Page 50 of Flame and Fury

“That's really corny.”

“I find you bring out the absolute worst in me.” I chuckle quietly.

“Enough,” the cleric snaps. “Come with us now or else we’ll handle this in a less civilized way.”

I glare at the cleric over my shoulder but reluctantly release Wren. I don’t look back at her as I leave with my escort. I’m afraid I won’t be able to walk away if I do.

CHAPTER28

WREN

Iwait alone in the room for twenty-seven minutes. There’s no clock in here, but I know how much time has passed because I count the seconds and then the minutes. Nausea from fear and worry for Atlas keeps me pacing, even though my aching body is screaming that I should sit down and rest.

A beep and a click have me spinning toward the door. There’re the same cleric and three guards from earlier looming in the hallway.

“Come now. Come along.” The cleric snaps his fingers. He doesn’t step into the room, like he’s afraid the beast is going to turn the tables and trap him in the cage instead.

I could smash his face into the wall. Gods, that would feel good. I’m curious about where we are, though. Not to mention, it’s more important I figure out how to get out of here than inflicting some violence. I join my entourage in the hallway and follow when one of the guards leads the way.

The cleric smells like vinegar. He keeps reaching for my arm like he wants to hold me but then thinks better of it.

I can’t tell if he is scared of me, or if someone told him not to touch me. Whatever the reason, I’m glad he’s keeping his hands to himself. He repeatedly wipes his palms on his robe, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess that they’re sweaty. I wonder if that’s normal or if I make him nervous. I turn my head when I feel his gaze on my face. His eyes immediately drop, but then his chest puffs up like he’s trying to appear larger.

Hades help me.

The cleric takes us upstairs in a cargo elevator. I’m pretty sure we’re in a hotel and not someone’s house, although it’s hard to tell with these rich pricks. They all try to one up each other with the biggest house, the shiniest jewels, the largest yacht that stays docked, because no one can see you if you’re out on the water. They compare how many cars they have that never get driven. All while the rest of us barely scrape by.

I’m led to a room that’s been partitioned off. We’re standing behind a large black curtain that blocks my sight of three-fourths of the room. A makeshift stage has been set up. Although I can’t see what’s on the other side of the curtain, there’s a hum of excited chatter that reaches me.

Atlas didn’t know what this was. No one ever speaks about the champions who don’t win the game. Some of them die, like my mother, like Chance, and Tyson. But not everyone. When I saw Lark at Zeus’s party, and then again at Nathaniel’s house, it was a shock. I never expected that the champions would be turned into servants. Is that the fate Atlas and I are headed toward?

“Go on. Get up there.” The stinky cleric shoves me toward the stairs. I glare at him over my shoulder, even as I ascend the stage. He visibly cowers. This is just another reason why I hate the clerics. It’s an organization comprised of a bunch of assholes who want to feel superior to others. They wield their power as if it means they’re due respect simply because of their robes. That shit can’t be demanded. You have to earn it.

A young woman in a tight pencil skirt and silk blouse pushes a pair of glasses up her nose and waves me forward. She’s like the female version of Rupert, Thaddeus’s assistant.

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” I say to her instead of following her wildly gesticulating arm.

“Get on the stage,” she hisses at me and points to a spot in the curtain where the fabric overlaps. With a heavy sigh, I push through and take in the sight before me. There are a good twenty rows of folding chairs set up. Every single one is occupied. The people are dressed as if they’re going to the opera, with the men in tuxedos and the women in slinky and seductive dresses.

The crowd leers at me with such greed on their faces I nearly take a step back. There’s a man on the corner of the stage standing behind a podium, holding a gavel. Is this a court of public opinion or something?

“And now, for our final item of the night,” the man behind the podium says, his voice rising and falling dramatically.

Did he just refer to me as an item?

“The fallen champion of Ares is known to be a fiery thing. This one is going to need someone with a firm hand to keep her in line.”

I slowly turn my head to glare at the man speaking. Is he kidding me?

“She’s strong, and I think we all recall she knows how to have a good time. You didn’t miss that little interaction with Zeus’s champion, did you?” The man chuckles and the crowd joins in. I turn my glare away from the man and stare down at the rows of people with disgust written all over my face. What a bunch of ball sacks.

“With a treasure like this, we'll be opening the bids at 10,000.”

Bids? Something the doctor said rings in my head. An auction. They’re auctioning me off like a piece of furniture, or a lot of junk from some grandma’s basement. This is what happens to the champions who leave the game?

My Fury is so close to the surface that I can feel the bones in my back rearranging themselves. I hunch, clenching my jaw and breathing in through my nose, desperate to regain control. The frost I always channel to calm myself doesn’t come. Not even one little snowflake. My rage is burning. I’m pretty sure all these assholes deserve to be eviscerated. Still, I’m not ready to go on a rampage and out myself as a Fury. There’s too much left to do.

The crowd is calling out obscene numbers and my stomach lurches. The amount of money being casually thrown around could feed my neighborhood for a year. And these bastards are using it to buy a human.

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