by C. F. Waller
“Don’t pick it up,” Arron shouts, but a glare from Rhea ends in a jab to his stomach from Helen.
“Well girlie,” Rhea pokes at her verbally. “Your mother was a coward of epic proportion, choosing only to battle me from a distance with guns. If you truly share her heart, you won’t pick up the sword. If this is the case you’re far too afraid to face me up close like equals.”
Jenn hovers between picking up her weapon and not. Rhea begins dropping the tip of her stick on the tile, then repeating the motion. A steady click, click, click fills the hall.
“Tick, tock,” she recites in her Cheshire cat voice. “Tick, tock said the clock.”
Jenn leans down, then stops, clearly weighing the options.
“Of course if you contain even a speck of my heart inside that fragile shell, the choice is obvious,” Rhea taunts, her spear cracking the tile under it. “If any bit of me resides in you then pick up the sword.”
Jenn’s hand wavers and the tension is thick in the hall. Down from me, Arron is shaking his head frantically, but Helen’s hand is over his mouth. In front of me, stuck in the table, is the cake knife. One place setting over is the gun. Carefully choosing a third option, I take my goblet in hand and try the sweet brandy provided. There is no reason for action on my part. We are all going to die, only Anthony had the order wrong.
Possibly, if well behaved, I will be last.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Helen releases Arron once Jenn picks up the sword. He pounds his fist on the table and even offers to swap places, which brings laughs from Rhea and cat calls from her minions. Any substitution seems unlikely, given the bloodthirsty lot at hand. Will they wager on the outcome of this battle?
“What is the next wager?” I ask, lifting my goblet in Rhea’s direction. “If this is entertainment, then a wager is in order.”
At first Rhea’s face appears surprised, but then over a minute’s time, her lips curl into a grin. Phoebe and the dark skinned immortal raise a fist and demand to know the wager. Rhea spins her stick, then drives the point into the tiles at her feet, shattering another. It is technically her turn to choose.
“I wager this girl cannot best me?” she declares, but receives thumbs down from her flock.
Boos rain down on her from the other side of the table. The look on her face is pure anger, but then an obviously forced smile is ratcheted over her lips. She is the Queen, but her subjects desire a more enticing wager.
“No one can best you,” I taunt her. “How are you so insecure about your chances?”
“You,” she growls, stepping forward and putting the spear tip in my face. “You have a big mouth. Maybe you should come around the table and have a try at me?”
“I’ll wager she will bring you to your knees,” Arron shouts, drawing all eyes on him.
“You’ll wager what?” Rhea growls. “This girl will bring me to my knees?”
“I do,” he proclaims. “Do you accept?”
There is a long pause as Rhea paces in front of the table. I’d guess she’s running every possible trap through her mind. After several minutes, she nods.
“What was that?” Arron barks. “I couldn’t hear you.”
“Your Pathetic challenge is accepted,” she hisses.”
“Just wanted to be sure. You tend to be untrustworthy.”
“Outside of the circles of twelve,” she sighs. “That does tend to be the case.”
“He can’t choose the game,” Phoebe shouts.
“His idea,” Rhea corrects her. “My choice.”
Murmurs and conversations fill the hall. Jennifer sits down on the steps in front of the door and fusses with her stubby ponytail. The blonde man and Greta both re-enter the hall and join the other three in attendance. This leaves Rhea taking wagers from them, plus Phoebe, the dark skinned man and Helen. The first four place their bets on Rhea, but Helen wavers.
“You cannot possibly consider placing your name next to the girl’s?” Phoebe whines, punching her in the arm. “Stop liking them so much. It’s unbecoming.”
“You all took Rhea,” Helen remarks, scanning a finger over them. “If she wins, then you all split the next choice, but if I take the girl, the choice is mine alone.”
Cat calls of traitor and whore, which seem inappropriate for this wager, fly about. In the end, Rhea asks Helen, who she picks. Helen points at the front steps and is promptly spit on by Rhea and her fellow immortals. She replies with a wag of her fingers under her chin and some aggressive words in a language I can’t make out, but is of Greek origin. This is a shocking turn, but after all, I did ask for entertainment.
“It’s done,” Rhea shouts, stopping the conversation and turning to Jenn. “The wager is that you bring me to my knees or die, whichever comes first.”
“I never said anything thing about death,” Arron balks.
“You are not a part of the wager,” Rhea scowls, pointing the spear at him. “I say till death.”
Chants of till death echo from the other side of the table. Helen pushes Arron down and nods for the game to continue. Will Rhea kill her quickly or will her vanity prolong the spectacle? The sour expression she is flashing at Helen are finally returned by the middle finger. The look on her face when Helen flips her off is priceless. I doubt there will be anymore erotic embraces between them for a while.
Rhea waves a finger at Jenn for the duel to begin, but she remains seated on the steps. The standoff goes on for several minutes until Rhea advances. I can’t know for sure, but Jenn looks smug. Is it possible she’s just trying to annoy her Highness? Before Rhea gets too close, Jenn rises to her feet. She waves the sword to one side, tossing off the wooden sheath. Again, Rhea waits for an attack that doesn’t come. Is Rhea used to being attacked as opposed to attacking? As they circle Rhea kicks Anthony’s remains to the side. Michelle sits up on the fountain ledge looking appalled at the treatment of his body. I have no doubt she’s cheering for Jenn.
Rhea swings her spear around and Jenn blocks it, stepping to the side. This happens a half dozen times with Jenn avoiding them all. Rhea isn’t really putting her best foot forward, simply trying to unbalance her opponent. Finally, Jenn blocks, then spins around and hacks at Rhea’s leg. With uncanny speed the lunge is deflected. I didn’t actually see her move, but simply disappear and appear out of danger. She moves too fast for my eyes to see. Before Jenn can reset her feet, she is kicked in the stomach and driven to the far side of the hall. Her sword clatters to a stop in front of the rabid minions, who cheer wildly.
Jenn gets up very slowly, cradling her left arm. Every square inch of this place is stone and she hit very hard. Phoebe puts her toe under the sword and flicks it to Jenn, mouthing the words Till Death as she does. Rhea frowns and nods her head at Phoebe’s chair. Lowering her gaze, Phoebe returns to her place on the inside of the table. Rhea wants the spotlight all to herself.
With her left arm dangling, Jenn picks up her weapon and motions for Rhea to continue. Brimming with confidence, she swings her spear carelessly. Jenn ducks under it and drags the sword under Rhea’s arm, clipping her stomach and taking off two fingers. The digits hit the marble, but dissolve into gold and silver glitter. A string forms as it swirls into the air and back to Rhea’s hand.
“That’s a problem,” I utter, turning to glance at Arron, who doesn’t appear surprised.
Jenn retreats to the stairs as the material from Rhea’s shirt falls off in the front leaving her in a crop top, her stomach exposed. There was blood, but the same magic trick with glitter erased the wound left by Jenn’s sword.
“Not very sporting,” I cry out in an attempt to un-balance Rhea.
“Hush,” she snips, then clenches her fist on the healing hand. “Unless you want to give her a hand?”
“Very funny.”
“Kill her,” Phoebe shrieks, unable to hide her enthusiasm. “Kill the girl.”
Jenn takes a swing at her and the game resumes. This goes on for another twenty minutes with Jenn being
kicked to the ground on several occasions. She always takes her time getting up, presumably buying time to rest. I worry about the cumulative damage, but notice she’s not favoring her left arm anymore. Was she overstating her injury or did it heal? I try to recall how long the two of them were stuck, exchanging glowing bits of light earlier. Just when my spirits are getting a lift, Jenn lunges and is punched in the face when her sword fails to land. As she turns and drops to the ground, Rhea sticks her spear tip into Jenn’s shoulder blade releasing a scream.
Jenn rolls over twice, abandoning her sword at her opponent’s feet. With one hand trying to grab behind her shoulder she begins to sob. Rhea seems amused, putting her toe under her sword and flicking it at her, bouncing it off her leg as she lays sobbing.
“It’s all fun and games until somebody gets stabbed,” Phoebe shouts.
“Enough, you win,” Arron cries over Helen’s objections.
“Till death,” Rhea sneers, turning to look at Arron. “I said till death.”
Tears stream down Jenn’s face in near hysterics. No doubt, the reality of one’s shoulder blade being pierced is a shock. This isn’t a self-defense class or a movie. It’s real and the pain must be tremendous. Rhea waits for Jenn to compose herself, but the young girl remains sobbing with one hand over her back on the wound. After a moment, Rhea walks back to the table and has a drink of brandy from her goblet. She makes eye contact with me, but I look away. I have witnessed worse, but it’s been centuries.
“Get up,” she complains. “I barely touched you.”
Jenn rolls onto her knees, but still has one hand pressing on her punctured shoulder blade. Rhea wasn’t trying to kill her, but instead deliberately caused a painful injury that’s not life threating. She’s not angelic at all.
“Come now you’re boring my guests,” Rhea frowns, taking one last drink and setting the goblet down.
Jenn rises, holding the sword in her right arm, the left dangling useless. Tears stream down her cheeks. Rhea chases her around the hall for a few minutes in a pathetic display of sportsmanship. Driving Jenn to the right, she pokes the spear tip into her right thigh, then when she falls drags the tip over her forehead causing blood to pour down Jenn’s nose. Undeterred, Jenn drags herself away blocking at least one spear swing as she does so.
“Enough,” Rhea proclaims, taking Jenn by the ponytail and dragging her kicking and screaming to the center of the hall. “You bore me.”
While being pulled up by the hair Jenn loses her grip and drops the sword, which clatters to the ground at Rhea’s feet. She spits at the Queen, who kicks her legs away, slamming her head into the marble tile. The impact is a hollow thud, which sends a shiver up my spine. I recall Rahnee’s recently resurrected corpse falling over backwards and hitting her head, then wince reflexively. There is no movement from Jenn, who lies motionless on her side, blood trickling down her forehead. When the Queen turns to her supporters they all give a thumbs down, as if they were watching gladiators in the coliseum. When she turns to Arron, he is fighting Helen to get over the table, but cannot.
“Till death,” Rhea boasts, pausing to look at me.
“Or?”
“There is no or,” she snorts. “The inevitable conclusion has been reached.”
“Are you sure about that?” I inquire as a shadow moves slowly over the tiles at Rhea’s feet.
“Quite.”
Phoebe shouts a breathless warning, but before Rhea can turn, the tip of Jenn’s swords explodes from the very center of her chest. She wasn’t unconscious after all. The slightly curved blade suddenly jerks and spins around as it’s twisted violently. Rhea gulps, looks confused as Jenn falls to her back. The Queen staggers to the table, catching herself with both hands. The sword remains buried to the hilt in her back, the tip hovering over the table. Blood trickles off Rhea’s bottom lip. It also runs down the length of the sword, turning the tablecloth crimson. I am expecting the red stain to turn to glitter, but it doesn’t right away. Jenn gains her feet and looks back and forth between Arron and her momentarily crippled opponent. The blood that pools on the table does begin to dissipate and flutter around her chest where the sword is wedged. Since the table broke her fall, the knees did not touch the ground and this would seem bad for Jenn.
“Till Death,” Phoebe hisses.
Rhea stands on wobbly legs and tries to draw the sword out, but can’t reach her back. An attempt to push it back from the front ends in bloody hands that glitter works frantically to fix. Frustrated, she grabs the sword angrily cutting off one finger, which bounces off the table on the way to the floor. Swirls of glitter stream back to her hand, the digit never reaching the marble floor. After a moment to focus her thoughts, she turns her back to Phoebe’s side of the table and points over her shoulder at the sword. When Phoebe reaches to remove it, the dark skinned minion stops her.
“You may not interfere with the game,” he lectures her.
“But she—,” Phoebe moans. “It’s just—.”
“No,” he barks. “Wagers have been placed.”
Rhea turns and scowls at the dark skinned man, but seems to understand. She forces a smile at me and pulls the cake knife out of the table violently. Flipping it over in the air one complete revolution, then, catching it by the handle. She presses the flat blade across the razor sharp tip of the sword. Blood still runs out of her chest becoming a cloud of glitter as fast as it pours out. By pressing the knife on the sword it begins to move the weapon out of her back. When finished, she’s going to impale Jenn and it’s forbidden for anyone to interfere. Wait, is that actually the case?
“Helen,” I whisper, grabbing her wrist. “Why can’t Phoebe help?”
“She’s made a wager on the outcome. If she interfered the game would be voided.”
“Did I make a wager?” I ask, the sword almost out of her back.
“You’re not allowed to wager because you can never choose the next game,” she remarks, unable to fathom why I am asking. “You have no standing.”
“That’s what I thought,” I grin, reaching across and fumbling for the gun, my fingertips just long enough to reach the grip.
Phoebe notices this and lunges across Rhea’s empty chair to stop me, but I pull the gun away before she can reach. She lands on her face, her hips hung over Rhea’s chair, which falls over burying her under the table. I step back from the table and drop the gun on the floor.
“Heads up,” I shout, kicking it under the table.
It shoots out from under the tablecloth in front. The gun passes by Rhea on the floor as the sword falls out in a sticky goop of blood. Jenn scoops it up with two hands and points it as Rhea’s chest. I lean over Helen’s way to avoid any shots that go wide.
“Wait, you can’t—,” Rhea complains as the hail of gunfire rips into her chest.
The gun fires like an automatic, sounding like a heartbeat. Two bullets are expelled every time the trigger is pulled. They cut right through Rhea, hitting the wall to my right and falling on the table like a hail storm. Rhea stumbles backward, but doesn’t tip over. The gun grows silent, clicking open when the partial clip runs dry. Cheers ring out from the other end of the table as the spectacle becomes more entertaining. Phoebe peeks out from under the table, a bloody bullet is stuck to the top of her hair.
“Valiant effort, Helen sighs, “But she didn’t go over.”
“Wait for it,” Arron grins. “You absolutely have to wait for it.”
Rhea suddenly grabs her throat. White foam appears under her nose and she bends at the waist, vomiting wine on the floor. She staggers forward, causing Jenn to back up, the gun still gripped in both hands. We all watch stunned as she grimaces and drops on her knees, puking a trail of crimson wine. It’s not blood but it will do. Helen looks to me, then Arron.
“How?”
“Cyanide,” he explains. “Seventy years ago Rahnee had them tipped with cyanide.”
“Will it kill her?” Helen asks, appearing oddly concerned.
“No,
she’ll get over it,” he sighs. “Or she did last time.”
“But,” I cut in. “Royal knees have touched floor.”
In the center of the hall, Jennifer exhales deeply, then, casually drops the gun on the floor. Her clothes are bloody, but she doesn’t seem as crippled by pain as before. This would seem to bode well for us. I ponder her entanglement with the Queen and any possible lasting effects. What has she become? Did her victory set off some endorphin rush that healed her?
“That was unfair,” Rhea complains, wiping her mouth on her forearm. “Completely out of bounds. Guns were not part of the game.”
“Weapon choice was not stated,” Helen remarks, watching the Queen struggle to her feet. “You used the cake knife to dislodge the sword.”
“But I didn’t use it on her,” Rhea snarls, reaching for her goblet and taking a long drink.
Her face has a long scar from a stray bullet. Her shirt is shredded in the front revealing pit marked skin. I assume this will heal, but she’s a freak show at present. She scans around the room and takes note of her unhappy minions. Turning back to us, she glares incensed.
“This wager aside, I have the three remaining semi-immortals in the palm of my hand. You win the day, but not the war.”
“Kill them now,” Phoebe cries. “Fulfill the contract and let’s go home.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Rhea agrees, bending to pick up her spear. “I am so weary of this place. The light beckons to me. I choose to seek my reward for completion of the agreement.”
“I wager that the girl’s mother will return for them in three days’ time,” Helen announces boldly.
“She won’t,” Rhea groans, putting a hand on her cheek where the scar is. “We are delaying her.”
“The wager is that she will arrive here within seventy-two hours,” Helen demands, then pauses. “It is my turn to choose.”
“Fine, whatever,” Rhea shrugs, leveling the spear at my chest from across the table.
“I wager she won’t,” Phoebe chimes in.
Rhea pauses, a confused expression washing over her face as she glances from me to Phoebe. The other three all join in a nay vote for Rahnee’s return. Rhea steps down the table past Helen and grabs Arron by the hair, flipping him over on his back across the table and putting the spear tip on his throat.