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“Does that mean Kaspias is up there?” I ask out loud.
Dessin follows my line of sight.
“Yes,” she says calmly. “Female inmates have the option to leave the Fun House and service the higher ranks in private rooms.”
I decide it’s best to keep that nugget to myself.
Dessin is next in line, looking up at the prisoner climbing above his head. A sentinel waits to give him the go ahead. My stomach coils painfully in a tight ball.
“Tell them the swings are greased. It’s easy to fall when you jump to grab on,” the woman whispers urgently.
“The swings are greased!” I yank Dessin’s arm, curling my fingers around his taut muscle. “Be careful. Please.”
Dessin stares into my eyes for what feels like an entire minute. I soften under his gaze, the one that sinks to the bottom of my soul like an old ship. It’s in this look that says all we need to communicate. He loves me. I love him. In the moments where we couldn’t deny our attraction in the asylum. In the days when only I was allowed to enter the thirteenth room. In the nights we’d spend under the stars. Not even death could keep us apart.
“Everyone hear that? The swings are greased. Don’t let go of it. We all make it to the other side.” And he’s climbing up the ladder now, taking my heart with him.
The sentinel makes me wait as he scales the ladder with speed and precision. His eyes are locked on that swing, watching inmates fall with screaming terror echoing in the stadium like a symphony of death.
Ruth squeezes my hand as he reaches the top, balancing on the balls of his feet, watching the swing move forward and back, timing it just right. His movements are methodical, perfect even. With a sudden stillness, the swing comes back toward him, and he leaps for it. A stellar presentation of his accuracy, so much so that the crowd goes silent. His technique is to jump high enough to secure his hands around the ropes of the swing that aren’t covered in grease. I pass that information on to the others.
Warrose squeezes my shoulder as I start my climb. Nerves bundle together in my chest at the soreness in my limbs. Even with that concoction I drank earlier, my joints are screeching in misery. Muscle cramps in my thighs, but even worse, the shoulder that was dislocated is swelling, throbbing, growing weak from the exertion.
And I’m only climbing a tall ladder.
Fuck.
“Breathe.”
Dessin makes it to the second swing but doesn’t fling himself to the end. He waits, hanging from the ropes as I step up to the top.
His gaze insists that he’s not moving until he knows I’ve made it to him.
The crowd fusses over this, shouting and throwing things. But I fight to tune it all out. I have to jump at the right moment. I have to place my hands on the rope instead of the bar.
My heart dances under my chest, stomping around with building anticipation. The swing falls away, then comes back.
I squat low, then explode upward toward its brass bar. The stadium is muted around me as I soar through the warm air. My hands stretch out, aiming for those ropes. Dessin’s voice blasts through the wall of my concentration.
“Hold on!”
But the moment my hands lock around the swing, gravity pulls me down, pounding into my wounded shoulder like a hammer. That sharp spike of torment makes me shriek, flattening my lungs. Tears crowd my eyes. And the distress comes in sporadic waves. I lose all control over my hands, only caring about making that paralyzing sensation disappear. It blisters under my skin, crackles along my bones. And I must let go, I have to—
Defeat alone forces a cry of frustration from my lips as I watch the stadium move around me in a blur of reds and glowing light. Cheers and loud music spiral back into my ears, briefly distracting me before I see the sheen on the surface of the dark oil pool below me.
It’s cold, thick, and heavy. I sink to the bottom with the cruel gravity that drags me down. I spin around, wafting my hands through the syrupy goo, unsure of which way is up and which way is down.
I’ve failed! I couldn’t even hold on for two fucking seconds!
A whoosh of oil rushes over my body, and suddenly there are hands gripping my waist. Strong arms lift me, pushing me up above his own body. Why am I surprised he would dive into this unknown pond of poison? Why am I elated by the idea that he’d give up certain safety to be with me?
Breaking the surface, I wipe my mouth and nose first, frantic to suck in air.
“Swim, baby! We have to get to the edge before—”
It’s the Raven Bones Mine oil. It works so fast we don’t have time to escape it. My nerve endings tingle, my brain fills with a misty fog, and it’s as if I’m plunging from a cliff or a mountain top. My stomach dips. And Dessin grabs onto me, his strength bruising me in an effort to not let this separate us.
I blink away the solid layer of oil, shake my head from the hit to my equilibrium. But I’m no longer in the stadium. No longer in the prison.
