Grace and Fury (Grace and Fury #1)(33)

Every muscle, every atom of Serina’s body ached to pull her up off the rough stone bench, up out of the arena, away from the horrors unfolding in the ring.

With a sickening crunch, the girl from Hotel Misery dispatched the champion from the northern beaches. While she still stood above the body, Petrel hit the Misery girl hard and fast. They were the only two left.

The girl fell, but before Petrel could slam her again, she swept a leg and brought Petrel down too. Instead of grappling on the floor, Petrel sprang to her feet and retreated a couple steps.

For a moment, the two girls sized each other up, bodies littered around them. Petrel’s adversary was the same height, with a brown puff of hair and a narrow face. From Serina’s vantage, it wasn’t clear who would be stronger.

Punch, thrust, parry.

Petrel dodged each of Misery’s moves, almost as if she knew exactly what to expect. The girl’s easy manner and sweet smile had disappeared beneath a cold calculation Serina would never have imagined her capable of.

Petrel connected with Misery’s jaw again, and the girl let out a scream of frustration. Petrel pressed her advantage, delivering another punishing blow. Misery stepped back. Petrel advanced. She pounded at Misery’s face and stomach, each punch driving forward with all her force behind it. They were blows to break bones.

No one cheered or booed, not even the guards. No one made a sound.

Misery’s face was bloody and swollen. Her cloud of hair sagged, weighted with sweat and blood. She was standing at the edge of the stage, hands up to protect herself, not even trying to fight back. Petrel spun sideways and thrust her foot into Misery’s knee. With a hollow scream, the girl crumpled. She curled into herself, around the injured leg, and bowed her head. Petrel paused, and Serina realized she was waiting. She wanted Misery to submit.

The girl didn’t say a word.

Petrel clenched her fists for an instant, her face twisting. Then she reached down with both hands, to choke her or break her neck.

Bile rose in Serina’s throat. She couldn’t watch. She couldn’t watch another girl die. It was so deliberate this time, without the heat of multiple battles, the struggle to survive. Petrel was no longer defending herself. She was committing murder.

Suddenly, the press of bodies was too much, the heat, the electric silence as they all laid witness to Misery’s final moments. Serina couldn’t stand it. She dropped her head into her hands, just as a collective gasp rose around her. She glanced back up in time to see a flash, something catching the light.

Petrel’s mouth opened.

Her hands dropped from Misery’s throat… and grasped her own.

Petrel’s fingers turned black. No. Red. She was trying to stanch the blood. The blood pouring out of her, pouring from her neck.

She made a strange gurgling sound. As she drifted slowly to her knees, Misery rose, favoring her injured leg. In her hand, something glinted. A knife.

“Cheater,” someone shouted angrily. Whispers of outrage rippled through the amphitheater.

The gurgling stopped. Petrel fell to her side, eyes still open.

Serina couldn’t breathe, and the world faded in and out, as if she were the one lying there, dying in a pool of her own blood. She couldn’t get her brain to work. She couldn’t accept—

Hotel Misery’s champion thrust a bloody fist into the air.

Her crew cheered.

There was a flurry of movement near the stage; Oracle and Ember leapt up and collected Petrel’s body. As they carried her away, blood dripped to mark their path. Serina stared at the slash of red against the pale stone. So much blood had been spilled here. How could so much death not leave a stain?





SIXTEEN



NOMI


NOMI STOOD ON the roof of the tallest building in Bellaqua, her black-and-silver gown billowing in the howling wind. Angeline had been beside herself all day, regaling Nomi with stories of the Premio Belaria, the most famous horse race in the world. The only one ever to be run through city streets. The most difficult race in history. Nomi had heard, in detail, about all the most famous runners, some of whom had won, and some of whom had died.

“His Eminence Asa ran it two years ago,” Angeline had said, practically swooning. “He was the youngest ever to run it, and he won. It was a brutal year too. Many racers died.”

Nomi had never been remotely interested in horse racing. But as she stood there, high above the streets below, she found herself awash in reluctant anticipation.

In almost every window and on every roof in view, she could see the silhouettes of other spectators. But the lamp-lit streets and canals below were eerily empty.

“The city is holding its breath,” Maris murmured. She was wearing her studded green gown. With her unbound hair whipping in the wind and the torchlight flickering across her face, there was something dangerous about her.

Behind them, a turret rose into the darkness; the narrow walkway that encircled it was full of people: the Superior and his Graces, and the Heir and his. There were a few dignitaries and servants, and several soldiers standing at attention on either side of the doorway that led back inside to the stairwell. And somewhere, there was Asa. She’d spent the evening looking for him, wondering if there would be a moment to speak with him alone.

Nomi had seen him briefly when she’d stepped out of the twisting stairs, her feet sore from climbing in her impractical shoes. She looked again now, but he had disappeared.