Soldier of the Sand (Witchfire 5)

Chapter 30 - Bet on It

Isaac's hand found the small of my back in the dark. His presence grounded me when the Golden One clapped twice, followed by an explosively loud boom.

Light flooded the room, only this time it was an unnerving red that appeared to soak everything in gore. Golden bars had come down from the ceiling, caging every gladiator on the dance floor. I scowled as the orchestra eased into a foreboding, drawn-out chord, hovering between dissonant and harmonic notes. A mind away from mine, I sensed Isaac's grudging appreciation of the haunting effect as he catalogued the technique for later.

There would be a later, for him to make music and share it with the world. I was determined to make sure of it.

Isaac turned his coat inside out, so that the dragonscale caught the light, divesting the lining of hidden blades. I rifled through my never-ending skirt for the cleverly hidden clasps, detaching the long train of my dress and the petticoat beneath it. It was like shedding a skin that no longer fit, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I stepped out of the crumpled weight, emerging in leather undershorts and a dragon-scale corset that was just as tough. It was beautiful in the way that it flowed like water when I needed to stretch, but hardened like stone whenever pressure was applied too abruptly. Perfect for turning a blade.

Speaking of which, it was time to shuck my shoes. I left the knife belted to my thigh alone, opting for the switchblades embedded in my heels instead. The ruby necklace pinched the back of my neck as I bent over.

"My esteemed Court," the Golden One cried, standing up from her throne on high. Light oozed from her gilded pores, turning orange where it mingled with the ruddy mage lights on the drapery. "Thank you for gathering in these hallowed halls yet again to celebrate the emergence of a new world order. I trust you have drunk and eaten your fill."

That drew some sniggering laughter from the galleries, as she gestured to the dancers below.

The Golden One's smile was serpent-like as she leveraged the dramatic pause for our undivided attention. "All that remains is a feast for the senses. But before we get to the evening's entertainment, let us raise a glass to our glorious benefactor," she cried, brandishing an ancient chalice carved from bone. I watched with morbid curiosity as it filled itself with blood. "Whoever drinks the blood of His son shall have eternal life; whoever drinks the blood of His son resides in Him, and Him in us. None shalt fall while He survives. All shalt thwart the flow of time."

The galleries echoed her chant with eerie precision, lifting their own bone chalices to the sky. The butterfly tattoos on their wrists glowed as they drank deeply of their cups — witches, werewolves and vampires alike — licking their teeth clean when it was done. My skin crawled as the coppery tang of blood welled over the balconies, infusing the air with the promise of death.

"Why did it have to be a cult?" Isaac asked, shuddering in my peripheral vision. "I hate cults."

"Boy, do I have some recommendations for you," I muttered, proud of my ability to make him crack a smile. "Sail used to love horror movies."

"Do you love them, though?" he asked, a faint note of hope in his voice.

"Yeah. They're kinda funny," I said, grinning at his grimace. "All the violence is so over-the-top."

"Fine. One horror movie. But I get to pick a rom-com after."

"Deal," I said, turning back to face the Golden One when all of the chalices thunked down on the balcony rails in rapid succession. It was nice to think there was something normal waiting for us back home, after we made it through whatever fresh hell this gala was turning out to be.

The Golden One raised both of her arms, tucking her elbows in a rather deliberate way that pushed her ample bosom up. "And now for the show you've all been waiting for! Twelve pairs of your chosen champions stand before you, dressed in their evening best, utterly unaware and unprepared for what I tell you now: only one will survive this night."

Twelve pairs. Twenty-four gladiators. A cry went up among them at the news, as they realised the partners they'd been training with for weeks, months, potentially even their entire lives, were suddenly counted amongst the enemy. On the far side of the field, a green-eyed pair of twins went especially pale. The couple masquerading as Romeo and Juliet looked positively green by comparison.

To my surprise, it was an unassuming man who made a break for it, throwing himself on the golden bars to wrench them apart.

The faintly whispering metal pumped thousands of volts into his body, frying him on the spot. A cacophonous cheer sounded as the smell of burning keratin filled the theatre, reminding me oddly of a chargrilled steakhouse.

"Make that twenty-three champions," Megan corrected, flourishing her butterfly cape. "I think we can all agree that some gladiators have been pulling more weight than others. It's time to settle the score once and for all. No hand-outs. No contrived obstacles. Just a contest of pure, raw skill."

I let out a slow, carefully controlled breath as the news sank into my bones. It was the clash we'd been preparing for, but one I'd ultimately hoped to avoid by coming here tonight. I'd wanted to spirit Roman and Roland away during the chaos of the evening's festivities; this development increased the risk tenfold.

Twenty-three fold, really.

"Are you okay?" Isaac murmured, leaning in to press a kiss against my forehead. Even so, I could feel the tension in his body. He was already scoping out the fighters around us, deciding where to strike first.

"I always end up back here," I said hollowly. "I don't know why it keeps taking me by surprise. It's my own damn fault."

"We'll get you home," he promised. I shot him a sharp glance over the ominous phrasing, but he moved on before I could get a word in. "We should probably take out Roman and Roland first. They're the best fighters here by far."

Roland was already halfway across the floor, giving us a wide birth. He turned his head at the sound of his name, but when his loamy eyes found mine, it was my mother who shaped the words: "If I can't have you, no one can."

I flipped him — her — off and looked for Roman next. The ancient vampire was eager to get started, bouncing on his toes and stretching his muscular arms. Thick, tusk-like fangs protruded from his gums.

"Take a moment to say your last words," the Golden One purred to us gladiators. In the same breath, she turned to the patrons on high, fluttering her spiny lashes. "As for my beloved Court of Wings, this is your last opportunity to place your bets! May the odds be ever in your favour."