by Rebecca Grey
"I didn't ask you to chase me down. We don't have to be talking about this right now. Not ever. You and I... we're off the table." I can't tell if the bright fluorescent lights above are warming my skin or if it's purely the fact that I know I'm lying. I don't want Marcello and I off the table, not really. So why did I say that? Why can't I stop saying all these terrible things?
If anything I want Marcello's dick balls deep in my throat and his hands in my hair. I want every perfectly euphoric sound that comes from him to be caused by me.
The leather of his vest groans as he lifts his hand, slowly, allowing time to step away. His touch hovers near my cheek, not close enough to touch the skin, but near enough I want to lean in. I force myself to stay still. Not in an angry way but in the ‘if we are to touch I might just have an entire mental breakdown right now' way. There isn't time for a mental breakdown during The Oasis Games, damn it.
"You make me mad. Utterly crazy. Somehow, even now I want to kiss you," Marcello whispers.
I take a begrudging step back.
"I won't kiss you. I won't touch you. Not until you ask. Not until you say please." He partially snarls at me. "I'll wait until you can admit it. I'm a patient man."
He's something. But he's not wrong.
That asshole.
"Go get something to eat and prepare yourself for tonight’s event," Marcello clips out.
But thanks to him, thanks to my own stubbornness, I'm not hungry anymore. I'm not anything anymore except fearful. Marcello is right on all accounts. I hate that. I hate him. I hate me.
Most of all, I hate the way I want more of him. I hate the way that I don't really hate him. I hate the way that I almost, most certainly, think that I like him too.
***
The alarm echoes off the walls, a siren calling us forward, pulling Hedda and I out of our tent. Smoke rises from the last of the kindling in the fire pit at the center of our three tents. Large vents at the side of the room work overtime to pull out the haze of smog that gathers overhead.
A bitter taste sits on my tongue, but it has nothing to do with the smoke or with the start of the next event. It has everything to do with my clenched-tight stomach. The ache in my heart is worse than my healing rib cage and there's a fire in my veins.
I don't need another Hybrid in my life to overshadow me. Marcello tries to treat like I need saving, but I'm not helpless at his side. That's why he picked me. That's why I got the ticket into The Oasis to begin with.
Sloane and Finnegan rise from their seats around the fire, looking past us to where Juilliard limps out of his tent. His shoulders are hunched forward, his hands swallowed inside his deep pockets. He scans our small team.
I sigh, the first to move toward the calling bells. "Let's just get this over with."
Hedda's heavy steps follow at my side. The tents and their many colors come and go next to us as we make our way through the campsite. A chorus of laughter erupts somewhere off to my left. Jefferson and his team of asshats bounce off of one another, encouraging their fit of giggles. Frustration burns under my skin.
Another Orc lumbers up to us, a wide waddle in her walk causing her to sway with each step. Hedda offers her a small wave and slows.
"Have you seen Lux?" The Orc asks. Amory, I think her name is.
My steps slow at the question. Hedda shakes her head, but my gaze loses focus on the floor and travels the room, bouncing from face to face as the teams gather. I'm looking for dark hair. I'm looking for moonshine eyes. I'm looking for a cocky smile and two deep dimples.
I spin to walk backward, to look for the remainder of my team. My heart leaps, pounding loudly as I meet a dark caramel gaze. Juilliard's eyes are wide, frantically searching, they lock on mine with the same unanswered question. Where's Marcello?
Nausea builds, swirling like a wild tornado inside of me. Bile rises in my throat, threatening to come out in loud, nervous heaps. Had I pushed Marcello to run off with Lux again? Is this some messed up way of paying me back? We can’t keep doing this.
Even as our teams become one crowd, there's a murmur of questions. Every inhale is tight, caught on the tension that riddles the air around us. I meet more returned gazes than in my entire time in The Oasis as teams question the same thing.
Do you know where Rake is? Where did Isla go? Have you seen Lux? Where's Marcello? Have you heard from Danisha?
So it isn't just Marcello. But now my body flushes with a different feeling. Heart pounding, sweaty palms and quaking knees, I force my attention forward. My heart falls into the pits of my stomach. I'm familiar with this feeling... this loss... this terrible gnawing sensation. This feeling I run from.
Fear. But not fear for myself, the fear that motivates me to move swiftly, act faster, survive. This is fear for someone else's life. I thought I was safe. I thought I put up enough walls to protect myself from it. Yet here I am, sick at the thought of Marcello taken from the Safe Haven. Or worse... dead.
What if someone took them all out? Fighting and killing is frowned upon in the Safe Haven, but not illegal. They could all be carried away by that never-ending flow of water that runs and leaves through the far side of the room.
A lull in the conversations carries the sound of running water to me. I turn toward the noise. Where would they go if they let the current carry them out? Would we ever find their bodies?
My boot squeaks against the polished concrete as I look back at the team board. Marcello's name is still readable. All of their names are still readable. No one is dead. Yet.
Hybrids shift as if they can make their missing teammate reappear. Everyone watches to see if they'll come running around the corner, just late for the call to the event. It's more than that though. Something very wrong is about to happen. Juilliard can feel it too as he pushes his way through the crowd. His gaze is pinned on the large metal door and the smaller one beside it, waiting for the announcer to slip out and tell us what's happening.
"This is a dangerous game we're about to play." He looks down at me. "Not for us. For Marcello, I just know it." He swallows. "I hope you've paid attention, Nilsa."
"Me?" I arch a brow. "Paid attention to what?"
Can he hear my heart pounding? Can he tell that every breath I take only forces more anxiety and fear to rush through my veins?
He shakes his head, pursing his lips.
"What do you know?" I grab his elbow, fisting his sleeve inside my grip. "What are you not telling me?" These Elves... all of them... they know more than anyone else. Juilliard, Marcello, hell even Mavi's team act as if they have an upper hand. They probably do, working in the castle has to provide some sort of advantage.
Red blooms like a sunburn across his nose and cheeks. "Stop, Nilsa." He tries to shake me off, but I hold on. Now is not the time for him to play games with me.
"Look, if you're still mad about yesterday. I'm sorry. Okay? I'm fucking sorry." I keep my voice low, too ashamed by my own quietly hissed apology. The apology isn't even for him, it's for someone else who can't even hear it right now. I can hardly believe I can hear myself saying it.
"Don't tell that to me. You should have told that to Marcello. Now let's hope that you still have the chance." He chews on the inside of his lip. "Let's all hope we still have the chance to apologize before it's too late." Juilliard loses a long sigh. "Nilsa, this thing between you and him is fucking stupid."
"I agree." Our attraction to one another doesn't even make sense. That's why we should stay away from each other.
"Why can't you just admit that you have feelings for him?"
My jaw drops at his quietly admitted words. I thought... I thought he was on my side. I thought Juilliard hated me as much as I hate me, and that's why we were in agreement that nothing should happen between Marcello and I.
"What did you just say?"
Juilliard spares me a glance. "I don't like it. I really don't. But you didn't know Marcello before he met you. He's different. In a good way." Wrinkles form across his forehead, conc
ern seeping into his gaze. "Now we should all pray to the Saints that he's okay."
I dip my chin, to agree with him or to start a prayer of my own, I'm not exactly sure. Metal groans against metal, the large doors to the arena rising. The dark hallway awaits with no announcer to explain what sort of event we're headed in to. They gave us nothing. They took everything.
Conversations fall stagnant. Hands brush against weapons. No one dares to move or breathe or turn their attention from the soul crushing feeling of impending doom that lingers just beyond that weathered metal-frame door.
"Let's hear it for our teams as we enter the third event!" The voice of the announcer and the ring of the crowd carries down the long hall between us and them. And that's what it suddenly feels like. There's us... the competitors on one side of the wall waiting to fight and entertain. Then there is them... the crowd cheering for us all to die.
Mavi's team takes the lead, charging forward into the arena. Fearless because they don't care. They can lose Rake and still feel content with their team. One less member to split the monetary prize with.
Sloane and Finnegan seem the most indifferent out of our group. Still, I know that if they're willing to fight for me... for the lowly Human... they'll fight twice as hard for Marcello, the fearless leader of our team. The start of the event pulls us all forward in a nearly mechanical march.
He's different.
In a good way.
Those stupid words chase each other in circles inside of my mind. Those fucking stupid words give me the slightest sliver of hope that maybe if I chose to spare Marcello's life everything would work out in the end. If I win the Games, would I really need the bounty on Marcello's head? I can still kill the king and the prince to help The Bend rise up into power. I can still come into power.
Maybe I feel like I'm different now too. Though if it's in a good way or not is still up for debate.
I look down at Hedda as the Safe Haven fades behind us. So much has changed and I haven't even noticed it. Like my relationship with Hedda. We're...friends. Or at least I think we are.
But the bigger more obvious change.... is that I don't hate all Hybrids. Sloane... Finnegan... Hedda... they'd fight for me. They've shown that. Even Juilliard is more tolerable now than ever before. We might not like each other, but our tolerance has grown. Is this all Marcello's doing? With his small acts of kindness and his flirty remarks?
The hate I give was learned by the hate I received. My team doesn't hate me. They need me.
"Teams, please find your way to your assigned positions."
A bright spotlight ignites as we step into the large arena. The bright light momentarily blinds me, leaving the layout of the arena a mystery. With each event we walk into the unknown, hardly prepared, hardly certain we'll live through the day. Today is no different except, for once, I'm not nervous just for myself.
My eyes don't seek out the throne. My body is too riddled with tension to do anything but take a step forward, and then another and another. The drone of a lowering camera whizzes by me. It slows as it passes by, hovering in the air. Without a gesture to offer it or the king, it flies away.
The farther we walk into the arena the more Juilliard forces himself not to limp, to hide the way his injury from the day before has still not totally healed. A Hybrid, especially an Elf, won't lose face in front of the king, not with a crowd. Especially so close to the end.
Five signs, beaten into the dirt, wait for us. Spotlights remain the only things making the team names scribbled in dripping red paint across the wooden boards visible. Windsor. I see my name. I see our name. And nothing else. Five signs, but no waiting teammates. There's no snarling beasts or platforms meant to fall from the sky, nor is there an obstacle for us to make our way through. There's nothing. Somehow that makes this even more terrifying.
The eyes of thousands of Hybrids stare down at the expanse of dirt and rock and the competitors who remain, making the scorching heat of the spotlights above burn like fire on my skin. My attention scans the crowd, moving up and past them. I squint into the lights, looking for any sign of the missing teammates.
Nothing. No one.
I stop when Juilliard does. The rest of our team, feeling much smaller without loud mouthed Marcello, gathers around the sign. The spectators go quiet as a slow melancholy lullaby begins to play. I'm not the only one that shuffles about at the eerie sound, looking for a band that does not exist. The music greets my ears as if it's played a foot before me. Goosebumps form up my arms under the long sleeve top that keeps me covered.
The golden platform where the announcer always waits is empty, but his voice booms out all around us, echoing off the walls. "Challengers, meet your next task!"
With an audible groan the wall between this room and the ballroom rises. It feels like years, not days since I've seen that massive room. The Nilsa that had turned away from Davison and instead chose to hide with Marcello feels like a different person now. Maybe I'm not so different though. I chose Marcello then, and I keep choosing Marcello now. Even when I try not to… I do.
The music picks up the base of the sound thrumming through the open space, the heartbeat of the beast that is The Oasis Games. Five figures shadowed in the lights that burst out from behind them start forward for us. Another row of five behind them and another after that.
Royal guards in their red uniforms escort three wobbling figures across the dirt. Stumbling feet, bound hands, wide shoulders, and a brightly colored clown mask. The row of five stops only feet ahead. The guards stand at attention. My eyes stay focused on the three people hidden behind the mocking masks.
That broad build, that grace of an Immortal, that fucking swaggering walk, I know them all. Juilliard knows it too as he takes in a sharp breath. Hedda knows as she inches closer to me, her head tilted at an angle as she measures each person up. Sloane and Finnegan stretch on their toes at the back of the group, looking around the three of us. The moment they realize what we have, they go still.
Marcello. Or not?
All three bodies, one and the same. From the tip of their toes to their wide shoulders, each figure is Marcello through and through. But it can't be. It's not. At my sides my hands begin to tremble, so I force them into fists. He's alive. At least he's alive.
At least I can atone for my sins. Apologize for my insensitive nature.
"Which one?" I whisper to Juilliard.
"That's the question, isn't it?" He stands taller.
In the likeness of Marcello the figures move in unison, all of them struggling against the bindings at their wrists. They shimmy, as if to say 'Me! It's me! Pick me!' But maybe it's none of them. Maybe that's part of the game.
Two guards walk their row of clowns, matching the missing players to each team across the arena. When they've found their positions, one fine shadowed figure emerges from the bright light of the ballroom.
"Each team has had a single player picked from their team by none other than King Caspar and Queen Aradel themselves. The chosen player was plucked from the Safe Haven in the middle of the night and is now hidden within the three standing before each team. They look alike, they act alike, but they do not talk the same. Your challenge today, teams, will be to figure out which player belongs to you. You may leave with or without this player should you choose incorrectly. You'll have twenty minutes to question them. At the end of the twenty minutes, the horn will blow and then you must make your selection."
I hope you've paid attention, Nilsa. Juilliard's words run through my mind again. Have I? Have I learned enough about Marcello to know anything about him? Juilliard's his best friend, shouldn't he be the one to figure this out?
"A second player has been chosen by King Caspar and Queen Aradel. This player will be the opponent to unmask their teammate after twenty minutes with team discussion. The players who must unmask are as follows: Team Marcrux, Thomos. Team Riveria, Credence. Team Ashford, Jefferson. Team Windsor, Nilsa. Team Cuttingham, Bekke."
My head snaps to t
he side. Juilliard doesn't move, not even as I shoot angry darts with my vision into his pale skin. That's not all I want to do. I want to stab him right in the neck. His eyes flutter closed and he shakes his head ever so slightly.
"How?" I seethe. "How did you know it would be me?"
"Because of course it would be you. You're not King Caspar's favorite and if you choose wrong... I'll hate you. I'll sacrifice you to the next fucking beast in the next event." The same commanding tone Juilliard took with me in the tent when I'd fucked up with Marcello creeps back into his tone. He means it. And I feel it all the way into my bones.
Choose wrong and I'll die too.
"At the sound of the first horn the questioning will begin. Trust me, you'll want as many teammates as you can for the final event. Your masked teammate can only speak the truth, but is bound to not answer certain questions. Good luck teams!" The announcer finishes, stepping into the golden elevator and riding it to watch the games from above.
The horn bleats over the sound of the music. My eyes still remain on Juilliard’s side and he slowly turns to me. Red stains the tip of his pointed ears.
"I'll pick whoever we decide as a team. So if I choose wrong it won't just be my fault." All emotion leaves my voice. It might be the team’s choice, but it's my hands that will decide his fate.
"Anyone have a personal question they'd like to ask?" Hedda laughs dryly. "Can we just ask which one is Marcello?"
"Why don't you give that a try?" I settle my hands against my hips.
Her hourglass form steps closer to the clown masks. Cherry red lips, large blue eyes with larger black eyelashes, blushing cheeks, pointed nose, and a toothless smile are painted against the white mask. It's bright against his sun kissed skin.
"Which one of you is Marcello?" The Orc stops.
"Me!" The first leans forward.
"No, me!" The second shouts.
"It's me!" The third says.
Every voice has the same smooth sound of Marcello's musical tone. A heaviness fills my stomach, threatening to drop from my body like a lead weight. They're all the same. And this is going to be so much harder than Hedda's yes or no question.