Dissension 1

by Katie Salidas

  “Well, no wonder you didn’t have to perform. You probably killed his mood.” George laughed. “I know I wouldn’t be able to get it up after all that talk of torture.”

  “I don’t know. I bet the handlers would get a hard-on hearing all about torture.”

  “Touché!” George tipped his head. That was one thing Mira loved about her friend – he could always find the humor, even in the darkest of times. “So, your Patron… the Regent,” he said with flair, “really just wanted to talk.”

  “Yeah.” She didn’t want to mention the part where he said he might be able to help her escape. George wouldn’t believe it. Mira still didn’t believe it herself, but the inkling of hope remained, and she didn’t need anyone to douse that small spark.

  “Be careful, Mira.”

  “I hear you. He was the one who pulled me out of the arena schedule too. But I fixed that.”

  George shook his head. “I’d have stayed away from the arena if I were you. I heard the Magistrate is coming for this weekend’s festivities. My Patron was pretty excited. The Magistrate is bringing his best fighters, too.”

  It shouldn’t have, but the prospect of new fighters kind of excited her. Mira was known as the ‘best of the best’ in New Haven City, a title that had earned her a bit of animosity among the rest of the gladiators. She needed the chance to branch out a bit. Create some new enemies. “Good. I could use some fresh blood.”

  “Mira, you’re crazy, girl!”

  “Look, I’m either going to die and never have to endure another day here in the pit, or I am going to win and get fresh blood, something I desperately need. It’s a win-win. That’s better than rotting in my cell, waiting for the Regent to call me up for another chat.”

  “True… I guess. But if you have to languish in here waiting to chat with someone, at least it’s someone worth waiting for. You know he’s a man of power. It wouldn’t hurt to keep him happy.”

  “Are you suggesting…”

  “No. I’m trying to tell you in the nicest way possible that you need to do what it takes to keep this guy happy. Your reputation around here has got the humans wanting you dead just as much as your opponents.”

  “Let them come at me. All of them.”

  “See?”

  “I’m supposed to be ashamed that I can kick all of their asses?”

  “No, but you do flaunt it.”

  “I’m a survivor. I do what it takes, and I’m proud that I’ve lasted this long.”

  “I know. You’re the shit! But at least consider having someone else, besides me, on your team. You could do with a few more friends… or at least allies.”

  Mira gave him a silent sidelong glance. She knew he was right, but she was not about to kowtow to a human, no matter how powerful he was. “I’ll do what I always do… survive.”

  “I’m not really sure what that means, but I hope somewhere in that thick head of yours the message got through.”

  Chapter 12

  A dusty brown tunic, belted it at the waist, and flat leather sandals made up the entirety of Mira’s pathetic fighting armor. Scantily clad though she was, Mira preferred to fight with next to nothing, even barefoot; but since this was a special fight, one which the Magistrate himself would be attending, fighters were required to wear full gear. This should prove interesting. She hadn’t been in a fight with actual gear in quite some time. Her Owner had even sent her short sword out to be sharpened.

  While she waited for her escorts to arrive, Mira wrapped her short hair into a bandana so no stray hairs would get into her eyes. With new fighters coming into the arena, she needed to be sure she had nothing impeding her vision. Mira was ready, almost itching for a fight. The rumor flying around the cell block was that the Magistrate had brought along his best fighters. Not much in the way of news made it into the depths of the Iron Gate prisons, but Mira had heard about a fighter called Mitchell. He was supposedly built like a tank, a former vampire resistance fighter, combat-trained – and, like she, an undefeated champion. He’d definitely make for an interesting opponent. One who might actually stand a chance of beating her.

  Though she did not have a death wish, she’d welcome the end of this existence if that was the end result of her next battle in the arena. She’d lived this life for so long that nothing really mattered. Only the prospect of escape kept her going, and each attempt so far had been a disaster.

  At least if she went out, she’d have an honorable death. Go out fighting. A warrior’s death.

  The heavy footfall of boots on concrete told Mira that her handlers were on their way.

  “Ready when you are,” Mira casually said, and stuck her hands through the bars.

  The male handler led the way to her cell. Mira could tell him only by his height. Both he and the female were wearing head to toe gear again, including helmets with face masks.

  They really must fear me, Mira mused, the thought bringing a smile to her face.

  The male handler banged his UV torch against the bars. “Ready to die, slave? I’ll be glad to be rid of you,” he said. “Step back. Keep your hands in plain sight. No funny business.”

  While the male handler went to enter the code, the other pointed her UV torch directly at Mira, ready with an itchy-looking trigger finger, to blast her with a face full of burning light.

  “I wouldn’t dream of funny business. It’s an arena day,” Mira said innocently. She flashed her fangs and waggled an eyebrow at the female handler. She couldn’t see the reaction, but felt satisfied she’d successfully made her cringe.

  The male finished punching in the code. Based on the sound, Mira knew it had been changed yet again. Damn them. They must have her on a daily code change. That would make any future escape attempts a bit tricky. The lock clicked and the door swung open.

  “Let’s do this!” Mira held out her hands, awaiting the silver accessories to her fighting ensemble.

  She gave them no struggle, and to her great credit, she even remained pleasant through their snide comments, rude shoves, and barked orders as they escorted her from her cell.

  Normally gloomy and foreboding, the waiting area, affectionately known as the stable, was alive with action. A large hall of a room, lit with overhead fluorescent lights and filled with benches, the stable also held an extensive weapons closet guarded by a set of handlers. They were particularly attentive to any vampire coming too close before their time to check out a weapon. She entered the stable and took a spot at the nearest bench.

  Mira spied quite a few new faces among the crowd of waiting champions. They all looked as if they were hiding their fears, but there was a palpable feeling of anxiety in the room. Everyone, Mira included, knew that these fights were often to the death, and not all the vampires in this room were as ready as she to see what Fate had in store for them. Anyone in this room could be Mira’s end or a life she would be forced to end. The uncertainty, especially with new fighters in the room, was enough to give even the toughest fighter a moment’s pause.

  Three new faces caught her attention. Males. They sat together on a wooden bench along the far wall, their hulking forms barely covered by the fancy dark leather tunics that made them stand out against the rest of the Iron Gate gladiators. Even a decorated winner as she was, Mira had never worn anything more than a leather belt for armor. These men had much nicer and better protective clothing than anything the Iron Gate provided. Two of the new men were bald, recently shaved by the looks of it, but the third had a full head of golden waves. Though he was muscular, he looked too pretty to be in the arena. Surely he had a Patron or three who kept him busy. Maybe they were the ones to provide such nice armor. Mira spotted nice leather bracers around the wrists of the pretty male. His boots, too, were fancier than anything she’d ever see a gladiator wear. He had to be the champ – the one she’d heard rumors was going to be in this weekend’s battles.

  He caught sight of Mira staring at him and gave her a nod.

  Mira returned the gesture. He looked li
ke a Mitchell, she thought. The others seemed more like bruisers. She’d find out soon enough.

  A human male with two guards at his back addressed the room. “Magistrate Mathias Robertson is in attendance today. He expects a good show from you all. Fights will be, as usual, to the blood, with final kill to be determined by his lordship, Magistrate Robertson. You’ve been pre-assigned opponents. When I call your name, you’ll take opposite sides of the room. Line up.”

  He began to list off names. New or unknown fighters always went first, followed by the regulars, and finally the known winners. “Mira to my left. Mitchell, to my right.”

  Just as she’d expected, the golden-haired man stood and walked to the other side of the room. Mira couldn’t help but stare. Mitchell was just too pretty to be a fighter. But she’d heard he’d killed more than any other vampire. Despite his unassuming good looks, he was a merciless fighter, one not to be underestimated.

  He noticed her scrutinizing him again and gave her another quiet smile. Rather than shy away from his gaze and admit she’d been caught staring, Mira kept her eyes locked onto his defiantly. She wondered if he knew of her reputation. Might he have concerns about fighting with her?

  Somewhere deep within her, Mira knew this fight would be different. Trying to shove away her thoughts and focus on warming up, Mira turned away from Mitchell and began her stretching routine. With her wrists and legs still cuffed, her range of motion was limited, but she still managed to maneuver into a few positions. The gentle burn of muscles working helped to keep her mind riveted to the task at hand rather than on Mitchell and his surprising good looks and immaculate armor.

  The paired groups went up. One by one they were called to fight. Mira heard the cheers of the crowd and smelled the tantalizing scent of fresh blood being spilled. Occasionally the fighters would return, some as pairs and some just single victors. Survival in the arena was not always based on being the best fighter. Sometimes the crowd picked a favorite based on performance and showmanship. Entertain the masses and you could save your skin. More than once Mira had been prevented from killing a felled opponent because the crowd called for them to live.

  Finally, last in line, Mira and Mitchell were called up to fight. Mira approached the handler in charge of the weapons closet and requested her sword. As her hands were still cuffed, the handler retrieved her weapon, checked it off his list, and walked around Mira, sheathing it in her belt for her.

  Mitchell was handed a rather odd-looking weapon, one Mira had never actually seen in live combat before. An ancient and nasty-looking thing: a ball with long spikes on a short chain attached to a wooden handle. She’d seen flails like this before in books, but never actually met a fighter who used one. Unlike his armor, this weapon appeared to have been used quite often. Based on the wear and tear, it was his weapon of choice. Some of the spikes had been sheared off, some worn to nubs. Deep scars ate into the wooden handle. Yes, this weapon had seen quite a lot of action in its time, and yet its Owner was as fresh and clean as if he’d never seen a day of battle. That, despite her resolve, gave Mira a moment’s pause.

  She suddenly wished she had a shield to use with her sword. But wishing would not make it happen. She shoved down her apprehension at the foreign and dangerous looking weapon. No good would come from showing her fear.

  A gruff bark from her handler told Mira it was her time. She walked to the arena doors. Mitchell’s name was called next, and he too walked toward the door. A cage dropped down around the two gladiators. Mira held out her hands toward the bars, waiting for her restraints to be removed. Her heart pounded with anticipation. Once those bars lifted, she’d need to be ready to fight.

  Without a word of acknowledgement or glance of recognition to each other, Mitchell and Mira stood together while their handlers worked to remove their restraints. The front of the cage lifted as the doors to the arena opened.

  The rowdy mass of spectators was still cheering the last combatants whose fight had just ended. Only one vampire would be returning to the stable alive. Adding insult to injury, the screams and howls of approval from the happy crowd as the other was dragged away by a team of handlers served to harden Mira’s resolve. The poor wretch’s blood muddied the ground where it had spilled and trailed on to another set of doors, ones only used to dispose of the dead.

  The scent of freshly spilled blood caught in Mira’s nose, awakening something primal within her. She’d recently been allowed extra rations, a gift of her Patron, to build strength before the fight, but nothing compared to the sweet smell of fresh, hot blood pouring from an open vein.

  Mira and Mitchell entered the arena side by side, walking straight to the center. An announcer overhead called out their names, and the crowd erupted in another bout of loud screams, hoots, and cheers.

  Mitchell smiled up to the crowd, turned around a full circle, and waved to his adoring audience. Mira remained still, staring straight ahead, caught off guard by the sight of her new Patron, Lucian, sitting next to the Magistrate. She’d seen him observing the games on many occasions, and watched for his signal to make the killing blow, but somehow, seeing him here, now, after their little chats felt different.

  She nodded stiffly to the Elite box and then finally addressed the crowd. She held up her sword in a victory pose, and those in the crowd who were clearly her fans jumped to their feet. She may have been the bane of her handlers and owners, but the rest of the crowd loved her. She was a winner. She never failed to give a good fight. And she would not disappoint this time either.

  “Combatants,” the announcer called over the speakers. “It is your privilege today to be able to display your skills for not only your Regent but also our esteemed Magistrate. You may show your gratitude now.”

  Gratitude was not what Mira felt, but she’d done this so many times. She turned back towards the Elite box. “I fight for the honor of the Iron Gate and the pleasure of its people, and salute our great leader, Magistrate Mathias Robertson, for allowing me this opportunity.”

  Mitchell repeated a similar token of false gratitude. Mira could hear it in his voice; he was just as sick of this bullshit as she was. But that would not matter once the horn blared overhead, signaling the start of battle.

  Mitchell’s face hardened from bored to cold and calculating. He whipped his flail around overhead a few times in a nice display for the crowd.

  The chain was no more than two feet, but she needed to account for the handle and his reach too if she wanted to stay out of striking distance. Her own short sword would not provide much protection. It was a close quarters weapon, and she doubted she would get the opportunity to get near him.

  He swung it — more like flung it — at her, and she narrowly avoided the head of the spiked ball as it whizzed past her nose.

  In unison, the crowd sucked in a deep audible breath.

  Mira ducked the next swing but wasn’t prepared for the recoil. Mitchell quickly backstroked with the weapon and whipped it back in Mira’s direction. Even with her supernatural speed, she couldn’t escape the blow. The spiked head of the flail came at her fast. She dropped her sword, reached out and snatched the ball mid-flight. A spike drove straight into her palm. She bit back a scream as she clamped her hand around the ball and jerked it back quickly. Mitchell held tight to the handle, overbalanced himself, and toppled down to the ground.

  Mira, too, lost her footing. She released the weapon as she windmilled her arms in an effort to stay upright.

  A mix of cheers and boos rained down from above. Clearly Mitchell had some fans. She would have smiled up at their taunting, but Mitchell was already bouncing back to his feet.

  Her hand bleeding from her fresh wounds, Mira crouched, ready to strike. Mitchell was not giving her an opening; he immediately went to swinging the flail defensively. It whizzed through the air with deadly speed. Wicked fast with a supernatural speed equal to hers, Mitchell was damn near invincible with that weapon. She needed to get in close, but couldn’t find a way to do it without
feeling the sting of the spikes again. Her hand was bad enough. It was healing, but not as quickly as she would like. She could only imagine how pleasant it would feel to have those spikes pierce other parts of her body.

  With her sword on the ground, she was completely defenseless. Her blade sat too far away, lying in the dirt just past Mitchell’s feet. If she could get to it she might have a fighting chance. What she really needed was a shield, but that was not to be. She’d have to make do. Mira watched the way Mitchell swung back and forth, following the patterns of his arm. Finally, she saw her opening. As he finished his backswing, there, just a moment – but it was enough for her to get in close. She lunged forward, rushing him before he could bring the weapon forward again. Expecting him to go down with as much force as she had laid into her attack, she was shocked when she slammed into his body and he did not budge.

  So much for knocking him out of the way so she could retrieve her weapon. Mitchell was immovable – all except for his arm, which snapped forward, carrying with it the flail. The spiked end of it wrapped around and hit her in the side.

  Never before had she felt such an acute sensation. For a moment she felt as if the damn thing would slice her in two, the way the spiked head ripped through her flesh. The pain made her eyes water, but she did not cry out. She wouldn’t give him or the crowd that satisfaction.

  He flailed his arm again, ripping the spiked ball out of her. Mira had no time to lose; she ducked and threw herself to the ground.

  She glanced up long enough to track Mitchell’s movements and guess where his next strike would land. She quickly rolled left, then right, narrowly dodging the ball as it struck the dirt next to her head both times. Another quick roll to the left, and she scooped up her sword. She kept rolling a few more times, hoping to put a little distance between her and Mitchell’s relentless assault with the flail.

  It broke the air just inches above her face as Mitchell swiped low.