Piper Cross, an undercover spy, must relive her past as a child gladiator in order to bring the underground arena to justice.
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Growing up gladiator is brutal. The cells are cramped...
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I woke up in a strange place.
A planetarium of dust motes, to be specific, gilded by sunlight so hot it must have come through an east-facing window. It baked the air under the desk I'd curled up beneath, ignoring the empty stretcher by the brick wall. I hadn't been able to stand the shadowy figures passing by the clouded glass up front; as much as I appreciated the attempt at privacy, the office reminded me too much of my cell in the time before, when people would stick fingers and blades through the bars, jeering to get a rise out of me.
I felt a warning twinge in my abdomen as I emerged into the light, a foul taste in my mouth. Not now, I thought with a grimace, pressing a hand to the alarmingly flat plane of my stomach. I was so malnourished that my period was irregular and spotty at the best of times, but it seemed like this was going to be one of the more brutal reminders of my potential to bear screaming little heirs.
The pain wrung even tighter. I needed supplies, and fast.
And a toothbrush, I thought, opening the door and squinting against the fluorescent glare of the upstairs area of the warehouse. And a fresh change of clothes. All of my belongings were in my car back at Colden's place; or maybe he'd brought them all inside in the hopes of luring me back. Either way, I was sick of wearing the clothes he'd picked out for me.
The cubicles had been torn down to make way for an open living room. A PC monitor was set up on a desk with a laptop hooked up behind it, and somebody had dragged musty, moth-eaten furniture up the stairs. The couch reeked of sour beer and musty sweat, with a faint hint of... gutter water? I wrinkled my nose as I edged around the mismatching pieces, wondering if they'd found it all sitting on a curb nearby.
The space was bordered by a wall of windows, a wall of brick, and two intersecting panels of opaque glass. The windows overlooked the staggered rooftops of Fitzroy, while the brick wall hosted the stairs, a second kitchenette and what I could only hope was a bathroom. The glass walls led to three private offices, like the one I'd stayed in overnight.
I knocked on the door to the largest, only waiting a beat before pushing it open, ready to grill Isaac on everything I'd missed. We needed to organise that supermarket shop I'd promised, and the matter of our training, and —
Paint fumes hit me first. It was enough to make my eyes water as I stepped into the studio, momentarily stunned that Isaac would give up all this space to his second-in-command.
Mason evidently needed it, though. The cubicle walls had been wheeled in from the other room, and every single one was loaded with sketches and colour tests and finished works that belonged in a frame, but instead were pinned up in a haphazard collage. The entire desk had become a palette tray, caked with lumpy paints waiting for a dash of water to bring them back to life. An easel sat by the window, the canvas angled away from the door. I moved towards it, curious to see what Mason was working on now.
