Breath of Fire

by Amanda Bouchet

  His eyes blaze with pain. Then burn with rage. The Elemental’s mouth opens on the start of a snarled chant, and I punch him in the arm wound, cutting the spell short. He gasps. I grab his hair and drag his face down as my knee flies up. His nose cracks, and he staggers back, doubling over. The wind dies, and sand thuds to the ground. I shift my balance, spin, and kick him in the head. He crashes like a marble statue, blood spraying from his nose.

  A quick check reveals the other Magoi still down and unconscious. I run toward Jocasta while shouting, “Go!” to Flynn. I’ll protect her, and he can help Griffin better than I can.

  Exchanging places with me, Flynn races into the fray. The injured Tarvan disengages from Griffin and deflects the first mighty blow from Flynn’s ax. The force of it makes the man stumble. Flynn follows up with a brutal strike from his short sword, and his opponent drops and rolls away. Flynn stalks after him, his weapons raised.

  Jocasta clutches my arm from behind. “Can’t we do something?”

  “Stay out of the way.” I learned that lesson the hard way, thanks to the Hydra.

  “Something else!” she cries.

  I shake my head. “They’re moving fast and turning a lot. It’s risky to throw a knife. We’re trying not to kill anyone, especially our own.”

  “But they’re trying to kill us!”

  I glance over my shoulder. Jocasta looks less terrorized than before. She’s agitated and bouncing on the balls of her feet.

  A slight bite creeps into my voice. “You get into one fight and start thirsting for blood?”

  Her eyes widen. “No! I just want it over.”

  “Our men are better,” I assure her. “If they were fighting to kill, it would already be done. But we’re making a statement. Strength with mercy. The new beginning and all that.”

  Jocasta scowls. “Humph.”

  My thoughts exactly. Mostly.

  The audience starts yelling, but it’s nothing like the usual raucous cheers and jeers. I look toward the loudest of the noise. Left to their own devices, thousands of spiders are now climbing the divider between the sandy arena and the coliseum seating. They spill over the top in a seemingly endless, scuttling black wave. Screaming spectators jump up and scramble for higher ground. It’s the beginning of a stampede.

  My eyes return to the pit floor in time to see Carver sink his long blade into his opponent’s abdomen. The thrust is clean, going all the way through without hitting ribs or spine. Carver slides his sword back out. White-faced, the Fisan holds his belly and keeps swinging through the pain. Carver parries, looking bored.

  A kid screams, high-pitched and terrified. Turning again, I search the crowd. Who would bring a child to the Agon Games? I see him then. A boy. His small, dark head disappears, pushed down as bigger, stronger people race up the steps. I yell, pointing, which is completely useless, but then I see a sharp-faced man stop and haul the boy up before propelling him forward.

  Suddenly seething—kids at the Agon Games!—I march toward the swarm of spiders. Jocasta follows, trying to drag me back.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “Getting the spiders.”

  “What!” She digs in her heels. “Don’t touch them!”

  “I’m not planning to.” I’m really, really not.

  Jocasta leaps back, kicking out when a hairy straggler crawls over her boot.

  “Stay behind me,” I order. “Tell me if anyone’s coming.”

  She turns without question, and I concentrate on one thought—urging the spiders back down into the pit. I don’t feel anything at first, but then a tiny light starts to glow inside my head. Another flashes, then another, and another, and then so many so fast I can’t keep track. They flood me in a bright, barely sentient rush, and I corral each minute spark of each minuscule brain. In a heartbeat, they turn into a cohesive, pulsating mass, ready to obey.

  Come.

  An undulating sea of black washes back over the wall. It rolls toward me, and then thousands of spiders are suddenly swarming up my body.

  Screeching, I hop and dance like a deranged puppet, flinging them away. “Not to me! Off! Off! Off!” I give the glowing orb of spider consciousnesses inside my head a mental push, and they jump, evacuating like I’m on fire.

  Jocasta shrieks, high-stepping back.

  Spinning in circles, I slap at my body. They’re all off me now, but I can still feel them. I shudder. Everywhere.

  In a circle all around me, countless hairy legs spin and strain. Spiders twist, trying to right themselves while others crawl all over them in a mad rush for space and air. I inevitably crush some underfoot. They burst and ooze, and I wince, my stomach turning over violently. Hate spiders! Ack! Ack!

  Still wiggling like an idiot and using completely irrelevant hand gestures, I mentally direct the spiders toward our opponents. They reach Flynn first and start climbing his legs. I flap my hands, yelling, “No! No! Not him!”

  They drop and swarm the Tarvan instead. Distracted, the Tarvan leaves himself open. Flynn cocks back his big fist and knocks the man out with one punch.

  The crowd roars in approval. The spectators closest to Jocasta and me have come back down and are swarming the barrier, just like the spiders, only without crawling over the top. They shout and point toward Griffin’s fight.

  That’s where I was going anyway. I move the spiders toward Griffin’s opponent. They’re halfway there when pain bursts behind my eyes. I hiss and clutch my head. The spiders stop, and I feel their confusion like a slow blink in my mind.

  There’s a sharp pinch and then a yank that throws me off balance. The Fisan with compulsion is sitting up—and giving me an epic evil eye. He wants his spiders back.

  Regaining his feet, the Magoi sends out a mental call that dims the light inside my head. One by one, the sparks extinguish, and the spiders flit from my grasp. The ones I lose start racing back toward me—and not in a friendly way.

  I have a choice to make, and not much time to decide. Catch the spiders again. Or catch him. That’s a line I’ve never crossed before, not on purpose, anyway. I was too young to put words to it at the time, but I remember the thick, oily dread, the polluted feeling, and how I shook when I understood what I could do. That I could control humans. That I was a rare and terrible breed. That I was just like Mother.

  My sister Ianthe was a screaming baby. I was a terrified six-year-old who wanted her to be quiet before Mother stormed the nursery in a rage. I inadvertently commanded Ianthe to shut her mouth. A compulsion is different than just wanting or thinking something. There’s a specific, conscious desire that you have to isolate, nourish into intensity, and then send out with a target in mind, but I didn’t know that then. All I knew was that she had to be quiet, or we’d all pay—Eleni, me, and the little ones. Ianthe didn’t eat or drink for three days and almost died before Thanos and I figured out what I’d done.

  Six years old and already almost a killer. We grew up fast in Castle Fisa.

  I look at the Magoi, still snipping and snapping at my mind like a little dog, ripping his spiders back one by one with an effort that makes him shake. I inherently know I could make him dance a jig and then run himself through with his own knife, but he’s not worth corrupting one of the few parts of myself I’ve managed to keep pure.

  As spiders swarm my legs, I envision a yank, like I felt from the other Magoi. I imagine plucking the glowing spider minds right from his brain and bringing them back to mine.

  The Fisan screams. He starts convulsing. His eyes roll back, and he drops, blood dribbling from his ears and nose.

  The crowd gasps, and my lips part in shock. I blink. I held back. I really did.

  The spiders make for the barrier again, and people start to panic. I rein them in, easily this time, and then separate them into two swarming masses. Carver has his adversary on the ground, his sword at his throat
, so I send the spiders further on. They hit Kato’s and Griffin’s opponents at the same time. Just a thought has the spiders encasing both adversaries in mountains of sticky webs. Immobilized, the men topple over—spiders mostly on top—and then about a gazillion beady, black eyes turn to me.

  I grimace. Good spiders. Gross, but good.

  They chitter happily, and my skin crawls.

  Kato and Griffin cut air holes over the downed men’s mouths, and a hushed silence falls over the arena. The crowd watches with bated breath. A dull murmuring begins. It turns into a clamoring that escalates with every passing second of inaction. Flushed faces, fevered eyes, pumping fists—the spectators are hungry for blood, and we’re not giving it to them.

  I look around, disgusted. They can starve.

  Another full minute goes by—clearly, the Gameskeepers are wondering what in the Gods’ names we’re doing, too—before the gong finally sounds, barely audible over the frenetic chant of “Death! Death!”

  I look at Griffin, and his sober expression reflects my thoughts. There’ll be plenty of time for killing. We won’t have another round like this, and we’ll do whatever it takes to defend ourselves.

  The gong sounds a second time, a long, low, metallic rumble. The third hit finally resonates, and until the eerie vibration stops, we can either finish off our adversaries permanently, our opponents can stay down, or they can get up again and keep fighting. If even one person on an opposing team is standing when the sound dies, the round goes on.

  The man Carver ran through twitches, and Carver gives him a close enough look at the tip of his sword that the man goes cross-eyed. “Next time, the blade goes into your head. Healers have a harder time with that.” Carver’s tone is utterly amiable.

  The man stops moving and keeps his hand pressed to his belly. The gong fades into silence. People grumble. Jeer. It gets louder. We deprived them of a slaughter, which is exactly what we meant to do. Not a single person is dead—I think.

  Ignoring the energetic heckling, I run to Griffin. He lifts me high into the air and spins me around, his gray eyes shining.

  I grip his shoulders, grinning. “I told you we’d walk through the first round.”

  He lowers me and then kisses me hard on the lips. “And you were right.”

  “Aren’t I always?”

  Chuckling, Griffin bends me over his arm and ravishes my mouth so thoroughly I get dizzy and can’t tell which way is up.

  Wild cheering suddenly drowns out the lingering boos. Some of the spectators start to shout “El-pis! El-pis!” and I doubt they have any idea what they’re really saying, but it catches on and sticks until our name is thundering around the arena.

  Sure, now they like us. Violence. Sex. Satisfied.

  Ugh.

  “You are putting on a show,” I say when Griffin eventually releases my mouth. I sound breathless.

  He smiles. It’s a devastating flash of teeth under a delectably hawkish nose. One of his eyes is blackening, making him look even more dangerous and piratical. “I am a crowd-pleaser.”

  Heat whips through me, singeing me all the way to my toes. “And a merciless teaser.”

  He lifts dark eyebrows. “So you can rhyme.”

  My mouth drops open. Griffin takes advantage by invading it all over again.

  “What are you doing?” I squeak, feeling my face flame kalaberry-red. “There are thousands of people watching.”

  “Showing the world we’re the Alpha couple. We work together. We don’t indiscriminately kill.” He sets me back upright, and I hold on to him for balance, light-headed from the way my heart is bouncing against my ribs. “And I also had a burning desire to kiss my amazing wife.”

  My flush spreads. “You’re right, I am amazing. And terrifying. And smart. And fierce. And—”

  “Extremely modest, as usual.”

  I grin. “I know! That is one of my better qualities.”

  Griffin laughs, his face lighting up.

  A dozen Gameskeepers jog out and begin gathering our opponents, going to the more seriously injured first. The other team’s healer lays his hands on the man Carver ran through as soon as he’s off the sand. I hear the swordsman’s pained grunt as they disappear into the tunnels below the arena.

  The Fisan whose brain I accidentally squashed moans, causing us both to look over. Oh, good. Not dead.

  “What happened there?” Griffin asks, tilting his head toward the Magoi being lifted up and carried away.

  “I gave him a mental flick when he tried to get his spiders back.”

  “A flick?”

  I nod.

  “Good thing it wasn’t a shove.”

  “True. I need practice.”

  He grips my hips, drawing me in close. “How does one practice that kind of thing?”

  Uncaring that our team is gathering behind us, I fit myself against him, curves to planes, muscle to muscle. “Preferably without exploding anyone’s brain.”

  Griffin laughs again, and I decide it’s my favorite sound in the world. I could listen to it all day.

  “I’m glad I’m immune,” he says.

  “I wouldn’t practice on you,” I huff, curling my hands around his neck. “Weren’t you worried about me?”

  “I’m always worried about you. But you have more tricks up your sleeve than the Kobaloi, and you’re far too stubborn to let anyone knock you down and keep you there.” He squeezes my waist. “Even with spiders.”

  I grin. “Look at that. You’ve finally learned how to sweet-talk me,” I tease.

  One side of Griffin’s mouth kicks up higher than the other, but his eyes spark with something hotter than humor. His voice lowers, for my ears only. “I know you inside and out, agapi mou, and it’s not sweet you want.”

  Muscles deep in my belly tighten, reacting to his words and to the hint of dark gravel in his voice.

  Griffin and I break apart when the gates clang again, and more officials arrive to escort us to our quarters. I recognize the scribe who registered our team, and he doesn’t look happy.

  “I need a big crate,” I tell him.

  His mouth pinches into a frown. “Competitors don’t make demands.”

  “Fine. I’ll let the spiders loose, ruin ticket sales, and probably cause widespread panic throughout the city.” I flash my teeth. “Sounds like fun.”

  The man snaps his fingers. “Get her a crate!” His expression sours further. “You didn’t mention compulsion, which is the only path to creature driving.”

  I shrug. “You didn’t ask.”

  “Compulsion is generally considered offensive magic.”

  “Compulsion is neither offensive nor defensive magic.” I quote one of the many tutors of my youth. “It’s the Magoi’s disposition that determines its bent.” I stare the Gameskeeper down even though he’s about a foot taller than I am. “He threw the spiders at us. I simply threw them back.”

  “With brain-hemorrhaging power.”

  “So?”

  “And you disappeared.”

  Again… “So?”

  “What else can you do?” His eyes narrow. “Who are you?”

  Luckily, a big wooden crate arrives—an old weapons chest—saving me from answering. Not that I would have anyway. I herd the spiders into the chest, sever my connection with them, and then address the two men latching down the top. “Take them to the Fisan Magoi. If he’s unable to care for them, bring them back to me.” I’ll figure something out. Maybe a trip to the woods when this is all over.

  Assuming we live.

  We exit the arena to a decent amount of cheering considering we barely drew blood, and I even hear a few calls of thanks for keeping the spiders under control. Flowers and tokens rain over the barrier. I pick up a long-stemmed purple blossom and then use it to salute the crowd as we pass under the gate. The appla
use grows deafening.

  “Now who’s putting on a show?” Griffin whispers in my ear.

  Grinning, I elbow him in the ribs.

  Carver snags my flower and gives it a sniff. Grimacing, he hands it back. “Can’t you use the spiders in the next fight?”

  “Initiating an attack would mean using offensive magic,” the official answers for me, eyeing me suspiciously. “Only return what comes at you first, or I’ll have you eliminated.”

  I nod curtly, but I want to crow. In front of several Gameskeepers, he just sanctioned my use of other Magoi’s creatures, and even their magic.

  Selena precedes us back to our suite. She ushers us inside, closing the door on the curious Gameskeepers with an imperious command to bring food. They don’t even think about arguing.

  She takes in the scrapes and bruises she’ll need to treat, coming to me first. Her gentle touch on my cheek and jaw sinks hot pinpricks of healing magic into my skin. “You bled where you scraped through the sand. And here.” A long, smooth finger traces the cut on my neck where I sliced through the web.

  I try not to wince as Selena’s magic bites and stings, healing me quickly. “For the first time in my life,” I say, “I really don’t care.”

  Arching perfect dark-blonde eyebrows, Selena moves to the sand-encrusted scrapes on my arms, washing them with water first. My elbows are a mess.

  “She’ll know where you are,” she says.

  “Mother will wonder what I’m doing here. It’ll drive her crazy.”

  Selena smiles faintly, and I grit my teeth when she concentrates on a particularly raw spot. She’s so powerful that the whole process is over quickly.

  “Done.” Straightening, Selena touches first my chest and then my forehead. The currents of magic in her fingertips offer sweet sensations now—home, shelter, peace—things I’ve only ever felt with her or with Griffin. Her scent washes over me, soft rain on new leaves, the freshness rejuvenating. Her bottomless gaze roams my painted face. “Shadows to light.” Her expression is both wry and a little sad. “He might be good for you after all.”