Slower this time. Much slower. My fingers keep slipping on the wet stone.
Then I hear it.
“Robin! Robin! Robin!”
The chant builds across the stadium. Thousands of voices calling my name in unison. It should disgust me—these people cheering for blood, for death. And it does. But it also gives me something to hold on to when my grip slips.
I imagine Cas in the viewing box, leaning forward, willing me to climb faster.Come on, Robin. Don’t you dare give up. Don’t you leave me here alone.
I imagine Marco standing beside him, face carved from stone, betraying nothing. But his eyes—his eyes would be locked on me. Watching every move. Maybe he’s even shouting prayers inside his head, in our mother tongue.
Vamos, birdie, más rápido.Come on, birdie, faster.
My hand slaps against the plateau’s edge. I haul myself up, gasping, my arms cramping and near useless.
The clam shell sits open in the center, the Deathball gleaming.
But I’m not alone this time.
Elijah pulls himself over the opposite edge at almost the exact same moment. Water streams from his black hair, his costume torn and bloodied. How the hell did he—no time to think. We both see the prize. We both see our chance.
We rush toward the center.
Our bodies collide at the shell’s edge. No technique, no strategy—just desperate, frenzied hands grappling for the Deathball. My fingers closearound one side of it, his around the other. The metal spikes bite into our palms as we search for the handle.
We’re locked together, both gripping the ball, both pulling on a spike with everything we have left. My feet slide on the wet rock. His shoulder crashes into mine. We stumble, twist, fighting for control of this nightmare weapon.
He’s stronger. Less battered. The ball shifts toward him. Inch by inch.
No.
I can’t let him win. Not when I’m this close. Not when Esme needs me to survive. Not when Marco—
Elijah slides his fingers into the handle, and the Deathball tears free of my grip.
He stumbles backward, the weapon clutched to his chest. Victory spreads across his face. The crowd explodes. It’s over.
Except it’s not. Not yet. Next comes me being bludgeoned to death.
What to do?
Throw myself off the cliff?
No. My body won’t survive another fall. But maybe it doesn’t have to.
I collapse.
Drop to my knees right there on the plateau, letting my head hang in apparent defeat. My hands shake—not entirely an act. I am beaten. I am broken. I am at his mercy.
“Please,” I gasp, not looking at him. “Just make it quick.”
Through my lowered lashes, I watch his feet ready themselves. See the way he adjusts his grip on the Deathball, raising it above his head for the killing blow, measuring the perfect angle. He’s merciful enough to want this over fast for me.
That mercy will be his undoing.
He brings the weapon down.
I dive forward, threading myself between his legs like a slippery fish. The Deathball whistles, thuds on empty ground.
