Nerys lifted Hale’s reservoir, studied the measurements, and jotted them down in a tidy hand. Kiera capped Dorian’s tube, labeled it, then licked a streak from her wrist like she hadn’t just made half a dozen men forget their names.
The side door opened. Two Ken-dolls entered, this pair in simple black jeans, quiet and efficient. Cleaners. Nerys and Kiera stepped back while the room reset—surfaces wiped, machine flushed, reservoirs whisked away. Everything was precise. Clinical enough to keep it safe, filthily sufficient to scramble our brains.
I couldn’t help but wonder what they would come up with next.
Then the door swung wider, and my mouth went dry.
Ivy.
“Oh, good,” Agnus barked with her typical militant cheer. “You will be paired up with a demoness to prepare for the next trial. We will be eliminating half of the contestants in the next round. So get some rest and do your best; it could change your life. Dismissed!”
CHAPTER SIX
IVY
Lucy never called a meeting unless she could enjoy herself. She grinned, lounging across her ridiculous throne—half chaise, half golden dais—draped in silks of crimson and gold trim. Her six-inch heels were the exact shade of blood. They clicked against the onyx step as she tapped them absentmindedly.
“Darlings,” she purred, hands steepled like a church full of people, “today we begin the Fortitude Trials.”
Around me, demonesses straightened with a rustle of leather and excitement. Beside me, Shana capped her pen and muttered, “If there’s not at least one fainting bull, I want my morning back.”
I elbowed her. She elbowed me harder. I think that was supposed to mean budding friendship, but it could also have been aggression —who knew?
Lucy let silence bloom until it felt oppressive, and then continued. “Our HuBulls have danced and flexed, those silly boys. Absolutely adorable. However, performance without control is just peacocking. I’m interested in staying power.” Hersmile sharpened. “Forty-eight hours in a Deprivation Chamber. No sight. No touch. No comfort… save one.”
She lifted a finger. A red spark hovered over it like a cherry ember, then drifted toward us and split into a constellation of glitter.
“Sound,” she said, as if she’d invented it. “They will hear a single voice through the intercom. It will belong to the demoness assigned to them. You will keep them responsive, obedient, and sane. You may soothe. You may needle. You may interview. You may not break them, and you may not be broken in turn.” Her eyes slid to me, affectionate and predatory. “Try to have fun.”
Heat prickled the back of my neck. I straightened my clipboard as if that could shield me.
“Baseline questions are mandatory,” Lucy went on, flicking her wrist. The glitter spun and arranged themselves into neat, glowing lines. “We require a truth-set for each bull. Ask them, record them, savor them.” She read, sing-song, like a bedtime story for the wicked. “One: In your own words, why were you sent to Hell? Two: If you could have lived your life differently, would you, and why? Three: What do you miss most about being alive? Four: What truth have you never spoken aloud? Five: What do you want most now?”
Shana raised her hand. “Can we add a bonus round where they define ‘emotional availability’ in under ten words?”
“Later,” Lucy cooed. “After they cry.” Her gaze skimmed our faces, pleased. “Pairings have been selected. I expect… revelations.” She stretched like a satisfied cat. “Dismissed.”
We filed out in a perfume cloud of steamy seduction. Shana bumped my shoulder. “On a scale of one to ‘I might throw up,’ where are we?”
“Holding the bucket.”
“Nice. Let’s see the line-up.” She snatched the top sheet from the assignments clerk, who hissed and then thought better of it.Shana’s grin got positively indecent as she scanned the names. “Aw, angel-pants. You know Aunt Lucy likes you.”
“I’m not going to ask.”
“You should. You got the crowd favorite.” She flipped the sheet so I could see. My stomach did a queasy little curtsey.
“Max Robbins,” she sang. “Mr. Smug-and-charming. Mr. I-don’t-know-what-I’m-doing, but I do it with dimples.”
“That’s a coincidence,” I said, and instantly hated how defensive I sounded.
“Sure. Because Lucy is famous for random selection.” Shana waggled her brows. “Relax. It’s just a man in a dark box. If he starts reciting poetry at your voice, mute him and think about taxes.”
“Very helpful. I’m a former angel. I never paid taxes.”
“You’re welcome.” She bumped her hip against mine. “Let’s go make some bulls sweat.”
The control roomfor each chamber was private and comfortable, lined with glass. Beyond the pane, a chamber hummed—a low, steady thrum that vibrated through the soles of my boots. They looked like cocoons, doorless, with smooth, unbroken walls and padded benches. Enchanted microphones hovered at each station like polished black birds, awaiting their message.
