The sound reverberates off the walls, final and absolute.
Marco has left the dungeon.
“What’s going on? Where’s he taking him?” Cas pushes himself up on his elbows, wincing.
I stare at the empty doorway. At the blood smeared on the wall where Jason’s head hit stone. At the silence that follows violence.
Evander’s hands still press against my shoulder, keeping me down. But his grip has loosened, his attention fixed on that doorway too.
“Evander? What’s he doing?”
Evander says nothing, and in that silence, something cold settles through me.
Whatever Marco’s doing, it’s bad enough that even Evander won’t say it out loud.
Chapter thirty-six
Marco: Straight to Hell
Ifling the door open and throw Jason down on the concrete, blood from his gushing nose leaving a trail of scarlet droplets in his wake.
It’s later than I’d realized, and the stadium is already full, pre-game entertainment ripping screams out of Deathball fans.
They want a show. They’ll get a show.
Jason struggles to stand, so I kick him back down, then shout at the guards, “Hold him!”
“What the hell is going on?” Matilda emerges from a doorway, staring down at Jason trying to fight off six armed men. She fixes on him, then on me. “But that’s supposed to be Robin.”
“Change of plan,” I tell her.
“But…” Her face falls. “He was going to look so pretty. His curls and his eyes and…” Her shoulders droop. “He would have made the most beautiful Sun God.”
Mention of Robin’s hair sends a fresh tremble of anger through my fingers, and I curl them into fists. “You’ll have to make do. And who am I to be?”
At that, she stands a little taller, the sly smile returning to her face. “You, Marco…” She flitters over to a clothes rack, pulling out rich purple silks. “You are the Lord of Darkness.”
I cast my gaze down at Jason, writhing on the floor, minutes from dead. “That will do perfectly.”
If Robin was supposed to come in some other gate, I have no idea. Maybe the game architects are in a panic, wondering why the guards haven’t brought him through. But so far, everyone around me takes my word for it that Jason’s meant to be here.
Jason’s the man. All his protests were just fear of dying. The Deathball captain knows more than a few guards ever could about who goes where and when.
They shut up and do as they’re told.
Jason’s stopped fighting. Physically, at least. He stands there, fake wings strapped to his back, nothing but a leather codpiece for decency, a mockery of what Robin would have been in that costume.
I probably would have laughed when I saw him. He might have laughed too, at my heavily kohled eyes, purple cape, and bronze devil horns. Then I’d have murdered him.
But not today.
“They’ll kill you for this,” Jason sneers. “If I don’t get you first.”
Those words hammer home the rashness of my actions. The promises I made to Robin, to kill him, to take Esme away from here. My responsibility to Maria, to my family. There’s a very good chance I’ll rot in Victora Prison for what I’ve done. Or be executed for it.
But now, and only now, it also occurs to me that there’s a very slimchance, if I can capture the crowd’s love with this show, that I might just be able to make this win legitimate. If I can make this game count, if Robin can play another match all of his own, against another man… Maybe we can both make it out of this alive.
“Open the gate!” I scream. Whether the man next to me was supposed to wait for a signal or not, he bursts into action. Hand over hand, he turns the wheel, raises the portcullis.
