by Amy Sumida
“Whatever.” I sighed. “I did my part. I can't help it if you're not competent enough to do yours.”
“Now I'm incompetent?” His voice was calm but the hand he had on the table clenched into a fist.
I glanced at him, weighed my options against the results I wanted, and decided to go with the better part of valor. But I couldn't just shut up; he was waiting. I got the sense that he'd continue to wait until I said something that either assuaged his anger or got me killed. Which I guess would also assuage his anger.
“I'm not saying that,” I finally huffed. “I'm saying that you don't have the ability to go into that ocean. You're all stone and fire.”
“But you can?”
“No; I can't go in there either.” I rolled my eyes. “I had to use my magic. But there must be someone who can delve those depths. Maybe if you dug the tunnel and drilled through that ice, you could send divers in. But I wouldn't send just anyone; you need a water expert.”
Slate blinked and then his gaze wandered upward thoughtfully. “Yes; perhaps I do.”
He stood and headed out of the room.
“Hey, where are you going?”
“Do you desire my presence so much that I can't leave the room?” He smirked at me.
“I desire to know what you're doing with that advice I just gave you,” I corrected. “As you said; I'm stuck down here too, and you're not going to save me from getting crushed to death.”
Slate made a huffing sound of concession. “Eat your dinner; I'll be back in a few minutes.”
The door shut on me. I ate my dinner. I did it grudgingly, though. Every order out of his mouth grated on me, even the ones I wanted to follow.
Slate returned a few minutes later, just as he said he would. He looked smug as he resumed his seat. I lifted my brows at him. He stared at me as he picked up his drink.
“Well? Is it fixed?”
“Hardly.” Slate grimaced. “I've sent for reinforcements, as it were. A beneather who can navigate an underground ocean with ease; even handle whatever sentient darkness he finds there.”
I frowned, considered it, and then widened my eyes at him. “You found a sea dragon.”
Of the two types of dragons that came to Earth, only the Ryū had subclasses that lived in water. They had entire cities underwater, in fact. Finding one of them, however, was difficult at best. They tended to stay below the surface and getting into one of their cities was nearly impossible. Far harder than getting into the Water Fey Court. If Slate managed to find a sea dragon, I'd be very impressed.
“Not yet, but I will. I've got my best men on it,” Slate said smugly before he nodded to me in approval. “Well done, Spellsinger. That's precisely what I needed.”
“That's what I'm here for,” I said dryly, “to give you what you need.”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized my mistake. Slate's eyes heated and seared over my body like lasers.
“You need to stop flirting with me,” he said in a low voice. “Unless you wish to follow through.”
“You need to learn how to recognize sarcasm,” I shot back, “and understand that just because a woman fucks with you, it doesn't mean that she wants to fuck you.”
Humor didn't completely replace the lust in his eyes but it diluted it.
“Fair enough.” Slate lifted his glass in salute. “To learning what lurks beneath.”
I lifted my glass but didn't repeat his toast. I had a feeling that he wasn't talking about the earthquakes.
Chapter Fourteen
Life in the Zone went on without further shake-ups; earthquakes or otherwise. Slate kept his word and following my daily arena matches—after I had showered and dressed in some softer clothes—Jago came knocking. I never ate dinner in my cell anymore; I ate it with Slate.
I tried to watch my words around him, but I've never been good at holding my tongue. Part flirtation and part interrogation; my evening meals became something I both looked forward to and dreaded. As much as he pissed me off, Slate was a brilliant man and his mind was nearly as fascinating as his body. Fighting my growing attraction to him was becoming as difficult as my arena battles.
The Zone Lord kept me on my toes; flipping back and forth between charm and cold detachment. Alternating between making my heart flutter and my stomach clench. It had to be a ploy, but I couldn't figure out what he was after, and my body didn't seem to care. Just sitting beside that man made it hard to breathe. There was something about a sharp mind combined with a sexy body that just did it for me. Trading biting barbs with Slate was nearly as enjoyable as picking his brain for its treasure trove of beneather information. I had to constantly focus my thoughts on the men I loved or I'd find them turning in directions they shouldn't go. This guy was my jailer; what the hell was wrong with me?
But damn; the way Slate watched me was a seduction all on its own. Sometimes he looked as if he wanted to bend me over the nearest table and screw me senseless and then other times he looked as if he wanted to strangle me. It was bizarre and so baffling that I found myself falling for it. Hate and love are just opposite sides of the same coin, his eyes seemed to say to me. Let me tear you apart and lick you back together again.
I don't know which look I hated more; they both stirred things in me that I didn't want to face. Fear. Lust. Morbid fascination. His current expression was interesting. It was option number three; a look that Slate gave me in between the others. I called it the Hunter. He was searching for something again. I wished that he would just tell me what he wanted and be done with it.
“That was another intriguing display of brutality,” Slate murmured as he sliced his Cornish game hen into pieces with surgical precision.
He was referring to my latest victory. In my head, I was calling it the Minotaur Missile. The bulls had gone out with a bang. Hey, I had to make jokes or I'd lose my damn mind.
“Is that a compliment?” I asked. “I can never tell with you.”
“A grudging one.” He chewed thoughtfully.
“You run this brutal arena,” I pointed out. “You hardly have room to point the finger at me and call me savage.”
“I know I'm a savage,” Slate said smoothly. “It's you who's pretending otherwise.”
“Who said I'm pretending?” I asked him.
“You cannot be savage and then lay that bloody hand on a child's head,” Slate said.
Oh, we were back to Tessa.
“You bring this topic up with such frequency that it leads me to believe it's your issue, not mine,” I observed. “Feeling a little guilty for forcing innocent beneathers to fight?”
“Not at all. Firstly, they're not innocent.” He met my eyes steadily. “Second, I give them a chance. Out there, they would be hunted. Period. Dead without the opportunity to defend themselves. Judged and found guilty without a jury. But I pay better so the mercs bring their acquisitions here. Then the other killers pay to fight them, and the audience gets to feed their bloodlust by watching. Everyone's happy.”
“Holy hellhounds,” I whispered. “You actually feel justified.”
“Not justified.” Slate narrowed his slicing stare at me. “The arena isn't fair or just; it's life and death. The same as it is out there.” He waved a hand toward the dining room door. “The same as it is in here.” His lips turned up viciously. “I give our fellow beneathers a safe place to release their beasts; the parts of themselves they can't set free on the surface. Without this, we'd have supernatural serial killers on the loose or perhaps an all-out war with the humans.”
I didn't know what to say to that. Part of me agreed with him. There were beneathers who were so ferocious that simply walking through a crowd of humans without slaughtering them took all of their willpower. My mind turned to the Manticores. There was a pride of them who had been murdering people in Las Vegas. I had slaughtered the entire pride. Were they simply acting within their natures? If they had come to this arena instead of preying on humans, would it have calmed them? Would they have be
en killed here without starting a war? Or was it simply trading victims?
This was the effect Slate had on me; confusing and conflicting. I didn't like it. Not one bit.
“You agree with me,” he said with a smirk.
“I see your point,” I corrected. “But I don't agree with it. You're like a drug dealer, except your providing victims to killers instead of crack to junkies.”
“Other killers, not victims. Better that they slaughter each other here than bring attention to our kind by murdering humans,” he said coolly.
“These are all shades of gray.” I shook my head. “Slate gray. You color your world with your perspective and refuse to see any other.”
Slate's grin widened. “I'm glad you're finally starting to understand.”
I rolled my eyes.
“But don't be fooled by the gray.” His stare hardened. “I see black as well.”
“Do you?” I smirked. “I think your vision is faulty.”
Slate shrugged as if I might be right, but he didn't care. “Are you enjoying your new room?”
“Sweet stones; listen to you!” I exclaimed. “You sound like a host asking after his guest. My room has a steel door that locks from the outside. No matter how nice it is inside, it still sucks. You're my fucking jailer, Slate; know your role.”
“Temporarily,” he murmured.
“So, how long am I in for, Zone Lord?” I asked. “Jago said I'd be out in six months.”
Slate pursed his lips and looked down at his plate.
“You're the one who brought it up,” I pointed out.
“I will let you know when I'm satisfied.” His eyes flashed as he lifted his gaze to mine. “It may be six months or it may be never. You did threaten to kill me once freed, after all. It would be in my best interest to keep you here indefinitely.”
“When you're satisfied? Indefinitely?” I narrowed my eyes at him. “You keep saying shit that makes this feel personal. What did I do to you?”
“Nothing, Spellsinger. You are no different than any other champion to me.” He smiled ruthlessly. “Have you taken a look at your fellow fighters?”
“At the other inmates, you mean?”
Slate shrugged.
“Yeah; I saw them real close when they rioted in the yard. What about them?”
“What kind of Beneathers are they?” He asked casually.
“Well, you've got a Sasq'et—”
Slate slashed a hand through the air; cutting me off. “Never mind the damn girl for once. The other champions; who did you see in that training yard?”
“There's a kitsune,” I started; thinking about the woman who had made my skin crawl.
“The Red Geisha,” he said it as if it meant something. Something terrible.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“The Red Geisha,” Slate repeated. “She likes to drench her kimonos in the blood of her victims. She says blood makes the best dye. Next.”
I gaped at him.
“Who else have you seen?” Slate spiraled his hand in a proceed gesture.
“Well, the naga of course,” I went on warily. “The one who attacked Cerberus and me.”
“The Shedder,” he said grimly.
I narrowed my eyes at the glint of disgust I caught in his. “What does that mean?”
“He's a naga; snakes shed their skin.” Slate looked unsettled. “This one likes to do it to others.”
Pelts.
There it was: confirmation that Slate took the Sasq'ets. Of course, he did, why else was I there? I don't know why I'd been hoping that I was wrong, even after Slate told me that it was his own men who had taken Cer, Tessa, and me from the Blue Mountains. I stared hard at Slate's gorgeous face. Yeah; okay, I knew why. I just wish I hadn't been gullible enough to fall for a pretty face and the pretty words that spilled out of it. Stupid; so fucking stupid.
“Who else?” Slate got me back on track.
“I'm done playing your Go Fish For Killers game.” I tossed my napkin on the table. “I get it; your cells are full of heartless psychopaths... and one little girl.”
“Damn you and that fucking girl!” Slate shouted. “You're like a bird who only knows one word. You just keep saying it; over and over again.”
I lifted my brows at him. What was this? Why the anger? If he really was the savage he said he was, this wouldn't matter to him. And then it occurred to me what he'd said. It occurred to him as well. Slate flushed and swallowed roughly. My lips twitched. He made a surprised, huffing sound. We looked at each other and burst into laughter.
“A bird with one word, eh?” I asked him as the laughter subsided. “Is the word—”
“Don't you dare say it.” He started laughing again.
“Bird,” I said it all right. “Is the word 'bird,' Devon?”
“You're a child,” Slate accused me and then chortled.
“Guilty as charged.”
“I don't enjoy having a child here,” Slate finally said softly.
“Then release her.”
“It's complicated.”
I grimaced.
“As complicated as this.” He waved a hand between us.
We stared at each other in silence; the possibility of something far more destructive than arena battles hanging between us. There I went again; a few words and some laughter, and I was staring at Slate as if he might be a real person and not a monster. So fucking stupid.
I needed to get out of this collar and get the hell away from him. Soon.
Chapter Fifteen
I strode toward the arched entry with heavy footsteps. It had been weeks and these daily battles were taking a toll on me. Unlike Slate's other prisoners—and contrary to what he obviously believed about me—I didn't enjoy killing. Cerberus did. I hated to admit it, but Slate had pegged my bestie perfectly. Cerberus loved a good brawl. But then, that was what he'd been born for; to guard Hell with a viciousness that terrified people. I was born to sing and weave magic with my words. At one point, I had thought I was past using my talent for hurting people. But my life had other plans for me. Was I destined to become Faenestra?
“What's it to be today?” I asked Jago wearily.
“Couple of Rikshas,” Jago said as he looked me over. “You feelin' all right, Diva.”
Diva; Jago had come up with a nickname for me. Usually, it came out snide or snarky, but today, it sounded sweet. I looked at him in surprise.
“You worried about me, J-Bird?” I asked with a smirk.
Yeah; I had a nickname for him too and it was far nicer than the one Cerberus had given him.
“Yeah; I am,” he said softly. “You're not what I expected and that has me thinking some strange things. Pondering stuff I probably shouldn't.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Never mind.” Jago grimaced. “Get out there and back the fuck up against the wall. You know they're going to rush you, and I don't know if you're going to be fast enough this time. Bears may be big, but they can run like something half their size.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Anytime.” His smirk was back.
I strode out onto the sand with about as much confidence as Jago had given me. As I may have mentioned, the opponents were getting harder. It was similar to making my way to the top level of a video game. Spellsinger: Arena. I hoped I had enough willpower to see me through to the end. I didn't have unlimited lives. I may be immortal in the best of ways, but I wasn't a true goddess anymore. I could die; especially if someone managed to behead me.
The crowd roared as soon as they saw me; loud enough to set my ears to ringing. I winced and headed toward the far end of the arena. I'd take any advice Jago gave me; he'd been doing this long enough to know what got beneathers killed and what kept them breathing.
A glance up showed me that Slate had company today. I'd been wondering if he was ever going to bring a lady-friend up there to watch with him; the guy probably had swarms of them circling him like termites
around a porch light. Although, he couldn't be taking them out to dinner because he ate with me every night.
The night before, Slate had been quiet; watching me more than he spoke to me. I didn't try to draw him out; sometimes people just prefer not to speak, and frankly, I didn't have much to say to him either. It wasn't as if I could complain to him that I was getting tired of killing. First off; it wouldn't matter to him. Second; Slate wouldn't buy that for a second. He probably thought this was the best part of my day.
