We walked to the arena and met MJ and Alexei at the doors.
“The Nephilim’s up first,” MJ informed us, stepping boot-to-boot with Oliver. “I don’t care how many times you puke. If you can put them down, do it.”
Oliver straightened and saluted MJ. “Brought my barf bag, Sergeant.”
MJ’s eye twitched. I was pretty sure she wanted to stab him with one of her arrows.
Alexei smacked his back. “Dig deep and tune out the images, got it?”
“Got it.” Oliver twisted his head. “Kiss for good luck?”
Alexei shoved him toward the door.
I hugged Oliver and whispered in his ear, “I’ll be brave for you, if you’ll be brave for me.”
He pulled back and kissed my forehead, murmuring the same words against my skin. Then he pushed his shoulders back and entered the arena. We followed close behind.
BO hit me like a slap in the face as I passed the stands, and sweat instantly beaded on my forehead. The arena was packed. Angels, humans, and half-breeds sat shoulder-to-shoulder, filling every inchof the cement seating. Warriors stood on the ground level, circling the outer edge, waiting for the next match.
“Be brave, Oli,” I said as we split off from him. We pushed through to the front row, and a coppery tang slowly overpowered the BO. Sliding up next to Ichi, who conveniently stood beside Rune and Ronen, I found out why.
Blood decorated the open circle as if someone had taken a few buckets of paint and splashed them onto the ground. Some poor Bowel recruit currently poured fresh sand over the gory scene before Oliver and the Trencher approached the center.
As the final grains fell, Oliver strode toward his opponent at the heart of the arena with his chin raised and a mischievous smile twisting his lips. His smile never faltered, even as the large, bald warrior sauntered down the opposite path, receiving pats on the back, encouragement, and weapons.
I was proud of him.
“Marcel, a blood-banded human from the Trenchers Squadron, has challenged Oliver, a blood-banded Nephilim from the Tormentors Squadron, for his spot,” a male announced from the dais. “Let the challenge begin.”
That was a surprise. The majority of elite squadrons were made up of angels and angel half-breeds for a reason.
Marcel twirled his sword in a flashy maneuver. “Let’s go, Nephilim. I’ll send you where you belong.”
Oliver laughed in disbelief. “Did someone put you up to this?”
Marcel blinked. He seemed confused by the question, or maybe by Oliver’s nonchalance.
“If so, you gotta get better friends, man.”
Marcel jabbed his sword toward Oliver’s stomach, and Oliver jumped back.
The crowd booed. But I wasn’t sure if they were booing Marcel or the fact that he didn’t stab Oliver.
“No? Don’t have any friends? Then are you just a complete moron?”
Marcel attacked again, and Oliver dodged, shaking his head. His eyes flashed green, and Marcel dropped his sword, flinging his hands up to his face. He dug in the heels of his palms as if that’d stop Oliver’s power.
“What are you doing to me?”
“Not much.” Oliver shrugged.
“Make it stop.” Marcel fell to his knees. “Make it stop!” he screamed, clawing at his face.
Remembering the first time Oliver used his powers on me, I could only imagine what Marcel was seeing. Whatever fears Oliver dredged up had reduced him to a sniveling, bald baby. And he didn’t even touch him. This was a mild fear.
Oliver picked up Marcel’s sword and placed it against the Trencher’s neck. “I could make it a lot worse, if you’d like.Oryou could use the last brain cell you have and run along before the images turn darker, or you die.”
Marcel flipped over and scrambled on his hands and knees back the way he came. Either Oliver had gone deeper than I thought, or Marcel was just that pathetic.
