Melissa Marr: Untamed City: Carnival of Secrets

After a moment of staring blankly at her, he shook his head. “Don’t be foolish, Aya.”

“If I win the competition, I’ll rule. Why would Marchosias force me to wed or breed then? He follows the laws too.” She looked away from him to take in the crowd assembling to watch their match. “I have to win, Bel.”

“You can’t beat me, and I won’t throw the fight.”

“I know.” She smiled sadly at him.

“At least leave the collar off,” he pleaded.

“No.”

Belias shook his head again. Aya hadn’t ever made his life easy, but this was beyond unreasonable. He was fond of throttling his opponents. With his strength, it was a reliable way to incapacitate a fighter, maneuver them into an unforgiving position while they were unconscious, and then when they regained consciousness invite them to forfeit. It was legal, albeit not a crowd-pleaser. A lot of far less humane things were legal, too. Those were the crowd-pleasers. The fight rules were pretty basic: at least fifth blood had to be drawn before a kill, no outside aid, stay within the designated fight zone, and try not to die.

Fifth blood will be harder tonight.

Killing Aya wasn’t going to happen, and he was certain she couldn’t kill him, either. That meant that their fight would go until one of them had no choice but to forfeit. He felt a pang of regret for bribing the judges so that he could fight Aya, but better that than have someone else eliminate her by killing her. He’d had no doubt she’d make it to the final rounds, but now most of the remaining fighters were good enough to defeat her. She needed to forfeit before she faced a fighter like Kaleb or Flynn.

“It’s time,” Aya said as she laid her falchion just inside the edge of the ring.

With a lingering look at the girl he’d spent the last year fighting to reach, Belias walked to the center of the circle and called for her: “Aya.”

She stepped over the sword and entered the circle.

As the lower-ranked of the fighters, she walked to him, clasped his hand, and bowed her head. While her head was bowed, she whispered, “I wish we hadn’t been matched.”

“You can forfeit at any time,” he answered just as quietly.

She lifted her gaze to stare directly at him. “Likewise.”

He released her hand reluctantly.

The witch waited just beyond them to raise the circle. Belias scowled at him. The presence of witches—even controlled witches—made him want to behave in very ungentlemanly ways. They should’ve been barred from The City centuries ago. It was one of the things he intended to put into motion once he took his place in the government.

The witch bowed his head, and Belias turned his back to him and to Aya in order to address the crowd. “Aya has stood against and defeated as many fighters as I have. She is an honor to the ruling class already.”

Addressing the crowd was not typical, but he was ruling class. He turned to face Aya again and bowed deeply, as if they would dance.

She said nothing.

Together, they both reached into the bucket and took a handful of salt and chalk. Walking in opposite directions, they followed the perimeter of the already-drawn circle; when they met at the opening, they used the mixture in their hands to close the circle.

They stood face-to-face for a moment as the circle lifted around them. In a low voice only she could hear, he offered, “We can both win this. You can advise me, share my rule in secret, and we can . . . abstain until you’re ready. All you have to do is say how long you need.”

Aya slammed the flat of her palm into his face, breaking his nose, drawing first blood. “Forever. No children.”

“When I win the match, I will offer again,” he promised. “You’ve never beaten me before. You won’t do so today, and I will not kill you.”

She didn’t answer, and Belias’ crosscut slammed into her mouth, not with the force he could use, but still hard enough that he drew second blood as her teeth tore her lips.

Betting-house hawkers called out bloodpoints as Aya and Belias faced each other. Nothing mattered beyond this fight. The pleasure of standing against her filled him with the same thrill it had for years: she was unlike any other daimon he’d met.

He blocked a kick, and she dropped to her haunches to dodge a punch. They continued avoiding and blocking each other’s blows for several minutes, and then Belias caught her in the stomach with a kick that knocked her to the ground. She rolled, and as she came to her feet, she ran to the edge of the ring and lifted the falchion she’d left there.

“Do you really want to do this, Aya?”

She charged him, shifting at the last possible moment and trying to catch his thigh with the edge of the blade. Belias knew her every cue, though, and easily dodged her. Twice more she approached and attempted to draw third blood, and twice more he avoided her.

Belias ducked her blows and watched her tire herself chasing after him. He was faster, better trained, and patient. If not for the angry looks she shot at him—and how furious she’d be when she had to forfeit to him—he’d be enjoying finally standing in a ring with her again. Unfortunately, defeating her was going to make her even less likely to forfeit graciously.

“Fight me, Bel,” she demanded.

He dived out of the way as she slashed at him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Fight me,” she repeated. “You insult me by not even trying.”

“Forfeit.” As he said it, though, he withdrew a pair of throwing knives and launched them at her.

As she moved to avoid the first blade, the second sank deep into her thigh, as he’d known it would. Aya’s cry of pain was hidden under the cheers of the crowd. Her gaze found him, and she looked happier now that he’d injured her. He knew, of course, that it wasn’t the injury but the fact that he’d struck out at her as an equal that resulted in her smile.

“Third blood to Belias,” the hawkers called.

“That’s better.” Aya shifted to put her weight on her uninjured leg. “Only one out of two? You’re not as good as I remember.”

“Liar.” Belias advanced on her. “Incapacitate your opponent. Go in for the close kill. You remember that lesson. You can’t run now.”

“Don’t need to.” She held up the falchion. “You’re coming to me, aren’t you?”

With a growl, he swept her feet out from under her. She landed hard, but he followed her to the ground. He had his not-insubstantial weight supported on his knees and one arm. With the other arm, he pinned her. His left hand flat on the middle of her chest, he demanded, “Forfeit.”

“I can’t.” She withdrew one of the knives from her hip, but she paused before striking.

Belias yanked the throwing knife from her thigh as she stared up at him.

“You can’t kill me with that,” he said.

He stabbed the throwing knife into her arm, causing her to draw in a sharp breath.

“Fourth blood,” the hawkers called.

The crowd cheered his name.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and then he felt a blade sink into his stomach.

“That’s not—” Belias gasped as cold rushed through him in a terrifying wave. His eyes widened as he stared down at her. “Poison? You’d poison me, little bird?”

Aya drove the second knife into his chest.

“I’m so sorry, Bel,” she whispered as he fell atop her. “I didn’t have any other choices.”

He wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that there were choices she could’ve made, but his lips wouldn’t move. All he could do was stare at her, looking for tears, remorse, something to prove he hadn’t been so very wrong about her.

And then, even that was impossible. His eyes lost focus, and the world vanished.