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“You still aren’t going to tell me who you are?” I ask in the stillness of my own thoughts.
“No. At least, not until you need that answer desperately.”
I arch my eyebrow. What’s that supposed to mean?
“Will you help me keep them alive?” Even in my mind, my question is shaky and rimmed with alarm. We’re two steps away from walking through those doors. Into an arena of Vexamen soldiers waiting to be entertained.
With an edge of old wisdom, she answers, “Always.”
Dessin squeezes my hand once before we take our first steps into the giant room of chaos, beaming golden bulbs and a darker shade of red, like dried blood, coloring every surface.
An announcer’s voice blasts through the stadium of people, echoing across the high ceilings, zinging from wall to wall. I follow the sound to a tall, lanky man standing on a raised stage, surrounded by a ring of fire.
“That’s the Ringmaster.”
I nod, waiting to share that bit of information with Dessin.
The Ringmaster is dressed in a glamorized military uniform. Dark red tailcoat with gold trim, a glittering sequined vest, golden chains, leather gloves, and an obnoxious top hat.
“Tevezuíez dulesev nad pöxex ra sïs hogrsás? Bixex nuei bäship Demechnef qeinx ta hues mäh?” His tone reaches the audience, and they laugh, then boo.
Ruth moves close to us to translate. “But shall I switch to the new language of our sister country? That way our little Demechnef guests may understand me?”
Dessin rolls his eyes. “I’m going to guess not.”
The Ringmaster makes another joke, pulling another laugh from the stadium.
“Best to leave them in suspense then,” Ruth deciphers, gawking out at the crowd unnerved.
“Does anyone see Helga Bee?” Dessin asks us.
I search the lines of prisoners filing around the stage, looking up at the ceiling with dread. No sign of her round, blushing face. Come on, Helga Bee. We need you.
We follow our lineup of prisoners toward the edge of the back end of the stage. The crowd throws things at us, not the other prisoners, but us specifically. Handfuls of popcorn. Rotting fruit. And some kind of sludge. They scream at us in outrage. The name Demechnef pops up multiple times.
“I’m not going to repeat any of what I’m hearing.” Ruth lowers her head.
“Don’t make eye contact with them.” Dessin turns to us quickly, jaw set in authority. “We don’t know how interactive they can be.”
I blow out a breath. I want to be strong for my family, I do. But my body is still so stiff from the swelling and bruises. The black sludge Ruth brought me helped with the pain, but I’m still aching and unable to move swiftly.
The Ringmaster yells something final, the beaming lights flash, the music shrieks to its highest volume, and the stadium ignites in wild energy to cheer on the show.
“He says, ‘you know the rules. Deserters will be thrown in the Vex-Reaping! Behold, the Swinging Pit!’”
“But we don’t know the rules.” This may be one of the first times I’ve heard fear in Niles’s voice. He doesn’t usually show negative emotion. Merely covers it up with humor. But that golden face is missing its charming smile. He stays close to the group the way a child would cling to its mother’s leg.
“Did you think they’d give us a manual?” Marilynn snaps at him, irritated and overwhelmed.
“Everyone watch what the prisoners in front of us do. We’ll learn the rules that way.” Dessin scans the stage, studying it thoroughly.
But we need more than to watch. I have to keep us all alive. Dessin and I are safe due to our value to this country. Our family isn’t.
A forty-foot ladder rises from openings in the stage floor, stretching to the glowing ceiling. My eyes follow its length, searching its surrounding area for a purpose.
“Look at the bars,” Dessin says, pointing upward. “They look like swings.”
A stomach-wrenching terror swells and expands in my core. Heights. It has something to do with being at least forty feet above the stage.
