I have on clothes similar to the last two trials, gold and black that give me a dark prince kind of vibe. Or that’s what Athena’s designer informed me when he put together the clothing I was to wear for each event and trial.
Helen is in her warrior queen getup. I watched her put on the golden one-piece earlier, and it had been entertaining and sexy to hear her swear as she wrestled it up her body, but I can’t deny that the overall effect is stunning. It’s a body suit that leaves her arms bare and stops a few inches above her knees. There’s plenty of give so she can move, but the slick surface is similar to the one she wore in the second trial. It will make it damn near impossible to grab her or pin her. She’s pulled her hair back into a braid thing that’s pinned up around her head—another potential handhold gone—and there’s the ever-present gold glitter dusting her skin.
She catches me watching her, and her gaze skates away from me. She’s been like this all morning. Skittish. I can’t blame her, but part of me wants to comfort her when I should be focused on my end goal within sight. Pass this trial, win the next. Ares is so close, I can taste it.
The camaraderie from the second challenge is gone. We don’t have that padding between us any longer. At the end of this trial, one of us will have our dreams crushed, and the others will be left to pick up the pieces.
A shiver of foreboding goes through me. We will pick up the pieces. The three of us together work, and that’s rare enough that I’m not willing to give it up without a fight. I like Helen a whole fucking lot. She’ll forgive me eventually. She has to.
The crowd quiets as the spotlights make their way to Athena. She’s in another suit, a deep amber one this time that is about as fancy as she gets. She looks good, though. She always looks good. She lifts her hands, instantly commanding the attention of everyone in the space. When they’re quiet enough, she speaks. “The final trial is the trial of combat.” A pause while people lose their shit. They quiet down faster this time. “The champions will fight until only one remains. Elimination is by tapping out or first blood.” She waves a graceful hand to encompass the oval of sand we stand on the edge of. “Choose your weapons, champions. The trial begins in three…two…”
Patroclus tenses. “Batons.” He jerks his chin to the right, and I see exactly what he means. There are a trio of expandable batons hanging on a rack halfway around the arena on the right. It means running past several options, but he’s right. We should stick to what we know.
“Yeah, okay.”
“Don’t wait for me. I’ll be right behind you.”
He turns to Helen, but it’s too late. Athena’s voice says, “One. Begin.” The crowd’s screaming drowns out everything else.
I don’t hesitate. I sprint across the sand toward the batons. They might not be flashy, but they can break bone easily enough and have a decent reach on them. More importantly, we use them regularly during our tasks for Athena. The heavy handle is comfortable and familiar against my palm.
The feeling of someone behind me surprises me. Surely Patroclus didn’t keep up with that sprint? I turn, expecting to see him beside me, but Patroclus is nowhere in sight. Instead, it’s Paris bearing down on me, a dagger in his hand. The fucker is aiming it right between my shoulder blades. I dodge back, the sand giving beneath my feet and threatening my balance. Fuck, we should have thought to practice sparring in a sand ring. It’s a complication I hadn’t anticipated.
Paris strikes again, his face a mask of fury. “I know you’re fucking Helen!”
I get my baton up in time, and the knife slides along its edge. The guy isn’t going for first blood. He wants me dead. The feeling is entirely mutual. I stagger back another step, allowing him to think he’s got me on the ropes. “Did you send the assassin?”
He pauses. “What?”
His confusion seems genuine, but what do I know? I didn’t realize Paris was a potential threat until I saw him through Helen’s eyes. He could be lying. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. I would have enjoyed eliminating him personally even before I knew that he hurt her, scared her, made her doubt herself. Now, it’s personal.
I step to the side to avoid his next attack. He’s good, but he’s not better than I am. I whip out the baton, so fast it makes a whistling noise. Paris tries to dodge, but I catch the tip of the knife and send it spinning though the air away from us.
He flinches and backs away, his hands outstretched. “Achilles, wait.”
“You hurt her.” I attack again. Again, he barely avoids the strike. “She trusted you, and you hurt her.”
“I never touched her! She’s lying.” He scrambles away, barely staying ahead of me. “It’s all bullshit.”
His ankle rolls and I’m on him, shoving him off his feet and into the sand. “The baton isn’t the best option to draw blood.” I kick him, flipping him onto his back. “Guess I’ll have to hit you a few times to make sure you’re eliminated.”
“Achilles!”
I lift the baton over my head. “Stop talking, Paris. You’re just going to make me angrier.”
“Patroclus!” He points a shaking finger behind me.
I know better. Truly, I do. But I still twist to look behind me.
I find Patroclus instantly. I’m sure I’ll always find him, regardless of how many people stand between us. In an arena of only five, there’s nothing to distract from the scene playing out before me.
The Minotaur stalks him across the sand, light on his feet despite his big body. Patroclus has found a small knife somewhere, but it looks like a toy in his hand. The Minotaur has a fucking sword. It’s one of the big ones, big enough that he has to hold it with two hands. Big enough to cut Patroclus in fucking half. I glance up at Athena, but she hasn’t moved from the spot where she stood when she announced the start of the trial. There’s going to be no last-minute save for any of us.
Patroclus could take the Minotaur in a fair fight. Probably. But right now, when he’s favoring his ankle and has bruised ribs limiting his range of motion? It’s going to be a fucking bloodbath. The way the Minotaur swings that sword, he doesn’t care if he removes limbs to get to Patroclus’s blood.
He’ll kill him.
Even as the thought crosses my mind, Helen appears like an avenging goddess behind the Minotaur. She raises a pair of daggers and holds his death in her gorgeous face. Our woman doesn’t hesitate, striking at his exposed back.
The Minotaur must sense her, because he spins easily out of the way and cuts back at her with a stroke that would take her head if it landed. She ducks easily beneath it, but that doesn’t stop my lungs from turning to stone in my chest. Both of them. Both of them are in fucking danger, and they’re outmatched.