Chapter 34

Cainon watches me as glass skids across the stone, his brow furrowed, wide eyes conflicted—like he has no idea what’s going on.

Or that he’s sitting next to a snake.

It’s almost enough to make me feel sorry for the guy, but then I remember he’s up there while I’m down here, battling against the odds to rescue people he’s deemed disposable, and that feeling chokes itself to death.

Breath powers into my heaving lungs as I look at the High Septum, a simmer of fire in her eyes. My mind flashes to an earlier time when a similar stare crowned with a similar mark ripped across someone I loved before an axe was swung.

Before my brother’s blood puddled on the floor.

I repress a flinch, tension crackling between us. She pushes to a wobbly stand and leans against the balustrade, like she’s about to scold me from her lofty, ornate perch.

The faintest hint of satisfaction flares beneath my ribs.

Go ahead, bitch.

I scan the bind of brethren looped around The Bowl, murmuring between each other. I’m not surprised to find Elder Creed staring right at me, his eyes a disapproving glint within the shroud of his hood. Perhaps he’s annoyed that I made such a mess of his pristine amphitheater?

I’d feel bad if he wasn’t such a dick.

Electric eels my ass. Where’s my fucking rockfish?

Again, I look at The Bowl. At the eels bellying through its illuminated depths. I’ve tried to climb out of that thing so many times, and spinning circles has gotten me nowhere.

Elder Creed’s instructions from the first day ring in my ears …

Only once you manage to climb back out on your own have the Gods found you worthy of this coupling.

He said nothing about not making use of my surroundings. He also failed to mention the trial would be rigged with two electric eels ready to shock me to death before I’ve had a chance to set things right.

I figure the gloves are off.

I flash the Elder a lupine smile, pretending I’m enjoying this charade much more than I really am, then bend over and snatch a piece of glass off the ground.

Dodging the treacherous litter of shards glimmering in the sunlight, I tiptoe around the edge of The Bowl, coming to the thick metal pole arching over the body of water, supporting the rope that hangs from its highest point. The rescue rope with a bell on the end I slapped every time I almost choked to death during my failed attempts to climb free of this stupid thing.

If it chimes, I forfeit.

Fail.

Not this time.

Biting down on the shard of glass, I shake out my legs, wipe my sweaty hands on my thighs, then press my weight upon the pole that’s almost vertical this far down. I reach high, grip tight, and pull myself up, shoulders burning, suddenly thankful for this silky bodysuit that allows me to glide with relative ease. I curl my legs and, bracing my feet against the pole, reach up with my other hand and haul myself skyward in one sliding motion.

Repeat.

The higher I climb, the more my feet tingle from the rapidly soaring height, a sensation I try to ignore as the pole begins to curve, forcing me to heap my focus and dwindling energy on maintaining my center of gravity.

I feel the High Septum’s stare like a brand upon me, making my teeth grit. If this place has taught me anything, it’s that everyone has their own motives. Most people are more than happy to tread on a corpse if it gives them an extra foot of height above their enemy.

I’m tempted to wave my middle finger at the woman, purely to satisfy my flourishing hate.

Don’t want to lose my balance, though.

Another pull reopens the cut in my palm, and I look down the line of the rope to The Bowl far below as blood drips.

Drips.

My heart leaps into my throat. From all the way up here, I can see the long, dark shapes skulking through the water, disturbing the still, my skin nettling with the thought of them brushing against me.

Shouldn’t have looked down.

I slowly lift my hand to pluck the shard of glass from between my teeth, aware of the crowd’s murmuring as I carefully begin to sever the rope in steady cuts. Every slice frays more of the tawny fibers, and the shard bites into my already ravaged palm.

I wince, more blood dribbling from my bunched fist

Drip.

Drip.

Far below, the water ripples with each fat bead that leaks from my deepening wound.

Once only a few frail strands remain, I center myself so my chest is on the bar for stability, gripping hold of the rope with my spare hand as I cut the final tether. The weight of it falls into my tight grasp. A smile grazes my lips before gasps echo around me, and I realize I’m tipping sideways.

“Crap …”

Scrambling to snatch the bar, I’m forced to drop the glass and the rope, left hanging upside down with my hands and legs bound around the pole—not quite ready to face the inevitable. There’s a splash beneath me, and all the blood rushes to my head as I let it fall back, seeing the rope now slinking below the surface, its frayed end chased by a slithering eel that bumps at it with rapt curiosity.

I groan.

Just my luck to get curious eels.

My skin tingles under the scrutiny of a thousand pairs of eyes watching my every breath, every blink, every bead of blood dripping into that pool. I alter my hold again so both hands are facing the same direction, then draw a deep breath and uncross my legs at the ankle, letting them drop.

My bloody hand begins to lose grip, pinkie slipping free, tension building in my chest like something stretchy bound around my hammering heart.

I stare at the perilous plummet below, at the eel flicking its tail at the surface like a silent threat.

“Please don’t electrocute me,” I plead, drawing my lungs full as I loosen my grip on the bar.

Gravity yanks me down.