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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“ K eep up,” Mireille grumbled over her shoulder.

A few paces behind, Cassandra asked the same question she’d asked at least ten times since Mireille had dragged her from the shop. “Where are we going?”

“I told you, you’ll see .”

Was Mireille always this gruff? Or had her piss-poor reunion with a certain broody, muscular male put her in a foul mood? After a half a week in Mireille’s company, Cassandra honestly couldn’t tell.

The two females pushed their way through the cobbled streets, coming upon a crowd in the city square that was the largest Cassandra had yet encountered in the city—a roiling mass of Fae, cramming every side street and spilling out of the two corner taverns.

She kept her head down, ignoring whistles and hollers from passing Brethren. A male with a shaved head and upturned nose shouted that her days in Tartarus were numbered. She wanted to call back that yes, they were, because she was going to defeat the Koenig, win that hammer, then figure out how to get the fuck out of here. But she was worried her voice might tremble and ruin the comeback.

She shook off the taunts as Mireille led her toward Ronin, who was seated on a bench at the edge of the square. In the center, a rough wooden platform sporting ominously dark stains had been erected.

Cassandra flopped down next to Ronin, angling her wings over the back of the bench. Mireille took her other side.

“Hi,” Cassandra said to his neck as he craned his head around.

“Hi,” he clipped back, not looking at her.

Frenzied Dienses, both her chosen fighters were in a fine mood tonight. Though it wasn’t much different than those excruciating training sessions. Or any of the time they’d spent together the past week, really. Whatever spectacle they were about to witness, Mireille had been tense about it for days. And Cassandra had barely seen Ronin, who spent every minute outside the training room trying to find Selene.

Cassandra ignored her gnawing loneliness and began scanning the crowd.

There was no sign of Wormwood nor the Koenig. And once again, Cassandra didn’t spy a single human. Their continued absence tightened the knot of dread in her stomach.

“You gonna tell me what this is all about?” Cassandra shouted into Mireille’s ear over the din.

“It’s called Harvest Night,” Mireille answered, her voice tight. “It occurs once a month. A sacrifice to Vestan to restore the hammer’s magic and allow the Koenig to refill the city’s provisions.”

Cassandra’s stomach dropped. “What kind of sacrifice?”

Mireille schooled her features into a terrifying neutrality, her silence saying more than Cassandra likely wanted to know. She understood why Mireille had waited until the last possible minute to tell her about it.

While most of the prisoners seemed nervous and jumpy, the Brethren were downright delirious with bloodlust. Fights erupted, shouts pierced the night, and Cassandra clenched her jaw so hard she thought her teeth might snap.

“Apothecarist!” a booming voice called out from across the square.

Mireille’s head whipped toward it. “Fuck,” she muttered, her gaze landing on the meanest-looking Brethren Cassandra had yet seen. The hulking beast of a male had pale ice-blue eyes, and his waist-length hair was nearly as dark as the black fur draped around his shoulders.

“Hang on. I need to handle this.” Mireille sauntered away, and a feral smile bloomed on the male’s face.

Ronin tensed, his golden-blue eye tracking Mireille across the square.

She paused before the raven-haired male, wrapping her arms around her chest, and he leaned down to whisper into her ear. She shook her head, fingers digging into her biceps.

Faster than Cassandra could blink, the Brethren clamped an arm around Mireille’s waist, hauled her against his chest, and clapped his other hand over her ass.

Ronin shot up from the bench, but reluctantly sat back down when another male beat him to Mireille’s rescue. The lean yet muscular Windrider sported dove-gray feathered wings, closely-shaved dark hair, and a rumpled linen tunic that was very different from the attire of the blue-eyed Brethren he was arguing with.

The Brethren threw his hands up and finally stalked off to rejoin his peers, who were throwing nasty slurs and catcalls at Mireille.

The Windrider placed his hands on Mireille’s shoulders and ducked his head as they conversed quietly. Whatever she said must have reassured him. After they parted, he returned to a diverse group of Fae gathered outside The Other Place.

“Who were those two?” Cassandra asked when Mireille sank down beside her.

“The Windrider with the gray wings is Silas. He’s a friend. The long-haired Brethren asshole is Jonas. He is not. Or at least, not anymore.”

Cassandra could’ve sworn she felt Ronin twitch, though he was very intensely pretending not to listen. “And what did they want?” she asked Mireille.

“Nothing.” A slight tremor shook Mireille’s hand as she raked it through her copper waves. Ronin’s eye darted right to it. “They… It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

A hush fell over the crowd as Wormwood, who’d finally arrived, climbed the steps to the platform.

“Friends,” he crowed. “Welcome to Harvest Night!”

Violent cheers rose from the Brethren, while most of the rest of the crowd remained silent.

Wormwood continued, “Tonight is a very special Harvest Night, as it will be the last before a spectacle which we have not enjoyed in over fifty years. There is a new challenger among us. A prisoner who arrived with a death sentence. And lucky for us, she has requested an executioner’s appeal from our beloved Koenig!”

The Brethren erupted into uproarious laughter. A few of the other prisoners joined in. Cassandra’s face heated.

Mireille squeezed her hand, whispering into her ear. “Fuck those bastards. They won’t be laughing when you win.”

Cassandra offered Mireille a wan smile, grateful that the female was trying to lift her spirits. But truthfully, Cassandra didn’t know if they could get any lower.

“Challenger!” Wormwood called, his mousy brown eyes seeking her out. “Show yourself! Let the citizens of Tartarus say hello. And goodbye.”

Cassandra steeled her shoulders, refusing to show her fear, then climbed on the bench and flared her wings wide.

The Brethren’s hysteria pelted her as she stared down the crowd. But many regular prisoners offered subtle nods of approval.

“Let’s hear it for Cassandra Fortin, folks,” Wormwood crooned. “Prisoner 161803! And soon to be the Koenig’s next victim.”

The laughter reached a fever pitch, which Cassandra took as her cue to retake her seat. Mireille patted her thigh and Ronin squeezed her shoulder.

“You did well,” Mireille said. “Don’t give the Brethren another fucking thought. And when you do defeat the Koenig, you can decide whether to offer them mercy.”

Cassandra nodded, her face and limbs numb, and wondered, for the hundredth time these past few weeks, how in Ethyrios she’d ended up here.

Wormwood raised his palms, encouraging the crowd to silence. “My friends, as I said, tonight is a very special Harvest Night. And as such, we have a different kind of fight than you’re used to.”

Mireille tensed, and Cassandra leaned over to whisper, “What does that mean?”

Mireille shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Wormwood continued, “In honor of our challenger, the Koenig himself has decided to participate in tonight’s harvest!”

The Brethren jumped to their feet with a ground-shaking roar, and the Koenig paraded into the square. He acknowledged his subjects with dips of his chin, his shark-like grin plastered on his handsome face. He jogged up the steps, then took his place next to Wormwood.

Cassandra sneered, though he didn’t look her way. An attempt to minimize her, surely.

One of the Brethren handed the hammer up to the Koenig, who swung it through the air. The polemite heart streaked ribbons of red through the twilight.

As Wormwood scanned the crowd, Cassandra scented new tendrils of tangy fear. He closed his eyes, his lids and lips moving as if he were doing calculations.

His eyes popped open. “Prisoner 628432! Join us on the platform.”

Whispers echoed and heads swiveled as the spectators attempted to identify the selected prisoner. The chatter peaked in a corner where several prisoners were hugging a terrified Deathstalker male with pale blond hair and skin to match.

He trudged toward the platform, his sand-colored serpent’s eyes glued to the Koenig. Once he’d climbed the stairs, he took a knee at the Koenig’s feet. Wormwood pulled him upright, lifting his arm toward the sky, and the crowd peppered him with unenthusiastic applause.

“Prisoner 628432, Arseny Vasok!” Wormwood planted his hands on the male’s shoulders. “Congratulations on being selected as tonight’s sacrifice.”

Vasok tittered. “What if we beat him?”

The Brethren laughed, though not as uproariously as they had at Cassandra.

“You will have the chance, of course. It’s only fair.” Wormwood offered Vasok a menacing smile. “And now, let the Harvest commence!” He snapped his fingers, then rushed off the platform.

Vasok trembled while the Koenig stood still as a statue, his hammer resting on his shoulder.

Vasok took his chance, popping his fangs and rushing for the Koenig, who didn’t even bother using the weapon. He struck out a fist and knocked the Deathstalker to the boards.

Vasok cowered, wiping a bead of green from the corner of his mouth. The Koenig remained motionless above him, smirking at a group of females, before Vasok lunged and sank his fangs into the Koenig’s calf.

Cassandra clasped Mireille’s forearm, hope fluttering in her chest as she waited for the Koenig to collapse from the injection of Deathstalker venom coursing through his system.

“Is he?—”

The Koenig’s hissing laughter interrupted Cassandra’s question. He shook Vasok off his leg and kicked him in the forehead.

Cassandra whispered, “He’s immune to Deathstalker venom?”

Mireille nodded, brows pinched. “Built up over the years by letting his Deathstalker Brethren bite him. He’s practically invincible.”

A fresh wave of anxiety prickled the downy feathers at Cassandra’s shoulder blades. Immune to Deathstalker venom. Well, that was just fucking perfect.

“Who is he?” Cassandra asked, but Mireille either didn’t hear her or didn’t bother responding.

Vasok staggered to his feet. His serpent’s eyes had gone glassy, as if he’d resigned himself to his fate. His voice shook as he called out, “Put down your hammer and fight us as an equal!”

The Koenig lifted an incredulous eyebrow, and the Brethren swelled with whoops and hollers. He shrugged, then made a show of settling his hammer down gently onto the platform.

As soon as he raised his head, he barreled for Vasok.

The Deathstalker’s eyes went wide as he realized his mistake.

And all the blood drained from Cassandra’s body as she watched the Koenig tear Arseny Vasok apart with his bare hands.

This was a male who’d known nothing but violence for his centuries-long life.

Vasok’s screams were unbearable as the Koenig crunched a fist into his skull, stomped through his leg, and in a terrible, final move, lifted his limp body in the air and cracked his spine.

The Koenig tossed Vasok’s crumpled body to the boards. The Deathstalker was somehow still clinging to life, moaning faintly in a spreading pool of green blood.

The Brethren’s ravenous chants of Harvest! Harvest! grew louder as the Koenig bent over to pluck up his hammer.

“Please,” Vasok croaked at the Koenig’s feet. “Please.”

Cassandra wasn’t sure if he was begging for help or begging for death.

The Koenig arced the hammer over his head, then brought it down upon Vasok’s skull with a bone-crunching squelch. The Deathstalker’s head popped like a ripe watermelon and though Cassandra desperately wanted to look away, she didn’t dare. Didn’t want to appear weak or squeamish in front of the Brethren.

Not to mention the Koenig had held her stare throughout that fatal swing.

He thrust the hammer into the air, green viscera and white skull fragments clinging to the black stone.

Applause exploded throughout the square as the Brethren surged to their feet.

Wormwood sidled up to the Koenig, his thin lips sliding into a grimace as he beheld the pile of mush that used to be prisoner 628432. “Let’s hear it for our Koenig, folks!”

The Koenig lifted the hammer once more, and the polemite heart began to glow. Cassandra watched, awestruck, as Vasok’s body dissolved in a flash of red mist.

Wormwood bowed his head and beside him, the Koenig did the same. The crowd followed shortly behind.

“Vestan, our Warrior God,” Wormwood intoned, “please accept this sacrifice. A soul to add to your divine eternal army. He gave his life that we may preserve ours. And in your name, we give our thanks.”

Red light flashed through the square, bursting through windows and flaring down side streets.

Barrels that had previously been empty filled with food—cuts of meat, root vegetables, leafy greens, fruits and grains, wheat and barley, and so much more. Casks of ale and bottles of wine appeared in front of the taverns and in shop windows.

The heart gem pulsed, bathing the Koenig’s face in macabre red shadows. Combined with his kohl-lined eyes and wicked smile, Cassandra could’ve sworn she was gazing upon a demon risen from the depths of Stygios’s realm.

And she couldn’t stop trembling.

“Are you okay?” Mireille asked, trembling slightly herself. When Cassandra shook her head, willing her tears away, Mireille pulled her from the bench. “Let’s go. The Brethren will be plenty distracted now that the feasting has begun.”

“They’ll think I’m a coward,” Cassandra breathed out.

A few prisoners began fighting over casks of ale and Mireille offered Cassandra a rueful grin. “They won’t remember much tomorrow anyway. Come on, we can sneak away before anyone notices.” She turned to Ronin. “Are you coming?”

“No,” was all he said before slipping into the crowd.

Mireille sighed, walking Cassandra—who was desperately trying not to fall apart in public—out of the square and back to her shop.

As soon as Mireille opened the door, Cassandra rushed up the stairs to the apartment and burst into the bathroom.

Then vomited up the meager contents of her stomach.