RILEY BRADY
Doors slam shut behind the ten of us late in the evening, after being kept separate, we're plucked out soon, and marched into a hall big enough to swallow us whole.
Four thrones sit at the front like judges at an execution.
But it isn't the thrones that make my stomach turn, it's the lady already waiting in the centre of the room.
Seven feet of pale skin, bald head gleaming, no brows to soften the skull-like face. She's dressed in a very casual way, plaid shirt and dark pants, white claw fingers holding up a large box like it's nothing.
From the way her claws dig into the sides, I know it weighs pounds. But still, it's hard to tell if she's a full human or hybrid, half demon.
"Quiet," she rasps, and the sound scrapes down my spine.
The blonde girl on my right clamps both hands over her mouth to keep from crying out.
Someone else whimpers.
My chest tightens as the woman's eyes drag over all of us like she's counting bodies. We're all dressed the same sticky leggings that don't hide the way our knees wobble.
The two girls beside me cling to each other like children.
My fingers won't stop trembling.
Her voice rises. "The Dominus will not choose his breeder this year."
My heart fills with dread.
She smiles without lips, all teeth. "You will choose for him. Among yourselves. The elimination of the nine for the ONE."
The girls gasp, a few choke on cries, one whispers "no" over and over.
I can barely breathe.
I think they're putting us against each other. Or worse, against demons.
"Dominus Seneca!" The walls shake. My chest jolts with the force of her voice. "And his brothers, Dominus of the West! Dominus of the South!"
The massive doors at the end of the chamber burst open. Heat floods in that leaves us shuddering.
Smoke clouds the doorway until three figures walk through and it waves off.
Not men, demon kings.
The one in front moves first, tall, broad, brunette hair slicked back like it's been wet with fire itself.
His steps are heavy, and every girl stiffens like prey waiting to be picked.
The two behind flank him without hesitation. One has dark long dreads, swinging as he walks, shoulders very wide.
The other, platinum blonde, almost white under the light. He's the tallest and the lankiest as well and his green eyes scan us with disinterest.
I can't tell which one is Seneca. No one can. None of us has ever seen them this close. We only know the stories about their cruelty, how they've burned down rebel camps and rewarded the people who sold them out.
But I remember what the woman who dressed me muttered earlier today: Their brother, the Dominus of the East is dead.
Their eyes sweep us briefly.
My knees buckle when I feel their stare drag over me like they can smell fear, like they already know which of us won't survive the night.
The brunette takes the largest throne. His brothers sink into the seats beside him like it's ritual. The fourth chair stays empty.
That has to be him. Seneca Veylor. The one they'll force one of us to breed for.
He flicks a finger.
The bald woman obeys instantly. She steps forward, the wooden box clutched like a child's toy in her claws. With one snap she pries the lid open.
The sound makes us all flinch.
The girl on my left sobs out loud.
Weapons fill the box.
***
I've never held a sword before, at least not that I remember beyond my years of slavery, but when one is placed in my hands, I'm holding it up firmly with a strength I don't know I have.
A bile rises in my throat as I catch my reflection off the blade.
The giant woman divides the ten of us, her voice reverberating off the walls. Two lines, five on each side. My stomach flips when I realize what she's doing.
"Face each other."
The girl across from me stumbles, her sword dragging like it weighs a hundred pounds. She's petite, and sweat glistens across her forehead as her knees knock together, her lips are parted and I can hear every gasp of air that escapes her lungs.
The bald woman paces the space between us, box tossed aside now. "Rules." She hisses the word like it's poison. "Are rules."
"One—" Her clawed finger jabs at the air. "You will fight until one cannot stand."
My eyes connect with my opponent, tears fill hers till two drops splatters down her cheeks.
"Two… if you leave so much as a scratch on your flesh, you are disqualified. I want clean kills. Nothing messy."
Gasps explode in the air. A red-haired girl whispers, "That's impossible," and widens her eyes in terror.
The giant's grin spreads slowly. "Three. If both of you bleed, both of you die."
The sound that breaks out is agonising.
It's choking, begging, muffled prayers. My chest knots so tight I can barely get air in. I lift my eyes toward the thrones with so much hatred.
I hate the way the brunette slouches back like this is a show he's paid to see.
I hate the way the dread head grins.
I grip my sword tighter.
"Four," the woman continues loudly, "If you refuse to fight, if you drop your sword, if you cry out for mercy, the Dominus himself will decide your punishment. And it will be worse than death."
"God, no!"
A girl on the end of the opposite line crumples to her knees, arms wrapping around her stomach like she can make herself disappear.
I hold my breath.
Please get up.
Please get up.
Another tries to pull her up, whispering frantically, until the bald woman kicks them apart with one swipe of her foot, they both land sprawled on the floor sobbing, picking themselves up again.
That's when I see it. The ones who were holding hands earlier are now staring at each other in horror. They were best friends, maybe sisters. Now they are enemies.
The sight makes bile rise in my throat.
Makes my eyes blur with tears.
I don't know love, even when Nina whispered it to me.
But I see it in their eyes, in the silent "I love yous" that escapes their lips.
I glance back at the thrones. Seneca, or the one I think is him, doesn't move. His eyes rake across us like we're nothing but meat waiting to be carved. Then his gaze steadies on me and he doesn't look away. My fingers shake on the hilt of the sword, and I pray he doesn't notice.
The bald woman raises her arms. "Begin!"