Page 88 of Immortal Longings
Weisanna silver.
With a gasp, she pivots fast and tries to run again, but the woman is too close. No more throwing stars—the woman simply pounces on Calla’s back and slams her down, knocking into a little wooden stool that some street seller has left behind.
“Kill me,” the woman hisses. “Kill me, and play the games right.”
Calla kicks away, flipping off her stomach. Just as fast, the woman has her pinned again, knees on her legs and knuckles gripping her shoulders ferociously. The pain is agonizing, pressing bruises into her body. When Calla cranes her neck, trying to lift her head away from the sharp gravel, she spots a surveillance camera above them, and another not three paces away. The people want their show. The reels want to capture every final hit.
“I don’t know if it’s you, Galipei,” Calla spits, “but this is fucked.”
“Kill me,” the woman wails, as if she didn’t hear Calla at all. Her hands come around Calla’s throat in one fast motion, fingers pressed around her windpipe. Though this is a scheme, though Callaknowsthat August has decided to interfere, panic slams into her bones, her tongue restricting and her lungs begging for air.
Pinpricks of purple dance in her vision. No one comes to her aid, not a single one among the hundreds in the vicinity. They watch her like there is a screenbetween them. They watch her like this is already a program on replay, stored in the video companies’ data systems and ready to be spun around again when a new customer makes the purchase.
Calla stretches for her sword. Her fingers make contact with the grip. And on her last snatch of consciousness, she makes the plunge, shoving the blade into the woman’s side.
The woman stiffens. Her head jerks up, her iron grip around Calla’s throat loosening. There is only satisfaction in the woman’s expression. This was exactly what she wanted.
Calla pushes the woman off, the tail end of a cry caught in her bruised throat. She’s not surprised when a blinding light pierces the space before her, darting into the crowd. She’s not surprised when the woman sprawls onto the gravel, head lolling up to the sky, and in death, shows eyes that are dark brown instead of silver.
“Please,” Calla whispers. “Please, don’t be—”
Her wristband begins to whine. The moment the sound echoes into the night, she knows the plea is for naught. It is the same sharp, dissonant tone played in unison every year, broadcast directly from the palace, interrupting the television programs and news anchors to bring its important message.
The announcement of the last two finalists. The games have reached the Juedou, the grand finale.
She looks at her wristband screen. The text runs slowly, as if to emphasize every word. Across every screen in San-Er, stills of Anton and Calla appear side by side, along with their numbers.
Congratulations, 57! Your competitor is number 86. Please proceed to the coliseum immediately.
“No!” Calla drops her head into her hands.“Fuck.”
CHAPTER29
The coliseum looms ahead of her. The longer she stares at it, the more it blurs into some abstract shape, losing all meaning. Its lights are on their highest setting; its crowds are already gathered thickly, the rumble of conversation audible even at a distance.
One foot in front of the other. One cut after the other. That is all that needs to be done. It is all that can be done.
Calla takes a shaky breath. She presses into the crowd, stepping through the coliseum gates and merging into the audience. They don’t pay attention to her, not looking closely enough to realize she’s one of the very players they are waiting for. She pushes forward. Keeps pushing until she has approached the ropes delineating the boundary between spectator and player.
Calla’s hands touch the velvet. It feels as clammy as death.
In one swift movement, she ducks underneath and is on the other side, the sheath of her sword clattering against her leg. Without the stalls, the coliseum looks absolutely vast in size, her footprints in the rough dirt appearing like specksin the gargantuan battleground. She is a lone figure, half her face masked and the other half squinting furiously up at the palace, circled on all sides by spectators.
Calla is at an impasse with herself.
King Kasa must die, and she will not gain access to him unless she is the victor of this battle.
There can be only one victor, but she doesn’t want to kill Anton.
With every cell of this forsaken, stolen body, she doesn’t want to kill Anton.
The palace balcony stirs with movement. Calla strides forward. It feels as though the whole coliseum is leaning in her direction, as if the structure itself shifts with her every step. She knows it is the people, that their attention and movement make it seem like the walls are bearing down on her, but nevertheless, she fantasizes about the coliseum growing legs and running off, taking its arena and its vicious games along with it.
Calla comes to a stop below the balcony. Seconds later, August steps out and leans over.
“Hello,” he calls down.
“What have you done?” Calla asks furiously.
