“It’s far warmer down here than it was on the walk over. What’s the real reason?”
She held out her hands, palms up. “Don’t you trust me?”
He folded his arms over his chest. “Something tells me I should say no.”
She pouted. “I’m hurt.”
“Don’t be.”
“What about our deal?”
Toran’s eyes shifted from the pit to the fighter to the jeering crowd before finally landing back on her. “Right about now, I feel I should have added a bit about you not getting me killed into that agreement.”
She rolled her eyes. “Will you give me your cloak if I promise not to kill you?”
“Or get me killed?”
She nodded, tugging on the string that kept his black cloak closed over his broad chest. “Or get you killed.”
Toran shrugged off the cloak and folded the ends with care. He placed it gently in her outstretched arms. “Keep it safe for me.”
She pressed the mound of fabric against her chest, trying not to absorb the warmth that still radiated from it.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. You won’t die.” She stepped closer until they were toe to toe, placing a light hand on his chest. She shifted one foot toward his instep and smiled. “Well, I hope not.”
Tucking his cloak under her arm, she hooked her foot around the back of his ankle and shoved. Toran tripped on her foot and fell. She gave him a small triumphant wave as she watched him tumble into the pit.
14
Toran
Instinct doused his shock as Toran fell.
Tucking his shoulder, he hit the ground and rolled. Clouds of dust burst to life as he slid, forcing him to keep his eyes shut. He came to a bracing halt, coughing as dust crowded his nose and mouth.
He bolted to his feet. Wiping the dirt from his eyes, he blinked at his new surroundings, then looked up.
Nes smiled down at him. It was a fake smile. A facade of innocence. As if him ending up in this damned pit was an accident. He would swear on Cavallis and all the gadots in his coffers this had been her plan all along.
“It seems we have an opponent!” a voice like a roaring bear called out over the pit opening.
He turned and made eye contact with a gruff man in a red overcoat. The man smiled at Toran and spread his thick arms toward him, capturing the attention of the crowd.
“What’s your name?” the announcer asked.
“If someone doesn’t get me out of here, I’ll have you all arrested,” Toran said.
“What’d you say?” the man called out. And then Nes was at the man’s side, whispering something in his ear. Something he was sure not to like. The announcer turned to the people who’d pressed themselves tight around the edge of the pit. “I present to you Frederick the Beheader in his first-ever brawl against Growlsabob the Impaler!”
The crowd cheered.
Frederick the Beheader?
“You, son,” the announcer said in a low voice, crouching down to speak to him, “are either the unluckiest son of a bitch to walk the earth or a total chump for getting in that pit.”
Both. He was likely both.
The announcer nodded to the beast behind Toran. “That guy’s our house champion. We don’t call him the Impaler for nothin’. ”
