Page 77 of The Demons in the Deep: Extended Edition
The crowd screamed, rising in their seats, chanting for him, for theWind’s Favor, for Flay.
For death.
Servants came out and dragged away the body of the serpent-man.
“You sure you want my champion, Mother?” Flay asked. “He’s not entirely tame.”
“I need more excitement in my bed,” she said carelessly, laying down a card. “I can have his teeth extracted and his claws cut.”
Mai made as if to rise, but Kestra held her down, whispering tersely, “I know. I know. Wait.”
Two more matches, one in which Feral’s Sky-Born champion triumphed again.
“Looks as if it’s my man against yours, little brother,” Feral said. “I’ll be back for the last match.” And he left the box, leading the two girls with him. On his way out, Kestra saw him wink at Mai. She frowned, but brushed it aside as careless flirting. He and Mai didn’t know each other as far as she knew—at least not beyond a brief dance at the gala and a short encounter during the Hunt. Judging by the girls hanging on Feral, Mai wasn’t his type. No need to worry there.
A screech from Flay’s mother caught Kestra’s attention.
“No! No, it’s not possible!”
“The cards speak for themselves, Mother. And so does my last roll of the dice. I win.” Flay tilted his chair back on two legs. “Father, if you’ll be so kind as to have a sheet ofasthoreprepared and sent over to theWind’s Favor.”
Growling, the Magnate called over a servant and dictated the order, while his wife upended the game table and stormed out of the box in a fit of rage.
“My mother, ladies and gentlemen,” said Flay, plucking a stick of cinnamon from the drinks table and setting it between his teeth.
“Your luck has played out, boy,” said the Magnate. “I’ll wager your brother’s winged champion carries the day. Which means yours will be dead within the hour.”
“Don’t underestimate Rake,” Flay replied. “And unless I’m very much mistaken, even if he loses, theWind’s Favoris assured a place in the top three—isn’t that so, Father?”
Kestra’s stomach dipped. She ran over the points and placement in her mind. Flay’s crew were second in the Race, third in the Hunt, and guaranteed at least second place in the Brawl—
She turned, catching Mai’s hand, and saw the blaze of her own excitement reflected in her cousin’s eyes.
“We’ve done it,” Kestra gasped.
“Not yet,” Mai whispered. “Rake still has to survive this.”
22
Rake had lived with pain since he was a tiny spawn in the nurseries of the Realm Below. He’d come to expect it daily, whether it was savage nips from his fellow spawn, or scratches from the claws of the nursery monitors.
Once he reached maturity and his beauty attracted the Queens’ attention, he’d endured a whole new kind of pain, one that scarred his body and his mind. Mating with the Queens was painful, even when he was pleasing them. They delighted in tasting his blood.
He’d endured more pain on his long swim to Kiken Island, right before he climbed the seawall for the first time—and then again, when he made the journey with Jewel. Both times, he’d nearly been chewed to pieces.
So the cracked ribs that twinged when he breathed, the slashes along his waist and back, the other bruises and cuts from the two champions he’d defeated—they could not compare to all of that past agony.
TheWind’s Favorwas safe now. Mai was safe. Flay, Kestra, Jazadri, and the others—he’d secured their freedom. Now all he had to do was survive the final combat, the match against Feral’s champion.
Rake refused the stimulant a servant offered him, but he accepted the blood coagulant for his cuts.
Then he strode out into the arena for the third time.
The Sky-born champion was already there—a slender figure clad only in a loincloth, since the fighters were allowed no protection. Rake sized him up, scanning the golden muscles decorated with black tattoos, the huge black wings with their purple highlights.
The Sky-born’s wings were not clipped. He would be able to fly, while Rake was earth-bound. At least weapons were not permitted for the Brawl. Still, Rake had seen what this champion did to his previous opponents. He’d dislocated the arms of one fighter, and the other he’d carried aloft and dropped, causing multiple bone fractures, judging by the piercing scream that issued from the victim’s mouth.
The soiled sand in the arena had been scooped away and replaced with fresh sand, but Rake could still catch the savory, faintly metallic scent of blood. He hated himself for enjoying the smell, for the way his nostrils flared and his pulse ticked up at the hint of hot, rich blood and torn flesh.
