by Ana Mardoll
Hana's face is outwardly as calm as ever, though anger smolders deep in her dark eyes. Heather looks bored, as does Sappho, but neither of them looks directly at the fighters, as if they can't bear to watch. Miyuki's expression is carefully neutral, and I know xie can't have seen much of what went on; Imani sits close to xer, her lips moving near xer ear as she whispers details. Chloe seems the most affected of us all, which surprises me given how calm she'd been earlier; her face is so pale that I think she might be ill.
The frightening creature who owns us sits motionless on his golden throne, his grinning white mask directed towards the center of the arena where the pillar crumbled and fell. "Master, shall I call the match?" Handler murmurs at his elbow, his face angled respectfully towards his feet.
"Yes," the Master replies, his voice flat and low. If he's derived any pleasure from watching a man die, none shows in his tone or posture. "Open the gate to bring them in. I'll need to repair the arena before the next match. Tiresome, but the crowd is pleased." His pale fingers tap the arm of his throne. "Obsidian continues to earn his keep," he observes, almost to himself. "The new one: what did we call him?"
"Granite, Master."
"Granite. He seems determined to draw a crowd. I am pleased. Send Prizes to them both." My spine stiffens at this reminder of why we are here, and the white mask turns to regard me. "Send the two newest. They need to be broken in." Hana closes her eyes, pain flashing over her face, but there is nothing she can say or do to countermand the order.
Handler bows. "Yes, Master. With your leave, I will take the girls down now." The creature waves his hand in dismissal, and Handler gestures for us to rise.
The others stand from their cushions, and I manage to do the same after a minor struggle—the trick turns out to be leaning forward on my hands and knees, working one leg up into a half-standing position, and then pushing off from the ground. Handler's mouth twists into a disapproving frown at my contortions, but the Master ignores us and his indifference is apparently enough to protect me from rebuke. It's not like I asked for any of this, I think, pushing the sour thought away before it can show on my face.
We're led back down the spiral staircase into the caverns, and my eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness after the dazzling light. I feel a cool body at my side and fingers snaking down to twine through mine; I squeeze Miyuki's hand, and hope my closeness will comfort xer. Then Hana is on the other side of us, pushing into the tight space between Miyuki and the wall as we wind down.
"You're going to be fine," she whispers, her voice low and urgent in the dark. "Your only job is to make them happy and stay safe. Talk to them, be yourselves, but keep polite. Don't act rude to them; don't get into any fights. You'll be fine," she repeats. I wonder whether she's trying to convince us or herself.
"Will we be together?" Miyuki asks, squeezing my hand tightly.
Hana shakes her head. "No, you'll—"
"We're here," Handler announces, cutting in. "The rest of you wait in the hall while I take these Prizes in."
He grabs me by the elbow, jarring me forward and causing me to stumble. I right myself before I can fall, and whip my head around to glare; an unwise but unthinking act. The sight of him causes fresh waves of fear to wash over me. The strange magic that runs through the furrows on his face and hands is brighter now without the searing light of the Master to overwhelm his glow.
"This way, Alexandrite," he orders, ignoring my stare. He doesn't acknowledge Miyuki, but yanks me hard enough to separate us, tearing xer hand away from mine.
We approach the huge black doors we saw earlier, Handler pulling me forward and Miyuki close behind. The iron bands wrapped around the doors glint with the same roiling magic which covers the golden doors of our cavern. The gleam moves like a current through the metal, and the cuts in Handler's face grow brighter as we approach. He reaches out to the doors and the cracks in his hands flare hotly. The currents flow faster—too fast for my eyes to follow—and the doors open to let us through.
It's some kind of connection, I realize, peering hard at him as he ushers us into a large open cave. I still don't know how to read the magic, but I can see that those eerie cuts in his hands and face and the matching scrolls on the doors all work together to let him through while keeping us trapped.
I don't relish the thought of being trapped anywhere, but especially not in the cavern Handler leads us through. Devoid of sun, the only light comes from torches set into stone columns clustered throughout the cave; heat and smoke fill the murky room and black soot clings to our long gowns. The dark emptiness stretching above us is a disorienting black void that bears no resemblance to a ceiling and leaves me feeling exposed and alone all at the same time.
When we round one of the columns I realize we're not the only people in this place. Seven boys stand in a cluster on the far side, talking excitedly. "—never seen anything like that! Never heard of anyone even trying. Fucking brilliant!"
A tall white-skinned boy with straight brown hair brushing the tips of his shoulders pounds the back of the fighter who nearly fell to his death. The shorter boy grins under the onslaught of rambunctious affection while my spine twitches in sympathy; he rubs his neck in a self-conscious gesture that clashes with the confidence in his smile. "Reese, it wasn't exactly smart. I almost splatted myself onto the sand, you know."
"Newbie, it was the flashiest damn kill in the last dozen fights." The other one from the arena, the one who can puff into smoke, stands nearby chuckling as he pulls off the remains of his armor. "It's a miracle the crowd didn't jump down to mob you."
"They always go wild for the strong ones," declares another boy. His hair is lighter, the same color as the sand filling a nearby pit, and his pale skin is strangely translucent when I peer at him, as though he's not quite solid. "We've got to figure out a way to teach talents. We don't know they can't be learned."
Several of the other boys laugh, excepting one with a young face and long black curls. "Maybe we could trade them," he says in a glum voice, scuffing at the floor with his foot. His shoulders hunch over as he folds his arms over his chest, and I catch the faintest glitter of rainbow color in his dark hair as we approach. "I'd love to get rid of— Oh! Girls!"
His eyes widen when he sees us, his head whipping up to toss back the mop of wild curls tumbling over his forehead. The other boys turn to face us; mouths snap shut, spines straighten, and chests are proudly thrown out. My stomach clenches at the way their gazes sweep openly over our bodies. They're not hostile, and some of them seem kind—a silent dark-haired boy meets my eyes with a gentle expression, and the tall one with the bright smile looks almost apologetic—but none of them look away. I feel naked; a sensation not alleviated by the sandy-haired one staring at me as though trying to bore a hole through to the other side.
"Handler?" An older boy with tan skin and wavy brown hair steps forward, walking with a cane made from a thick glossy wood. "It's a little early for Prizes, isn't it?" His tone is mild and deferential, reminiscent of the way Hana speaks to our inhuman keeper, though without her falsetto affectation.
"Consider the extra time a gift from the Master, commensurate with how pleased he was by your show." Handler's voice is as cool as ever, but there's a hint of danger underneath cautioning the older boy against further questions. The boy drops his gaze in response to Handler's tone, nodding obediently.
Without warning, Handler yanks on my elbow and gives me a rough shove from behind. I stumble forward, my heart in my throat at the threat of the onrushing ground. Yet I'm saved from falling by the strong arms of the boy I've been propelled towards: the smoky fighter from the arena. "Alexandrite," Handler says by way of introduction. "Our newest and most valuable Prize. Don't use her too hard, Obsidian."
The young man's dark eyes flash at the injunction, but his smile remains bright and easy. "I'll take good care of her," he promises, and despite the lingering fear that always surrounds Handler, several of the other boys chuckle. I shiver in his arms and
stare at my feet; more than anything, I don't want to be here.
"Quartz," Handler adds, herding Miyuki closer to the other fighter. He doesn't say any more, and his silence speaks loudly of the relative unimportance of xer well-being.
I risk a look at the boy, searching his face for a spark of recognition. Did he really come in with us? Did we know each other? His warm brown skin is a shade lighter than my own, but the tight tendrils of curls covering his head are almost exactly like mine; the only difference is that my curls are cut close to my head while his stick out wildly in all directions and tumble down to his shoulders. I like the look of him immediately, but he's as much a stranger to my wiped mind as Miyuki was.
He looks surprised to find Miyuki thrust into his arms, but doesn't argue with Handler. He doesn't speak at all, not even to reassure xer; he just nods his head in an easy-going manner. I try to catch his eye to communicate that xie is valuable to me, but he's watching the face of the silent boy, who is looking away in another direction entirely.
I don't want to leave Miyuki. I'm scared for xer, scared of what this boy might do to xer. But strong arms move to usher me away, and I know if I resist we'll be punished. Handler saw how we held on to each other and must have guessed we're friends. I can't expect mercy from him, not when the monster he serves was willing to let these boys die just to have fewer mouths to feed. So I close my eyes and let myself be led to a door that opens onto a tiny, humid cave. Please be right, Hana. Please let us be okay.
The boy to whom I've been given closes the door behind us. He leans me gently against the wall as if I'm a rigid piece of wood that might fall over if left to stand alone. "Stay here, okay?" he says, his voice low and warm in the darkness. "I'm still covered in grit after all that. Didn't expect girls so soon; usually Prizes aren't given out until after we've had a chance to wash and eat."
I should be worrying over what he might do to me; Heather's bloody demonstration with her arm dances behind my eyelids while Sappho's harrowing tale of sleep-strangling rings in my ears. But I'm too anxious about Miyuki to concentrate on myself, fearing what the other boy might be doing to xer right now. I open my eyes and focus on this one in the dim lighting, needing a distraction from the images in my mind.
Only once my eyes are open do I realize what sort of distraction is available. The fighter is stripping off his clothes, shaking sand out of his hair and rubbing grit off his skin with handfuls of cloth. His naked body flexes as he moves, muscle and sinew and scars appearing under the curling smoky magic that lingers on him. He's beautiful, and while he's the first naked man I remember seeing, the contours of his body are intimately familiar to me. I shouldn't stare, but I find myself unable to look away.
When the worst of the sand is scrubbed away, he reaches for a metal bowl full of water set into the wall. He tugs the bowl free and tips it over his head; water streams over every hard curve of him and he shakes his head to toss droplets from his hair. I press back into the door to avoid the splatter, and he grins at me before grabbing up a clean cloth and beginning to towel off.
He clicks the bowl back into the wall when he's finished and turns to face me, watching my face with undisguised mischief. I feel my cheeks heat in embarrassment at having been caught gawking. "Sorry," I mumble.
He laughs at my apology, a soft chuckle that ripples through his chest. "Don't be. It's a nicer reaction than I get from some of the other girls. What's your name, pretty girl? Sit on the bed with me?"
He crosses the room as he talks, sitting on a shelf set into the wall. He pats the bed in invitation and I repress a shudder imagining how it will feel against my back; the pad is barely a fingertip thicker than the ones in our sunlit cavern, and I don't relish the painful prospect of lying down. But Hana said not to act rudely, so I ease onto the shelf beside him and let my legs dangle over the side. "Um. Handler calls me Alexandrite."
"Alexandrite?" He rolls the word on his tongue, trying out the unfamiliar sound. "I'm Christian, Alexandrite. That 'Obsidian' stuff is for out there. In here it's just us." His dark eyes watch me, dancing suggestively around the word 'us', and my stomach flips again. "Sure there's nothing else you'd rather I call you?"
I shake my head, wary of this line of questioning. Hana said never to tell; Heather said we could be killed if the Master found out we know our names. I'm not sure if this boy has shown me trust by giving his name or if the rules are different for boys, but I won't take any chances.
Instead, I put on a smile. "You said, uh, the other girls don't like you?" I'm trying to banter with him as a distraction from his question and aiming to match his teasing tone, but in my nervous state my words come out sounding like an insult.
"Well, that depends on the girl." He grins and runs his hand up my arm, trailing goosebumps. "Ruby and I are very good friends." He gives me a sly wink, his hand moving to caress my back and massage my neck. His fingers find the tucks and folds of my robe as he works, pulling swaths of cloth away from my head and shoulders with confident grace; the long loose end of gauze tumbles down to trail over the lip of the bed and onto the floor. "Amethyst, eh. She helps me with my hair," he confides in a low chuckle. "Then we cuddle after."
Christian leans in then, his lips brushing over my shoulder. I shiver at the touch, but his hand on my back steadies me. "Mmm," he murmurs into my skin. "Emerald, not so much. Good girl, but she can't really feel anything, you know?" Warm lips trace over my collarbone, causing my breath to hitch. "I like a girl to feel things." Without warning, he nibbles at my neck. I jerk away in surprise and he draws back to watch me, his eyes full of amusement. "Don't you like nibbles, pretty girl?"
"I-I don't know." I'm struggling to keep my breathing even, to not squirm under his touch. The things he's doing are nice, even good; they're things I sense my body has done before. But my mind isn't in the same place as my body right now, and I don't know which one to listen to.
He grins at my answer. "Plenty of time to find out," he murmurs, leaning in to kiss my neck again. "Hmm. Who does that leave? Well, ha, Sapphire, but she's never looked at any boy the way you look at me, pretty girl. And Diamond, but the only time she looks at anyone that way, she's faking." He snorts, his tongue darting out to taste my skin as he moves up my jaw. "That girl wants bed-play about as much as I want a gut-wound. She hides it well, but I can tell."
I open my mouth to speak, but only a soft whimper escapes as his lips work their way up to my earlobe. He chuckles warmly and I feel the vibration of his laughter against my skin. I clear my throat and try again. "You can tell? You're good at knowing what people want?"
He draws back just far enough to lock eyes with me in the darkness, his grin bright and confident. "Yes," he murmurs, his breath sweet on my face. He places a hand on my hip, sliding fingers up my side and drawing a long shiver from me. "And I think, pretty girl, that you want me." He leans in and brushes his lips against mine.
I freeze at the suddenness of it, the sensation new to me and yet perfectly familiar. His lips are full and warm and soft, covering my own in a long kiss that quickly deepens from the initial light brush. My lips move with his in an instinctive memory, savoring the taste of him as my heart races. Then he's leaning me backwards onto the bed, moving me so gently that my back puts up only a token protest as his hands glide over my body in beautifully distracting ways.
I kiss him a little faster than before, feeling hot despite the coolness of the room. My hand reaches up to touch his face, but when I feel his skin under my fingertips everything seems wrong. The warmth in my blood fades, leaving a chill behind, and the heat pooling through my stomach curls into a painful knot.
What happened? I wrack my mind, trying to recapture the heat. I don't have a choice, after all; I have to go through with this, so I'd like to enjoy it if I can. By some miracle, this experience hasn't been what I'd feared; he hasn't hurt me or humiliated me in any way. He's been kind: polite and gentle and talkative with me. He's beautiful and clever and strong. He fought well in the arena, which
is probably a good thing; it means he'll live longer and I won't have to watch him die. Isn't all that enough?
It's his face, I realize. It's this bed. The problem isn't what he is but rather what he's not: Miyuki.
I'd touched xer face when we woke in bed together. I'd held xer in my arms while we slept. I'd promised myself I'd shield xer from this place. Now xie has been torn from me and sent off with another boy who'd been more or less told by Handler that he can do whatever he likes with xer. How can I enjoy myself knowing xie is in danger? No matter how much my body responds to the touch of this boy, my mind is tied into miserable knots while I wait to see xer again.
I still have to do this. I won't let Miyuki be hurt because I put on a poor performance. But my lips falter in spite of my determination and the boy on top of me seems to notice. His kisses slow and gradually come to a halt, and he pulls back to study my face.
I'm relieved to see he doesn't look angry, just thoughtful and a little disappointed. "I'm sorry," I whisper, knowing I've screwed up but helpless to explain. "I do want you, Christian. I just—" I take a shaky breath and wonder if I can trust him with the truth. "I don't want this. Not right now."
He smiles down at me; not his laughing smile from before, but a softer expression. Gently, he shifts to lie beside me, relieving me from the painful pressure of his body. "It's okay," he tells me, kissing my forehead and smoothing a curl back from my face. "Like I said. It all depends on the girl."
I bite my lip, unsure how to take this. He doesn't look mad, but how can I be sure? I turn to face him, watching him in the dim light. "It isn't you," I promise, praying he'll believe me and won't be insulted. "It's me. It's this place. I'm still trying to wrap my head around it. It isn't anything wrong with you."