“I can have any man or woman in this city with the click of a finger. You might be beautiful, but I don’t need to force you to have you. Give it a day or two, and you’ll be kneeling with the rest of them, begging for a taste of my cock.” My eyes stay trained on his when I shout, “Guards!”
I swing away from him as soon as I hear their footsteps, and I don’t look back when he’s dragged off, gone and out of my sight.
I rip a napkin from the table to wrap my bitten hand. The blood seeps through instantly, and I stretch my thumb, forcing more into the white fabric.
Blood.
So much blood in the last five years that I could drown in it.
Maybe he is Atrean, after all.
He’s braver and bolder than he has any right to be in this place.
But one thing’s for sure: I’m going to knock it clean out of him tomorrow.
Chapter five
Marco: Welcome to Deathball
The arena’s starkly quiet, dormant in the morning sun, like a volcano about to wreak mass destruction. I’ve never adjusted to the contrast. One day it’s screams and blood and agony and violence. The next, peaceful enough for birds to land on the blood-stained field, hopping, dancing, singing, as if this thing has any place in nature.
The air’s thick with the kind of cloying, cool moisture that promises it will be burning hot in two or three hours. I’m starting them early today to get the best out of them, but I’m already dreading the scalding, sweating heat of the midday sun when it creeps over the coliseum. Blinding sand and tickling sweat. And the blows I’ll take today. The cuts I’ll wrap tonight, wondering how many will scar permanently, a gallery of slavery etched into my skin for all the world to see.
Yet there’s something extra here today. Something simmering beneath the usual anticipation of pain and heat and thirst. There’s a thick gravelat the base of my heart, black and churning. And when the heavy wooden doors fly open, it rains solid stone.
He’s at the front of the line, hands shackled. They march in two by two, prodded by eight guards. Most new men look around the arena, take in the vastness of it, cower at the majesty of the terrifying spectacle. But this one walks as though he doesn’t see a thing, eyes dead to the world.
I force myself to turn away from them. I can’t be seen watching him like this. But his image is already burned into my mind.
Washed, he’s magnificent. The tangles of honey and caramel curling around his temple, shifting in the breeze like a sun-drenched field of barley. I can smell it. I can smell him. I can smell home.
The ghost of the past scratching at my ribs, I take up a wooden bat. We’re going to train hard today, so I may as well start strong.
I scoop up some sand, brown and dirty, and let it sift through my fingers to soak up the sweat that will come soon. My wrists and hands are wrapped tight in supportive binds, wound around my palms today to cover the spot where he bit me. The filthy sand turns the white bindings brown.
One by one, they’re lined up in front of me. The doors of the arena bang shut, then the guards unlock the shackles on the latest recruits. The clank of metal echoes loudly about the empty stone edifice, and the corner of my eye latches onto his movement, large hands rubbing his wrists now he’s free again.
I slam the end of the bat down into my hand—a call to attention, and a sharp pain to keep me on my guard.
“Gentlemen, welcome to the pit. You’ll live here, you’ll train here, and almost all of you will die here.”
There’s a small murmur down the line, and I lock eyes with Jason, the ever-present thorn in my side.
“I don’t care if you’ve heard it all before. You’ll keep your mouth shut, or you’ll be on lavatory-cleaning duty tonight. With a toothbrush.”
His eyes turn to fire on me, like I owe him something, but he knows better than to challenge me openly.
“You.” I point the end of the bat at a face I’ve never seen before, dark hair, green eyes. “And you.” I point the bat athim, his gaze sharp on me like a knife. “Welcome to Deathball.”
I stretch my arm out long to point at the far door of the stadium. “On game day, one of you men will enter the stadium there.” I turn to the other side, indicating the entrance opposite. “Another will come in there. Two enter, only one leaves alive.”
Their eyes meet, shooting one another wary looks.
“You’ll have precious seconds to locate the one thing that might save your life.” I throw the lid back on the weapons chest, and the sharp gleam of hot sun on bright metal makes me wince. The object is polished like a crown, the longest barbs extending three inches in every direction, brutally sharp, a more convincing statement of power than the soaring columns of City Hall.
Taking it up with my spare hand, I hold it high for the men to see, spikes sliding deep between my fingers. “This is the Deathball.” I eye them all, one at a time, to see they’re paying attention. Of course they are. “This ball has almost every one of your names written on it. When you die in this arena, you die by Deathball.”
I move to the end of the line and hold the Deathball out for the pretty captive to take. He’s slow about it, like he doesn’t want to hold the thing that’s got him into this mess, the symbol of this vicious society that stole us all away from our homes and our lives for no better purpose than to be bludgeoned for entertainment.
