I crash onto my back with a puff of dust. I stare up at her.
Her chest heaves. “This is the only way to save them!” she cries.
She’s right. If I don’t fight—if no one is intentionally killed—Sabine will show no mercy and will slaughter everyone we love. But the thought of raising a hand against Emma sends a wave of revulsion through me. I still haven’t forgiven myself for what happened in the last round.
My heart throbs. Our loved ones remain trapped in the cold concrete chairs, their wide eyes pleading for salvation. My family begs me to defend myself.They fear losing me like they lost Alex.Ma couldn’t take that.
My heart is in tatters—like the clothes on the rows upon rows of slave statues seated in the arena around us, their open mouths frozen in silent screams. A heavy, suffocating fog of generational despair settles over me.
“Maaalcolm!” I turn my gaze to Jayla’s cries. Behind shattered glasses, tears stream down and over her cheeks as she shrieks my name in terror. “Remember who you are, Malcolm!” she yells. “Remember whoreallyloves you. Before it’s too late! Kill her! Kill her before—” Jayla sobs and then goes limp.
My heart aches. Pop-Pop’s and Charles’s faces are carved with the same sadness and defeat. Even Emma’s father and brother look broken and helpless.
“You got this, Emma!” Demetri cries. “Finish him!”
I should be mad at Demetri. But I’m not.If Imani or Jayla were standing here in my place, I don’t know what I’d be shouting.
Emma kicks me. “Fight me, dammit!”
We are all pawns, I realize now. All part of Sabine’s twisted game. I rise to my feet.
The agony on Emma’s teary face rips me apart. “Save them!” she screams, desperation lacing her voice. “Fight me!”
Somehow, my fist arcs, and I hit back. The way I hit fake Emma in round one.
Sabine, on her throne, curls her lips in a satisfied grin.She thinks she’s won.But this is far from over…
Fists fly. Punches. Kicks. Emma and I fight with everything we’ve got to protect the ones we love.
We stand face-to-face, fists raised, trying to ignore the heartbreak we see in each other’s eyes.
I blink away tears as we swing our fists. This is not how I wanted it to end between us. Hell, I never wanted it to end between us. This is a waking nightmare.
Emma lunges, her blow glancing off my shoulder. I retaliate automatically, my fist connecting with her stomach. She doubles over with a gasp.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe as I sweep her legs out from under her. She hits the ground hard, dust flying up around her. I pin her down, my tears flowing freely now. Her own tears mingle with mine as she stares up at me.
Neither of us wants what will happen next. But we’re puppets dancing on Sabine’s strings.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONEEmma BaldwinGRAND BELLE ISLAND, 1860
The illusion I’ve made shimmers in front of me like an image reflected on water. The battle is so realistic that I can almost taste the sweat on my double’s skin as illusion Malcolm pins me down.
I grin. Sabine’s wicked smile as she watches from her throne shows me that she believes the fight’s genuine. Only the real Malcolm, standing beside me and staring at the rippling image of the fake versions of us locked in this fight, knows the truth.
“It’s working,” he mutters, but I note the desperation in his tone. With how I’m struggling to differentiate between reality and the vision right now, I can’t imagine what Malcolm must be feeling.
The air around us warps and shimmers silver with images of us fighting. But behind the chaos of our fake war, the real Malcolm frowns, his hazel eyes looking devastated. It’s as if even the sight of us attacking each other, although just a mirage, pains him. His love for me tugs at my heart, and my concern for him and our families makes my focus slip.
My control of the illusion weakens. It starts to blur and fade for a second. Tears stream down my face as I whisper through gritted teeth, a desperateplea in my voice, “I can’t hold this much longer. You’re going to have to actually fight.” Sweat trickles down my forehead as I struggle to maintain the illusion. “Sabine is going to kill our families, Malcolm.” Through my tears, I gaze into his hazel eyes. “Please.”
“No,” he says, his voice thick with pain. “I can’t fight you. I can’t hurt you again.”
My heart squeezes painfully at his words, but it’s the only way to ensure our families’ safety. “You have to,” I whisper hoarsely. “Sabine will catch on soon.”
His lips tremble. “I guess I still put you over everything, huh?”
The illusion in front of us sharpens again. In it, my image fights to get free from beneath Malcolm. He grabs a sword that whistles past the replica of me. My mom gasps and cries out as the blade barely misses my image’s neck. The slave statues stare at the battle, their frozen faces twisted in terror and anguish. Tears of blood drip down the cheeks of some, showing that they too believe the illusion is real. We can hear our families sobbing.
