Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy, #1)(55)
The nobleman’s eyes flashed, but he gave an indignant snort and turned back to the stage.
“Let me go,” Ana snarled, yet Ramson gripped her tighter.
“What are you doing?” he whispered.
She shoved him back, but he held firm. “The broker,” she growled, already reaching for Ramson’s blood with her Affinity. “The one who took May—I saw him. Now, get off!” She shoved him aside with her Affinity, her anger white-hot.
Ramson stumbled back but caught himself, ignoring the strange looks of several people nearby as they moved away. His jaw was clenched; a strand of his hair fell over his mask. “And?” he challenged, his voice low. “What were you going to do?”
Something, she thought furiously. Anything.
Ana barreled forward but Ramson caught her, his arms wrapping around her in a viselike grip. Her head buzzed with anger and she considered ripping him from her with her Affinity, no matter the consequences.
“Think,” Ramson whispered, his lips next to her ear. To any outsider, they might have been locked in a passionate embrace—but Ana was one step short of blasting him across the room. “You’re here to save May. How is attacking that broker and exposing yourself going to help? At all?”
Ramson’s words fell like cold water on the molten metal of her anger. Ana stopped fighting, her breathing ragged, as she stared up at the Kemeiran girl. She stood alone on the stage beneath the shadow of the Steelshooter. Behind her, the curtains where the broker had been standing rustled, as though stirred by a phantom wind. He was no longer there.
Ramson was right. Using her Affinity against that broker, or doing anything reckless, would only expose them and foil their plan.
Ramson’s grip on her loosened, and for a moment she simply stood with his arms around her, her cheek against his shoulder, watching the stage and breathing in the clean, calming fragrance of his kologne.
The Steelshooter had retrieved four sharp throwing knives. He rolled his head, cracking the joints in his thick neck and corded shoulders.
Ramson drew back. His eyes darted across Ana’s face, and she imagined he was taking in every minuscule movement of her features, drawing up what to say next to assuage her.
“It’s not like this everywhere, remember,” he said, his voice gentler. His hands were still around her shoulders. “In Kemeira, for example, Affinites are appointed as the Temple Masters, the protectors of each village. In Nandji, Affinites are well-respected. And in Bregon—”
Ana flung his hands from her. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she snapped. Onstage, the Steelshooter gave a battle-roar and charged toward the tiny wind Affinite.
Ana turned away. May was not here tonight—she might not even be anywhere close—and Ana felt sick at the thought of watching Affinites kill each other for fun.
A hot, helpless tear rolled down her cheek. As she raised a hand to swipe it away, something peculiar happened. A collective gasp rustled over the crowd.
Ana turned. The Steelshooter bellowed as he staggered to face the Windwraith, who was now on the other side of the stage, pressed against the glass. Yet her stance was a fighter’s stance. Her palms were raised, one before the other, and her feet were planted shoulder width apart on the marble floor.
The Steelshooter lunged. Steel knives shot from concealed areas of his armor—
—and clattered against the blackstone-infused glass. The crowd gasped; people pointed.
The Windwraith had launched herself into the air, arms spread and legs tucked like a bizarre sort of bird. She soared over the Steelshooter’s head in an elegant arc. Faster than the blink of an eye, her feet tapped lightly on the gigantic man’s shoulders; she flipped a full circle and, with acrobatic precision, landed behind him.
In an extension of her landing, she whipped out her hands. Two of the Steelshooter’s throwing knives glinted in her palms.
By the time the Steelshooter, blinking in confusion, turned around, it was over.
The Windwraith pounced, graceful and deadly as a jaguar. She latched on to his shoulders and slashed her hands down upon his throat.
The thump of the Steelshooter’s body hitting the marble stage echoed around the silent auditorium. Red seeped onto the floor, turning the marble’s veins crimson. Ana’s Affinity stirred, a soft whisper at the back of her mind.
The whole thing had taken less than ten seconds.
“Mesyrs and meya damas!” Bogdan’s voice boomed across the auditorium. “It appears we have a new winner and a new record! I present: the Windwraith!”
The crowd erupted into cheers and screams. The few who had placed bets on the Windwraith were waving their slips and shouting at the top of their lungs, clamoring for their gold.
Ana turned and began shoving her way to the exit. She had no strength left in her to spend even a second more in this Deities-forsaken place. As she pushed her way through the wild, drunken crowd, she couldn’t help but look behind her. The audience had worked itself into a frenzy and had begun chanting the victor’s name. Yet onstage, behind the blood-splattered glass wall, the Windwraith was quiet. She stood several paces from the blood pooling around her opponent’s body, head bowed, arms hanging by her sides.
Ana looked away. Like the Windwraith, she felt no victory at the Steelshooter’s defeat. It didn’t matter that a condemned girl had fought her way out and won tonight. No matter what, a body lay cooling on the floor. No matter what, a life had been lost. And until all the stadiums and brokers had been burned to the ground, Cyrilia would keep on losing.