Grace and Fury (Grace and Fury #1)(32)

When they reached the cave, Petrel kept walking. No one was loitering in the entrance, even though it was nearly dinnertime.

“Where are we going?” Serina asked. Her headache blurred the edges of her vision, giving the twilight a surreal quality.

“It’s time for another fight.” Petrel brushed her shoulder-length hair behind her ears. “Oracle sent me to collect you. She knew I wanted a few moments to myself before I headed for the ring.”

Serina’s head snapped up. “Another boat came in? Already?”

Petrel nodded. “New rations. New prisoners.”

Serina swallowed, her throat dry. “Who did Oracle choose to fight?”

Petrel didn’t answer. She navigated the rugged trail with ease, even in the near dark. Serina stumbled after her. A deep, sickening unease spread through her. There was only one reason why Petrel would need time alone before the fight. “Petrel…”

“Don’t worry,” Petrel replied at last, her voice deceptively light. “I’ve won two fights already.”

By the time they reached the ruined amphitheater, most of their crew had already arrived. With a last squeeze of Serina’s arm, Petrel headed to the edge of the stage, where Oracle stood. Serina found a spot to sit next to Jacana and Gia. Cliff climbed down to them with a bedraggled, terrified older woman in tow.

“Sit here,” she told the woman. “And don’t cry. The guards will see your weakness, and they’ll use it. Don’t let them.” It was the same speech she’d given the last time. Serina wondered how many times she’d said the words.

“Where were you?” Jacana whispered, nudging Serina’s arm.

The ghost of Bruno’s hand pressed into her throat. Serina glanced up at the balcony but didn’t see him. “I was walking,” was all she said.

Serina shifted her gaze to Petrel. Oracle stood next to her, their heads bent close together.

“Cliff, what’s she saying?” Serina asked, pointing.

Cliff followed her gaze. “Oracle can tell someone’s fighting style, their strengths and weaknesses, almost immediately. One, two moves and she knows exactly what they’re going to do before they do it. It’s how she got her name. She’s watched all these women fight before. She’s telling Petrel how to beat them.”

“Those are the other camp leaders, with their champions?” Serina watched the women at the edge of the stage. Sized them up. Were the fighters good this week? Could Petrel beat them?

Cliff cocked her head to the pair at the far left. One woman towered over the other, her arms and legs thin and straight as iron bars. “The tall one’s Twig, leader of the Beach. They live on a stretch of shoreline along the north coast.”

“Is she called Twig because she’s tall and thin?” Serina tried to focus. She tried to breathe.

Cliff shot her a glare. “People call her Twig because she likes to break bones when she fights. Snaps ’em like twigs.”

Serina’s stomach rolled.

Cliff pointed to the next pair. “Slash, leader of Hotel Misery. She’s the one with spiky hair. She makes knives.” The girl next to Slash was bouncing on the balls of her feet, her cloud of dark hair bobbing in time.

“The guards let you have weapons in the fights?” Gia asked, her eyes wide.

Cliff snorted. “No. The guards take them from her and her crew, but they always seem to find material to make more. We’re not exactly the kind of women who follow rules, are we?”

“Why do people call you Cliff?” Jacana asked.

Cliff gave her a long look. “Because after I watched my first fight, I almost jumped off a cliff.”

Commander Ricci called the fighters onto the stage, like last time, and then headed up onto the balcony. The only sound was the rumble of male voices as the guards placed their bets.

Ricci hefted a crate above his head.

“What are the crates?” Serina whispered to Cliff, whose full attention was focused on stage.

“He likes to make the fights interesting,” the woman replied. “The crates are filled with different things each fight. Once, he dropped a crate of rope, and the girls all strangled one another.”

Commander Ricci released the box and shouted, “Begin!” When the crate splintered against the ground, a cloud of wasps erupted from the broken nest inside. The women in the first few rows scrambled away from the stage.

Jungle Camp’s champion kicked the nest toward one of the other girls and went after Petrel. She thrust a fist at her face, but Petrel ducked and, with one quick, brutal movement, wrapped the girl’s head tightly in her arms and twisted.

The girl crumpled, her neck bent at a strange angle.

Above the fighting, the guards cheered. Serina stifled a sob. She couldn’t block it out this time, couldn’t close her eyes. Couldn’t believe she’d have to do this too. She’d never survive when it was her turn to fight.

A scream sliced the air—one of the women was backing away from the others, writhing in agony. The wasps had swarmed her. She clawed at her face. A tall girl—the champion from the northern beaches—kicked out the girl’s knees. She fell to the ground, writhing, and howled, “I submit! I submit!”

No one pulled her away or helped her with the wasps. A few seconds later, while the three remaining fighters wove and parried, the girl stopped crying. Stopped moving. Stopped breathing. Her face was swollen and purple, like she’d been strangled.