Page 39

I hooked my leg behind his, drove my shoulder into his chest, twisted, and used his off-balanced weight to take him to the mat. He landed on his back with a quiet umph and a grin that made my knuckles itch to punch him.

Seething, I rolled away and flipped to my feet. “You let me do that,” I snapped.

“Perfect technique.” He rose smoothly as if drawn up by some sort of antigrav system and settled his wings, his tail flicking in the way I’d come to recognize as amusement. “Except you telegraphed your move.”

I huffed. “I most certainly did not.”

“You did. You looked at my shoulder.”

I absolutely had not looked at his shoulder when I’d decided which way to turn him to throw him off balance. Had I?

Blast it.

I spun on my heel and headed for a storage unit along the far wall. “Come on.”

He trailed me to the unit and waited as I pressed my palm to the scanner to unlock the doors. I slid them aside to reveal nearly two dozen weapons neatly arranged by size and type.

I watched him look over the collection, which ranged from small throwing blades to combat weapons like a pair of J’noran intanas, Hardanian scythe-knives, and Tocanian spiked bolos to larger items like swords and various kinds of staffs. He studied them one by one in the same way I did, noting the advantages and disadvantages of each and weighing his choices.

Finally, his gaze moved to the top of the display, where a metal staff with blades at one end and a hook at the other was held in place by clasps. Unlike the rest of the weapons, it didn’t show signs of ongoing use and consistent maintenance. No doubt he’d noticed that too.

“A nivilus,” he said, and moved closer to get a better look. “The first one I’ve seen in person.”

“So few are left, they’re a collector’s item now.” My chuckle had no humor in it. “Worth quite a lot in some circles, so I’ve been told. I also heard people try to excavate the arena ruins looking for ones that might have survived the fires. That’s a high-stakes game when the locals aren’t fond of looters, but maybe they think the payoff would be worth it.”

“Something like that should never be a collector’s item.” The harshness in his voice surprised me. He stared at the nivilus, eyes glowing as if trying to obliterate it out of existence with his will alone. “It’s a symbol of an unconscionable practice that was permitted to continue unchecked for far too long. For a lot of collectors, it’s a trophy of something they’d like to see return. Maybe even something they have fond memories of attending.”

“It’s all those things,” I agreed. “But that’s not why I have it hanging there, or why I gave its name to my ship.”

At some point I’d clasped my hands behind my back, raised my chin, and widened my stance. It was the pose I’d mastered at the age of four after many beatings by my new owners—one that embodied all the confidence and bravery I hadn’t felt at the time but had to feign because that was what both the trainers and audience wanted to see.

We were children, but we were expected to face training, combat, and even death with the same ferocity and fearlessness as the adult gladiators who’d trained us and performed in exhibition matches in the same arenas where our blood spilled on the sand.

Every former gladiator I’d ever encountered lapsed into this same pose unconsciously at some point during our interaction. Sometimes I’d followed suit without realizing I’d done so. And when we’d inevitably realized how we were standing, we’d exchange a look—resigned, knowing, weary—and change our positions.

I flexed my fingers, shook out my hands, and dropped my arms to my sides. “When I was in the arena, the nivilus symbolized everything I hated. I was very good at using it, but only because I had to be to stay alive. I had to sleep with it, eat with it, even shower with it because mine was better made than most. If I’d left it unattended, someone else would try to take it and I’d have to stop them.”

I reached up and touched the tip of one of the blades. It was dull from disuse. “There were many nights when I lay in my bunk and thought about using this weapon to end my life. I wouldn’t have been the first gladiator to escape that way. The collars and trackers made sure there was no other way to get away. But I’d sworn they wouldn’t win. I’d sworn I would—” I cut myself off before I could mention my vow to find Calla. “I’d sworn I’d survive to sixteen and get off Ganai,” I said instead. “And eventually I did.”

Jarrix was listening to every word, though he was studying my collection of weapons rather than watching me or getting too close. I appreciated that he was giving me both physical and emotional space when his instincts were probably howling at him to comfort me with touches and his coo.

“Now it signifies that I survived when all the odds were against me and that I never gave in,” I finished. “And I named my ship the Nivilus because I wanted to take a word that once symbolized my captivity and powerlessness and make it stand for my freedom.”

“I can understand that.” He gestured at the Hardanian scythe-knives. “May I?”

“Of course.”

He took them from the display and spun them flawlessly, one in each hand, testing their balance. “Perfect,” he murmured and glanced at me. “It’s been a while since I’ve held blades like this.”

My mouth quirked. “Looks like you remember what to do with them.”

“Muscle memory.” He put them back. “I imagine you’d still be deadly with the nivilus if you picked it up.”

“I imagine so, though it’s in no condition to be used anymore. I’ve let it age.” I gestured at the weapon in question. “When I fled Ganai on my sixteenth birthday, I had the clothes on my back, a few credits, and my nivilus. There was still blood on it when I boarded the ship that took me off-planet.”

“Whose blood was it?” Jarrix asked from where he was examining the hilt of a plasma-edged broadsword.

“Never knew who they were.” I shrugged. “Just three males who followed me from my keeper’s office after my collar and tracker were removed and tried to kidnap me.”