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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The limousine smelled sharp, like wood polish and liquor. Jerome's mouth fell open as I ducked my head and climbed into the chamber, just it time to see his cocktail glass tip precariously to the side, the skewered olive threatening to roll over the rim.
Sticky liquid slapped the cabin floor, splattering up the hem of his navy pants. For once, the Parisian werewolf didn't flinch at the prospective stain.
"Piper," Jerome blurted out. "You look..."
Isaac's fingers tightened on the door frame as he stepped in after me. The metal popped as it dented.
"... like a girl," Jerome finished crudely, settling back in his chair with the lazy poise of the rich.
I snorted. "Thanks, asshole."
"And Ivy," Jerome went on, already smirking at his own joke. "Dare I say you look rather manly in this light?"
Isaac exhaled slowly through his nose, his chest rising and falling as he tried to look civil. "How does my sister fare?"
"That depends." Jerome's dark lashes lowered, shuttering his blow-torch blue gaze. It flicked between the two of us before searing through me. "How much do you trust him, Piper?"
Isaac stiffened, as if expecting a blow, but my answer came easily. "You can be candid. I trust him with my life."
Jerome shrugged, that strange intensity giving way to indolence again. "I was never great with state secrets, anyway. Long story short, we had a run in with Mischa the Mad Witch. Nora showed her what for, but the snake managed to slither off to the Incantum, and now everyone is looking for her. Waters is still recovering, and Ivy..."
"She isn't dead," Isaac said abruptly. An image of the pathway between their minds flashed through mine, a strangely vivid picture considering how long it'd been since I visited Ivy's subconscious.
Back then I'd looked upon the doors to Isaac's mind with trepidation. Now I longed to open one and see what waited on the other side.
Fool, came the cutting thought, an echo of what my mother would have said.
Jerome belched, beat his chest to clear it, and then juggled some imaginary scales. "Comatose, dead; to-may-to to-mah-to, as your people say."
I was taken aback by his insensitivity. "How much have you had to drink?"
Now that I was looking for it, I could smell the sour hint of alcohol in his sweat. He must have consumed a ludicrous amount to be this intoxicated, given his metabolism.
"I'm hoping if I drink enough I'll pass out spontaneously," he said cheerily, belying the bloody spiderwebs in his eyes. Some of the vessels had burst, riddling the whites with angry patches that offset the blue of his irises.
"What's the matter with you?" I hissed, leaning forward in my seat, half of a mind to strike him. It felt like he was trying to get through to me, to drill some hidden message straight into my skull, but what? "Speak plainly."
