Betrayed (52 page)

“I’l live with you and do whatever you want me to do.” He contemplated me, face harsh with disapproval. Once again, his voice didn’t indicate his feelings. “Don’t ever beg, Lilith,” he said mildly. “It his feelings. “Don’t ever beg, Lilith,” he said mildly. “It makes you appear weak. You always want to negotiate from a position of power. Sit down and eat. It’s been over thirty hours since you had something.”

Whose fault was that, I wanted to retort, but nothing I said would change his opinion anyway. One of his minions wheeled in a cart with a tal glass of orange juice and a covered plate on a tray. He stopped before me and removed the dome lid to reveal sub sandwiches cut into quarters.

Misery gripped my throat in a chokehold, making it difficult to breathe. Bran often bought me the same sandwiches. I bet if I checked the veggies, they’d be exactly what he ordered, including olives, which he hated. Kenta had definitely earned his pay or whatever Valafar had in store for him by spying on me. Hope it was a slow, painful death.

“Eat,” Valafar said again, voice of steel draped with velvet. “I insist.”

I had a feeling he’d force me if I refused. “My friends haven’t eaten either,’ I said.

He nodded. From the corner of my eye, I saw the guy who brought my food serve them.

I wolfed my sandwich without tasting anything and washed it down with orange juice. Starting on the second piece, my eyes flew to the stadium when a gong went off. It was huge, probably ten times the size of the pit, and packed. Clairvoyants projected the images in three-dimensions above the field.

On one side of the field, a shirtless burly man with shaggy dark-brown hair, angular face, and black pants bounced on the bal of his feet. At the other end was an ethereal-looking woman in a long-flowing white dress and a white cloak. Her hair, pale as her skin, hung to her waist. I gulped when the clairvoyant control ing the image zoomed in on her face. Her eyes were red and pearly white fangs contrasted with her bril iant red lipstick.

Nosferatu. I shuddered and averted my eyes.

Since my encounter with Lottius and her gang, I had an aversion to Nosferatus.

A gong sounded, and I reluctantly dragged my eyes back to the fighters.

The man howled then dashed across the field, his chin elongating, head flattening and teeth growing and crowding his mouth like a shark’s.

Muscles bulged and moved as they reformed and rearranged under his skin, making him bigger. Ears shifted, the tips becoming pointed and sticking out of his head. Above them sprung goat-like horns.

Halfway down the field, the Werenephil, now in its Nephilimic form, leaped.

The demoness rose in the air, light as a bal erina as her cloak became wings and nails shot out of her extended fingers to become razor sharp talons. They clawed at each other. Blood streamed from cuts then stopped as wounds sealed. Howls and shrieks fil ed the air then they sprung apart and went after each other again. The demoness’ dress no longer looked white. It looked more like a bad tie-dye job.

They disappeared from the field only to return with weapons—the most evil-looking swords I’d ever seen. Serrated blades tinged with red, cross-guards like birds of prey or bats.

They lunged at each other. Blurs of thrusts……slashes…parries…feints…fol owed.

Every time the blades connected, red flames shot in the air. The demoness got a deep cut on her arm, and continuous shril shrieks fol owed. The Werenephil, sure of victory, threw his weapon aside and generated energy bal s. Not
omnis,
the red sizzling energy bal s that even the Guardians dreaded. These were omega bal s with orange coils at the core and white flares on the edges. He lobbed them at her.

Flinging her weapon aside, the Nosferatu thrust her hand toward him and pul ed him toward her through the distance. He dug his heels in, but she reeled him in. More energy bal s shot out from his palm. The demoness ducked left then right, but her hold on him didn’t weaken.

Then moving so fast she was a blur, she rushed him, plunge her hand straight into his chest and yanked out something. Something bloody. The crowd went wild. Nausea hit me.

The woman darted around the arena, blood dripping down her fingers. Whoever control ed the clairvoyant crystals zoomed in on her trophy. I barely stopped myself from throwing up when I realized she held the Werenephil’s heart. It was stil pumping.

The Werenephil staggered back and fel to his knees, one hand ready to clutch his chest. He forgot he stil had two energy bal s, one in each hand.

Just before he burst into flames, he threw the second Just before he burst into flames, he threw the second one. It curved and fol owed the victorious demoness like a heat-seeking missile. She didn’t see it coming until it blasted her from behind.

A thunderous roar fil ed the arena. Fighting nausea, I slouched low in my seat and averted my eyes. I couldn’t bear to watch anymore. Solange wore a spiteful smile. Valafar stared ahead with a scowl. Whatever just happened didn’t make him happy.

“Were they part of the elimination?” I asked.

He didn’t respond.

Solange shook her head. “Yes. Those two were part of the last four, which means Bran and Andros are next. He doesn’t stand a chance,” she added, chuckling.

I scowled at her, wishing I could vanquish her.

“Here he is now,” Solange said with glee.

My gaze flew to the field.

A tal demon about Dante’s size entered the arena. His wings, already out, were massive, his head bald and pointed, his face covered with tattoos. At first I thought he wore a tight, long sleeved shirt, until they zoomed in and I realized tats covered every inch of his shirtless chest and arms. He posed and flexed his muscles like a body-builder, his wings lifting and bil owing behind him like a bird about to take flight. The crowd booed and hissed.

Then a cheer rose, and a chant fil ed the stadium. At first, I didn’t get what they were chanting.

The sound swel ed to a deafening din.

They’re cheering for Llyr,
Sykes telepathed, his voice fil ed with awe.

Where is he?
Even as I asked, Bran entered the field, and my heart leapt to my throat. His wings were out, the feathers making them larger than his opponent’s, who was tal er. Relief and panic rushed through me in quick succession.

Then I felt it, the sudden sourness in my right side, where I had the stitch earlier. The pain wasn’t localized, just unrelenting and throbbing. Realization hit me like a giant boulder, and my eyes widened.

Bran and I felt each other’s pain, and what I’d assumed was a stitch must be his wound.

“Bran’s hurt,” I whispered in horror.

26. The Showdown

My gaze flew to Valafar. “He’s hurt, right here.” I touched my side. “He must have broken his ribs or something. We need to heal him first.” An incredulous expression flitted across Valafar’s face so fast I doubted I’d actual y seen it.

“Sorry, little sis,” Solange said in a voice fil ed with spite. “Rules are rules. Once you’re on the field, there’s no leaving until you’re the winner.”

“I’m not talking to you, Solange.” My gaze clung to Valafar’s face, hoping for a glimmer of compassion. There was none. “Please, let Izzy heal him. He can’t fight that demon and survive if he’s hurt.”

Instead of responding, Valafar turned toward the field, a pensive look on his face.

“Andros has never been defeated,” Solange bragged from the other side of the box then chuckled. “He was Bran’s master trainer.” Which meant he was a superior fighter. The horror of it hit me with a ful force, and something snapped inside me.

“If he kil s Bran, I’l make him pay. I’l ….” My voice trailed off as Valafar’s indifference and Solange’s spiteful smirk took on a sinister quality.

Everything fel into place.

I rounded on Valafar. “This was your plan al along. I get to watch Bran die, then avenge his death and become the winner.” Solange chuckled, and my gaze flew to her.

She winked. “You catch on fast, little sis.”

“That’s enough, Solange!” Valafar’s voice cracked through the air like lightning.

Bitter rage washed over me as my gaze went to the image of Bran above the field. Blood streaked his face. His black shirt was ripped as though by a Werenephil and was darker in some places, probably due to clotted blood.
Bran,
I screamed.

His head jerked, and he looked around.
Lil?

Relief that he heard me was bittersweet.

Don’t fight him.

He turned around as though he could pinpoint my exact location.
Where are you?

I opened my mouth to say Valafar’s box then changed my mind. Bran had enough to deal with without worrying about me.

It doesn’t matter,
I answered, my breath caught in a sob.
You’re hurt. I can feel it. Please,
link our energies.

No. Get out. Now.

Not without you,
I vowed.

I mean it,
he snapped.
Valafar will not honor
his deal. Get the others and leave. I’ll find my way
home,
he added.

Did you make a deal with him? You can’t
trust him. He’s manipulative and—

Just go.
Then he broke the connection.

Bran.
I pinged him, but his shield went up. I closed my eyes but couldn’t find him in the sea of demonic energies.
Bran!

The gong went off again, and I watched helplessly as he walked toward the demon, wings hugging his back like a cloak, his gait off. He rushed Andros. A flurry of movements—upper cuts…

blocks…kicks and wel -aimed punches. Bran was smal er and leaner than the demon but faster. My breath caught when Andros landed a knuckle punch on his injured side. Bran hissed in a breath, the sound amplified by the clairvoyants. The throbbing on my side inched up a notch, which meant his was on my side inched up a notch, which meant his was much worse. As though Andros knew about his injury, he spent the next bouts aiming for the same spot. I wanted to zap him, but al I could do was clench my teeth and wait.

Bran took to the air with the demon on his tail, downy feathers fal ing from his wings like pixie dust.

Turning, he extended his wings backward and brought them down hard. The gust of wind generated by his wings sent the demon tumbling as though hit by a gale. He teleported before hitting the ground then reappeared behind Bran, who went into offensive again. The aerial battle with flying kicks and summersaults would have been spectacular if I wasn’t on the edge of my seat, nails digging into my palms and heart pounding. Bran’s movements became sluggish.

I squeezed my eyes tight and tried to locate his psi. Nothing. His shield was stil up. I tried to locate the Kris Dagger. If there was a moment I needed help, it was now. The pulsing energy grew stronger and came from under the field.

Unfortunately, I was used to commanding things whose energies I could see, not something hidden behind concrete and the steel wal s of a vault. Stil it never hurt to try.

Come to me,
I ordered it.
Come to me now.

Nothing happened. Frustration boiled my insides. The clash of swords yanked my focus to the battlefield. Andros lunged at Bran with his sword again and again, red sparks shooting in the air each time the blades connected.

Bran disengaged his sword and went with an overcut. Andros blocked, saying something and laughing. They moved across the field in a blur of feints and strikes, parries and counterstrikes.

Teacher and student, footwork smooth, each move a perfect match. The silence from the spectators was eerie.

Bran’s sword was definitely not one of ours, not with that rugged blade and gothic guard and hilt.

He handled it as if it were an extension of his arm. I wasn’t sure why that little fact bugged me.

They took to the air, wings flapping. Bran made it past Andros’ guard and caught him on the shoulder. A bel ow replaced the laugh as blood flowed and colored his tattoos before it stopped almost as fast as it started when the wound healed.

What a crybaby. He should try fighting with Bran’s injuries.

Andros became even more aggressive, snarling and yel ing obscenities. Unlike on the ground, he was swifter in the air. Though weakening and missing numerous close cal s, Bran managed to hold Andros off, even as the demon’s blade swished near Bran’s wings, face and arms. Nausea and fear became my companions. Cold sweat ran down my face. Each near-strike felt like a hit. The demon knocked the sword from Bran’s hand, and col ective gasps fil ed the stadium as the blade toppled to the ground. Bran’s panic was a physical pain, and it took every control I had left not to teleport to the field and finish off the demon myself.

Bran teleported higher. His wings almost touched the dome-shaped roof of the stadium. Chest heaving, his breathing rapid, he darted back and forth, probably searching for an opportunity to get to his weapon. Below him, Andros smirked and taunted him. My rage reaching fever pitch, I locked on the ugly sword and sent it flying toward Bran.

I didn’t know Bran had telekinetic abilities,
I heard Kim telepath.

He doesn’t,
Izzy answered.

Lil must be helping him,
Kim added.

Thank goodness,
Izzy said with relief.
I don’t
know how long I can stand watching this.

I wanted to tel them I appreciated their support, but my attention shifted. Andros had seen the sword. He zipped through the air and snatched it then raised the two swords in victory and laughed.

“I’m going to chop off your wings, boy!” he roared as he chased Bran al over the stadium. He threw one of the swords like a knife. The blade whistled and shook as it whipped toward Bran.

No,
I screamed and leaped off my chair. Bran wrapped his wings around his body and shot forward, hit the ground and rol ed, the sword barely missing him. The crowd went wild. My body throbbed like I’d hit a brick wal . So cold on the inside, shaking with dread and pain, I sunk into my seat. That was it for me. I couldn’t take anymore of this crap.