Page 14 of Adtovar (The Alliance Rescue #1)

Overhead, the clashing sounds of the gladiator fights reverberated through the air. The sharp clang of swords meeting shields, the grunts of exertion, and the roar of the crowd blended into a cacophony that seemed to vibrate the very walls.

I tried not to think about it.

I struggled to push away the gnawing thoughts of Adtovar locked in the heat of battle. I imagined him dodging blows, the sound of clashing steel echoing around him as he fought for his life. The fear of him getting injured, or worse, losing his life, clawed at my mind like a rabid beast.

This was his third fight... four more to go.

At my suggestion, he’d picked Lafalia as his first prize.

Thanks to the tools in Adtovar’s medi-kit, she moved around much better, although her face still sported dark purple splotches as well as lingering scars.

He’d picked Teenalia as his second prize.

Her split lip had almost healed. Today, he would pick Meeka, which meant the three females usually chosen by the most brutal gladiators would be safe.

Adtovar proved himself to be a champion. While he came out of his fights mostly unscathed, he would always sport a shallow cut or two—red marks that slowly morphed into deep bruises. He was not impervious, a fact that made my heart ache every time he stepped into the arena.

I worried about him. Word spread like wildfire among the other gladiators that Adtovar was the sole reason there would be no more female prizes.

This revelation simmered beneath the surface, igniting a wave of anger that behaved like a living thing, growing more heated with each whispered conversation and resentful glance cast in Adtovar’s direction.

Thankfully, tales of Adtovar’s strength and skill had also spread like wildfire, and most of the gladiators had the sense not to go poking the bear.

Though not all. He nearly found himself in a brawl with Melakor in the dining hall the other day.

I rolled onto my side, the creak of the bed frame like the squeal of an angry toddler.

The arena diverted most of the power during fight times, leaving the underground dimly lit, though it wasn’t late, probably only mid-afternoon.

I let my gaze wander, knowing it would find itself again and again, staring at the door across the corridor.

Adtovar’s cell. Despite being neighbors, I barely saw him.

Training and fighting consumed most of his time, leaving little for leisurely encounters.

Yet at night, when the quiet of sleep consumed the underground, the open cell doors allowed our voices to drift into the shared darkness.

We talked late into the night about everything and nothing.

I told him about my family, my voodoo ancestors, and my college years.

He told him of his life among the stars, meeting his human daughter Willa and their efforts, which thwarted the plot to assassinate Duke Ako.

An enormous cheer from overhead made me jerk and grit my teeth.

The noise was thunderous, echoing through the air like a rolling wave.

I couldn’t bring myself to attend the fights.

All the other females attended, their cheers for Adtovar piercing through the cacophony of voices like sharp arrows.

But the idea of watching him fight, knowing the pain he suffered and the blood he shed was for me, no matter how minor—I couldn’t bear the thought of watching it.

Feeling restless, I shifted onto my knees and reached for the small poppet hidden away in the wall.

It was a crude creation, with misshapen features and uneven seams—a sight that would surely fill my grandmother with dismay, considering the countless hours she’d spent teaching me to sew.

I held the little doll in the palm of my hand, its lumpy form and mismatched colors stark against my skin, I traced a circle around its face with my finger before jabbing it firmly in its button eye.

“Take that, Bozzo,” I huffed, laughing at my actions.

If only it were that simple. If only I’d paid attention when my foremothers tried to teach me the skill of actually hexing somebody.

But this wasn’t really a poppet, it was more a of pwen , a doll used to communicate with spirits.

I cradled the stuffed creation against my chest, closing my eyes and letting my soul call out to anyone who might be listening, asking them to keep Adtovar safe.

I replaced the doll, feeling like a fraud and hoping the ancestors would forgive me for dabbling.

The reputation I cultivated as a witch served its purpose, keeping the guards, Bozzo, and other gladiators at a wary distance.

Yet, deep down, I knew the safety I felt due to my voodoo pretense was only an illusion.

The only time I truly felt safe was in Adtovar’s presence.

But even that wouldn’t last. After he rescued me, I’d be on my own again, an unsettling prospect I dreaded.

After all this time, despite how much I missed them, the allure of returning to Earth and my aunt slowly waned in appeal.

Adtovar spoke of other planets—places—where a human might find refuge and safety.

Perhaps, once we gained our freedom, I could seek such a haven.

.. and perhaps, just perhaps, Adtovar would choose to accompany me.

Shit. Was I seriously falling for a horned alien?

Yes.

Yes, I was.

I knew he had mated before. Emmiait and the others explained that, for most species, true mating was a rare occurrence—a once-in-a-lifetime event.

But I came from Earth, where, for some people, meeting their true love proved a once-a-week experience.

Others—like my parents—enjoyed a lifelong, wonderful relationship full of love and happiness.

I didn’t care whether a connection was fated, as long as it was built on love, mutual respect, and understanding.

The cheers from the crowd above swelled like a rising tide, and I heard the shuffle of feet leaving the arena, a clear sign that the match had concluded.

I stood from the bed, brushing the dust from my tattered clothes, excitement tightening my chest. Only four battles left.

Only four more fights until we were free.

My heart skipped like a happy child at the sound of approaching footsteps but shuddered to an almost complete stop when Lafalia burst through the doorway, her eyes wide and frantic.

She panted heavily, no doubt running all the way from the arena.

Not a wise move for someone with broken ribs.

“What’s the matter?” I was on my feet in a second, grabbing a cup of water and thrusting it into her trembling hand.

She guzzled the liquid, wiping a hand across her mouth before finding her voice. “Adtovar.”

A trifecta of overwhelming dread, suffocating worry, and paralyzing fear surged through me like a massive tidal wave, leaving me shaking and breathless. “What about him?”

“He’s....”

Before she could get the words out, two burly guards trudged into view, carrying Adtovar between them.

They hauled his limp body into his cell and unceremoniously dumped him onto the cot.

He groaned, the sound echoing off the cold stone walls, and instinctively swiped out at them in a feeble attempt at retaliation.

His movements were so weak and sluggish that he couldn’t have harmed a gnat.

I don’t recall the moment I sprang into action, grabbing my first aid bag and slipping past the bewildered guards.

All I remember was finding myself standing over Adtovar, his normally pale skin now an even more ghostly white, drained of all color.

A deep, angry gash marred the center of his chest, and from it, blood poured forth in a relentless stream, soaking his clothes and pooling on the cot beneath him.

I grabbed the old medi-unit from my bag, scanning the pale blue light over the injury. The machine was on its last legs, and the voice issuing the diagnosis came out low and sluggish.

Injury to the sublaxal vein, exsanguination expected in eight minutes.

Fuck!

I hurled myself toward the bedside table, grabbing the small, square medi-kit belonging to Adtovar.

Our reliance on it to heal Lafalia had nearly depleted its contents.

And now, staring at what remained, an icy wave of panic washed over me.

The vials and packets were unfamiliar, alien.

What if I grabbed the wrong one? What if, instead of healing, it killed him quicker?

I became conscious of Teenalia beside me, her hands trembling as she clutched a wad of cloth desperately against her chest. I snatched it from her grasp, urgently pressing the fabric against Adtovar’s chest, trying to staunch the relentless gush of blood that threatened to drain his very life away.

“Where is Isceilite?” Uttering the healer’s name showed my desperation. With my free hand, I dumped the contents of my bag onto the mattress, yielding nothing but a small tin of salve, a needle, some thread, and a few bandages. I had no tools, nothing to stop the bleeding... no way to save him.

“Worthless.” Sureeta’s hand hit my shoulder and gave a squeeze. “We saw him passed out drunk in the corridor on our way here.”

Fuck!

Tears stung my eyes as I glanced around the room, looking for something.

.. anything to help. The cloth I held pressed to Adtovar’s chest had already soaked through.

His blood was dark purple, almost black, the kind of color that would leave a stain for eternity, especially if he died.

And he would die for the simple reason that there was nothing in the godforsaken hell hole except blood and death and rocks.

Rocks!

An idea floated through my mind, granted one that I’d first seen in an old Western but later learned the validity of it in a mineral compounds class.

Shit! Why hadn’t I found the time to test it before now, when the need for it to work wasn’t life or death?