Taming The Ringmaster

by Erin O'Kane

  I crane my neck around, trying to take in the rest of the underground area, but I’m pushed again and dragged along the side of the cages. We’re paraded in front of the current fighters and they all track us as we go by. I catch one man’s eyes. He looks older than the rest, his hair receding and grey, and wrinkles line his tan face, but his eyes are bright and locked on us, and in them I see...sympathy. He’s a big man, not bigger than Nixon, but huge in his own right. He nods at me and the others at his table do the same before I am pulled away.

  More torches line the walls, locked into place with chains as if someone tried to steal them before, and I cough as more dust rains down on us from above. The crowd roars and we all look over, even the guards, freezing as the gate near the racks of weapons opens and a man covered in blood stumbles through.

  His legs give way and he catches himself on the weapons rack. One of the guards pats his back, congratulating him as they strip him of his weapons and armour. He nods, his eyes cold and dead, but I catch a flame of anger there buried under all that fury. He forces himself to stand.

  “Shower off, Xavier, you fight again tonight!” a guard shouts, and the room goes silent as all the other fighters lower their heads in respect as the man makes his way across the room.

  A fighter holds out a tarnished silver goblet to him and he grabs it, throwing back the drink before tossing it back to the man. He’s dragging one of his legs slightly and I gasp when I spot the massive gash on the back of his leg, almost down to the bone. How is he still walking?

  I can’t make out much under the blood, apart from that he’s a tall, muscular man, his chest almost as wide as Rex’s. It’s obvious his body is a weapon. He heads past us and I suck in a breath when I spot all the scars that run across his body, unable to be covered by the blood and gore coating him.

  One of the guards grunts. “Shame we missed that fight, knew that fucker would take that thief down,” he whispers to the guard that led us in here, who laughs as he tugs on my chains.

  “Maybe he will get rewarded with the new pussy slave.” He throws me forward and I try to catch myself, but I slam into the fighter. He stops, looking down at me as I pull away. His hair is covered in blood, the sides shaved, but the top bit is long and held back in a low ponytail. I’m betting when it’s down, it is almost as long as mine.

  His eyes flicker to the guards and his lips set in a grim, hard line. “Watch their hands girly,” he warns, steadying me before heading to the room I now assume to be the bathroom, not bothering to look back.

  I shiver again at the absolute lost look in his eyes...the pain and knowing. He has accepted he is nothing but a slave to them, something to fight and fuck and kill for them. And that’s when it clicks. If a man this strong, this imposing, can be broken, then I can be too. We are to be the same.

  My horrific thoughts are washed away as we are dragged past the room he disappeared into, and I spot showers, toilets, and sinks inside, which confirms my assumptions. Xavier has his hands braced against the wall of the shower cubicle, water racing down his thick body, washing away blood and sweat. I wince when I spot the horrible wound on his leg, wondering if he will even survive that.

  He glances up, our eyes catching, and my heart stops in my chest at the loneliness and longing in those bright blue orbs. I’m dragged away, my eyes staying on his until the last minute, and just before I turn, I see him look away, his head hanging down again. Only then does my heart start to beat, racing in my chest like he controlled it for a second. I was lost in his eyes, my body his to control…to kill. I shiver, not knowing where that thought came from, and concentrate on not falling over as I’m dragged away.

  I start to struggle when I notice the small hallway we are being dragged down. Closed doors with locks line one side and the guard holding our chains opens the first one before throwing me inside.

  I stumble forward, my eyes landing on a bed made up with clean sheets and pillows. Straightening, I glance around and notice they even put down a rug and there are some chairs and a small bar in one corner.

  What did they use this room for?

  “What—” I start, but the guard who followed me in turns and backhands me, sending me sprawling across the bed as my cheek flares hot. Usually my powers would have reacted, changed my skin, but they can’t because of the stupid shackles.

  The other guards must’ve brought the guys in the room too, because I hear them shouting and fighting. Sitting up quickly, ignoring the pain in my cheek, I mutter, “I’m fine.” They calm down slightly, though I notice their glares locked on the guard who hit me, no doubt thinking of the ways to kill him. But we all know we are out of options right now. There’s no other choice but to comply until we figure a way out of here.

  “No fucking speaking unless you want a mark on the other cheek, freak,” he spits out, kicking my feet so I curl up into myself and go quiet. I know pissing him off will only send my men into a fit as they try to kill them all to get to me.

  We sit in silence, all wondering what is happening, until eventually the door opens and a man enters with a flourish, a cart being pushed in behind him by another guard. The man doesn’t even spare us a look, just heads over to one of the chairs and starts setting up a gun on his cart. Finally, he turns to the guard holding me.

  “Let’s begin,” he announces.

  I’m pulled up from the bed and dragged over to his chair, my eyes sticking on the gun-like machine he’s holding in his gloved hands. The guard pushes me down with a hand on my head and I quickly glance back, catching Blain’s eyes. He doesn’t look concerned, just pissed. That in itself gives me some peace, so I blow out a breath and force myself to sit still.

  “Hand,” the man calls lazily.

  When I just blink at him stupidly, he looks at the guard next to me who grabs my left hand, almost crushing my fingers in his grip, as he turns it over so my palm is facing up. I wince at the crushing hold, my eyes wide as I watch the man dip the tip of the gun into what looks like a pot of black ink before turning back to me. Is it a tattoo gun? Are they marking us? Like cattle and slaves?

  My internal questions are answered when the machine fires to life, the buzzing cutting through my body when, without warning, the needle end is pressed against my skin. It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, it just feels violating since I don’t have a choice but to stand there and let it happen. And I hate that I’m now wearing their mark. Even if I escape here, this reminder will always be with me. At least it’s not massive, just a small black design on the inside of my wrist. Squinting, I eye it more closely. The design almost seems familiar… like I’ve seen it before. I gasp, realising where I’ve seen it.

  It’s the same mark I saw on the boy. He was a slave? He was one of them? The others take my sound of surprise as one of pain and start shouting again, the guards rushing to restrain them. Still focused on the mark, questions piling up in my mind, I wave a hand at my men to assure them I’m fine… I’m just more confused than ever.

  The tattoo doesn’t take more than thirty minutes, and once mine is done, I’m shoved back as, one by one, my men are dragged forward to receive their marks. They struggle to find room on Blain’s already full arms, and he winks at me as they grunt and groan about it.

  My wrist feels heavy and sore as I cradle it to my chest, wishing I could reach out and take comfort from one of my men. But I’m betting that would get us both punished, so instead I resign myself to watching them, tracing their faces and meeting their eyes. Trying to tell them I’m okay and how much I love them.

  Once we are all marked, we’re lined up outside the room, the guards talking amongst themselves. I reach out on either side, not wanting to take their hands, but I have to touch them, so I settle with brushing my pinkies against Jesse’s and Rex’s.

  “Alright, those two that way, the others this way,” a guard orders, and I throw Alcide a panicked look as Nixon and I are shoved down the first row of cells we walked past. The others are dragged along the back
of the bathroom wall and out of view to the other cells.

  I swallow hard, keeping my eyes on Nixon’s back when we are stopped next to two cells. The guards unlock them before shoving us inside. The clank of the lock clicking into place has me wanting to wrap my arms around myself, but I stand tall, noticing all the eyes on me. All looking for weaknesses that I can’t afford to show.

  “Feeding time’s over, you fucking animals! Back to your cages!” a guard screams, and all the men get to their feet, hustling back to their cells with the weapons from the guards trained on their backs.

  “Fight between Xavier and Vince in two hours!” another yells, as all the locks click into place on the cells, the sound final and resounding. I head over to the mat and lie down on my side, pressing against the bars closest to Nixon. He drags his mat over and copies me so we’re touching through the bars, his warmth offering me some comfort.

  Looking around, my eyes catch on the sleeping form of Xavier in the cell to my right. He’s lying on his back, his knee bent up, and his arm over his eyes as he snores. I blink in confusion as I stare at the back of his knee, knowing I saw it brutally injured earlier, but all that’s there now is a faint, pink line.

  Is everyone here freaks like us?

  I wonder how they tracked us all down, how long people have been here, but I daren’t ask. Instead, I spend my time people watching and learning the layout of the place and the guards’ routines until they announce fight time with a bell.

  Xavier gets to his feet, stretching out and waiting in the middle of his cell as they unlock his door. I watch as he’s led over to the weapons rack where another man is testing out an axe, swinging it through the air.

  The guard there automatically hands over armour and two swords to Xavier, and I watch with interest as he slips into it easily, obviously used to it. A gong sounds, the crowd above surging with excitement and raining dust down on us again. I hear the muffled voices of an announcement as the two fighters stand in front of the gate side by side, not talking.

  The gate starts to crank open and I watch the other man loosen up, nervously throwing glances at a stoic Xavier.

  “Our immortal!” I hear announced, as the crowd goes wild and Xavier steps forward through the gate and disappears into the black beyond. Not two minutes later, the crowd stomps and cheers, obviously catching a glimpse of him.

  “Against our reigning champ…Wolfman!” the announcer screams, and the nervous guys steps through after Xavier, the gate closing behind them and cutting off the voices of the announcer and the crowd.

  I sit there, counting down the minutes. The crowd is going crazy and not five minutes later, the gate opens again—admitting only Xavier.

  He’s bloody and sweaty as he hands over his weapons and armour before heading to the showers once again. My eyes follow him, entranced, before I drag them back to the gate, waiting for the other man. But he never shows. The gate shuts and I wince, my heart racing. Did Xavier kill him?

  What if he kills one of my men or me?

  What if we are asked to kill each other?

  Xavier heads back to his cell next to mine after a quick shower and instantly goes back to sleep. I watch him carefully, assessing the killer disguised as a man—a broken one at that.

  Nixon’s hand slips through the bars and curls around mine and I close my eyes, pressing my cheek to his shoulder.

  “I’m scared, Nix,” I whisper.

  “I know, but don’t let them see that. You are our greatest gift and their worst threat. They will realise that soon. Until then, we need to be strong. We have survived worse, and we will survive this,” he growls softly, but his words only send more fear through my system. I don’t fear for my life as much as I should, I fear for theirs, my men, and I also fear for my soul.

  What if I become nothing of the Rhea I know? What if they make me into a killer like Xavier? What if I become cold and withdrawn and they fully break me...turning me into their pet freak?

  I don’t fear death, no…I fear this life.

  A loud, metallic banging wakes me from my fitful sleep, and with my heart in my throat, I jolt upright, my eyes wide as I try to work out what is happening. My stomach drops as I look around at the cell I’m in. It wasn’t a nightmare, this is really happening. Panic claws at my insides, working its way up my throat as it tries to consume me, my hands shaking as my vision starts to narrow on the metal bars in front of me. We are trapped, separated, and the only thing that makes me special, that protects me, has been taken away. My chest becomes tight, so I focus on my breathing. In and out. In and out. We can survive this.

  Something touches my shoulder and I flinch, shuffling back until I’m pressed against the wall, scanning for threats.

  “Rhea?” The voice is rough, but I would recognize it anywhere. Blinking past the haze of adrenaline, I glance over to the other side of the cell. Nixon’s concerned face stares back at me, his hands wrapped around the bars. I rush over and reach through, desperate to touch as much of him as I can.

  “Sorry, Nix. I’m okay,” I whisper, pressing my forehead against the bars, smiling softly as he does the same, taking my hand in his. At least they have put us in cells next to each other, I’m not quite sure how either of us would have coped otherwise.

  The loud metallic banging comes again, this time from the other side of the room, followed by groans and shuffling feet as people move around in their cells.

  “Wake up, you filthy maggots,” someone shouts, presumably one of the guards. I follow suit of those in the cages around me and scramble to my feet, Nixon following my lead. The sound of heavy footsteps approaches my cage, but my view is obscured but the showers and feeding area. A moment later, a guard rounds the corner, his eyes lighting up when they land on me.

  “Well, well, the rumours are true. We have a new female slave. Never had one of those before. Don’t suppose you’ll last long in the arena,” he drawls, as he stalks towards me, coming to a stop in front of my cage, and running his eyes up and down my body before meeting my gaze, smirking. I recognise that look, I’ve seen it from men back in Cinders, it’s the look of men who enjoy hurting women. It makes me feel dirty, like an object for him to use. I decide here and now that I need to make sure I’m never alone with this guy.

  “That would be a shame,” he continues, licking his lips as his eyes drop to my chest. A shudder of revulsion runs through me. “Perhaps we can come to some sort of agreement? You help me out, and I’ll make sure you get the easier fights.” His voice drops as he takes a step closer to my cell, and for the first time, I’m thankful for the bars in front of me. I fight down the sick feeling that his words induce in me, knowing exactly what he means by ‘helping him out.’

  A low growl comes from the cage next to me, causing me to pull my gaze from the guard. Nixon seems to double in size as he snarls, his anger filling the underground room, and he takes a threatening step towards the guard who instinctively moves back. A small smile of satisfaction spreads across my face as I realise he is like any other bully. He is nothing but a scared little boy hiding behind his position. If the bars weren’t there protecting him, and we had our powers, he wouldn’t dare treat us this way.

  The guard’s face twists into an angry scowl as he realises he looks weak, his hand dropping to a baton strapped to his waist I hadn’t noticed before. Thankfully, he’s distracted when more guards swarm into the underground room.

  “Come on, Trent, don’t play with them. We have work to do,” a senior looking guard scolds the man currently glaring at Nixon. The younger guard looks like he may disobey his orders, but he steps back, clenching his jaw.

  “This isn’t over, freaks,” he growls under his breath, before stomping off towards the others. Releasing a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding, I reach through the bars once again and squeeze Nixon’s hand. He returns the gesture after a tense moment, but his eyes are still locked on the guard, Trent, and I know that his days are numbered. Nixon, as a rule, isn’t violent, but he wil
l be to protect his family, even if it puts him in danger.

  “Nix, I’m okay,” I repeat, and I feel his attention shift to me, the violence leaving his body as he runs his eyes over me, but in a completely different way than the guard. Nixon’s never made me feel objectified, and right now his gaze is full of concern and love as he checks that I am unharmed.

  The next thirty minutes or so involves us being shepherded into the feeding area in the middle of the room. I was surprised when they let all of us out at the same time, but all of the other slaves have the same bands around their wrists as us, so they’re just as powerless as we are—not to mention, the thirty or so weapons pointed at us from the guards stationed around the room. Those are enough to keep us all in line.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen my other guys since last night, but a warning look and slight shake of Alcide’s head stops me from running to them or saying anything. I long to wrap my arms around them. This is the longest I’ve been separated from any of them since we thought we lost Nixon, and it’s bringing back horrific memories. But I have to resist those worries, those terrifying thoughts. I can see them. I can see that they are unharmed. It’s important for us to appear strong, because they will only take our affection for each other as a weakness. They already know Nixon is very protective of me, there is no reversing that, but there is no need to let them know how close I am with the others.