“Anders, now would be a great time to open her up!” she screamed.
There was no reply.
“Anders, Rotus, we need speed, get us out of here faster!”
Five long claws curled around the door of the engine in answer. Florence watched in horror as the white silhouette of an endwig, dotted in the black blood of a Chimera, pulled itself from the engine room. Florence swallowed hard.
They were without Rivet and Raven, stumbling through the darkness, enemies at all sides. She raised her gun slowly, looking fearlessly at the face of death itself. Her revolver was steady over the rocking of the train.
“You think I’m not used to this?” Her mouth curled into a mad grin. “I’ve been fighting my way out of the darkness my whole life. And you’re not going to stop me now.”
Gunshots echoed through the forest.
17.Petra
She’d kill the bastard herself.
Petra rolled, a tumbleweed of claws and teeth. The man atop her responded with delightful viciousness. Fine-twitch muscle fibers spasmed as she dodged his attack; a claw caught on her neck. Petra raised a leg, propping it against his stomach, and twisted with enough force to send him skidding off to the side.
She found her feet, panting, sweating, stinking of her blood and the blood of a handful of others who had already been subdued beneath her. Yveun Dono did not fight; it was beneath him as the King of all Dragons. Wylder Tam’Oji To did not fight his lessers either, not unless challenged, following Yveun’s lead.
Petra was a young Oji with boiling blood that screamed to be set free in a pit. She was met with upstarts on every front, challengers twice her age who continually questioned her merit as Oji. Petra bared her teeth and lunged forward, freeing the man’s skin from his bones.
Only the Oji could sanction duels within Houses, save one exception: the Court. Called the Crimson Court due to House Rok’s current power, it was the time when all grievances in upper Dragon society were aired. Petra had no doubt that a Court on Ruana proper would hold a countless many challenges for her title as Oji.
Her claws pressed into the man’s chest beneath her; fangs raked against the soft flesh of his throat as she mounted him. In one bite she could gouge out his jugular and carve his heart from his ribs.
Petra’s claws retracted, her palm resting lightly on his chest. She carefully withdrew her teeth, avoiding puncturing the skin. If she tasted his blood, she would be forced to kill him. There was no other option when one imbibed from the living.
“I need you twice as fast before the Court.” Petra stood, her legs on either side of the man’s waist in a position of dominance. “If you can’t manage that, then dive into the Gods’ Line before the first blood.”
She stepped away, letting him find his feet. Petra ignored the cerulean man as he scampered off into some hole with his proverbial tail between his legs. Once an order had been given, she didn’t engage further; doing otherwise merely invited questioning from her lowers.
“Cain.” She caught the eyes of the tall man at the edge of the observation ring, leaning against the wall underneath a sunshade that was nearly the same color as his skin.
“Oji.” He bowed and held it, saying nothing more, offering her his complete submission.
Slaves stepped forward from the woodwork, stripping off her soiled clothing. They toweled her with damp, perfumed cloths, wiping away the remnants of combat. A clean robe was draped over her arms and cinched at the waist. She wore it mostly open, the scars that crossed over her chest and stomach from failed attempts on her life on display as a warning to all.
“Walk with me.”
He did so in silence, waiting for her to have the first word. Petra led him into the manor, straying past the main thoroughfares and onto the more private halls. Heavy tapestries draped the walls, overbearing and cluttered, one on top of the next. They splashed bright patterns between careful needlework that depicted the famous temples and landscapes across the floating isles of Nova.
It was Petra’s favorite form of artwork: carefully built with the patience of thousands of single stitches. Delicate in that all it took was one tear to ruin. And surprisingly functional when it came to muffling conversations.
“You have heard?”
“Of the Crimson Court to be held on Ruana?” She nodded in affirmation. “I have.”
“Yveun no doubt plans to use the guise of the Court to cut down our forces, and I have every expectation he will encourage dozens of duels against my person.”
“Myself and countless others will step forward for you.”
Petra snorted. “It is just us, Cain. You have no need to prove your loyalty to me and I know better than to demand it of you with words. I am a far more competent fighter than you.”
He gave no rebuke.
“The more duels I can take, the better for all of Xin. It will send a message to Yveun that my claws are the ones he need fear above all others, while saving most from death in the pit.” Petra rolled her shoulders, already beginning to mentally prepare for the beating she knew she would endure in the coming month. She tried to keep herself in shape, but general upkeep and preparation for a Court were two wildly different things. “I need you to gather the most competent fighters and train them well.”
