Vengeance (The Prince's Games Book 1)

by Rebecca Grey

  "Quit playing with me, Nilsa," he sings.

  "Mavi offered me a truce. I'm just doing a little bit of digging. If I find out who the prince is and we kill him off, that only gets us closer to the win. Does it not?"

  Marcello looks up at the cameras that float on by. How much of our conversation do they pick up?

  "If the king hears of this, he'll send an assassin to kill you in your sleep and let someone else take the blame for it. Watch what you say. I'm not done with you yet." He lets go of my elbow, turning to the tables where new food is laid out and the temptations still wait.

  I'm not done with you yet.

  Those words send curling tendrils of heat sweeping low in my belly. Possessive, but promising in an accented rasp that makes my throat go dry. My face heats. I follow silently, not wanting to draw any attention to the blush taking over my body. It's been days since I'd been with Joss, and the need to be touched grows within me. I'll bury those feelings too. Bury them, bury them, bury them.

  Unlike yesterday, the meal they've left out for us today has not been prepared ahead of time. Large cuts of meat are left uncooked in a stack next to equipment like Mavi and Jefferson had used. A loaf of bread sits with a knife, but has not been cut into. Jars of different jams and butters sit beside that. A tray of fruit brightens the table with its arrangement of colors.

  I spy Credence already there, no doubt making himself a small plate to take back to his campsite. I'll forget about my growling stomach, if only to get a little bit more information out of someone today.

  Marcello grabs an apple. He looks over his shoulder before tossing the fruit in the air. Juilliard catches it with a smile. Another streak of red flings over Marcello's shoulder and I take a step forward to keep it from splattering against the floor. I cup the apple and bring it to my lips. My teeth cut into its flesh and I take a bite with a satisfying snap.

  I mosey back to the bags of legends. My finger taps the burlap tops as I count to make sure all remain accounted for. And they do.

  "Well that's new." Credence's deep voice announces.

  My boots squeak against the concrete as I turn to find out what he's talking about. Credence, Marcello, and Juilliard all tilt their heads as they read. Plastered on the back wall a screen blinks with information.

  Each team is listed. The name of the team, then under it each member, their race, and their gender. Davison and Noor's names are both crossed out with big red lettering stamped next to them. DECEASED.

  And just like that images of Criosphinx biting into Davison's body as he screams come hurtling forward. The sound of his bones crunching. The spray of his blood. I touch my uniform where his blood had been, as if I'm carrying the only piece of him left.

  Averting my gaze, I sink my teeth into the apple again. I stroll around Marcello, Juilliard, and Hedda who hasn't looked away from the piles of food yet. With one finger, I run my hand over Marcello's chest as I walk by. I watch a shudder travel down his spine. A giddy feeling bubbles within me.

  "Watch this," I whisper. So he does. He pins me with his focus that roams down then up my body.

  Falling in step beside Credence, I look up at his tall looming figure. "Good morning," I chirp as if I mean it.

  "What do you want?" He snaps hardly even bothering to look in my direction.

  "Oh, you know, just curious if you're the prince or not."

  Credence snorts. "Good luck with that."

  "So you're not denying that you are the prince." I step in front of him, walking slowly so he has to match my pace.

  "And if I was? What would that matter to you?"

  "Well then I'd have to kill you, obviously," I say in a harsh whisper.

  The Elf struggles to keep his features neutral, his lips wanting to work up into a bemused grin. He finally settles his gaze on me. "Again, I wish you the best of luck with that." He breathes out a laugh, chuckling, "Human." as he takes a large step around me and walks away.

  Well that doesn't give me much to go on. I tear my gaze back to Marcello. He brings his hands together in a slow clap. "Wow Nilsa. You're right, that was totally worth the watch."

  Next to him, Juilliard looks absolutely mortified. His mouth is slack, crimson stains the tip of his pointed ears. It's really quite the sight to see.

  "Now that that is over... why don't you eat something more than just that apple before that stupid metal door opens and we're off to the next event." Marcello picks up the bread knife. "What kind of jam do you like?"

  "What?" I nearly lose my grip on my apple. "What are you doing?"

  Marcello leans over the bread with a loud sigh. "I'm going to make you a piece of bread with jam. Would it literally kill you to let me do one nice thing for you?"

  His question has me searching my memories for the last time a Hybrid did something nice for me. Noor... but does that count because she did it for her own personal gain too? Juilliard? He'd stitched me up. I look over to the Elf. Juilliard picks up some grapes, tossing them into his mouth.

  Would he have done it if Marcello wouldn't have made him to begin with? Unlikely. Juilliard and I already had troubles getting along. I know our sour-ass attitudes are likely the cause.

  "Strawberry," I finally say.

  "What a wonderful choice. I'm much more of a peach man myself, if you cared to know." The blade saws into the bread, a thick slice falling flat.

  "I don't care to know." But my wicked betraying lips lift in a smile. Saints, I need to get myself under control. Since meeting Marcello my life has been a whirlwind of a storm and I don't have anything to hold on to. My emotions are just raw and thrashing in the wind like a flag beaten and tattered by the constant breeze. I have no control. Perhaps the first step is just admitting that I don't.

  "Didn't figure you did. Oh well." Marcello pops the lid off and dips a butter knife in. With a back and forth motion, he slathers the deep red jam across the slice then holds it out for me to take.

  I reach out for it slowly, the smallest worry that he'll snatch it away present in my thoughts. He watches me, somewhat confused and amused, as he drops it in my palm.

  "Don't expect a thank you." Juilliard points out with a mouthful of fruit. When he speaks, spit flies from his mouth and he rushes to cover his parted lips. Ever the gentleman.

  "Oh, I don't. But it would be nice." Marcello cuts himself his own slice, grabbing a second knife and slathering the peachy concoction on his bread.

  "That would be nice." I mumble into my bread.

  Juilliard waves a hand before I can walk away. "Come, let’s go back to the medic tent and change your bandage. I'll wrap you up real tight before the event starts. We don't have long."

  In a way I'm thankful to put some space between me and Marcello. If it wasn't for my still healing stitches I'd go run and jump right in that flowing river. My hormones... my emotions... my whatever the fuck is fueling this wanting need inside of me requires a cold shower.

  He leaves the table behind. His dark hair shines under the large hanging lights above and I follow the bob of his head as he nods to other players trailing off to the large white tent. By the time we make it back there I've gotten through most of my slice, eating faster than I intended. My apple is still clutched in my other hand.

  "Cot," Juilliard demands as he stands in the tent's entrance, pushing back the long flaps.

  I shove the last bit of bread in my mouth and toss the apple in the air, catching it on the unbitten side. Juilliard remains quiet, gathering a new bandage and another wet cloth. He doesn't meet my eyes as I watch him.

  Without asking, he starts to curl the edge of my shirt up to take a look at the bandages below. It'd originally been white, but now looks almost brown. At least it's not green.

  He rubs the white cloth against the edges of the bandage, dampening the adhesive. Arron had done the same thing for me as a child to soften the hurt of ripping it right off.

  "Are you nervous for the event today?" He clears his throat and asks. His dark eyes flick to my face,
then back down to his work.

  "Not particularly."

  "Your heart is racing. Are you not feeling well? Do the stitches hurt? I can give you another dose of medicine to try and help you through today."

  My heart is racing? I bite my lip. That's exactly why I'd followed Juilliard, so that I could stop my heart from fucking racing. I should just stop thinking. That's it, I should just find a way to shut my Saints damn brain off. That would be nice.

  "I'm fine," I say too harshly, so I soften my voice. "But yes, if I could have more of that nasty tonic I will not turn it down."

  "Alright?"

  He doesn't believe me. I'm not going to try and persuade him though.

  Carefully, he peels the bandage away. I press my eyes closed, taking a few breaths to ease through the pain... to slow my heartbeat. Without the bandage, cold air licks at my skin.

  He touches around, but not on the stitches, looking at the skin. "They still look good. Had me worried with this bandage."

  He turns to toss the old bandage into the nearest bin and turns back immediately, picking up the new one. He presses it on around the wound. His hand disappears from my side and when I crack my eyes he has a clear wrap in his hands.

  "Can you hold your shirt up?"

  I gather the fabric in my hands, holding at the bottom of my bra line. No further. Juilliard gently presses the wrap over the bandage and wraps his arms around me again and again until he is satisfied. Every time my lungs expand they press against the wrap. Every time I shift there's a restriction to my movement.

  "I feel stiff." I let go of my shirt as he steps away, heading for the tonics.

  "Good. It's meant to help keep you from moving that area too much. I'll be annoyed if I have to redo the stitches again so soon. You'll be mad too, because the flesh is still very raw and it'll hurt like a motherfucker." Using the bottom of his shirt to wipe at the top of the vial in his hands he reveals the gray image of some sort of fish across his stomach.

  "What's with the tattoos?" I ask, taking the open bottle. "Do they mean something?'

  "Nope." He smacks his lips. "I just like the way they look."

  "I'm sure all those haughty folks in the castle just fucking love that." I chuckle and so does he.

  "Yeah. I get asked that question a lot. 'Do they mean something?' It doesn't have to mean something for me to appreciate the art. To like the way they decorate my body. Plus," he adds with a shrug. "girls secretly love it."

  Yeah. Girls with daddy issues, I think to myself. But even I don't hate his tattoos, and they do suit him. Oh Saints, do I have daddy issues? Probably.

  Impatient, Juilliard takes a finger and tips the tonic to my lips, forcing me to open my mouth and drink quickly. The same tart taste fills my mouth no matter how quickly I drink it down. But I'm rewarded with the buzzing feeling that takes the edge off the pain. I hand him the glass and a loud siren rings out. Lights flash outside the tent.

  "Challengers, please make your way to the arena entrance!"

  The announcer's booming voice vibrates throughout the room, traveling up through the concrete floor and into the soles of my new boots. Both Juilliard and I scurry from the tent. Other players are blurs of movement toward the large metal gate.

  The same man, with his small stature and colorful suits, waits for everyone. All conversations are quiet as the anticipation of what is to come builds. Nervous whispers spread, guessing at what we'll do next. But how could anyone really know?

  Juilliard holds his sword at his hip, keeping it from jostling out of the belt that keeps it propped on his side. Hedda, Sloane, Finnegan and Marcello all stand ready, giving us tense smiles as we follow them. Sloane's axe pats against her leg. Still, I can't quite picture her using it. She's much too sophisticated. Shouldn't her specialty be poison or something? Not as if that would help us during the Games.

  Straightening his tie, the announcer looks all of us over. "I see no one has taken the temptations from yesterday evening? This is your last chance. Anyone?" His voice carries across the room. No one moves. His eyes tick to me. "Not even you?"

  "Especially not me." I cross my arms over my chest, ignoring how uncomfortable it makes my side feel. Many pairs of eyes land on me. All of them expect me to, especially after what happened with Davison. All the more reason that I can't give up.

  "Fair enough." Muscles in his jaw cord. He motions to the door. "When the gate rises, each team will find their positions on their own platform. I'll explain the event further once everyone has taken their places. Good luck teams!" He snaps his fingers and the gate starts to rise.

  Streaming like a river, we ebb and flow into the narrow walkway, bumping shoulders and averting gazes as we're met with the sounds of the waiting, cheering crowd. Every step matches the rhythm of my heartbeat. Something changes in the atmosphere as we get ready for battle. Because that's exactly what this is. War.

  I hold my chin high while walking by the announcer. He watches me disappear into the long dark tunnel. His stare lingers between my shoulders. It's not his waiting glare that I'm looking for, though. It's not him that I actively care to search out when I emerge on the other side.

  The golden platform hums as it rises to its position next to the king. I find King Caspar and smile. A brilliant snarky smile that takes up the entirety of my face, showing off every single one of my very Human teeth. King Caspar leans forward in his seat, his hands sprawled and curled over the edge of his throne. His eyes are searching. Searching until they find me. When he sees me he smiles back and curls into his seat. His large hands fold over his lap. And if that means anything, I don't have any fucking clue what. So I turn forward to today's event.

  Floating cameras bob along with us as each team moves to a flight of stairs that lead up. The arena, practically never-ending in the rows of spectators, is set up for today with five checkered platforms made of six alternating black and white squares. Across from the platforms, three impossibly small hoops are set in a line at a great distance.

  I take the steps carefully, watching as the gap between us and the ground becomes greater and greater. Hedda's steps behind me are loud as she lifts her hefty weight up the flight of stairs, her breath already rough in her chest.

  Marcello and Juilliard at the lead make room for us. Sloane and Finnegan sweep up the back as we gather on the already far too small platform. Each of us takes up our own tile and the one tile left collects a small pile of pointed oversized throwing darts.

  I check the space between our platform and the hoops. My heart sinks. And I know exactly why King Caspar looked so smug today. Yet again, we have a challenge that isn't made for a Human to win, and he knows it.

  Around me, my teammates all seem calm. On the outside I probably look calm too. Marcello and Juilliard stand proudly at the front, letting the crowd cheer for them. One of them could be the prince, but the crowd doesn't know them like I do. They're betting on the wrong men. Hedda plants her hands on her sides. She looks at me out the corner of her eye. I dip my chin.

  Sloane and Finnegan lean into each other, both tight lipped, watching and calculating. Something about the pair always reminds me of smoke. Like if I tried to grab them they would just disappear. And maybe they would if I tried. That's what they're good at, after all. Getting away with robberies for years. That particular skill set doesn't seem like it'll do much to get us through today though.

  "Welcome to the second event of The Oasis Games!" The crowd goes wild. When I didn't think they could get any louder, they do. I close my eyes, trying to force my hands to stay at my sides. "Tonight's event," he yells over their screaming, "is simple. Each player must take their turn throwing the darts laid out before them through the hoops placed several yards away." What feels like thousands of yards away. He lowers the microphone from his mouth, as if that alone is enough information.

  "That's it?" Hedda asks. "How do we win?"

  I hardly hear her as I stare out at the hoops. Each Player. Each player has to take their turn throw
ing at the hoops. Even if I had the strongest throwing arm in all of Human existence I don't think I could make that throw. I've practiced with daggers my whole life. I have a good throwing arm. Still I doubt myself.

  The crowd quiets with the same question. Player looks to player, as if one of us holds the answer to the impossible question.

  Finnegan answers first, "Maybe that's all there is to it."

  Marcello turns, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "That’s never all there is to it."

  With a crooked smile the announcer speaks again. "Players, please send your first participant forward. They may pick up the dart and at my command, the game will commence."

  "Shall I?" Juilliard offers. No one argues. Least of all me.

  In the quieted murmur of questions still buzzing in the air, Juilliard takes a small step forward, gathering up one dart in his hand. He grunts in surprise, balancing the dart in his palms. Other competitors make similar sounds of surprise. On each side the two teams who are down to five players are positioned on their platforms. Team Ashford and Team Cuttington.

  "The darts are weighted. Heavily," Juilliard whispers harshly.

  What's left of my beating heart freezes and shatters at my feet, I swear it. Because it doesn't matter what I do or how determined I am to prove myself, I can never win. It's another hit to my already false confidence. I lock my gaze ahead.

  Don't let them know it affects you. Don't let them know you're scared. Don't let them know that each failure cuts you deeper than any wound ever has.

  "Players at the ready. Let the Games begin!"

  Juilliard lifts his arm. His shirt stretches against his back as he makes the throwing motion with squinted eyes a few times. He sucks in air, then blows it all out in one big gust as his whole body pitches forward with the movement. His dart flies through the air.

  I don't watch to see if it lands. I watch as our opponents throw. Most miss, either by the slightest fraction or by gaping yards. One team makes it through the tiny hoop. Lux, one of the female Elves on Team Riveria if I remember correctly. She throws her arms up in the air and her team cheers behind her.