Page 23

Rirth was taken next, along with another slave in a different cage. My anxiety jumped to new heights with Rirth’s life on the line. The smaller man walked past my cage with a determined clench to his face.

I had not known Kemini outside the ring. We had fought twice and split matches—a feat no one in the Firehold thought I could achieve.

But Rirth? He had started as an enemy, become a rival, and ended up, dare I say . . . a friend. We had trained together. I taught him sword techniques Lukain showed me, he helped me with my footwork to become a faster, nimbler brawler.

I didn’t want him to die. Imagine all the heartbreak the women of the Firehold will feel if they learn their charming warrior died in such a senseless manner.

Garroway could either see my nervousness or sense it. “Worrying about yourself, not others, would be prudent right now, lass.”

I glanced over at him.

He shrugged. “Seems we are to fight each other, after all.”

My pulse quickened. Shit. He’s right. There’s no one left in this jail besides us.

“I don’t expect you to go easy on me,” he said with a humorless chuckle.

“ Me go easy on you ?”

“Aye. Your name has made its way through the circles. The ‘Grimson Bitch-Queen’ and ‘Lukain’s temptress.’”

I blinked at him, confounded. I like one of those nicknames more than the other. “You are associated with the Grimsons? To be part of this circle of rumors?”

“I am associated with everyone and no one, little honey badger.”

My head reeled. “Why do you call me that?”

He gave me a crooked smile. “Fearless. Tough. Ferocious. Those are some of the words I’ve heard tossed around your name—same as honey badgers.” He laughed at himself. “Not afraid to go against a much larger opponent, either.”

I set my hands on my hips. “You’re not so much bigger than me, Garroway. Taller, maybe. Broader? I have you beat there.”

His smile became daring, wider. He wrapped his hands around the bars to study me closer. “An exchange I’ll take all day.” There was something heated in his red eyes—either lust or a playful challenge.

The sound of blades striking together forced my attention away from Garroway and snapped my neck to peer upward through the slats.

Rirth and his opponent went at it hard and fast. My friend grunted as he danced in his quick way. It was so frustrating not being able to see every minute detail of their bout, yet I knew it was for my own benefit.

The heartache would be less if I didn’t have to see Rirth’s death.

“Come on, you short fucking king,” I growled through clenched teeth. “Take him down.”

Garroway laughed at that, sounding entirely uncaring about the situation. He said nothing, and we both watched.

I could hardly keep track of Rirth’s movements on the slats. He worked on the balls of his feet, dashing left and right, often out of my line of vision.

A flurry of crashing steel rang out in rapid succession. Grunts and bellowing cries from the combatants joined the sounds. I was certain someone had been injured.

The baited breath of the audience let go, becoming a low murmur of cheers. The fight was nearing its end—

And then a quick gurgle and spray of blood across the floor—seeping down into the cages—brought the room above into complete silence.

The same light applause as before followed.

I couldn’t see whose body lay on the ground. My frustration mounted. I balled my hands into fists. “Who fucking won?!” I shouted. Unlike in the Firehold, Lukain did not announce a victor. No one did.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

Two minutes later, the door to the jail opened.

I inhaled sharply—

As Rirth marched past me, unhurried, covered in blood I assumed wasn’t his own.

“Yes!” I cheered, punching a fist into my palm. “Thank the True.”

His sword clanked on the ground once he was back in his cell and locked in. I heard him sliding down, back against a wall, sighing.

The acolytes who put him in his cage remained standing in front of mine and Garroway’s cells.

“Don’t be so pleased, Seph,” Rirth said, his voice morose and tired. “You’re next.”

It was all I could do to keep myself from being distracted by the glory of Manor Manquin. Standing in the makeshift arena in the center of the room, I gawked at the surroundings.

Garroway and I stood on opposite ends of a circular divot about three feet below the surface. Floorboards had been pulled back to reveal the fighting pit. We stood on latticed groundwork that led to the prison room below.

Above the ring, an audience of well-dressed, masked vampires looked down at us as if we were tasty morsels.

They stood at expensive-looking oak tables.

Golden tablecloths adorned the tables, shimmering silver-and-gold tapestries stretched across the rafters and along the walls with a family crest I didn’t recognize.

Chandeliers of crystal hung from the ceiling.

Magicked torches were alight with dim reds and blues and yellow lights, keeping the ballroom well-lit.

Raised from the surface level was a stage where Lord Skartovius Ashfen sat on a throne-like chair.

He wore a mask of burnished gold across his face, hiding his features.

He was very tall, very imposing, and had dark auburn hair that swept past his shoulders.

His garb—a gold-hemmed robe mired in black, with curved shoulder pads that struck a fierce relief—spoke of immense wealth as he lazily looked down at his entertainment, his fighters, with his chin on his fist and his elbow on the armrest of his chair.

And this was a petty lord? Only petty, in my mind, with how he boasted his extravagance. If this was a minor nobleman of Olhav, I couldn’t even imagine what a true lord possessed.

Next to Lord Ashfen were six chairs with various men seated on them. The men, vampires all by the tone of their pale hands, long nails, and graceful physiques, wore masks. Everyone who attended, everyone of import—lord, lady, thrall alike—treated the shadowgala like a masquerade.

The Grimsons girls moseyed around the seated men, perhaps deemed more important than the ones standing at the tables surrounding the fighting pit.

Jinneth sat on a large man’s lap, toying with his hair.

Her shirt was lowered, the man examining her pert breasts quite closely.

Across the room, Aelin eyed Jinneth and the seated man while she lightly chatted with a couple standing near the pit.

She paid them little attention, her glaring eyes fixed on Jinneth and her host. Helget had been completely disrobed, and the plump nude woman was being teased between two bloodsuckers who peppered her with kisses and spoke sweet nothings into her ears on either side.

Helget was giggling and smiling, seemingly loving the attention.

It was a completely carousing affair. Other vampire ladies doted on their paramours with arms draped over shoulders and bodies. Low murmurs carried between attendees. A strange scent I couldn’t immediately place circled through the room.

Things had changed from the refined nature I’d listened to below as the first two fights took place. Now, the heated tension and stuffiness in the room spoke of an orgiastic affair about to take place.

I took a glance at Garroway and sniffed harder. A memory flared—the cloying aroma reminded me of something I’d smelled in the alleyway with Garroway those years ago. Something he’d told me that night which I had disregarded and forgotten about.

Garroway had said, “The redcloud makes me docile. You needn’t fear me.”

When I’d asked what redcloud was, he told me it was a substance made from powdered blood. A drug causing euphoria and complacency in vampires when inhaled. He had not offered me any redcloud. I had also been thirteen at the time, so . . . probably for the best.

Now, that same scent circled the air and masked something sharper and more pungent behind it. The redcloud would explain the desirous expressions on the vampires’ faces, yet that other smell, so familiar—

My breath caught in my throat as I scanned the room past other vampires near a table off to the side.

Truehearts save me. Strewn lengthwise across the table was Kemini’s corpse, torn open at his chest and neck.

His thick blood was draining into cups that lined the floor and table around him like some sort of macabre ritual.

White-robed servants passed the table, picked up chalices of blood, and brought them to guests.

Lukain’s voice rose above the low murmurs. I couldn’t see where he spoke from amongst the crowd. “Lord Ashfen, I bring you something special tonight. The first warrioress of the Grimsons—a Grimdaughter, if you will.”

A light smattering of chuckles swept through.

“She is my fiercest pupil, trained to entertain and win . She has locked our hearts together, as I’m sure she will with yours, my lord. I give you . . . Sephania Lock.”

I’d never had a surname before. Far as I knew, Lukain Pierken created it on the spot to jive with his “locked our hearts together” comment.

Garroway’s handler—a vampire from the far side of the room—strode through and introduced Garroway as a half-blooded sullyman who was fighting for atonement for being born.

That’s rather harsh. Especially considering the praise Lukain had just heaped on me. I couldn’t get the sight of Kemini’s gutted, ripped-apart body out of my mind. These fucking savages. Lacking any semblance of humanity. They are pure monsters!

Anger filled me. When my hands reached for my sword and dagger, my palms were sweaty with anticipation.

From the dais, Skartovius Ashfen spoke a single word, so familiar to me after the many years.

“Begin.”

Garroway abruptly had two swords in his hands, shocking me with his unsheathing speed. His face was a mask of indifference—gone were the crooked smiles and knowing glances.

It all happened so fast.