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But now Theo was leaving. Would Ren be expected to go with him? Or would she be abandoned here—as she was earlier tonight—in this glittering circle of wolves? She could only imagine the strain of being separated in that way from someone she was bonded to. Maybe that was the point: to break them. Rather than show weakness, Ren met Landwin Brood’s appraising stare. She lifted her own glass and offered a lifeless smile.
It turned out to be one of the best meals she’d ever eaten.
2 DAHVID TIN’VORI
He had blood on his boots and a hood over his head.
There was nowhere to look but down. The hood hung loose enough to allow him to breathe, and that looseness created a sliver of visibility. He saw the scarlet spatter on his shoes as they traversed the dunes. He could see dead reeds and choked grass and gray sand. Up one hill and down another. The biggest pity of the whole thing was being trapped with his own stench inside the hood. He’d not been afforded a trip to the baths after his victory in the gladiator pit.
The crowd noise still drummed in his head. There had been a roar when he let the other man spin unconscious to the ground. He’d fought the man straight up. Not using any of his tattoos. His opponent had been a classic brute. Strong as a bull elephant and with about the same level of footwork. Dahvid had danced in and out of the blows with ease.
Apparently, too much ease.
He’d recognized his mistake as soon as he looked at the hourglass on the judge’s table. Less than thirteen seconds had passed since the fight began. Afterward, in the training room, Dahvid had been unwinding his hand wraps when two men ghosted through the entrance. Both wore the emblem of Ravinia’s most famous warlord. The taller of them had tossed a hood onto Dahvid’s lap.
“Put that on and come with us, or else leave the city tonight.”
An introduction to Darling was a part of the plan. The only problem was timing. He’d been hoping to make first contact a few months from now. He wasn’t ready. Needed more time.
Dahvid felt the pressure at the back of his neck vanish. There was a tinkling rattle of chains, and then the hood was removed. Daylight blinded him. He blinked until there were shapes. He saw two figures in front of him, framed by a wine-dark sea. Distant waves gnawed on the shoreline, filling the silence. There was a sprawling villa on his right. As his eyes adjusted, he knew it was one of the finest houses he’d ever set eyes on. Far finer than the Tin’Vori estate had ever been, though there were many in Kathor who’d envied their family. Once upon a time.
Dahvid straightened, carefully pinning his gaze on the first man. His sister had prepared him for this moment. Darling was not one person, but two. The man standing in the forefront was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Eyes like slashes of river. A proud chin. Muscle rippled just beneath the surface of his clothing, though he was shaped more like a dancer than a fighter. The grand effect was marred only by black manacles attached to each wrist. Twin chains lagged across the sandy earth, connecting the first man to a second. Hidden in the background. Dahvid didn’t look directly at that second figure, but when Darling spoke, he heard both voices.
“Do you know who I am?”
One voice was angelic, bright as a church bell. The other was hidden until the very last syllable. It sounded like stone scraping against stone. Dahvid nodded.
“They call you Darling.”
There was another rattle of chains as the front figure started to pace. When the angle changed, he could have looked at the second man, who was seated, but he didn’t.
“And you know what I do?”
“You run the gladiator pits.”
“I run the city,” Darling corrected. “I am the lifeblood that pumps through Ravinia.”
Dahvid glanced at the villa on his right. “Pays well.”
That dragged out a genuine laugh. He heard the deeper voice laugh first, followed by the tinkling laughter of the main speaker. “It does pay well. I run seven gladiator pits. We host ten thousand people a night. Our prizefighters make more money than tenured generals. Every detail is arranged. The fights are balanced. There is a system, because the system is what creates the demand. If I paraded out my best fighter every night, eventually no one would care to watch him. These are basic laws of commerce. And you? You produced an imbalance in that system. People attended that fight to see the Bearling. He’s a crowd favorite.”
Dahvid pictured the man he’d fought less than an hour ago. He recalled the broken nose, the eyes rolling before his body crashed to the arena floor. Dahvid replied, “Not anymore.”
Another laugh, but this time only from the more musical voice.
“Surprises are good,” Darling admitted. “But short fights? Those can be a nuisance. I’m sure you surprised them. No doubt they roared with delight. Expectations create a sort of magic all on their own. But then the crowd realized there’d be no more rounds, no more bloodshed, no more bouts. Their night was over, just like that. If I’d known you were that good, I’d have made other arrangements.”
Dahvid nodded. “No one asked for my thoughts.”
Neither Darling laughed this time. Dahvid’s insides crawled as the silence stretched. The front man stood with his hands on his slender hips. Through the crook of one elbow, Dahvid caught a glimpse of the other face. A colorless circle. Not just pale but drained to a dying gray. His lips were chapped and broken. His eyebrows knitted together in a look of chronic pain. It was a spell that the rest of the city pretended not to notice. Those chains running between them were conduits for the passage of a soul. One man was slowly conquering the physical being of another. Such magic was forbidden. The Tusk people would view it as an abomination. Even Kathor, which prized innovation, would have condemned such a practice. Dahvid knew his people had always preferred more legal conquests.
“Would you submit to contractual fighting?” Darling probed. “Under my banner.”
“Eagerly.”
“Good. It can be arranged. If you satisfy one query.”
“You want to know about House Brood.”
