Cara
When the battle bells tolled out an end, signaling that the monsters released were all dead, cheering went up through the labyrinth.
“And now we count,” Fear said, moving toward the count as the crowds above were moving toward applause.
Clan Bismyth had to go out to the arena to bow along with the other clans. But our real work was in coming back together. Bismyth was well-organized and flowed together from the passages; everyone had moved in pairs, in sets of pairs, and so the count was quickly given.
“Everyone’s well,” Anayla delivered to Fear. There was an abrasion across her temple where she must have met a stone, but she didn’t seem to have noticed yet.
Fear nodded, and his head rose to check on the other clans. He looked toward Amber first, where Ander stood at the centerof the knot with his second and third officers. Fear always saw through us; did he know we could read the way he checked in on Ander and Nixi before anyone else? Then, beyond. His gaze skipped quickly over the clans.
“Malachite needs to keep better discipline,” he muttered.
His gaze went up to the mirrors that lined the arena, which reflected frozen scenes from the labyrinth: moments where we had been caught in mid-stroke fighting—there were none of Fear and me together, because that would strike mortal fancy—and one where a shifter sprawled out dead.
Fear only looked grim for a moment, bitterness and hate flashing across his face as he looked up at the crowd before it was controlled. He was once again the charming, careless prince. It reminded me to control my own expression, though I doubted I was wholly successful. Keeping my thoughts off my face had never been my strong suit.
“Not Bismyth,” he murmured to me, knowing my question without me needing to voice it. “Selenite. They wear light gray accents.”
The corpses of the monsters had been hauled out of the labyrinth. They were laid in long rows like trophies, larger ones near the center, smaller ones flanking.
The Selenite shifter had been covered in their clan’s banner. All the other banners still swayed about their clans, carried by newer recruits; Sera had the pole for Bismyth’s banner braced in the hollow of her arm, the flag hanging down above her head. Fear made a small gesture, and she lowered the banner as a sign of respect. All around the arena, the banners dipped.
A Selenite woman bent over one of them and did not weep. The crowd was watching.
“Selenite has been loyal to the queen,” Fear whispered to me. “You see how she repays our loyalty.”
I nodded, appreciating the way he tried to teach me about the clans and the monsters.
Bismyth lined up to bow. So did the other clans. Each clan leader took the dais step in turn, and the queen, who was radiant in white and gold, accepted their bows with the patient generosity of a hostess receiving guests at her own party. Mortals in the lower tiers cheered. Fae in the higher tiers smiled careful smiles, the kind one wore at the theater.
Theater. That was what it was.
Theater where we fought and died as the entertainment.
Anayla touched my arm, then began to bow, and I followed her lead. I bent toward the crowd, showing them respect though none of them grieved our deaths. Something cold and hard seized me, a shell that allowed me to be blank-faced.
The queen stepped forward, smiling. “In celebration, I am pleased to bestow the highest reward this kingdom has to offer to mortals every night of the Hunt. Tonight, I have chosen a worthy young man to be raised.”
She was going on, but the sound was muffled in my ears. A young man? Not Tay, not Tay. My blood hummed in my ears.
Fear’s hand found my shoulder. He moved to my side, as if he were my anchor. “Not Tay. Look, Cara. It will never be Tay.”
I raised my gaze. My vision had gone dark at the edges, tunneled as it had become during the monster fights, and it took me a moment to see the young man making his way across the dais to the queen.
He knelt before the queen. She laid her hand on his forehead.
I slid my arm around Fear’s waist, letting myself lean into him, because the crowd was exultant, and if it had not been for Fear, I would’ve felt alone.
When the once-mortal man rose to his feet, his face was sharper and more handsome; he stood taller than he had before. He was weeping openly with what looked like joy.
The mortals in the lower tiers were standing. Cheering. Some of them had begun to weep, too, at the promise of it.I could be next. I could be raised. I could be one of them.
If only we were obedient. If only we endured. If only we were worthy.
Then we could escape the unbearable indignity of being a mortal.
I did not want to watch anymore. But as shifters, we were bound to this arena, to the labyrinth, to bow to the Fae and to serve mortals.
