Crown of Cinders (Imdalind #7)(87)

“Go get my creature, Ovailia,” I hissed.

My anger drenched her pretty blue eyes in a luscious syrup. Watching her was like watching a well-practiced Oscar performance. Anger, seduction, lust, frustration—they all played upon her face in perfect harmony, stirring my own hunger from deep inside of me.

“Make Damek do it,” she hissed, her anger growing. “I need to be here. They need to see us sta—”

“They need to see where my power lies. It is not with you!” The snap of my voice smacked her right across the face, and she flinched, cowering away from me.

Ovailia. Cowering. The brief image was beautiful.

I had always been told that the witch couldn’t be controlled, that she could never be a true servant. Yet, here she was, beautifully submissive.

“Go. Get. The. Creature.” I snapped each word like a whip, each one making her recoil, curling up her spine. “We need to show them what we are capable of. You are not we, not right now.” Pushing a hard edge into my voice, I moved away from her, leaning back against the rich softness of the pillows, the plush red blending perfectly with the bloodstained bathrobe I still wore. “Go,” I spoke without even looking at her, my focus on the boys below me as all of us waited for the next step in the show to start.

I knew it was coming.

Ovailia left without another word, her sheet of hair falling down her back against the red silk of her dress. The crimson matched her shoes that tapped over the distant screeches of the crowd. They were a countdown that ended with the smack of a heavy door somewhere in the distance.

Pushing her out of my mind, I forced my focus back to the pits, back to the men who were now walking onto the field, back to the deathly silence that had suddenly taken over the space.

George and Bronislav walked into the center of the pit, the sound of their steps against the blood-soaked dirt so thunderous I could hear them echo off the metal stands. They ricocheted, the tone of fearful exhilaration so loud now that I could swim in it.

I looked down at the men as they looked up at me. Their faces were filled with gaunt exhilaration. Bronislav’s smile was visible from under his beard, the look so out of character for him that I could laugh.

And I did.

I laughed.

I laughed in the silence with a deep belt of humor. I laughed over the tension, and everyone in the stands turned to face me, their previous countenances of eager bloodlust vanishing into confusion and fear.

I didn’t stop laughing as I rose from my pillows, and the robe caught in the breeze, sending my magic out from me in a powerful, impenetrable shield. Keeping the magic steady and strong, I stepped forward over the metal bleachers, dancing and jumping until I stood atop the lowermost tier, facing the usurpers and all of their minions, all of whom were ready to rip my head from my shoulders, all of them blissfully unaware of what was coming for them.

“Friends,” I yelled, my voice a boom over the nonexistent chatter of the crowd. I lifted my arms in wide vulnerability. “You wonderful friends, I knew I could trust you to put together this wondrous event! You have done it! What an amazing way to celebrate the people we have become! To celebrate the possibilities that are before us.”

Keeping the widest smile I could, I plastered on all the sugar, sharing the feigned gratitude in a slather that they gobbled up. My smile was exuberant.

“You have done such a wonderful job that I would like to give you something,” I began, the sugar that had dripped from my words leeching into acid, rancid tones that weren’t missed. “A gift if you will.”

All signs of the jovial character I had created vanished in a flash. Arms falling, I then lifted a large, red blade from my pocket, the same blade I had used to destroy Edmund, the same one they had all seen protruding from the chest of his corpse.

Visibly, they stiffened. Even Damek jerked from where he stood in the corner. Quick side-glances pulsed between the men below me as Bronislav shifted his feet, debating whether or not to run. I wished he would.

Twisting the blade in my fingers like a parade baton, I took a step down onto the narrow metal rail that separated the stands from the large open pit the two men stood in. It was a sheer drop of at least fifteen feet from where I stood, pacing and dancing on the narrow line. With the shield still tightly pressed against me, I waited for the first attack.

“It’s the best kind of gift. Would you like it?” I asked as I jumped along the railing, the red blade reflecting the color of death over the stands as it spun between my fingers.

I expected the scared men to begin whatever pathetic attempt at a rebellion they had planned, knowing the pride of the Trpaslíks. Instead, Bronislav nodded in agreement. The smile was gone from his lips as he narrowed his eyes at me.

Well, that was unexpected. No matter. Slight changes were meaningless. They were still walking into death, and being close enough to see the look on their faces when death met them face to face was an added bonus.

My heart thundering wildly in my chest, I jumped, the wind and magic catching me as I soared down to the pits, landing lightly before the two men. All signs of their fear were gone as they smiled at me, their eyes glistening as though they already thought they had won, something I was content to let them believe for now.

Bronislav held out his hand the moment I landed. When I stepped toward him, the man smiled, the look in his eyes giving him away so obviously I laughed, the sound cutting into them. As close to them as I was, I could see them wilt. I could see their supposed victory slip between their fingers.