“Bow to the king, human,” one of the Guardians called, making my gaze snap up from the weapon.
King? I thought. I followed the male’s gaze upward and spotted the box. It was buried within the crowd, its sides adorned with drapes to lend it some elegance. Belanor stood there, flanked by more guards. His gaze met mine for the briefest of instants, then he looked to the side, as if he’d heard something I hadn’t. He was too far away to hear anything I said, but I hoped one of the courtiers in that ridiculous box could read lips.
“Did I miss the coronation?” I called back to the Guardian, finally responding to his command. The faerie’s nostrils flared, which was answer enough—Belanor hadn’t been crowned yet.
If I’d been waiting for a dramatic opportunity to reveal who I was, this was it. My fingers twitched, tempted to reach for the mask that hid Belanor’s naughty secret. But the werewolf had styled my hair around the thick strap, making it nearly impossible to remove without help.
Before the Guardians could jab me with their spears again, the rabble went wild. It only took a few seconds to figure out that their excitement wasn’t for me this time. Now that I was adapting to the racket, I could hear individual voices in the stands, calling out bets and demanding a kill.
Everyone’s attention seemed aimed in the same direction. They directed their fervor toward the opposite side of the arena, fists thrusting into the air, the chain walls clinking as individuals in the crowd shook it. A chant built among them, an Enochian cry that had the feel of ancient tradition. “De a teloc! De a teloc!”
To the death.
The other gate rattled upward. Dread made me slow as I turned.
It came to a stop with a thunderous, clanging sound. The mass of onlookers were still making frantic bets and shouting predictions. I ignored the dire words about me as I waited for my opponent to appear. It was dark inside the tunnel, and I couldn’t see anything moving forward. Not yet. I bit my tongue to keep from pleading with the Guardians behind me. Keep the gate closed. Please. I glanced toward them and realized I was completely alone in the arena—the faeries must’ve retreated while I’d been distracted.
The Games had begun.
I swung back to the gate, and I watched with frozen terror as a paw stepped out of the shadows. Claws ground into the sand with casual strength.
“No,” I said, as if saying it out loud would make this moment stop.
But it didn’t stop. I stared at the hulking shape emerging from the darkness, little by little. When I saw the figure’s face, it was as if God had turned down a volume knob, and suddenly the crowd’s raucous cheers were quieter. My mind felt like the static-filled screen of an old television. I blinked, willing the face to change, or for all of this to reveal itself as another hallucination. It didn’t work.
Finn. It was Finn.
He was halfway between his two forms, but I would recognize him anywhere. Why was my werewolf acting like he hadn’t recognized me? I’d witnessed the moment he registered there was another person standing on the sand—the only reaction had been a huffing sound and a slow step closer. I was still wearing the mask, but Finn knew my scent. He should’ve reacted to it.
As Finn left the tunnel behind, squinting in the harsh spotlights, I couldn’t ignore the feeling that something was wrong. Not just with Finn’s control, or the fact we were about to be pitted against each other, but coming from Finn himself. I couldn’t explain it better than that.
Then I remembered one of Peeks’s comments. All day long, it had been lingering along the edges of my mind like a bad dream. I’ve heard screams coming from one of the other cells.
Oh, Finn, what did they do to you? I thought, feeling as broken as he probably was.
At the moment, the werewolf was distracted by the crowd, his huge head arched back to see all of them. Like the male fighters I’d seen in the salon, Finn wore only a loincloth and decorative braces on his biceps. His dark, muscular body had been oiled before he had gone over to the wolf. Cords stood out in his neck and arms.
He looked fucking terrifying.
“Finn?” I called, hoping the sound of a familiar voice, or his name, would help my friend settle on a form. Settling on a form would ground him, maybe even undo some of the damage that had been inflicted on his mind.
Those familiar yellow eyes landed on me again, and something about the way they sharpened had my instincts shrieking. Finn and I stared at each other across the arena. After a moment, a glob of drool fell from his mouth and plopped onto the sand. I glanced down at it, everything feeling slow and surreal.
Then, just as I’d feared he would, the werewolf snarled.
The low rumble vibrated through the air. Even though an inner voice kept insisting this was Finn, a person who would sooner harm himself than attack me, I couldn’t hold back a flinch.
A sudden rush of movement drew my gaze upward. Archers stood at perfectly-distanced intervals within the stands—I hadn’t noticed them before because their weapons weren’t drawn. But now, every one of them had arrows notched and ready. To kill Finn, I realized. The moment Belanor’s plan worked, and I regained my abilities, his guards would eliminate the werewolf and remove me from this arena. But what if I was killed instead? Maybe Belanor had given his archers instructions to intervene before that could happen.
Or maybe I’d finally pushed him too far.
Another snarl came from the other side of the space, and I snapped to attention. Finn stood on his two hind feet now. Too much like a man, but with none of the reason to go with it. He took a step closer, and even if I couldn’t recall what I was supposed to do next, my muscles did.
I squatted into a defensive stance, reaching down at the same time. An instant later, the knife flashed in my hand. Finn’s bright eyes darted to it, but they quickly returned to my face. There wasn’t even a glimmer of recognition within those depths.
“De a teloc! De a teloc!”
I tried to block out the chant. I tried to put all my focus on the werewolf in front of me. However this played out, I refused to give these assholes a show. Finn deserved better, especially after everything he’d already been through. I deserved better, too, regardless of the dark deeds that had brought me here.
Hoping to end our battle before it could truly begin, I ran at Finn.
Sand flew out from beneath my feet and my heart was like a series of bombs going off. I’d taken him by surprise, and the werewolf was a beat too late in reacting. I darted past and left a swift, deep cut on his leg. Then I slid, coming to a violent stop, and faced Finn with one hand and one knee dug into the sand, while I brought up the knife with my other.
To my dismay, I saw the wound hadn’t incapacitated Finn as I thought it would. Not a holy blade, then.
Roaring, the massive werewolf dropped and charged.
That had been my only idea, and I needed to buy myself more time. Cutting Finn’s Achilles tendons hadn’t slowed him down. Would he recover from a knife to the heart? Breathing in short, terrified bursts, I rolled out of his path. Finn checked himself, but it was too late and he slammed into the closed gate. At the same time I heard his body make contact with those iron bars, I scrambled to my feet and ran.
With every frantic step, that grim chant went on, the crowd’s shouts so loud it seemed impossible humans couldn’t hear them from the streets above us. I stopped only when I reached the other end of the arena. I whirled to face the werewolf a second time, ordering myself to Think, Fortuna, think!