Soldier of the Sand (Witchfire 5)

Chapter 1 - A Familiar Face

It was an occasion that called for anonymity at its finest: a masquerade where people donned masks that testified to the animals they truly were. People clustered in the stands, dressed in plumes plucked from rare and distinguished birds; beaks sculpted from gold and silver; real antlers and ivory tusks; and entire animal pelts brushed to a shine, their heads hollowed out to make a hood, like mine.

I endured the tickle of the orange plume wrapped around my throat, doing my best to pretend it was a regular scarf as I scanned my surroundings. Bears and birds and mighty-maned lions inclined their heads towards one another, quietly murmuring about the performance of the hounds fighting for their lives down below, whose strangled yelps and guttural growls sounded more human than the slithering whispers in the stands.

They were bored. Their masks, despite all their finery, betrayed every black, sadistic heart as I moved down the steps, pushing for the front. There were no televisions to blow up the action; the Golden One paid tribute to the old ways and forced commonors to push to the front for an unobstructed view, while the wealthy languished on platforms down below.

It lent a disturbing sense of vitality to the crowd. The stands were packed so tight that spectators spilled onto the stairs. I was nearly elbowed in the face as a badger reached for the rabbit's foot slung around his neck, only to curse halfway and reach into his pocket instead. The tigress beside him chuckled, pocketing his money with a smirk. One of the Pit-bulls in the arena had succumbed to the crushing bite of a Staffordshire Terrier.

I had to stifle the urge to snap at their throats as I edged around them. Not so long ago I was the one fighting for my life on the sand, the underdog everyone was hedging their bets against. My mother, Corinne Cross, had counted amongst the wealthiest lanistas, making a pretty penny every time I tore out a veteran fighter's throat.

Now I was a fox in a hen house that had yet to raise the alarm. I almost felt bad for the pelt I'd commandeered off one of the pests on Chance Nightshade's estate; he hadn't stood a chance when I reached into his burrow and yanked him out by the tail, though I hadn't stooped to giving him the illusion of one, either. I didn't particularly care for furs, but I wanted my pelt to smell fresh and shine bright, to send the subtle message that I was willing to kill for what I wanted.

Sure enough, it seemed to be working. People let me slip through their ranks, not always unnoticed, but unchallenged. Before I knew it I was leaning on the stone balustrade, jammed in on every side by overeager fools, just in time to witness the end of the gruesome free-for-all.

The Staffordshire terrier was circling some kind of livestock guardian breed, white and a little bit shaggy in the coat, as if it was bred for mountainside work. I turned all of my tension inward when the terrier lunged, refusing to betray my anger.

It was over in an instant. The blood was garishly bright, like red paint flicked from a brush onto the sand, speckling the side of the dune. Thunderous applause rang through the stadium, and the poor, victorious beast started to wag its tail in response. It had been trained to pair that sound with the steak that was being offered by its handler even now, used to lure the white shepherd through the portcullis and back into the labyrinth below the arena. I had no doubt a cage was already waiting to embrace the victor.