“And that’s what you want for Jo? A heart of iron?” Flynn scoffs. “You’re hard and mean and a little bit crazy, Cat.”
A warning sound rumbles in Griffin’s chest. My own chest tightens painfully, and even though I feel the truth in his words, I try to remember that tomorrow Flynn could tell me I’m fun and selfless and brave. He’s angry now. I look him in the eyes and see he already regrets what he said. He knows me well, though. I am hard, and crazy, and mean. But not always, and that’s not the sum of who I am.
I step toward Flynn, my voice low and trembling with the kind of ungovernable emotion that only comes from arguing with someone you truly care about. “A heart of iron means I do not break. You cannot break me. I may not be the strongest, or the fastest, or the best, but I will fight. I will fight for everyone I love. I will fight for myself. You can beat me until I’m bloody. You can break my bones. You can tear my skin. You can burn me. You can crush me until I can’t breathe, and you’re sure I’m dead, and then do you know what?”
Flynn looks at me, his mouth a compressed line. “What?” he finally asks.
“I will get up, and I will fight some more.”
Flynn’s eyes flick to Jocasta before boring back into mine. “This is one of those decisions you’ll have to live with.” He looks at Griffin, too, the same somber message in his heavy dark-brown stare.
Jocasta glares at Flynn. “Why are you so sure I’m incompetent?”
“I don’t think you’re incompetent,” Flynn answers harshly. “I don’t think you’re prepared for this!”
Carver tilts his head back against the closed door, his eyes at half-mast, one foot propped up against the wood. His relaxed stance doesn’t fool me at all. “I think our opponents will see you’re the weak link, and we’ll spend all our energy defending you until we finally run out of muscle. Guess what happens then?” he asks, his tone both biting and soft.
Jocasta whips out a knife and throws, planting the blade in the aged plank not an inch from Carver’s sword hand. I arch an eyebrow. Even if she’s gained the skill, it takes balls to actually make a move like that, even with Selena here to clean up the potential mess.
Carver straightens off the door, scowling. He rips the knife from the wood and then hands it back to his sister. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“Then maybe you don’t know me,” Jocasta says. She turns to Griffin. “What do you think?” She’s not asking for his sanction, just his opinion.
“I don’t want you out there. You’ve always had the heart of a warrior, but you don’t have the training for this.”
Jocasta’s chin stays perfectly level. She turns to me. “Cat?”
I don’t want an opinion. I don’t want an opinion. I don’t want an opinion. “You’re not prepared, but who ever is for something like this? Everyone is here by choice. I won’t order anyone to fight, and I won’t turn you away. The Gods are with us. I put my faith in them.”
Jocasta nods once. “Then I’m in.”
Flynn pales. His mouth works for a moment, but he doesn’t speak again.
Everyone is quiet until Selena says a single word. It’s from the old language. I don’t recognize it, but the magic blackens my vision and knocks me off my feet. Everyone else lurches, even Griffin, which means whatever she said was helpful, not harmful. Obviously.
Griffin helps me to my feet, and I lean on him more than I probably should. I can’t catch my breath. My heart is racing, and my last meal feels like it’s ready to come back up.
I swallow once, twice. Ugh. “What was that?”
Selena’s smile is enigmatic at best. “Let’s get some rest.” She moves fluidly into the other room and then douses the torch.
Typical. I swallow again, trying not to pant.
Kato covers Cassandra with a blanket, pulling it over her bloodless face. Guilt and anxiety churn in my stomach, and I lose the battle not to be sick. I lurch toward the privy and then vomit, overwhelmed by the sheer awfulness of the last half hour and the weight bearing steadily down on my shoulders. I start shaking and can’t stop.
Kneeling down next to me on the floor, Griffin keeps my braid out of the way and rubs my back. When I finally sink back onto my heels and wipe a shaking hand across my mouth, he hands me a cool cloth. I refresh myself with it and then drink the water he offers.
The sharp bite of magic still gnaws at my skin. “Whatever Selena just did hit me hard,” I say roughly.
Griffin looks at me oddly. Worry creases his brow, and the lines stand out starkly. I should have told Jocasta no. We should have found a plan B.
“You can still stop her,” I say in a low voice for just the two of us. “Stop all of this.” I almost hope he will.
Griffin grips the back of my head and kisses my forehead. Against my skin, he says, “I could. But I’m letting you out there, aren’t I?”
“It’s not the same. I’m made to fight. And survive. A week ago, you wouldn’t even let Jocasta out of Sinta City.”
Griffin takes my hands in his before meeting my eyes again. His are troubled. “I know it doesn’t make sense, but something tells me this is the course we’re meant to follow. I wish to the Gods Cassandra wasn’t dead, and that Jocasta wasn’t taking her place, but the gates are sealed now, and there’s no replacing her with anyone else. Either Jocasta fights, or we’ll be forced to withdraw.” He squeezes my fingers. “We need to be out there on the sand tomorrow. I feel it.”
Griffin’s instincts are uncanny, and I think, deep down, I feel it, too. “It could go badly for her. For any of us.”
Griffin rises, pulling me up with him. “She knows that, agapi mou. So do I.”
I’d feel almost normal again after emptying my stomach, except that dread over what’s ahead is like an ice-cold block of marble inside me. Everyone is still exactly where we left them in the main room, the tension in the air thick enough to suffocate the lot of us.
It’s Flynn who moves first. He takes a downy white feather from the pouch at his belt, holds it between two fingers, and then drops it at Jocasta’s feet.
Her face drains of color. My heart lurches when I recognize the feather he took from her hair that day in my room.
Flynn turns his back. For a second, I’m afraid he’ll leave, but then his footsteps veer away from Carver and the door, and he stalks into the deep shadows of the suite among the farthest beds and the extra gear. He lies down on a cot and throws his arm over his eyes.
I watch him, but he doesn’t move again. I don’t know what he’ll do tomorrow.
Maybe Flynn doesn’t, either.
CHAPTER 29
The impatient yelling and the pounding of the audience’s feet is nothing like the excited, festive rhythm I’m used to from the circus. This is violence and anticipation, brutality and expectation mixed into a thundering roar for blood.
Deep-seated aggression swells inside me. Adrenaline surges until my pulse beats like a drum in my ears. The heavy, loud thumping nearly drowns out the noise of the crowd.
“Cat’s not interested in putting on a show, and neither am I,” Griffin says. “No unnecessary risks.”
“Nonfatal wounds when possible. Quick and clean,” I remind everyone. “Let’s get out of here fast and intact.”
I glance at Jocasta. She has her own knives as well as Cassandra’s leather upper-body armor and lightweight sword. Her wide, blue eyes are glued to a big splatter of blood in the center of the arena. There’s a severed limb.
Her terrified gaze rises to find Flynn. “What if you were right?” she asks so quietly I barely hear her.
“Right or wrong doesn’t matter anymore.” He looks at her hard. “I’ll protect you. You know that.”
She nods, but then her eyes swing back to the bloody stump.
The gate across the arena from us rattles. They let us out first, which I think means the Gameskeep
ers consider us the weaker team. It’s more fun to see us sweat.
The name we gave our team flows like an undercurrent around the arena, spoken by many beneath the rowdy cries. Elpis. The personification and spirit of Hope. There are enough people here that know the old language and legends to dig up the truth behind Elpis, and they’re probably confused, given the setting, but to us, it makes perfect sense.
Elpis. The word seems to swell in the air until it’s all I can hear, even though the shouts for blood are infinitely louder.
Pandora opened her box and filled all worlds with plagues and misery and the potential for evil. But one thing remained—steadfast, unshakable, not flying from the box.
Elpis.
Thalyria has suffered. We will all suffer before we win these Games, but no team here will break us. For what is Hope if not unbreakable? And what is Hope if not the natural extension of suffering, that which eventually overcomes?
Gears grind, metal clanks, and the far gate begins to rise. I tense, ready to spring into action.
“This is just another fight,” I say. Albeit carefully orchestrated for the most potential blood loss and carried out in front of a sanguinary, paying audience.
“And we’ve seen plenty of those.” Kato grips his mace, showing no fear.
I quickly take in the rest of my team. Flynn with his ax, a short sword in his other hand, his wild auburn hair pulled back with a leather tie, and his eyes still on Jocasta. Jocasta looking back up at Flynn, her lips white and her face gray. Carver, long, lanky, and ready, his sword just another part of his arm, his sharp eyes focused on the jangling gate.
And then there’s Griffin. No man ever wore weapons better—or looked more ready to use them.
Griffin’s eyes meet mine. He pins me with his granite stare. “Don’t take any hits to the middle.”
Frowning, I say, “Uh, okay. You either.”
His beautiful mouth flattens. “Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
Nodding, I turn back to the front. Six competitors are fanning out on the far side of the arena, already moving toward us. All men. Four are burly and wearing a lot of blades. Number five is in a long, voluminous cloak, and the sixth one carries only a sword. No creatures.
The gong sounds, signaling the start of our round. The imminence of battle slams into me like a Centaur’s kick, and my fingers tighten around my knives. I straighten to my full height, which isn’t much, and take a deep, steadying breath. Here goes nothing. Or possibly everything.
“Did I ever tell you that I kicked a Giant’s ass with only a throwing knife?” I ask loudly enough for the competition to hear.
Griffin shakes his head.
“I was eleven. I was eye-level with its shins.”
The six men stop twenty feet from us, taking our measure. Two look like Tarvans, not quite as sun-browned as Sintans and not quite as olive-toned as Fisans. They’re marked with the swooping, archaic symbols of ward lines, drawn across their foreheads. I recognize a broad-spectrum block, geared mainly toward Elemental Magic. If I gain any magic during this fight, I can’t use it on them. It’s too dangerous, knowing how wards corrupt my power.
My eyes flick over the rest of the team. Fisan, or at least I think so. Two of the men are of slightly smaller build and probably Magoi. The one completely covered in a dark cloak is carrying a wooden staff. I hate staffs. They’re either pretentious and purely for show, or else they carry a wallop I don’t even want to think about.
The cloaked man steps forward and pushes his hood back, revealing lank brown hair and mud-green eyes. Definitely Magoi. Moderately powerful. The staff is for show.
His swampy gaze widens when he gets a good look at the clear bright-green of my eyes, the only part of my face not hidden by cosmetics and kohl. I bare my teeth in a mockery of a smile. That’s right. I’m going to walk all over you.
But he smiles back, which I don’t like at all.
He looks right at me. “I’ve got something up my sleeve.” Chuckling, he opens his cloak.
I gasp, revolted. He’s crawling with spiders, completely covered from neck to toes in a moving, scuttling blanket of little black beasts. They’re furry in places and the size of full, ripe olives. They crawl all over each other, pushing and sliding and bumping, because there are layers.
A collective groan of disgust sweeps the arena. Then the whooping, cheering, and hollering begin again.
The Magoi throws me a vicious sneer. He raises his hands, and the spiders split into two racing currents that disappear into his billowing sleeves. An instant later, they fly from his outstretched arms, shooting straight toward me on a strong, unnatural wind. The second Magoi raises his head for the first time—bright-green eyes. The Elemental Mage’s wind slams into me along with a horde of prickly spiders.
They hit me everywhere at once and then converge on my neck and head. Hopping like a maniac, I drop my knives and start ripping them off me, but a tight, sturdy web forms in seconds, circling my throat. I start to panic, mainly due to a life-long loathing of anything creepy-crawly or slithery. They’re in my eyes. Pinching my ears. Scraping my scalp. Up my nose. In my mouth. Oh my Gods!
Other hands start tearing the spiders off me, but there are too many, and they just keep coming back.
Before I can’t breathe anymore—or they start biting me—or something equally awful—I force myself to calm down and stop howling. This is compulsion, and this Magoi is only powerful enough to drive nearly mindless spiders. About a million nearly mindless spiders, but I won’t think about that. I’m stronger than he is. I can make his spiders eat each other—or him.
Griffin shouts my name. His hands are all over my neck and face, flinging spiders off me. They’re so thick I doubt he even knows about the noose. I keep my eyes closed, but even so, it’s like the middle of a pitch-black night. They cut out all light.
The web suddenly jerks on my neck. The spiders drop, and daylight hits my face in a blinding flash. The army of arachnids yanks me off my feet, racing as one toward the Magoi. I grab the noose, struggling to get my fingers under it as I bump over the rough sand, gasping for air.
“Cat!” Griffin lunges for me, missing me by mere inches.
The brute force of the opposing team chooses that moment to spring into action and leap over me, cutting me off from the others. Griffin ducks a ferocious swing and then comes up in an explosion of muscle and steel. Metal clangs, men grunt, and utter mayhem breaks out.
Scraped raw by the sand, I tumble to a stop at the Magoi’s feet, only a trickle of air still making its way down my throat. His knife flashes above me, but I wrap my free arm around his ankles and jerk hard. I don’t have the leverage I need to pull him over. He stumbles, though, and I pivot on my hip, getting my feet between us and kicking out. Grunting, he reels back. Spiders start crawling on top of me again. On my left, blades meet and shriek and slide off each other in a grinding cacophony of savagery and sound. There’s the thud of leather and flesh. The first spray of red arcs through the air, and there’s a moment of silent, breathless glee before the bloodthirsty crowd goes insane.
The spider-controlling Magoi raises his long, curved knife again, an ugly smirk curling his upper lip. I make a rude hand gesture, smirk back, and then disappear.
Shock registers on his face. The audience gasps. The Magoi still jabs downward, but his moment of hesitation gives me the time I need to roll away, crushing spiders underneath me.
With one hand still dragging at the noose, I scramble to my feet and put some distance between us, bringing a slew of now invisible spiders along with me. They dangle from the web, cling to my arms and clothing, and make my skin twitch and itch. I squash some underfoot, cringing at the revolting, crunching pop.
Taking a knife from my belt, I stop breathing while I carefully work the blade between my neck and the web. Blood drips down my throat from the shallow cut I can’t avo
id making. I push out, slicing the sticky fibers, and then gulp down air, accidentally sucking a spider into my mouth along with it. Gagging, I spit the awful thing back out.
Both Magoi turn sharply, and I fling the bloodstained noose away from me along with the spiders still attached to it. While the Fisans focus on the severed web, I silently circle the other way, getting behind them to assess the situation.
Griffin is fighting the two Tarvans at once. One is nursing a bruised or broken rib and a very bloody, mostly useless arm. The other is still dangerously intact. Kato and Carver have a Fisan each. Every strike is fierce and ear-splitting, bone-jarring blows coming from both sides in a brutal dance of strength, speed, and skill.
Flynn is hanging back to guard Jocasta when he should be taking an opponent from Griffin. He can’t leave her now, though, because with me out of sight and the spiders scuttling back to their master, the two Magoi focus on Flynn and Jocasta with malicious intent.
Mud-Eyes flicks his hand, and his terrible black army scuttles into motion. A wind picks up, propelling the spiders along.
Still invisible, I fumble to latch on to their tiny minds and turn them around. Why did I never practice this! The spiders are four feet from Flynn. Three. Two… Time’s up.
I spring forward and slam the blunt end of my knife down on the Magoi’s head. He crumples without a sound. The Elemental Mage gapes at his fallen teammate. Then his head jerks around, and his bright-green eyes search the empty space for me. I stop moving, not stirring a single grain of sand.
He lifts his hands, conjuring a fierce, circular wind. My still solid form alters the flow of swirling grit. He finds me almost instantly and jabs with his sword. I spin out of the way, drop, roll, and come up in the calm space around his body.
He turns in place, searching for a disturbance in the cyclone. I’m too close to him, and he brushes my arm. He lashes out. I swerve to avoid his blade and then plant my dagger in his sword arm, hitting close to the elbow joint. He can’t lift his weapon anymore. I pop back into sight, pulling my knife out with a twist.
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