Cassandra steeled her shoulders, refusing to show her fear, then climbed on the bench and flared her wings wide.
The Brethren’s hysteria pelted her as she stared down the crowd. But many regular prisoners offered subtle nods of approval.
“Let’s hear it for Cassandra Fortin, folks,” Wormwood crooned. “Prisoner 161803! And soon to be the Koenig’s next victim.”
The laughter reached a fever pitch, which Cassandra took as her cue to retake her seat. Mireille patted her thigh and Ronin squeezed her shoulder.
“You did well,” Mireille said. “Don’t give the Brethren another fucking thought. And when youdodefeat the Koenig, you can decide whether to offer them mercy.”
Cassandra nodded, her face and limbs numb, and wondered, for the hundredth time these past few weeks, how in Ethyrios she’d ended up here.
Wormwood raised his palms, encouraging the crowd to silence. “My friends, as I said, tonight is a very special Harvest Night. And as such, we have a different kind of fight than you’re used to.”
Mireille tensed, and Cassandra leaned over to whisper, “What does that mean?”
Mireille shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Wormwood continued, “In honor of our challenger, the Koenighimselfhas decided to participate in tonight’s harvest!”
The Brethren jumped to their feet with a ground-shaking roar, and the Koenig paraded into the square. He acknowledged his subjects with dips of his chin, his shark-like grin plastered onhis handsome face. He jogged up the steps, then took his place next to Wormwood.
Cassandra sneered, though he didn’t look her way. An attempt to minimize her, surely.
One of the Brethren handed the hammer up to the Koenig, who swung it through the air. The polemite heart streaked ribbons of red through the twilight.
As Wormwood scanned the crowd, Cassandra scented new tendrils of tangy fear. He closed his eyes, his lids and lips moving as if he were doing calculations.
His eyes popped open. “Prisoner 628432! Join us on the platform.”
Whispers echoed and heads swiveled as the spectators attempted to identify the selected prisoner. The chatter peaked in a corner where several prisoners were hugging a terrified Deathstalker male with pale blond hair and skin to match.
He trudged toward the platform, his sand-colored serpent’s eyes glued to the Koenig. Once he’d climbed the stairs, he took a knee at the Koenig’s feet. Wormwood pulled him upright, lifting his arm toward the sky, and the crowd peppered him with unenthusiastic applause.
“Prisoner 628432, Arseny Vasok!” Wormwood planted his hands on the male’s shoulders. “Congratulations on being selected as tonight’s sacrifice.”
Vasok tittered. “What if we beat him?”
The Brethren laughed, though not as uproariously as they had at Cassandra.
“You will have the chance, of course. It’s only fair.” Wormwood offered Vasok a menacing smile. “And now, let the Harvest commence!” He snapped his fingers, then rushed off the platform.
Vasok trembled while the Koenig stood still as a statue, his hammer resting on his shoulder.
Vasok took his chance, popping his fangs and rushing for the Koenig, who didn’t even bother using the weapon. He struck out a fist and knocked the Deathstalker to the boards.
Vasok cowered, wiping a bead of green from the corner of his mouth. The Koenig remained motionless above him, smirking at a group of females, before Vasok lunged and sank his fangs into the Koenig’s calf.
Cassandra clasped Mireille’s forearm, hope fluttering in her chest as she waited for the Koenig to collapse from the injection of Deathstalker venom coursing through his system.
“Is he?—”
The Koenig’s hissing laughter interrupted Cassandra’s question. He shook Vasok off his leg and kicked him in the forehead.
Cassandra whispered, “He’simmuneto Deathstalker venom?”
Mireille nodded, brows pinched. “Built up over the years by letting his Deathstalker Brethren bite him. He’s practically invincible.”
A fresh wave of anxiety prickled the downy feathers at Cassandra’s shoulder blades. Immune to Deathstalker venom. Well, that was just fuckingperfect.
