Page 81 of Reaper & Ruin

Atlas didn’t react because he was used to her psychoticness and being electrocuted for fun. I did because I may have had an abusive childhood, but nowhere near that extreme.

I still hadsomeof my sanity intact.

She grinned and held her finger above the timer. “First question. Giovanni.”

I tensed.

“How many bones did Atlas have broken on purpose before the age of ten?” She smashed the button, starting the countdown.

My eyes flicked to him, then back to her. “The fuck kind of—”

“Time’s ticking,” she sang.

My jaw tensed. “I don’t know. Five?”

“Wrong,” she said, and made a stupid little buzzer noise as she slammed her thumb down on her switch button.

The zap hit, and my jaw locked. My back straightened with the effort of staying upright. My hand gripped the edge of the podium, holding on until the shock passed.

“Try harder,” she said.

She spun to Atlas and clicked the timer again. “What’s the capital of Burkina Faso? Ten seconds on the clock.”

He said nothing. Just stared at her.

Ten seconds later, she zapped him. His brow twitched and his hands clenched into fists, but he didn’t react otherwise. Iwatched him. He didn’t flinch, didn’t make a sound. So much so that I had a thought I didn’t like.

How many times had he gotten that same treatment growing up that now he barely reacted at all?

“Ouagadougou,” she said. “Minus one point for being uncultured.” She scribbled a little tally under his name on the whiteboard. “Next one. Giovanni. How many people do you think Atlas has killed?”

I swallowed. “No idea.”

“Give me a rough number.”

“Two hundred.” I hissed.

“Bzt. Wrong.”

Another zap. I slammed my palm onto the podium. “You didn’t say it had to be exact.”

“I know. I just like the noise and the way your face looks when you get zapped.” She clicked the timer again. “Atlas. What’s the square root of sixty-nine?”

He shrugged, even though we both knew he knew the answer. “Eight point something.”

Her eyes rolled, brow twitched like she knew he wasn’t playing properly. “Gross. Still, not bad. Half a point.”

She kept going like that. Every question she gave me was about Atlas—how many bones he’d had broken on purpose, what age he first killed someone, what type of blade he preferred. Every question she gave him was pointless. Capitals, trivia, celebrity marriages, world records.

We racked up points slowly. I hit ten first.

“Prize time,” she said.

She moved to the stack of boxes she’d placed earlier and picked one out. It was small, black, and sealed with duct tape. She placed it in front of me. “Open it.”

I peeled back the tape, working the edge until the layers gave way. The box opened with a soft pull. Inside was a hand—clean cut at the wrist, the skin pale, the fingers slack. A ring clung to one of them.

I looked down at it, recognizing it. Not just the ring, but the small scar under the thumb, the way the pinkie finger was missing a tip.