Piper Cross, an undercover spy, must relive her past as a child gladiator in order to bring the underground arena to justice.
*****
Growing up gladiator is brutal. The cells are cramped...
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On the count of three, we thrust our crowns into the air, hoisting the severed heads of our enemies atop them. The crowd went ballistic for the showmanship, screaming at the top of their lungs, even without the added incentive of Isaac's siren magic. I endured the applause with gritted teeth, squinting against the steady patter of blood on my forehead. Even after winning, I wouldn't feel safe until the sands were far behind me, my feet rooted in solid ground.
While our opponents were better than expected, it hadn't taken long to decode the patterns in their movements. Isaac held them down as I swung my new scythe, which Bjorn insisted over the phone was a nice progression of the symbolism from the sheaf of grain. I'd almost crushed the phone when the spymaster started calling me Death's mistress.
A drop of red landed squat in my eye, making me flinch. Isaac tossed his midnight crown (and the ghastly head atop it) aside, as if the diamonds in the spires were utterly worthless. I lowered mine with slightly more dignity, shaking the head free and catching it with my foot, kicking hit across the field. The crowd went wild.
"Here," Isaac said, and I turned towards him. He was holding out a scrap of cloth he must have pulled from one of us pockets, or perhaps even ripped from the hem of his shirt. "Let me."
If it was anyone else, I would have laughed at the notion of letting somebody anywhere near my face. Instead I held still and allowed Isaac to gently dab the blood from the corner of my eye.
The cotton felt like sandpaper against my skin, but I endured his ministrations, grateful for the excuse to be close to him. A mopey aww spread through the crowd, and I stiffened when I realised his gesture was probably just for show.
"You know," Isaac said with a wry smirk. "... this is the closest we've ever gotten to being alone."
"I know." The reply was automatic, and I regretted it almost instantly. It gave too much away, but for some reason I couldn't stop myself from elaborating. "I've come to like these moments. They feel more honest."
"Oh?" he asked, feigning disinterest.
"The spell she put on you is awful, but it allows me to feel confident that my feelings are my own whenever we step into the arena. Like I can recalibrate my judgement."
He froze. "The spell works everywhere, Piper."
"What? But I thought..."
"And I've only ever worked my magic on you once, at that concert," he added, the words clipped by frustration. "And only because you pulled out those earbuds of your own volition, despite my every warning to keep them in. I wouldn't dream of trying to manipulate your feelings in any capacity."
"What about in the arena?" I blurted out, thinking of the frustrating compulsion to protect him against all logic and self-preservation. "Or during our first match?"
"Not even then," he said stiffly, dabbing a scratch at my temple. "I only worked the crowd."
"I'm sorry," I said, reeling over the implications. "I didn't realise."
