A slow, excruciating minute ticked by.
My legs shook; my shoulders ached from keeping my arms aloft. Ryker and Napoleon fought through the sludge barely a yard to our right and a ball of panic stuck in my throat. Faster. We needed to go faster. I leaned forward and picked up the pace, my thighs on fire as they churned. Even as I panted, I spoke calmly to Freedom, so she wouldn’t thrash and waste energy. Another step, then two. The mud receded a few inches, then a few more. We were on a ramp, the upper half of my body free of the grasping stench.
With scrabbling fingers and slick boots, I mounted Freedom, the action nearly impossible as mud weighed me down. But I was in the saddle once again, nudging her to solid ground. And then I kicked and she sprang, flecks of mud from her mane pelting my face. I could see the finish line just beyond this final stretch of track.
So close, so close . . .
Hoof beats echoed in my ears. A dark bay nose bobbed in my peripheral. Someone else had made it out of the pit. I peeked at our competition. Determined, electric blue eyes met mine. The unnerving gaze practically shouted that I was in the way.
I hunched over Freedom’s neck and slackened the reins. “Fly!” I urged her. Ears flat against her scalp, she charged down the track. There was a reason I had trained her to recognize that word. For, in moments like this—when she put everything she had into the here and now, when she gave herself up to speed—she did indeed fly.
We were unstoppable. I knew we would win. I could feel it in the way she moved, as if every muscle had loosened and wind now propelled them.
I was weightless, a bird winging for freedom.
Ahead, a sharp sizzling buzz broke my euphoria. My heart stuttered, then climbed up my throat. No. Not that. Anything but that. White zigzags of tiny lightning bolts flexed across the track. One last obstacle—an electrical field—stood between us and the win. Ryker was still a pace behind; he wouldn’t outrun us. No charger could best Freedom’s speed.
But . . .
I hesitated.
Once I’d experienced the paralyzing stab of electricity jolting through my veins, the feeling never really went away. My muscles locked in instinctive terror. I could do this. I could force myself through and endure this torture like I’d done many times before. But to make Freedom bear it? The act would be like inflicting a scar upon her, intentionally. Even as I mourned how this would forever impact her trust in me, I was whispering encouragement to her.
Asher was wrong. I was cruel.
I braced as invisible bands snaked around my limbs and squeezed. The field held us in its snare for what felt like an eternity. I shook uncontrollably as aftershocks crashed through my system. I desperately clutched at the reins as Freedom went wild, braying in pain and fright. She lunged and bucked, and she wouldn’t listen to my commands, and I had to . . . I had to . . .
I tore the whip from my belt and screamed, in shame and agony, as I brought the wretched thing down on Freedom’s hide. It was the first time. The first time I had ever struck her. She squealed in shock, and the sound ripped a hole through my heart. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. But no apology could ever fix the rift I had just caused. My sweet, faithful charger obeyed, lurching over the finish line a second before Napoleon and Ryker, but elation over the win never came.
Not when I realized that the price of freedom was betrayal.
Knock, knock, knock. “You’re up, number three!”
I stood from the bench in the single person changing room and double-checked my pure white suit for holes. The only other color was on the back, a number three stitched in blue. Faust Night’s white suits were specially designed for this Trial, lightweight and flexible, yet able to withstand shallow nicks and slashes. Just the face and hands were left unprotected, a fact that many contenders used to their advantage.
It only took one cut from a steel weapon to lose this Trial. The internal wiring of the suits detected even the barest hint of blood, programmed to release a shrill chime when the wearer’s skin broke from the sting of steel. And somehow it knew the difference between another’s blood and blood spilled from a punch or finger gouge. How Renold had accumulated this superior technology was a mystery. He never divulged the Trial’s secrets.
If your suit chimed, you lost. If you didn’t stop fighting, the suit transformed into an electric hug, zapping your body until you lost consciousness. It was like Renold was obsessed with electricity, shocking his subjects at every opportunity.
My Faust Night segment was the first of two taking place this evening. The other two would take place tomorrow.
“Who’s tough?” My voice shook as I whispered in the quiet space. “That’s right. You are.” My mouth was drier than a concrete slab.
The room’s metal door groaned inward, and Drake’s frame filled the doorway. “Don’t disappoint me, Instructor Lune,” he said, holding out my twin golden daggers. The title was meant to rattle me. I was heading to battle, and no title would stop a contender from sticking a blade into my chest.
I grasped the dagger’s cool handles, a sense of relief rushing through me at their familiar weight. “Maybe disappointment is all you will ever know in life, Drake Stonewood,” I countered. I had never spoken to him that way before, and doing so now liberated another piece of myself. As his jaw dropped, I breezed out of the room. I wasn’t free of this city, but from here on out, I would be free of him.
My footsteps echoed down the long concrete corridor lit by dangling bare bulbs. This was it. This was really happening. My legs trembled.
I was at a disadvantage in this Trial. Fear aside, not many women attempted this Trial because of its brutality. Most of Faust Night’s contenders were like Elite Instructor Drake: completely and utterly merciless, driven by physical strength and testosterone. My only edge was my size. I was quick. That and I wasn’t drowning in male pheromones.
Nearing the end of the tunnel, I heard Renold’s amplified voice shout, “Speed. Strength. Precision.” The crowd parroted the motto. “Last contender uncut by steel wins!” I couldn’t clearly hear what he said next, only the sound of my name. The frenzied crowd roared. I flinched. Whatever he was saying wouldn’t help me win this fight. In fact, it would only drive my competition further into a state of bloodlust in their desire to gain the crowd’s—and Renold’s—favor.
My stomach lurched. Maybe I could still back out.
No! I had to get free. I had to find my mother!
The tunnel spat me out into Faust Night’s amphitheater and my thoughts cut off. The crowd appeared as rippling water and bobbed with color. The other four contenders were like blurry bleached pillars, barring the way. And then the glass door silently yawned and swallowed us whole. I was inside—trapped in a cage with four others who craved spilled blood.
Stars above, what am I doing?
The door sealed shut, but it didn't cut off the feverish screams and beat, beat, beat of the heavy drums. From my position along the left wall of The Pit, I glanced up in hopes of finding Bren’s or Iris’s friendly faces, only for white lights to burn my retinas instead. I was under a spotlight. Except my audience didn’t want to watch me. They wanted to see my flesh pummeled into the ground.
The ground.
It was then I noticed how the cement floor was blanketed in sand, obscuring the vents. I knew there were vents on rotating poles high above my head as well, even though the blinding lights made them impossible to see. The cage almost looked harmless—if it weren’t for the four other people in it watching my every move. Good thing I had just used the bathroom or I would have peed myself right about now.
I rotated my neck and shoulders, and warmed up my wrists, pretending for all the world like this was a simple training session—not what could very well be the last day of my life. Like I wasn’t afraid of a blow to the head that could mean lights out for me—permanently. Like the steel objects inside this cage were dull and incapable of penetrating my suit—or my skin.
Chink. Chink. Chink.
> My eyes gravitated toward the strange noise and widened as they fell on a medieval spiked flail in the hands of a bald, dark behemoth-sized man. He shook the ball and chain, then swung it in a circle, leering at the other contenders. Intimidation tactics. It was working. I swiftly catalogued the rest of my competition. A boy my age of average height and build slipped knuckle knives through his fingers. A man in his late twenties thumbed the blade of a tomahawk, his raven hair tied back in a low ponytail. And the last . . .
Soft brown skin. Sable irises.
My stomach dropped.
Catanna.
I shouldn’t have been surprised, and yet my brain struggled to accept her presence. When our gazes collided, she flashed perfect white teeth, her eyes shining with hunger. Hunger for my blood. Her curved sword caught the overhead fluorescent lighting and glinted. It was a katana, to be precise, the blade she had trained with for eight years. Her obsession with her chosen weapon was legendary. She had even changed her name from Catarina to Catanna many years ago.
I knew she would carve me to pieces, if given the chance.
Blood thumped in my skull, so loud I almost missed the sharp bell chime announcing the segment’s start.
The tinny shriek unlocked my muscles and, with a jolt, I lunged for Catanna. My gold daggers were a blur in my hands. My gut gave a sickened twist, warning me, and I rolled, barely avoiding a tomahawk in the back. It sliced toward Catanna and she jerked away before engaging with the dark behemoth and his ball of horror. I sprung up and lashed a kick at the man with the ponytail. Blood spurted from his mouth, but his suit remained inactive. I needed to cut him with steel.
His weapon chopped at my arm and I danced back a step, forcing his follow through to swing wide. My left dagger sliced at the wooden handle. His whole right side was undefended. I quickly tore through his suit with my other dagger, careful to keep the cut shallow. His suit dinged, startling me out of my cold focus.
The punch of adrenaline warped my concentration and I almost missed the knife sneaking toward my left side. I whirled and blocked its trajectory, steel clanging on steel. The boy’s other knife zipped for my throat. The thrust would have impaled me if I hadn’t swiveled my shoulders. The knife shot past me, so close I could hear a hiss. But I didn’t avoid the strike completely. Steel knuckles bludgeoned my jaw.
I stumbled back, blinking away spots, both my daggers raised in hopes of warding him off until I could see clearly. No such luck. The kick to my stomach sent me flying into the solid glass wall. My skull cracked against it, once again plunging my world into flashes of white liberally splotched with black. This was the end. The boy’s wavering shadow inched closer, knife poised to skewer me against the wall like an insect.
Then the vents turned on.
Sand burst into the air, and everything became white noise. The storm swallowed me whole; high winds made the sand a weapon. Instinctively, I squeezed my eyes shut. Tiny stinging granules pelted every exposed inch of skin. Particles sought entrance into any crevice, clogging my ear canals, my nostrils—even managed to slip past my tight-lipped grimace.
My body curled on the floor, not knowing up from down. The sting intensified and, before I could stop myself, I gasped. Sand raced down my throat and lodged in my lungs. Hacking coughs racked my chest. I inhaled even more sand. Something bumped my back and I squeaked, lashing out with a foot. Surprisingly, the kick met with resistance—something hard, like a skull. Over the wind’s wail, I heard a dull thump, as if someone had toppled.
And then the unnatural elements switched off. Frantically, I scrubbed grit from my watering eyes. I pried my lids open despite the burn behind them and cast my gaze around the cage. Knuckle Boy was climbing to his feet—a three-inch gash on his forehead dripped blood. His arm cocked back. My body was slow, still recovering from the sand that had blasted down my windpipe. I wouldn’t be able to block him in time. I braced for pain.
His shadow grew, not because he was closing in, but because of the hulking figure behind him. Smack! Warm liquid spurted onto my face and I flinched. I threw myself into a roll to avoid the body pitching forward. Knuckle Boy thumped against the glass; his lifeless form slid to the floor.
Staggering, I forced my body upright and glanced at him, a second later wishing I hadn’t. His skull was caved in where a spiked flail had crushed it. I didn’t even hear his suit chime as blood rushed into my ears and bile surged up my throat. But if I got sick now, I was done for. My head would soon look like his. I swallowed the bitter tang and faced the Behemoth, his face contorted in a sadistic grin.
“You’re next, little girl,” he said, swinging the ball and chain that now glistened red.
I crouched, my daggers at the ready. He took a giant step and whipped his weapon toward my face. Air whooshed over my head as I ducked. More blood spattered my exposed skin. It snuck into my mouth and I spit it out, shuddering at the awful taste. The taste of a dead man.
The grinning Behemoth let loose a belly laugh, as if the sight of me choking on another’s blood was his idea of entertainment. It probably was, considering the raised scars on his hands, neck, and even his face. He looked like a man who fought for sport—for the pure pleasure of it. Suddenly, his laughter cut off, mouth wide open.
And then I saw what had shut him up. The end of a blade stuck out of his chest. He looked down and touched the sharp tip, pricking his finger. He stared, transfixed, as a bright drop of blood welled to the surface of his skin. Then his eyes rolled upward. He dropped to his knees and fell face first into the sand.
Behind him stood Catanna, a purpling bruise on her cheekbone. “That’s for messing up my face,” she purred, wiping her bloodied blade on the dead man’s back. His suit dinged.
She maneuvered around him until nothing but ten feet of floor separated us. This time her flashing teeth were red. “I’ve waited eight years for this moment, you know. Fitting that it should be you and me, Princess. But do you have what it takes to win? Can you kill? Because that’s what it’s going to take to defeat me.” She spat out a mouthful of blood.
“Why me, Catanna?” I made sure the ten feet remained as we slowly circled. “Why do you want my blood so badly? Because you always have—ever since that day we were ten years old and I asked you to be my friend.”
She laughed, but the sound trembled. “You’re so blind, Lune. Look around!” She swept her blade in an arc, pointing at the crowd, at the elites high above. “This is the only way to a better life for us lesser. But then there’s you, living the perfect life up in that big house, surrounded by wealth and luxury.”
Catanna laughed again, this time edged hatred. “But it wasn’t enough for you, was it? You climbed down into my world and entered the Trials. And for what, recognition? To be the best? Is Daddy not paying enough attention to you?”
Each accusation was a shock to my system; they were blows to my sternum. All this time and that’s what she thought of me? Years and years of whispered taunts and threats, because she thought I wanted attention? My throat throbbed. The price for my silence was a city that believed I was an elitist, the very thing I hated most.
My eyes burned, and I squeezed the dagger’s hilts. Wrong. This was all wrong. I couldn’t do this. “Listen to me, Catanna. The last thing I want is attention. I’ve kept my head down for years, trying to blend in, trying to survive. If there was another way, I wouldn’t be anywhere near the Trials. I hate them, do you hear me? Hate how they divide us and pit us against each other. But . . . I’m desperate for a better life, too. Just not the one you think I want.”
She stilled. I stopped moving. Her mouth spasmed, as if she were trying to hold back the words, but she blurted, “What could you possibly want that you don’t already have?”
My heart was a drum in my chest. If I told her, she could ruin everything. She could spread a rumor of my plan and the whole city would take up arms against me before I could finish the Trials. But . . . but what if she didn’t? The look in her eyes—it spoke of uncertainty, and may
be a sliver of hope, that I wasn’t who she thought I was. That maybe we weren’t so different after all. “Freedom.” I released my breath in a rush. “I want to earn my freedom and leave this city.”
Those calculating eyes widened; her full lips parted. And she laughed. Threw her head back and cackled. Scorching heat blistered my face. She waved her blade at me. “I never took you for a liar. You had me going there for a moment. This is what’s going to happen, Princess. We’re going to put on a good show, you’re going to die on the edge of my blade, and I’m going to earn a title that secures a better future for me and my family.”
We were circling again, this time with weapons at the ready. “Neither of us has to die today. We can become allies in this!”
But with a sinking feeling, I knew I’d lost her. It was written like permanent ink in her eyes. “You’re wrong,” she said, her body tightly coiling. “You can never trust an elite.”
She sprang.
Sparks danced as steel collided. Thoughts were nothing, reaction everything. I crossed my daggers and shoved her katana sideways, then ducked in with a swift kick to her thigh. She snarled; her blade sang as it sliced for me. Our feet leapt and spun to the musical tune of ringing metal. The seconds we fought felt like hours. She kicked my left wrist and my dagger skittered out of sight. My hand went numb.
I twirled around her and dropped into a slide, reaching for the lost dagger. My tingling fingers closed around the hilt a second before the sharp whine of Catanna’s blade rang over me, aimed for my neck. Rolling onto my back, I jabbed my legs up, the soles of my boots punching into her gut. She went airborne and smacked into the glass wall. I wasted no time scrambling to my feet. As she took a moment to recover, I was already in motion, swinging with all my might at her blade. Her precious katana soared out of her deadened fingers.
She cried out, equal parts shocked and furious, as I pressed my other dagger to her throat. “It’s over, Catanna,” I panted. “But I won’t kill you.”
Reactive: A Young Adult Dystopian Romance (The Elite Trials Book 1) Page 23
