“Wolfe!” one of the guards shouts, dragging me back to the present. I make myself take a few more steps toward the gate while I stare, horrified, at the replay.
On screen, a buzzer sounds.
“Sylvie Wolfe has been granted a lifeline, courtesy of SoftForm Feminine Hygiene Products,” the announcer calls out from the replay. And suddenly I understand. One of my sponsors stepped in, to protect their investment.
“No!” Yost stares back at me from all around the arena, his face crimson with rage. He swings around with my limp body still in his grasp. My neck still clenched in the crook of his right arm.
“At-home viewers, you have thirty seconds to vote!” the announcer shouts. “Should Ms. Wolfe live or die? You decide! Remember, only one vote per viewer. Make your voice heard!”
I stumble a few more steps toward the gate, watching as a digital meter appears on the nearest screen, its arrow wobbling back and forth as the votes pour in. The arrow bobs between LIVE and DIE for several seconds. Then it lurches to the right—deep into LIVE territory—and stays there.
On screen, Yost throws me at the sand in disgust. But I’m still unconscious, my face still nearly purple.
Jaw clenched in fury, Yost drops on top of me and starts pulling my clothes off, right there on camera, clearly determined to make me pay for his stolen victory, one way or another. Then the screen splits and adds a shot of Graham pounding on the locked door of the dugout, shouting demands for the guards to let him in the arena.
Present-me can’t watch anymore.
I race off the sand, stumbling and fighting tears, until the gate closes behind me. Until the darkness of the exit tunnel surrounds me, comforting me like balm on a burn. Like a safe place to hide. I want to stay there forever, away from the cameras. From the men in the bullpen. From Graham and my brother, who just saw me humiliated—
Behind me, the gate begins to grind open again, and I lurch into motion, racing for the end of the tunnel. Without looking back.
I step out into the last rays of daylight and collide with a solid wall of muscle and a scent I would recognize anywhere.
“Sylvie…” My brother’s arms wrap around me, and distantly I hear several other sets of footsteps headed our way. I recognize Charles’s voice as he instructs the cameraman to get a tight shot. “Hey,” Sebastian whispers. “It’s okay. You got out alive, and that’s all that matters.”
But that’s not all that matters. He’s talking like a big brother, rather than like an instructor. Or like a mentor. Or even like a fellow fighter.
“I lost,” I whisper into his ear, mentally preparing to let him go, because I can’t afford to look any weaker than I already do. “And now they all know I can lose. I will never be safe in the bullpen again.” I push my way out of his embrace and look up to meet his gaze. “Tell Mom and Dad that I love them. Tell them I’m sorry. And put a rose on Skye’s grave for me, Seb. Please.”
“Sylvie, wait—” My brother grabs for my arm as I back away, but I slip from his grasp. I wish he hadn’t come. I wish he hadn’t seen any of that.
I expect to hear his steps behind me, as one of the cameras turns to follow me, but instead, my brother’s steps run the other way.
“You son of a bitch!” Sebastian roars, and I spin just as he tackles Tony Yost, who’s just emerged from the tunnel.
Guards converge on my brother, guns drawn, but Charles waves them back, then motions for his cameramen to get in closer. Behind him, Kaya stands with both hands cupped over her mouth, her eyes so round that she looks like a toy doll.
“Sebastian!” I shriek, but he’s not listening. He’s too busy shouting obscenities as he pounds Yost’s head into a bloody pulp with his bare hands.
“You won!” Spittle flies from my brother’s mouth as his fists pound into Yost’s face. “That should have been enough. We fight with honor, win with respect, and concede with grace. Those are the fucking rules!”
But he’s wrong. There are no rules in this arena, and respect is only paid to the buzzer.
“…fucking touch her…” I can only catch bits of Sebastian’s ranting now, as blood and what can only be bits of teeth explode from Yost’s face. “…humiliate you like that…”
Tony’s eyes are already swollen shut, his nose a bloody ruin. His teeth are broken, his lips both torn, and even his eyebrows are bleeding. And still Sebastian keeps punching. Then he grabs a handful of Yost’s hair and starts slamming his skull into the pavement.
“Sebastian!” I shout again. “Stop!”
Finally, my brother looks up. He pushes himself to his feet and pulls me close in a gore-splattered hug, his knuckles shredded and bleeding. But it’s too late. Yost is convulsing on the ground. Blood leaks between his broken teeth, and I realize he’s bitten off the end of his own tongue.
He has minutes left to live, unless someone does something. But he has no sponsorships. Which means there’s no one to pay for medical treatment. No one who cares whether he lives or dies.
Finally, footsteps hurry toward us from somewhere deeper in the arena complex. I look up to see a dozen more guards headed our way, two of them escorting a floating stretcher. But they stop without touching Yost.
They haven’t come to help him. They’ve come to cart off the body.
Once there’s a body.
About a minute later, Yost’s limbs stop moving. When he stops breathing, two of the guards lift him onto the stretcher by his wrists and ankles. They don’t even bother to cover him.
“Sebastian Wolfe, you are under arrest for the murder of Anthony Yost.”
“What?” I whirl around to see three of the guards approaching my brother. Two of them have guns drawn. The third is holding a set of wire handcuffs. “No! Yost had a death sentence! He was going to die anyway!” I shout.
“Sylvie,” Sebastian calls over his shoulder, as he turns to allow himself to be cuffed. “Let it be.” Then he winks at me. “I’ll see you in the bullpen, sis.”
Understanding slams into me like a punch to the gut. He planned this. Maybe not Yost’s death specifically, but Sebastian never had any intention of leaving Rhodon.
“No! Why?” I jog after him, as the guards escort him…somewhere.
Sebastian twists in their grip to look at me one more time. “I should have been there for Skye. I only have one sister left, and I’m damn well going to watch out for her.”
Then one of the guards steps in front of me, gun drawn in silent warning, and I can only watch as my brother is hauled off.
“He might not wind up here, you know.” Kaya sets a full plate of pasta on the small greenroom table and sinks into the chair next to me. “I mean, you could make the case that killing Anthony Yost amounts to execution, more than to murder.”
“Except that Sebastian isn’t an authorized executioner.” I poke at my untouched plate of rigatoni, wishing that just once I could muster up an appetite on days they put gourmet food in front of me.
“That’s true, but his trial could take weeks, depending upon the size of the docket, and then there’s transport back to Rhodon. Assuming he’s found guilty. And even then, this isn’t the only execution zone on the planet. He could wind up any—”
Charles snorts, and I look up to see him dragging something around on the screen balanced across his lap. “Her brother’s a cash cow, just like she is. If UA can put him on the sand, they will, for the sponsorship opportunities alone. Even without those, having a brother and sister in the bullpen is narrative gold for the feeds. He’ll be back here. The only question is when.”
“It could take weeks,” Kaya repeats as she stabs a piece of pasta with her fork.
“What you’re saying is that I might already be dead by the time my brother gets thrown into the bullpen? So, his whole crazy suicide mission might have been for nothing?”
“I’m sorry, I—” Kaya’s eyes are crinkled in the corners, her perfectly painted lips drawn into a pouty frown. “I assumed you didn’t want him here. I mean, I don’
t want him here.”
“Why do you care?” I lean back in my chair with my arms crossed over my blood-splattered gladiator uniform, my food forgotten. “Isn’t it your job to make sure we’re as entertaining as possible? To bring in as much blood money as you can, for the fucking UA?”
“I…” Her eyes are actually watering. “You’re the first fighter I’ve ever actually gotten to know in my role as sponsorship liaison. You, and Graham, and Sebastian…you’re different from the others. You’re all three, like, vigilante warriors. Fighters who did the wrong thing for the right reason.” There’s an odd gleam in her eyes as she twists our crimes into sympathetic backstories, as if she actually believes what she’s saying—that underneath the clenched fists and sharp edges, we’re like life-sized teddy bears in need of a cuddle.
“Are we on camera right now?” I demand. “Because you sound like you’re pitching us to someone. Romanticizing violent crime to justify the fact that you don’t hate us. And you’re not afraid of us.”
“My point is that I don’t think you three belong here. I mean, that doesn’t change my job, but it’s changed my…perspective.”
“You’re going soft on me, Kaya,” Charles calls from across the room, without ever looking up from his screen.
“Fuck off,” she snips at him. Then her mouth snaps shut, and she actually flushes over her own use of profanity.
How the hell did a woman like Kaya wind up working on Devil’s Eye with a bunch of death row convicts?
“Do you…um. Do you want to watch Graham’s fight?” she asks as she pushes her martini across the table toward me.
I drink it in one swallow. Then I nod. If she wants to help me, I’m damn well going to let her.
Charles taps something on his screen without being asked, and the panel on the wall lights up to show Graham on the sand, facing off against Wallace Monfort. I can’t process much of what I’m seeing as I stare at the screen. I’m numb, mentally, and still aching from the blow to the kidney.
The doctor shows up in the middle of Graham’s fight, and I abandon my pasta to let him scan me. He declares my kidney to be bruised and says the pain will fade over the next couple of days. Other than that, though I’m black and blue all over, I have no broken bones or torn ligaments. Nothing that should keep me out of the bullpen.
Graham wins his fight, and though half of the men in the live audience would kill him if they had the chance, the applause for him is thunderous. I remain convinced that the inmates are cheering for the concept of violence itself, rather than for any one fighter in particular, and that they would be just as happy if Wallace had won.
While Graham sits for his post-fight interview in the media room, I settle into a hot bath, and the moment I close my eyes, I’m back in the arena, reliving each mistake. Each humiliation. I sink beneath the water, burying myself in bubbles I don’t deserve, and try to drown out the voices from the next room in the silence beneath the surface. I’m not sure how long I can hold my breath, but I’m ready to find out.
Until something solid skims down my shin.
I sit up with a gasp, wiping bubbles from my face, and I blink water from my eyes to find Graham sitting on the edge of the tub. His left eye is black, but not too badly swollen. His lip is split again, and there’s an angry red mark already deepening in color on his chin, in the seconds I’ve been staring at him.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Get in.”
“I’m in more of a shower kind of mood,” he says. “But you’re welcome to join me.” While he starts the shower, I pull the drain from the tub, then I tug him into the walk-in shower and help him out of his clothes while the water rinses away the last of my bubbles.
When I see his ribs, I understand his reluctance to join me in the bath. It would probably be painful for him to sink into the tub with those bruises.
“No fractures,” he assures me, when I run my fingers lightly over the marks. “Doc has cleared me to return to the bullpen. But he says I’ll be sore for a while.”
“You’re sure there’s no break?”
“I’m fine.” He glances over my nudity with obvious regret. “Probably not up for shower sex just yet, but…Sylvie, are you okay?”
“Just bruises.” I shrug. “Nowhere near as bad as yours.”
“Did they do a brain scan? You were unconscious for nearly a minute, according to the replay.”
Fuck the replay. I wish I’d never seen it.
“No permanent damage,” I promise him. “The doc checked my head first.”
Graham pulls me close and turns us so that the hot water sprays my back. It feels amazing. “I tried to get to you, Sylvie.”
“I know.” I pull back until I can look up into his eyes. “Promise me you won’t do that again.”
“Syl—”
“No. It’s one-on-one out there. You know the rules. They could have shot you.”
“Kaya and Charles wouldn’t let them. They were yelling through the screen on the wall for the guards to stand down. For the cameraman to keep filming. We’re just fucking entertainment to them.”
“I don’t think that’s true.” I grab a bottle of body wash from the tile shelf built into the wall. “Not of Kaya, anyway. Not anymore.”
“Why would you think that?” he asks as I hand him the bottle, then turn him so I can wash his back.
“Did they show you what Sebastian did?”
“No.” He squirts soap into his own hand and begins to wash blood from his chest. “Why? What happened?”
“Seb killed Tony Yost. For what he tried to do after my lifeline came through.”
“Holy shit.” Graham turns to face me, his bruised ribs covered in fragrant suds. “Where is he now?”
“No idea. They arrested him. He did it on purpose, Graham. He thinks he should have been the one to avenge Skye. I think he came here planning to stay—in the bullpen.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. But Kaya doesn’t think we belong here, including Sebastian. I think she might be willing to help us however she can. As long as it doesn’t put her job at risk.”
“Well, if she’s handing out doggie bags again, I’ll certainly take one.”
But I’m hoping she has something bigger than that up her sleeve. Fighters are only eligible for one lifeline per season, and then only if a sponsor is willing to pay for one. I’ve used mine.
If I lose in the arena again, I’m dead.
When we emerge from the bathroom, Kaya has clean gladiator-gear waiting for us—matching outfits this time. Both a deep red color with black trim. Both skin tight. And Graham’s only exists from the waist down.
I was looking forward to a second chance at some pasta, then a return to our cellblock for some much needed sleep, but I can tell from both the clean clothes and the fact that Renee and Margie are standing by for fresh hair and makeup that Universal Authority expects something more from us tonight.
That something more turns out to be an “intimate” cocktail party on the blimp, where we’ll be expected to schmooze with our corporate sponsors. To give them a thrill and keep the money flowing.
“A few of the men are handsy,” Kaya warns as we board the shuttle, accompanied by the usual escort of a dozen armed guards. “They’ve never met a female gladiator, and I honestly have no idea what to expect. So stay close to me.” Then she leans around me to make pointed eye contact with Graham. “All of the women are handsy. Most of them are married to middle-aged men with desk jobs and pot bellies. They’re only here for the chance to…um…feel how hard you are. Don’t disappoint them.”
“I’m not going to fuck them,” Graham growls.
“Of course not.” She nods repeatedly, evidently scandalized by the suggestion. “I’m just saying…don’t be rude when you turn them down. Flirt a little, but remain inaccessible. They’re not really expecting to get away with it—the guards would never leave them alone in a room with a death row inmate. But your chances of getting a weapon in the ne
xt round depend upon those men and women liking you.”
Graham looks pissed, but he nods.
“Cohen Roth was very good at this part. And it kept him alive.” Kaya shrugs. “Well, until he crossed the two of you.”
Graham appears mollified, and I suddenly understand exactly how Kaya got her job. And how she’s kept it.
19
GRAHAM
I’ve never been to a cocktail party, so I can’t really say how this one stacks up. But I can say that compared to life in the bullpen, this is beyond bizarre. Chocolate fountains. A dozen varieties of hors d’oeuvre and champagne in tall flutes, served on silver trays that hover at chest height, like the stretcher that took Cohen Roth out of D block.
If I thought the buffet in the greenroom was extravagant, then this is…
I have no fucking idea what this is.
Even though our sponsors have bought into Sylvie and me as a couple, the crowd splits us up the moment we walk into the room. Kaya gives me a pointed nod as she takes off with Sylvie, silently promising to stay by her side in the throng of men in dark suits. Not that I think any of them could hurt her. She could take down any of those soft motherfuckers with one punch.
Charles seems to have been assigned to me, based on the way he hovers near, guzzling champagne as a crowd of women in short, colorful dresses closes around us.
I don’t see any production cameras, though no doubt there are security cameras everywhere, and the only reason I can think of for the obvious lack is that the executives might not want their drunken, lecherous behavior broadcast on the feeds.
And when the fourth woman in ten minutes runs her hands over my chest like she owns me, I can understand why.
I excuse myself, leaving Charles to apologize for me, and head for the nearest tray of drinks, hoping for something stronger than champagne. I swear I’d rather face twenty death row inmates in the yard than one more woman with painted nails and an entitled touch.
One of those bitches actually slid her hand into the front of my pants.
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