Page 24 of Blackheart

I smacked his piss-scented grubber away, baring my teeth.

“Don’t touch things that do not belong to you.”

“I touch where I want!” he yipped, reaching fast and squeezing my breast.

Mind-blinding rage surged within me as I caught his fleeing wrist. I twisted it low to the ground, his wavering joint threatening to snap. I had little left to lose, and suddenly, murdering Charles in front of the Witchlords didn’t seem like such a terrible crime.

His warted nose crinkled, face melting into a spiteful frown. “Nobody else will want yous! And it hertz nothin ta do with ya bein a Blackheart!” he spat, yanking out of my grasp. Fury churned in my veins, begging me to wipe him from his miserable existen?—

A pinch of lightning zapped my side. Down the field, Lord Ansel was watching. Warning me to stop.

Fuck Lord Ansel.I snapped my attention back to Charles. “The next time I see that grimy, vile-odored, shitstick of a finger, I promise you will lose it.”

He bounced off the ground with his fists clenched. “Nobody! Nobody, nobody, nobody will want EEEELorAh!” he chanted, giving me one last ridiculous pout before stomping off into the crowd.

I stared out at the field, pushing every nasty feeling deep down, leaving an empty void.

Lord Ansel towered next to the other Witchlords, his silky hair framing his face. Lord Dronis strolled beside him, his demeanor relaxed, per usual. Luxurious braids hung from the top of his head, while his smooth brown skin glowed under the golden orb. Lord Dayire and Lord Jaysel came next, determination and excitement visible in their steps.

How early in the winter did they begin scoping out who they would choose for their teams? Or had they waited until the night of the event?

The orb above flickered from a bright beam to a fluttering, warm glow.

“Waywards! It isyourholiday.” Lord Dronis thundered over the drunken audience. “Most of you have behaved properly thus far this winter and made it another year in this thriving community. You have aided your kingdom in the war to come against the Sapphires, and with that, this midwinter game is your reward.”

Claps, squeals, whistles, and chants of violent affection raged through the crowd. I remained silent, holding my arms around my bouncing knee.

Lord Dayire was next to step forward. The warm glow radiating over the field was complementary to his short red hair, reminiscent of autumn. He was probably the one casting the orb, not that it mattered. None of the Witchlords appeared drained or bothered at all to wield their Nature in that way.

I wouldn’t know where to begin with casting a dark orb.

“Twelve of you get to play! As we’ve seen in previous years, this can be a dangerous game,” Lord Dayire announced. “I believe it serves as a reminder ofwhyyou are in here, but it’s all in good fun. If you want to watch, then you have volunteered. Leave now if you have no interest in being chosen.”

The rule was not a new one, nor one that swayed the eager audience. No one appeared remotely concerned. Surrounding me were plenty of Dark Natured with relatively normal lives, dressed in their warm garments and half-drunken smiles.

Beck poked his head next to mine, sneaking up with expert execution.

“Oh, for Fate’s sake,” I choked. I hadn’t seen the Nightcastor in weeks. He must have moved on to other taverns in his rotation.

Beck grinned, wrapping an arm over my shoulder, his curls tickling the side of my face.

“Ah, my favorite Blackheart. Did you hear that Arielle is alive?” he whispered.

I sighed. It was unfortunate that I was the one with incorrect gossip the last time we spoke. I nodded in defeat.

He clicked his tongue. “You need better informants.” With a parting pat on the head, he vanished like a shadow caught in sunlight.

My stomach fluttered. He’d just used his Nature. Casually, too. If the Witchlords or a Draker caught him?—

Lord Dayire continued, “Rules are simple enough, even for your kind. This is a game of Orb Hazy. Each team will be given an orb made by their Witchlord. You will protect yours and try to capture the opposing team’s. The first team to bring an opponent’s orb back to their base wins.”

“What do the winners get this year?” a voice yelled out.

Lord Ansel looked less than thrilled with the interruption, or maybe the game entirely. With his hands in the pockets of his cloak, he stood stone faced and waiting.

“The winning team will receive gold, enough to buy a spot in the Pearl or drink themselves to the grave through the next two winters,” Lord Dayire beamed. “Now, who’s ready?”

Mother of Moons.The game would be dreadfully deadly, all for a monetary prize.