“No, I can’t feel it at all,” I admit.
“Okay, Kate, close your eyes and clench your teeth,” he says. Then bracing my upper arm with one hand, he uses the other to wrench the knife from where the blade enters my shoulder and exits my back, just a hair’s breadth outside the edge of my Kevlar vest.
I muffle my scream with my hand, but it doesn’t matter—it is swallowed by the noise around us. Vincent whips the cloth off his arm and binds it tightly around the wound, under my armpit, and back around, twice. “Can you move that arm?”
I try, and a piercing pain shoots from my hand to my shoulder, causing me to cry out.
Vincent tears another strip off his shirt. Bending my useless arm in front of me, he secures it to my chest. “All the entrances are blocked,” he says as he works, “so I can’t get you out of here without fighting.”
“We’re not leaving,” I say, scanning the arena. Although the numa began with more than double our number, they are falling fast. The Germans are acting like tag teams: fighting single numa in pairs, slaying them, and then quickly tossing them onto the fire. I count ten corpses already aflame, and the punk contingent isn’t slowing.
A shrill whistle comes from next to the bonfire and Vincent and I turn to see Uta gesturing toward us. She holds Violette’s head by the hair, brandishing it like Perseus did with Medusa’s. “You are witnesses,” she yells, and with a nod her men toss Violette’s body onto the pyre while she releases the head to the flames.
My feelings are mixed as I see my enemy’s body ignite. The broken, bitter girl is gone and I am awash with both pity and relief. Vincent grasps my hand. “You okay?” he asks, second-guessing my emotion. I breathe deeply and nod once. That story is over.
I turn away to look for our kindred and spot Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard fighting back-to-back, their movements synchronized so well they appear to be one person: the deadliest of warriors, bringing death to all it touches.
Not far from them, Charlotte has elevated herself above the fray, perched with her crossbow atop a broken stone column in one corner, steadily picking off our enemies one after the other. Her firing hand moves to her quiver, sweeps out fresh bolts, loads, and shoots them with deathly speed. Arthur stands below her defending her position, slashing away at anyone who nears.
We leave our shelter behind the fire and start in Charlotte’s direction.
Although I can’t see much of the battlefield, there are fewer red columns surrounding the area. More of our enemy is down, and two bardia with spiky Mohawks pass us, pulling another numa corpse toward the fire. A glimmer of hope flashes in my mind. We are doing it, evening the odds. We may actually win.
Vincent and I are a few yards away from Charlotte, when I see the arrow hit her chest. Shocked, she looks down at the projectile and then crumples and falls to the ground. Vincent pinpoints the numa archer and takes off after him while I throw myself into the fray to get to Charlotte. But before I reach her, a numa girl begins dragging her toward the fire.
“Drop her!” I yell. The girl looks up. In an instant she has drawn her sword and crouches in a defensive position. I raise my sword, but before I can move, Charles leaps in front of me, swinging his sword forcefully against hers. “I’ve got this one,” he yells. “Just get my sister’s body away from the fire.”
Trying not to look at my friend’s sightless eyes and gaping mouth, I tuck her feet under my good arm and begin pulling her toward the arena wall. An arrow whizzes past my ear, and I lunge to my left to dodge another three or four projectiles that are unleashed on me.
A noise erupts from the edges of the battle, and the fighting pauses as all turn to see what is happening. Pouring through the corridors on both sides of the arena is a tidal wave of armed strangers. I recognize their auras at once; they are kindred. My heart soars. Victory is ours. Or will be soon.
Suddenly, Charlotte is jerked out of my grasp. Someone has grabbed her hands and is pulling in the other direction. “Don’t touch her!” I scream, and fumble for my sword. Whipping around toward my opponent, I find myself gazing into familiar chestnut brown eyes.
“Jules!” I gasp, and throw myself into his arms.
“Nice to see you too,” he responds, “but this isn’t the best place for a hug.” An arrow whizzes by our heads and we duck back down. “Take her feet,” he says. And then, seeing my wounded arm, he says, “Just take one foot,” and we begin dragging her toward the wall.
“You’re here!” I say, blinking as I am momentarily blinded by sweat from the fire’s blistering heat.
“And you’re the Champion,” Jules replies with a sly grin. “Sorry I’m late. A dozen of us just arrived from New York. Jeanne sent us straight here.”
“Just a dozen?” I scan the arena, which teems with new arrivals. “But who are all the other bardia?”