“Do not worry,”Pholus says.“This is the one who left to find the key.”
Clearly, he heard Maeva and me earlier.
Maeva appears, flushed and covered with blood. I go still, and she shakes her head. It’s not her blood.
Her hand trembles as she shoves the key into the lock. The cage doors slide open.
Linaros clomps forward, cupping Maeva’s face with his huge hand. “You are brave,” he says. “Thank you, daughter of Tharwyn.”
She looks taken aback, and he smiles down at her. “Our god claims all who worship him.”
Maeva worships the maginari’s god?
She gives Linaros a trembling smile. When our eyes meet, her chin juts out, as if she feels the need to defend her choice. When I roll my eyes, her smile widens to a grin. “I know a way out.”
“Tell me.”
“A few weeks ago, I weakened the hinges of a gate leading out of the arena in the level above us.” Maeva smiles at Linaros. “A few hits from you should do it.”
Of course she did. “Is there anything you didn’t think of?”
“How to lie to the emperor’s guards when I was captured and interrogated.”
My stomach churns. “I need to get back.”
Her eyes widen. “Arvelle.”
“You know I have to.” Chaos is reigning. This is my best chance to kill the emperor. My brothers are in the ludus, which means I can take them and head north.
Maginari are streaming out of the cage. The gorgon bows her head at me, and I bow back, careful not to meet her eyes.
“Go,” I tell Maeva. Surprising us both, I drag her close for a quick hug. “Be careful.”
“You too.”
Linaros steps through the cage door once more, this time with an unconscious harpy in his arms. He levels me with an intent stare. “You kept your word. I will not forget it.”
THE SMELL HITSme first.
Smoke. Blood. Sweat. Fear.
The sharp, chemical scent of aether still lingers in the air, mixing with the sickly sweet scent of death.
Huge craters mar the arena floor, their jagged edges blackened and smoldering from aether bombs. The sand is stained dark with blood and scorched earth, creating a slurry that sucks at my boots.
Splintered wood, chunks of stone and marble, and the twisted remains of statues of Umbros are scattered across the sand.
And everywhere, everywhere I look, I see bodies.
Guards, vampire rebels, innocents caught in the cross fire. Most lie motionless, already dead. Others writhe in pain, clutching at wounds. Still more are horrifically burned, their flesh seared by aether explosions. The scent of charred flesh mixes nauseatingly with the odor of burnt hair and fabric.
The pulvinar is engulfed in flames, the smoke thick and noxious. Pockets of vampires and guards still fight on the sand and up within what’s left of the stone benches.
Several of those benches explode to my left, and panicked screams cut through the air. People are still trapped, still trying to flee, still searching for exits that haven’t yet been blocked.
One of the vampire rebels lies sprawled next to the arena gate, a crossbow still in his arms. His head is almost entirely decapitated, just a sliver of flesh remaining.
Wiggling his crossbow free, I examine it closely. It’s larger and sturdier than anything I’ve used before, reinforced with metal bands and adorned with intricate engravings that radiate power.
