“The Phoenix Riders are in the house!” she shouts. The strobe lights shoot toward us, and suddenly we are drenched in a red glow. Cheers erupt around us, loud enough to shake the floors. Frankie grins and points up to a figure standing high at the top of the dragon wall. “Show your team some love, Ren!”
The figure at the top looks up only briefly from behind a cage of ornate gold bars. He is decked out in his classic DJ attire—a black, well-tailored suit, gold shades, a gold face mask and a state-of-the-art set of headphones with gold metal wings embellishing both sides, as if he were the messenger god Hermes wearing something designed by Hermès. The track shifts in one smooth measure—the sound of electric violins, cellos, and a deep, reverberating beat fills the space. At the same time, the room around us bursts into flames, and the dragon head on the wall morphs into a red-and-gold phoenix. I gasp as the floor seems to move. When I look down, I see bits of it crumbling away to reveal molten lava beneath our feet. The audience screams in delight as each of them remains standing only on islands of rock floating in the lava.
DJ Ren bows his head over his instruments. He raises one arm up high as the music’s tempo increases to a fever pitch, until I can hardly bear it. Then he brings a punishing bass down on our heads. The room trembles, and the crowd bursts into a mass of jumping limbs. Music fills me to the brim.
For a moment, I close my eyes and let the beat carry me away. I’m tearing through the streets of New York City on my electric board, my rainbow hair streaming behind me. I’m standing at the top of a wind-whipped skyscraper, arms outstretched. I’m flying through the skies of Warcross, the outer reaches of space. I’m free.
Asher already looks distracted, his attention fixated on the players of the Demon Brigade, who have stepped into the club. Frankie announces their presence, and DJ Ren’s wall changes from our phoenix to a horde of skeletal beasts in hooded cloaks riding on horseback, charging through the audience with swords drawn.
“Go talk to the Demons tonight,” he mutters to me. “You’re our new recruit, so they’re going to do everything they can to intimidate you. They want you to go into your first game feeling unsure about yourself.”
“They don’t scare me.”
“I should hope not.” Asher blinks at me. “But I want you to look like it. Make them underestimate you. I want them to think they’ve got you cornered and fearful, and that we made a huge mistake choosing you as the number one pick. Let them feel smug. Then we’ll destroy them in the games, and leave them shocked.”
Roshan gives Asher a sidelong look. “A little early to be sending our wild card into the line of fire?” he says.
“She can handle it.” Asher grins at me. “You’ve got line-of-fire written all over your face.”
I decide to smile back, hoping things aren’t written so clearly on my face that Asher figures out what I’m really doing here. My attention turns back to the Demons. They’re gathered close to the stage where DJ Ren is performing. It’s a good-enough excuse for me to go gather data on all of them. “Will do, Captain,” I say.
As we begin to cut through the mass of elbows and shoulders, Roshan hands me a drink. “You’ll need it,” he mutters. “Ash always feels like needling our rivals a little before the games. But if you don’t want to talk to the Demons, you don’t have to.”
Almost everywhere I look, I see official players that I recognize. They’re looking back at me, too, noticing me, talking to one another without taking their eyes off me. What are they saying? What do they know? Are any of them bounty hunters, too? For someone used to being off the grid, the attention on me feels a little unnerving. But I just grin back each time.
“Let’s go,” I say to Roshan. “People are going to be talking about me anyway. I might as well get used to confrontation.”
Roshan leans over to me and nods in the direction of the Demon Brigade’s Max Martin and Tremaine Blackbourne chatting in a corner. “Well, if we ever play the Demons,” he says into my ear in a low voice, “you’ll need to deal with that pair. Max is their Fighter, Tremaine’s the Architect. And Tremaine is going to gun for you in the game because you’re the number one pick. Come on.” He puts a hand on my back and leads us forward.
Beside Max, Tremaine looks thin and pale, almost ghostly, in his black-and-white suit. He and Roshan exchange a cold stare as we approach him. Then he raises a skeptical eyebrow at me.
“Hey!” I say to him, planting a wide, na?ve smile on my face. “Tremaine Blackbourne, right?” At the same time, I tap my fingers subtly against my leg and start downloading info on both him and Max. “It’s so exciting to be in the same space as the teams, isn’t it?”
“She’s excited to be here,” Tremaine says to Max while his eyes stay on me. “Guess I would be, too, if I cheated my way into the draft.”
You wish you were smart enough to cheat your way in, I want to spit back—but I take a deep breath and force my reply down.
At my tense expression, Tremaine’s smile stretches thinner. “Look at this peach. They bruise so easily, they need a Shield to escort them.” His eyes actively avoid Roshan in a way that lets me know that’s where his attention really is. “Ash must be losing his edge, picking you first.”
Max sizes me up. “Well, maybe Ash just wanted to pick someone who matched his team’s pedigree. Isn’t that right, Ahmadi?” he says to Roshan. Even as both Demons’ stares linger on me, they still don’t speak to me directly. Roshan’s hand tightens a little against my arm. “Can’t even get into a fancy restaurant with a Level 28 rank. She looks like she came from a used clothes bin.”
I pretend to lose my balance and stomp down hard on Max’s shoe with my heel. Max lets out a yelp. “Oh God—I’m so sorry!” I blurt out, pretending to be shocked. “It’s impossible to walk in these used heels.”
Roshan glances at me in surprise. A small smile hovers on the edge of his lips.
“Look, I know we haven’t started off on the best foot . . . literally,” I say to Max as he glares at me. “But I thought that maybe we could start over, you know, to show good sportsmanship.” I hold my hand out to them, waiting for a handshake.
Tremaine is the first one to burst out laughing. “Wow,” he exclaims over the music. “You’re as wild card as they get.” He makes a point to ignore my outstretched hand. “Look, Princess Peach, this isn’t how things work in the championships.”
I give him an innocent look of confusion. “Oh? Then how does it work?”
He holds up a finger. “I play you.” Another finger goes up. “I beat you. And then, if you ask nicely, I’ll sign an autograph for you. That’s pretty generous sportsmanship, don’t you think?” The fans around them smirk at me, and even over DJ Ren’s music, I can hear their snickers. It takes all my self-control to not ball up my fist right now and knock the smile off Tremaine’s face. I’ve gotten in plenty of fights over less.