Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Nina

I ’m not afraid of death—not of other people’s death, nor of my own death. You can’t be when you’re a nurse. There’s no point because the dead can’t hurt you. They can’t hurt themselves. And nobody can hurt them. But not being afraid of death doesn’t mean I want to die. Those are two very different things.

Do it, he’d said. She’s better off dead.

“I beg your fucking pardon?” Indignation flushes my face with heat.

Claws scratch my throat, but the cat-like alien’s hold isn’t tight enough to halt my breathing (or apparently my speech). I squeeze my fingers under his hand, but his arm is like a vice, immovable, and I can’t free myself from his grasp. His breath is hot on the side of my face but not unpleasantly so. I hear him inhale, like he’s sniffing me.

I wish I could say I hate his touch. While there’s a part of me that’s definitely fucking terrified he’s going to rip my throat open, there’s a shamefully larger part of me that relishes the feel of him. It’s a reminder that I’m not alone, and I really need that reminder today.

Perversely, my knees weaken, and I want to close my eyes so I can focus entirely on the feel of him. All it took was a short stint locked in a cage and I’m already touched starved. Before now, I probably hadn’t gone a single day without being touched—hugged by my parents and then by Grandma and my friends. And of course there are my patients. I’m always touching other people—taking their temperature, dispensing their medication, helping them in and out of their beds, offering them my comfort and support.

I point my free hand, the one not currently trying to pry claws away from my jugular vein, at the alien in the cell to the left of mine. “I’m in charge of saying what happens to me,” I tell him shortly. “Not you, dipshit.”

(Yes, I swear a lot. Sue me. I don’t fucking care.)

He’s watching me from the shadows; I can just about make out the shape of him now that I know what I’m looking at. He’s large, at least seven feet tall, and broad, particularly across the shoulders. I swear one of his arms is as thick as my waist. He’s got them crossed over his bare chest, which just accentuates his muscular form.

Like me, his feet are bare. Unlike me, he doesn’t appear to be having any trouble keeping his balance on the perfectly smooth floor. He’s wearing pants that are a size too small for him, and they end just below his knees. The hems are ragged, and there’s an artificial look to how he’s dressed, like he’s wearing a costume instead of normal clothes .

When he doesn’t say anything, I narrow my eyes, giving him my best you’d better listen to me glare. I practiced it a lot at the nursing home. Most old people are as sweet as pie, but a few of them are downright mean and will only listen to me if I bully them back (for their own good, of course.)

“What are your names?” I can’t keep referring to them as the cat alien and the other one.

Neither of them answers, and for a moment I wonder if the cat-like alien can talk. He looks kind of like a shifter who’s caught halfway between his panther form and his Human form. His skin doesn’t feel like skin, but nor does it feel like fur. It’s more like velvet, soft until you brush it the wrong way and then it sets my teeth on edge.

“What’s his name?” I ask the other alien, the one facing me.

“Reke.”

“And yours?”

There’s another long pause. Just when I think he’s going to refuse to answer, he says, “Vennkor.”

“And I’m Nina Huntley.” I say my name loudly, wanting everyone to hear it, wanting to shove a piece of myself in their faces as more proof I won’t put up with their bullshit.

“Reke, let me go.” I fill my voice with as much stern nurse as I can manage. The longer I’m standing with my back pressed to his chest, parted only by the uncomfortable bars between us, the more I become convinced he won’t hurt me. Surely he’d have done it by now if he was going to. “Reke,” I warn and jab my elbow between two of the bars, intending to strike him in the ribs.

I touch nothing. Reke’s already released me, moving so silently it’s only his touch missing at my throat and back that alerts me to him having moved.

I slip and slide to the center of my cage, beyond the reach of Reke, even though it brings me a little closer to Vennkor. Have I mentioned that he’s absolutely MASSIVE? Well, he is. And he’s got these two horns sticking out of his forehead, right at his hairline. They curve down around the sides of his head, almost like a ram’s horns.

His coloring is dark, and the finer features of his face are hard to distinguish, standing as he is in the low light. I shield my eyes, hoping that will help me to see him. The scars that cover his body are brutal, like someone tried throwing him into a woodchopper, the type they use to obliterate fallen trees. There’s hardly a spot on his chest and arms that hasn’t been damaged. Some scars are small, others are deep enough if he were lying down in the rain, water would collect in them.

There’s even a large scar across his neck, like someone tried to slice his head off. And there are several scars cutting through his face, including one that runs over the top of his head, cutting through his black, almost navy, hair as if he’s been cut in half lengthways and stitched back together again.

He isn’t conventionally handsome, not by Human standards. He is, however, attractive, in a sort of grumpy and macabre way, which is just my type of attractive. Had I met him in a bar back on Earth (and were he Human), I’d so have been all over him, like Jack up a beanstalk. There’s nothing I find more alluring than a man with obvious trauma, physical and/or physiological. Hell, I met my first boyfriend at group therapy. And I met my first fuck when he was drinking beer behind the groundkeeper’s shed in a graveyard.

Nevertheless, I’m shamefully relieved there are bars between us. He is, after all, considerably larger than any Human man I’ve ever seen, and he looks like he could snap my neck between his thumb and forefinger. Having Reke’s hand around my neck isn’t seeming like the worst option all of a sudden, and I take a careful step back, away from Vennkor, remembering his order for Reke to kill me.

Somewhere overhead the muffled sounds of thousands (maybe hundreds of thousands) of people cheering leak through the ceiling. I glance up. The crowd sounds like they’re watching some sort of show. It’s not a music festival, otherwise I’d be able to hear the music. Maybe it’s a circus or some other performance. Dancing bears? Dancing aliens? With knives?

Unfortunately, Vennkor is the only one giving me any answers, and I’ve got a lot of questions. I clear my throat, noticing again how thirsty I am. If the last time I had a drink was back at the bar, then I’ve got to be significantly dehydrated. All I had was wine and half a pizza. And that was … last night? Two nights ago? A month ago?

“I need some water. Do you drink water?’ I ask Vennkor. Maybe he doesn’t even know what water is. “How can I get something to drink?”

“You have to wait. We are fed morning and night only.”

“Well, when will it be night?” I glance at my wrist, but of course my watch is missing. It’s probably floating through outer space somewhere, along with my shoes and phone and keys. And those five dead women .

Swallowing, I push a fresh wave of panic back down.

“When all the other cells have emptied,” he says, answering my question.

I look around at the room. A new collection of parasites has gathered before my cage. One alien has antennae on the top of their head which twitch each time Vennkor or I speak. Another one is so translucent, I swear I can practically see through them.

I let my gaze skim over the watchers and start counting cages. All but two of the cages are occupied, counting myself, Vennkor and Reke. Then I remember how when one cage lifted to the open ceiling with another cage rising to replace it.

I desperately want to close my eyes and pretend I’m anywhere but here.

“How many cages are there in total? Including the ones under us?”

Vennkor shrugs. “Many layers. And this is just one room. There are more rooms like this one.” He’s not looking at me anymore but staring off into the middle distance as if he’s got better things to be thinking about. I can’t imagine what. Unless he’s planning to escape this hell.

Escape. I catch hold of the word and press it tight to my heart.

Again, I search for the door to my cage. Again, I can’t find it.

But then how did I get inside here? The only way in or out as far as I’ve discovered is when the aliens are sent up .

“What happens when the ceiling opens?” I ask Vennkor. “What’s up there?”

The crowd watching me falls silent again, making me feel like I’ve asked an illegal question. Making me feel like I’ve demanded to know whether God is real and if heaven and hell exist. But it’s not God I’m worried about, and whatever is above us certainly isn’t heaven.

Behind me, Reke shifts. It’s the first time I’ve heard him move, and I glance back at him. He’s sitting on the balls of his feet again, and his tail is swishing. As it wraps around the front of him and then, as it swishes back around behind him, the tip runs lightly along a few of the bars.

He stills for the length of two breaths, his gaze fixed on me, and then he moves his tail again. It’s such a deliberate movement, I know he’s doing it to catch my attention.

“You like playing games, don’t you, Reke.” It’s not a question.

The corners of his lips turn up. I wouldn’t call it a smile, as such. It’s more like an evil grin. He has sharpened teeth. Natural or cosmetic?

I run my tongue over my own teeth, but they’re thankfully just as I remember.

There’s a click as the ceiling over Reke’s cage begins to open, and the floor of his cage rises. He doesn’t move, not even when the cheering coming from overhead reaches near-deafening levels. He doesn’t break eye contact with me either.

Doesn’t he know I’m the queen of staring competitions? But curiosity gets the better of me, and I look up. The sky is now streaked with golden clouds almost too perfect to be real. Maybe they aren’t real. Maybe I’m looking up at a giant painting or a billboard or?—

“It is the Arena.” I almost miss hearing Vennkor over all the yelling, yet he still emphasizes the name like it begins with a capital A .

“Sorry, the Arena? You mean like a baseball stadium?” I must be staring up at the stadium roof, which has been designed to look like a too-perfect sky. “Why a stadium?” My chest tightens painfully as I remember the daggers that other alien was holding. “What happens up there?” I yell.

I stare at what little I can still see of Reke. His feet are kind of like mine, with five toes, but he’s got claws instead of nails. They’re digging into the perfectly smooth floor. And then the floor slots into place as the ceiling, cutting off the noise. A new floor has risen to replace the old one, and the cage to my right is empty now.

I turn to Vennkor. He very purposefully refuses to make eye contact.

If I had any other choice, I’d be ignoring him too, but I don’t. I need to know what’s happening. That’s the number one rule of any emergency is to find out what’s happening. Then you call the authorities, help anyone who needs assistance and get the hell out.

Well, I’m still actioning the first step of that plan: find out what’s happening. I’ll worry about the rest of the plan when I get to it.

“Who abducted me? The green guys—the Hov. Who are they? And what happens up there?” I demand, pointing up at the ceiling.

Silence, except for the incoherent talk of the watching crowd and the distant excitement of the stadium of people overhead.

“Vennkor.” I shuffle closer, holding the bars to keep myself upright. “What’s happening up there?”

Still nothing .

“What’s happening up there? What’s happening up there? What’s happening up there?” I sound like a three-year-old who’s in serious need of discipline.

As if despite his better judgment, Vennkor’s gaze finds its way back to me. He’s holding his jaw so tense that a muscle in his cheek jumps.

“I can be really annoying when I set my mind to it,” I warn him. “You’re better off telling me what I want to know, otherwise you’ll … ” I rack my brain. “Otherwise you’ll be forced to listen to an entire rendition of the Evil Empire album sung by yours truly significantly off-key.”

I point at my vintage Rage Against the Machine patch I sewed onto the front of my sweater. It’s surrounded by nearly half a dozen other patches—one with the Indigenous flag and the words I’m voting YES, another with Love is Love and two for women’s reproductive rights, including a bright pink uterus that always earns me a few extra glares when I wear this sweater to the supermarket.

“Many of your words do not translate,” he informs me through gritted teeth. His expression is impossible for me to read, but I can tell by his voice that he’s pissed. Picking up the weapon from the floor of his cage, he starts tossing it from hand to hand, clearly intending to appear as menacing and unapproachable as possible.

And it works, let me tell you. The weapon’s got a huge head covered in metal spikes, and it’s attached to its handle by a length of chain.

However, as the gaps between the bars are too small for the weapon to fit through, I draw a deep breath, preparing to sing.

Vennkor stops swinging his weapon and gives a long-suffering sigh. He sounds so much like an abused high-school teacher I almost feel sorry for him.

“The Arena is a gladiator fight club,” he grumbles. “We are the gladiators, and up there, two or more of us fight until there is only one survivor.”

His explanation sounds so much like the plot of a movie that I’m waiting for him to start laughing at his own joke. When he does nothing but stare at me, my heartbeat races.

“Sorry. What?” I lean forward, as if bringing my ears close to him might change what he’s just said into something that makes sense. “Gladiators. Like Ancient Rome?”

“What is … an-shent roa-m?” He still isn’t laughing.

“Are you fucking serious?” My headache suddenly returns in full force. Automatically, I hold two fingers to my wrist and start counting heartbeats. I’m counting my own panic. The numbers which I usually find so helpful in calming my anxiety whip through my pounding head at a startling speed.

When Vennkor takes a half step toward me, as if he can reach me through the bars, I realize how close to fainting I must be if even he’s concerned.

My head swims. I close my eyes.

“Turn around,” he instructs.

I can’t seem to move my body, not even to press my head between my legs.

“Turn your back to the crowd.” He practically growls the instruction. “Do not show them your fear. They feed off our fear.”

I gulp. I think I might be crying. I’m most certainly about to throw up.

I thought I was dealing with the whole kidnapped-by-aliens situation. Turns out, I’d only postponed my shock a few hours. Now, the reality of everything is coming crashing down on my shoulders, and I want to scream my rage. Why me ?! I want to yell. What have I ever done to deserve this ?!

“Turn around.” Vennkor punctuates each clipped word with a sharp breath, as if speaking them costs him energy.

Something about his tone suggests he isn’t used to issuing orders. Maybe that’s what finally catches my panic-stricken attention because I look up. The crowd are pressed as close as they can get to my cage, their expressions hungry. Some are holding their tablets up, and I get the impression they’re recording me.

I spin around, almost lose my balance but manage to catch myself at the last second by grabbing hold of the bars closest to Vennkor. To his credit, he doesn’t wrap his hand around my throat like Reke did. He also doesn’t do anything to comfort me.

Ludicrously, I miss Reke’s hand on my throat. At least when he was threatening to kill me, I could pretend he was actually hugging me. Which is such an insane thought, it just proves how fucking unimaginable this entire situation is. I’m clearly not coping, no matter how hard I try.

I wrap my shaking arms around myself.

The muffled cheering from overhead becomes a fraction louder, right before the ceiling over Vennkor’s cage opens and the noise becomes unbearable again. I clamp my hands over my ears.

Vennkor doesn’t react. Nor is there anything in the set of his shoulders or the downward cast of his gaze to suggest the lethal daring I’d seen in Reke’s expression. I forget a little of my own terror as my well-trained instincts to help kick in. I reach toward him, but there’s absolutely nothing I can do.

The floor of his cage begins to rise.

We’re forced to fight until there’s only one survivor, he’d said. Which explains Vennkor’s weapon. Which explains the scars painting his skin like he’s a living Jackson Pollock canvas.

The rest of my panic subsides as I’m overcome with an intense wave of sadness—for Vennkor and Reke and all the other gladiators locked behind bars and put on display, their lives worth so much less than their deaths.

I’m also desperately sad for myself. I’ve been abducted by aliens. I’ve been dragged who- knows-how-far away from my home, and I’ve got no idea how I’m going to get back.

I watch as Vennkor is lifted the rest of the way up into the stadium, until the floor of his cage becomes the ceiling, and I can’t see him anymore.

Up there in the Arena he’s going to die. Or he’s going to kill someone.

And soon I will be forced to face the same fate.

Did I mention a little earlier that I’m not afraid of death? Well, I think maybe I was lying. I think maybe I’m actually fucking terrified of dying.