Page 19 of This Cruel Fate

New spear in hand, she lunged forward and jabbed 513 in the calf. A red blossom darkened the flesh-colored bodysuit, which only further incentivized the crowd against Xolia.

With first blood drawn, tension between Xolia and 513 increased. 513 had managed to hold the shape of her hammer, and she swung a volley of swings as soon as she was on her feet.

Xolia narrowly avoided having her face smashed in, then countered. The blow glanced off the side of the hammer.

She was forced to slow down. To calculate each move and parry. What once came reflexively now came at the cost of precious seconds. They danced around each other, neither inflicting enough damage for the fight to end.

The more Xolia dodged and parried, the more she remembered, though it still wasn’t enough. Sweat dripped into her eyes, blurring her vision. She feigned right. Another blow landed on her hip, a sharp edge on the rock slicing through fabric and skin.

Crimson sprayed and pooled on various spots on the splintering floors.

She clutched her side, ignoring the strain in her healing shoulder, when she heard it. The chanting.

“Kill. Kill. Kill.”

Xolia looked up. 513 towered above her, heaving the hammer over her head, preparing for the death blow. Even with her mind fuzzy from pain, she wasn’t going to go down so soon. She lifted her spear at the same time the hammer swung down.

The shaft, and Xolia’s mental hold, wasn’t enough against the full force of 513. The spear shattered into thousands of water droplets.

Without any hesitation, 513 lifted the hammer and swung at Xolia’s knee. It bent the wrong way, shattering bone and sending more blood flying across the cage.

White fogged the edges of Xolia’s vision. She should have fallen to the ground, yelling in pain and resetting the bone to accelerate healing, but some things overrode her logic.

Her injuries hurt, but the thought of losing a fight? Unbearable. Pulling together all of her strength, she stood up.

It was a white-hot anger that told her she wouldn’t allow 513 to disrespect her and make her look so weak in front of everyone else. And she certainly wasn’t going to lose to a nobody.

Tendrils of Xolia’s blood solidified and wrapped around her wounds to keep her standing. More tendrils braced against the floor and lifted her higher. This was something no one else could do. And she was just getting started.

Xolia trained her bloodshot eyes on the other woman in the cage. 513’s hammer hung at her side, and her featureless head was tilted upwards, up to Xolia.

Blood discolored the mask, right where her opponent’s nose was. 513’s body clenched and crumpled into an unnatural bow with a few thoughts and hand movements from Xolia. The woman’s movements were jerky, a result of her fighting against Xolia’s invisible hold.

At her domination over the other woman’s movement, the corners of Xolia’s lips rose in a wicked grin. Power and ecstasy raced through her veins. It was freeing, to use this forbidden ability, and to use it well. Silas may have hated her ability to control hers and other people’s blood, but she relished every moment. Nothing compared to this feeling.

Xolia compressed and tightened her grip. The other woman shook, trying to fight against the complete stopping of her blood circulation. At the exertion, Xolia’s control over her own blood diminished, the tendrils failing to hold her up.

She was falling.

Something struck Xolia in the back of the neck so violently that she didn’t feel the initial impact. She jerked forward before the pain hit. She screamed, releasing the last dredges of control over herself and 513.

Collapsing on her bad knee only added to the pounding, overwhelming pain that engulfed her body in a flaming hell.

Xolia had only been shot once before, but she recognized the sensation. Light faded; everything went dark. She struggled to maintain her grip on consciousness, what little she had left. Her last few frames of vision were of a dark figure stooping to where she lay.

Chapter Ten

Xolia woke to the steady drip of an IV. As her mind sluggishly regained consciousness, she kept her eyes closed, trying to discern her surroundings. An IV meant professional medical care. Her body was free of the aches and pains that normally accompanied such an expansive heal, another sign of professional care.

Did Atlas take me? She sighed, the only other sound aside from the IV. That gave her pause, silence wasn’t a feature with hospitals. There was no use putting it off any longer. She cracked open her eyes, which were crusted by sleep. Her mouth burned like she hadn’t drunk anything in days. And she wasn’t in a hospital.

She was in a bedroom. A stunning bedroom. Silk sheets cocooned her, and vague, shapeless art hung on the wall. Floor-to-ceiling windows provided a breathtaking view of downtown Atalia, far from the destitution of the barracks.

To her right was a mobile IV drip and a machine that monitored her vitals. There was a heart rate clamp on her left index finger, and behind the portable medical setup, a tall glass of water sat atop a mahogany nightstand. A fluffy towel and folded clothes sat neatly beside the water.

Sitting up, Xolia pushed the covers down and examined herself. Dried sweat and blood were smeared over her skin and clothes. The sheets were ruined. Good. No amount of kindness from Atlas would take away the petty satisfaction of inconveniencing him. Her stomach gurgled in protest at her movement. She needed food, but first, she needed to find Atlas and demand to know who had shot her. She removed the clamp from her finger and took a deep breath before pulling out the IV from her right forearm and staunching the blood flow.

When she withdrew her hand from her arm, the small puncture had already healed. She was inspecting the towel—the promise of a shower was almost too much to resist—when her blood ran cold.

---