Belly turning cold.
Breath catching in her chest.
Long dark hair flowed about his shoulders, framing a face so fine it might’ve been sculpted by the weaver herself. He was fit and hard, but lither than some of his fellows, the whisper of a frightening speed coiled in the taut lines of his arms, the rippling muscle at his abdomen. He wore a thin silver torc about his neck—the only jewelry among the multitude. But when Mia looked into his dark, burning eyes, she felt the illness in her belly swell, innards growling as if she were suddenly, desperately hungry.
I’ve felt this before …
When she stood in the presence of Lord Cassius, the Prince of Blades …
Executus turned to the assembled warriors, let the sand spill from his fingers.
“Gladiatii,” he asked. “What do I hold in my hand?”
Each man and woman roared as one.
“Our lives, Executus!”
“Your lives.” The man turned back to the newcomers, hurling his fistful of sand to the ground. “And worthless as they be, one turn they may be sung of as legend.
“I care not what you were before. Beggars or dons, bakers or sugargirls. That life is over. And now, you are less than nothing. But if you watch like bloodhawks and learn what I teach, then one turn, you may stand among the chosen, upon the sands of the venatus. As gladiatii! And then”—he pointed at the bleeding Sidonius with his whip—“then, you may learn the taste of glory, pup. Then you may know the song of your pulse as the crowd roars your name, as they do Furian, the Unfallen, primus of the Venatus Tsana and champion of the Remus Collegium!”
“Furian!” The gladiatii roared as one, raising their fists and turning to the tall Itreyan standing first in the line.
The raven-haired man still stared at Mia, unblinking.
“Gladiatii fear no death!” Executus continued, spittle on his lips. “Gladiatii fear no pain! Gladiatii fear but one thing—the everlasting shame of defeat! Mark my lessons. Know your place. Train until you bleed. For if you bring such shame upon this collegium, upon your domina, I swear by almighty Aa and all four of his holy fucking Daughters, you will rue the turn your mother shit you from her belly.”
He turned to his fighters, fist in the air, scar twisting his face as he roared.
“Sanguii e Gloria!”
“Blood and glory!”
The gladiatii answered as one, thumping their fists against their chests.
All except one.
The champion they called Furian.
The man was looking right at Mia, fury or lust or something in between in his stare. Her breath came quicker, skin prickling as if she were freezing. Hunger churned inside her, her mouth dry as dust, her thighs aching with want. Mia looked to the ground at his feet, saw his shadow was no darker than the rest. But she knew this feeling, sure as she knew her own name.
And looking into his eyes, she knew he felt it too.
This man is darkin …
CHAPTER 7
HUNGERS
A thudding heartbeat. A sea of red. A rush of vertigo, filling her head.
Mia burst from the blood pool, rising to her feet. The hurts in her shoulder and backside were mended, but she still lost her footing, saved only by the two Hands beside her. The pair helped Mia up, holding one arm apiece until they knew she was steady. Mia spat the blood off her tongue, pawed the gore from her eyes with a sigh.
Looking about, she found herself in a triangular pool brimming with blood—identical to the one she’d just left in the Quiet Mountain. The walls were patterned with sorcerii glyphs, and a map of Godsgrave was painted on the wall in blood. The archipelago sprawled across the stone, shattered isles run through with traceries of canals, looking for all the world like a headless giant laid upon its back.
Mia took a deep breath, found her feet, slung her bloody hair over her shoulder.
“Maw’s teeth, I’ll never get used to this,” she croaked.
“Stop whining, Corvere. It beats the britches off traveling by ship.”
Mia’s stomach flipped as she recognized the voice. Turning to the head of the pool, she found a slender redhead staring back at her. The girl was around her age, but taller, sharper. Her eyes were green, twinkling with a feral, hunter’s cunning. Her face was lightly freckled, arms folded inside the voluminous sleeves of a long black robe.
A Hand’s robe.
Mia would recognize her anywhere—the girl who’d been a thorn in her side all throughout her training at the Quiet Mountain. The girl who blamed Mia’s father for the death of her own. The girl who’d vowed to kill her.
“Jessamine,” Mia breathed, climbing out of the pool on unsteady legs.
The redhead inclined her head. “Welcome to the City of Bridges and Bones.”
“You were posted to Godsgrave?” Mia asked. “After initiation?”
“Brilliant observation, Corvere,” the redhead replied. “What gave it away?”
Mia simply stared, the shadows beneath her seething. Jessamine looked her up and down, threw a bundle of linen at Mia’s chest.
“Baths are this way.”
The bundled fabric was a robe, and Mia dragged it around her blood-sodden body, leaving sticky red footprints as she followed Jessamine down a twisting hallway. The temperature was stifling, the stench of iron and gore almost overpowering.
Mia saw the walls and ceiling were made of thousands upon thousands of human bones. Femurs and ribs, spines and skulls, forming a dark maze run thick with shadows—whoever thought to construct the new chapel to Our Lady of Blessed Murder inside Godsgrave’s vast necropolis obviously had a deep appreciation of the value of ambience. Dim light was provided by arkemical globes, held in skeletal hands on the walls. But despite being surrounded by the remains of untold thousands, Mia’s eyes were fixed on the girl in front of her. Spitting the greasy blood off her tongue, she watched Jessamine as if the girl were about to sprout a second head.
After initiation, Mia knew Jessamine had been anointed as a Hand, but she’d been so caught up in her work in Galante that she’d never found out where. It seemed of all cities in the Republic, her old nemesis had been sent to work in Godsgrave.
Fucking typical …
The hallway ended at a door made entirely of spines, which Jessamine opened with a gentle touch. Mia saw three baths beyond, the air hung faint with ashwood smoke and honeysuckle perfume. Mia scratched at the drying blood on her face, eyes never leaving the redhead’s. Adonai’s cryptic warning echoing in her head. The gravebone blade she kept ever strapped to her forearm was just a flick of the wrist away.
“I’ll be out here.” Jessamine nodded to the baths. “Don’t take too long. The bishop is waiting, and he’s of a darker mood than usual.”
Mia stood her ground, staring into the redhead’s eyes.
“You’re wondering if I’m going to try to drown you, aye?” Jessamine’s lips twisted in a smile. “Put a knife in you as soon as your back is turned?”
“What makes you think I’m going to turn my back, Red?”