and wonder if there are more prisoners than I realized.
But most of those in the stands aren't wearing Ares gold. They're god hunters, I realize, guards and other staff members in the prison. They laugh and chatter together, holding beers in their hands, leaning forward towards the arena sand to get a better look. Resentment bubbles up inside me; here are these mortals, who should be fearful and worshipful towards us, their betters, and instead they're licking their lips at the thought of us bashing each other over the head.
One figure in particular grabs my attention. With his dark hair, high collar, and black leather gloves, Damien is unmistakable. He's sitting next to his redheaded partner Kayla, but she isn't paying much attention to him; one of the male guards from Vesuvius's cellblock is sitting next to her, and she's practically curled up in his lap. Damien sits alone, his hands not even brushing against the armrests of his seat, back stiff and straight, no drink or snacks in his hand.
After a while, he seems to feel my attention on him. He glances over his shoulder, and his green eyes flick to my face. I raise a brow and purse my lips, throwing him a subtle kiss; the exposed skin above his black collar reddens. In my head, I'm imagining teasing him, offering to meet him in the corridors outside the stands and suck his cock in the darkness. But he turns away before I can mouth something dirty in his direction, ruining all my fun.
I really would love to know what god hunter tastes like. I wonder if it's like that thing mortals say about chicken—everything strange has the same bland flavor. Maybe he's a less strong version of one of Ares' many sons, blessed as he is by one of the god's gifts. Or maybe he taste like something completely unique, a little mortal, a little not, straddling two worlds.
Either way, as soon as I get the chance—and hopefully I will before I escape this place–I'm going to find out how far that embarrassed blush of his spreads, and whether or not he takes his gloves off when he's got his dick out.
"Hey." One of the prisoners, a woman to the left of me that I've never really spoken to, elbows me a little. I draw my attention to her, tamping down on instinctive annoyance. "You're new around here. Been through a challenge yet?"
"No," I reply, studying her briefly. She's tall, though not as tall as me, with dark skin and thickly braided hair. Her left eye is bruised and swollen at the edges, making me wonder if a guard beat her or if something else is going on. "I'm hoping to skip the arena entirely. You?"
She snorts. "Good luck with that. I got this," she points towards her eyes, "two weeks ago, and it nearly took me out. Been hoping to see through it again ever since. I get to skip this round because of injury, but just watch them put me back in again. Watching the arena teams fight has gotten boring for Mars' sons and all the celestials—they want more blood."
Glancing down at the boxes near the edge of the arena sand, which is shaped like an oval and has obstacles I can't quite make out, I count the men and women there. Just like in the prison, Ares' sons are distinctive, from their golden-brown skin, warrior bodies, and the swords on their shoulders. But the ones who are spectators are well-dressed and proud-looking, with a breadth and air to them that I remember from Aleksander's days of battle.
There are others, too. Female godbloods who look elemental in nature, with long flowing dresses like air, and shimmering skin suggestive of the water. Some of the greatest mortal legends about mermaids, selkies, and other ocean shapeshifters are actually about water-based godbloods, mostly daughters of Poseidon. They flit between the War sons like waves lapping at the shore.
Among them are a few actual gods, visible by the aura of power that rolls off them and their unmistakably inhuman bodies. I spot Bacchus, which is no great surprise, his thickly curled black hair holding up a wild crown made of thorns, a chalice in each of his hands. He's already drunk, the velvet robe tied around his waist gaping as he laughs and moves around. It's not hard to imagine him escorting one of the Poseidon daughters to a dark corner and pushing her head down until she services him, caring not one whit who sees. This is how he makes his many offspring, after all.
Other celestials I don't recognize. A haughty, golden-hued god might be Plutus, or any number
of minor celestials. Plenty of the gods make children with each other, though they're less likely to bear fruit than when they spread their seed among mortals. Most of those gods are less powerful than their parents, prone to inconsistent abilities, though some, like Hephaestus, carve room for themselves in the Celestial Realms.
There's a goddess with full, heavy breasts that are barely held in by the thin silk of her flowing robe-like dress, as well as a goddess with blue-silver scales that shimmer in the light overhead.
The light overhead. Glancing up, I realize belatedly that the arena, unlike the rest of the prison, has walls that reach towards the ground. There's a thick skylight that looks out to the world above, letting in diffused sunlight. It's far away—a hundred feet at least—and no doubt inches thick, if not a foot thick or more. But it's something to keep in mind; a possible escape route, or a way to orient myself if I make it aboveground.
We haven't had yard time lately, maybe because of what happened the last time we did, but as soon as we do I plan on pushing the limits and testing every theory I have about my eventual escape.
As I look around me, the prisoner sitting beside me watches my eyes. She raises her brows, murmuring, "You look like a godblood itching to escape still."
"And? What of it—you gonna rat me out?"
"No." She snorts, shaking her head. "Just funny to see that hope. You'll lose it eventually, just like the rest of us. Give it time."
I tamp down on my frustration, biting back the words I want to say. It seems absurd—all these powerful half-celestials with godblood running through their veins, acting like trapped rats. We have mortals guarding us, Ares gifts or no, and the celestials don't seem to give a flying fuck what we're up to down here, unless they're arriving for their bimonthly entertainment. I'm not going to let myself be beat down by a few guards with electric batons or dicks they want sucked off; I'm not these other godbloods, who seem to have been made weak so easily.
Death runs through me. In all her power and glory. With her many secrets. I will escape, in my own time, at my own choosing. Simply because I can.
I don't understand, will never give into, the fear and weakness that drives the prisoners around me to look fearfully in the guards' direction and refuse to study the arena around them for ways out. I won't play their stupid games and fight in the arena sands for their entertainment. This place will never taste my fear, only my anger.
"There's not enough time in the world," I tell the prisoner next to me, deciding I don't need, don't even care about, her name. "They'll never beat the hope out of me. Not with their batons or their Ares' gifts. Not in that arena or outside of it. You'll see."
She makes a low noise of incredulity. "I don't care who your god-parent is, you'll see when the tournament begins. Hope doesn't live here long. Just survival."
I stay silent for the next several minutes. The prisoner, as I stare at the sand, as others file in around us, eventually leans in and tells me, "I'm Selah, by the way. And you're Mora—that I figured out when I thought about it long enough. Come to me when you've finally given up, and I'll show you how to survive in this place, keep your head down. Until then, keep getting beaten by the guards."
There isn't time to come up with a response to that, as much as it disgusts me, and as much as I wish there was an empty seat to either side of me that I could slide into. One of Ares' sons, a free one wearing a red cloak with a golden breastplate, denoting him a favored of the God of Wars' legions, strides into the arena sand and stops beside a large brass gong. He has a long hammer in his right hand, and as he surveys the stands, the sun in his eyes, he smirks.
"Let the tournament begin! Round one: challengers versus the free beasts."
Turning towards the gong, he swings the hammer and hits it once, twice, three times. The sound of its call echoes through the whole arena, ricocheting off the walls and dying out in the stands. In front of us, the spectators shift; even Bacchus in all his drunken glory ties his robe up and pushes some female godblood off his cock long enough to walk to the front of the viewing booth and lean out over the railing.
My heart does jumping jacks. Eyes going to the large wooden doors at the end of the arena, I wait to see who, and what, will stride out of them. Challengers versus the free beasts. That could mean Portia and the misfits. And against them, whatever wild animals they keep down here, starved and drugged—lions and tigers and bears, oh my.
The animals stream out of the wide doors first. There's a jaguar with blood foaming from its lips, a skittish-looking pair of wolves, and something bigger, which lingers in the darkness. Seeing the gong and the godblood standing beside it, the animals go in that direction first, not seeing the second set of doors open.
Leaping from the arena sands, the Ares' son climbs back into the safety of his booth, laughing as the jaguar races towards him. The wild thing leaps towards the bannister to the viewing box, and he pushes it back down into the sands with a careless swing of his hammer. My stomach churns at the way the animal falls to the ground and leaps up, eyes wild, clearly in pain and full of rage.
Now the challengers stream out. I see a few faces I don't recognize, but my heart sinks as Yoric, Garnet, Leo, Sasha, and eventually Portia stalk out onto the sand. They seem to confer, moving away from the doors the animals came through, searching the sands for something. Portia mentioned buried weapons; one of the challengers cheers with excitement when he draws a long scythe from the ground, only to yelp and run as his voice draws the leopards.
Portia is more careful, keeping to the shadows. Yoric is too. Garnet, Leo, and Sasha all move nervously and jerkily, watching the wolves, who seem just as scared as them. Eventually they manage to find odds and ends, either buried in the sand or hanging limply from the half-empty weapons rack near the edge of the arena: blunt batons and wooden clubs, short knives, a quiver of arrows but no bow.
I lean forward, taut and tense. The leopard eviscerates the prisoner with the scythe and moves on as he screams and writhes on the ground, insides spilling out of him. Around him the sand turns bloody; the spectators in the booth watch with rapt eyes. In the darkness, the creature that was holding back lumbers forward, and my breath catches.
I've never seen a bear that big. Or such an odd, bright red-brown color. It has two antlers twisting out of its head, cruelly sharp and tipped with iron—a beast indeed, made by the gods. All the air leaves my body as its eyes find the challengers in the sand, and its mouth lolls open, tongue hanging out, a confused and simple kind of hunger on its face.
As it lumbers forward, I see Portia brace herself, drawing a short sword from the sand. She pulls a wooden shield from the weapons rack and tests its weight, then discards it, no doubt realizing she'll need to run. At her back, Leo gets leapt on by one of the wolves, and bellows as he beats it with his wooden club; Sasha thrusts a knife into its side. Garnet and Yoric lope through the sand, looking for better weapons, while Portia just stares at the bear creature.
I can't read her face from here. It's either fear or determination there, though. Has to be. She can't fight the bear—she has to know it. Her only hope is in skulking in the shadows, staying out of sight, letting it run itself ragged on other challengers, and hope she can outlive them until the end of the match.
The bear leaps, and I feel my heart flutter—it races towards Garnet. She turns away, standing behind Yoric, who flips his wrists in a strange motion, his face grim. It takes me a moment to realize he's missing one of his cuffs. Then all at once the shadows at their feet rise up, and they're pitched into darkness, invisible to the naked eye.
Confused, the bear stumbles. Then it turns its head—and sees the wolves, standing between it and Sasha. The two beasts are circling around the twins.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the arena, three of the challengers face the jaguar at once, spears in hand. Their faces are full of brutality as they tease it and bloody it further.
I can't watch, but I do.
Yoric manages to keep himself and Garne
t hidden from the bear. As they do, Portia gets up a courage I didn't know she had. She charges at the bear, throws a rock from the ground at it, then darts to the side. It follows her, swaying on its malformed feet, made out of celestial hubris and stupidity. But she's fast; she darts back and forth, throws more rocks at it, and for a moment almost seems out of its path.
Then it raises a large paw, swipes towards her, and throws her little body against the arena wall. As she falls, weapon clattering out of her hand, I feel like something has closed around my throat and shaken all the air out of me. I can't see if she moves; I can't see anything at all.
Meanwhile, Garnet and Yoric are fighting the wolves with the twins. I cast my eyes their way, hoping I won't see something worse, knowing I can't help Portia now. With two of the misfits against each wolf, it almost seems possible they might actually win—until one of the wolves leaps on Garnet, grabs her arm in its mouth, and shakes.
Blood flies everywhere.
Leo yells, hits the wolf with his club, looking bloodied himself.
Yoric draws the shadows from the ground to bite at and scare the second wolf, whose jaws are slathering with hunger for Garnet's blood.
Finally the beast lets go of the little pixie godblood, who looks worse for the wear. Both wolves turn towards Leo. Sasha screams, brandishing her knife as they leap on her brother. One goes for his throat; the other, for his abdomen. They tear his flesh away like it's nothing.
Leaping on them, Sasha stabs them over and over again. Yoric helps, beating them with Leo's fallen club, his face twisted in fury. They pull the limp wolves' bodies from Leo; he lays bloodied on the ground, breathing shallow.
On the other side of the arena, the three warriors have killed the jaguar. Now there's nothing standing between them and the bear. Conferring for a moment, they look across the arena, then come up with a plan. Taunting and yelling at the bear, they run across the arena sand—and lead it straight towards Garnet and Leo's bloodied but still alive bodies.