Oliver shook his hand and stared at Alexei without saying a word or letting go. I jumped in before it became awkward.
“Lucille,” I said. “But you can call me Lucy.” I already loved his easy smiles; I didn’t mind throwing in my nickname for him.
He removed himself from Oliver’s resisting grip, then kissed both of my cheeks. “Or I could call you beautiful.”
I blushed and fumbled for a response. Did I compliment him back? Did I smile and say thanks?
“Are we off to training?” Oliver interrupted.
Alexei gave us a long look, lingering on our shoes. “Yeah… Do you two have anything warmer? Maybe a pair of boots?”
I surveyed his thick, red-and-black leathers. “Exactly what kind of exercising did you say we were doing?”
His eyes glimmered. “I didn’t.”
“I guess we’d better find some thicker clothes and boots, then.”
Alexei tilted his head, his flirty grin lighting up his face. “Beautifulandsmart.”
I rolled my eyes, and Oliver scoffed before we both returned to our closets to change. Dressed in the thickest clothing I could find and boots, I met a similarly dressed Oliver at my door minutes later.
Alexei nodded. “Better.”
We followed the general’s second to the first floor, down a few hallways, through more doors, and into an enclosed arena.
The tile gave way to sand, and the temperature dropped. Like the castle, the arena had rows of tall windows, and natural light illuminated a sea of people.
Most wore red-and-black uniforms similar to Alexei’s, but a different group stood in the far-right corner, beside a towering wall of weapons. They wore no uniforms—just an eclectic mix of clothing from various cultures and periods. Together, their differences formed a strange, unified whole.
Oliver and I should’ve been with them. Instead, we stood out from the uniformed warriors like chihuahuas in a pack of Soulhounds.
“What’s with everyone’s outfits?” Oliver mumbled.
“Hell doesn’t discriminate on culture or dress. Some souls choose to stay in the clothes they died in. Others don’t. Blood-banded can bring whatever clothes they desire to Hell. Don’t worry, you’ll both receive uniforms if you pass the Infernal Sixty,” Alexei explained.
“And what is the Infern…” I trailed off.
What was that?
A red mark glistened across a female’s face in the far corner.
Was she wounded?
No. She wasn’t bleeding, nor was she alone. Others also had odd markings. Were they scars or paint? From this distance, I couldn’t tell.I squinted, then turned to the uniformed members before us, but they were all facing forward.
“Attention, warriors and recruits. Welcome to the worst sixty days of your lives,” General Ronen announced from the front of the arena. He stood on an elevated surface in all his intimidating black-and-gold glory, staring me down as if his words were meant for me alone. “We will assess your strengths and weaknesses through a series of drills and courses to see where to place you. Most of you won’t make it further than the Bowels Squadron, and some of you won’t make it at all.”
The way he deliberately looked away when he saidstrengths,only to pin me again atweaknesses, said it all. I held his condescending stare, frustration simmering in my veins. The molten gold of his eyes beckoned like an abyss, daring me to surrender. I resisted—or thought I did. A warmth stirred in my chest the longer I held on. My breath hitched, and I hissed, jerking my gaze away.
“Recruits.” He pointed to the corner. Everyone looked, their faces twisting into predatory sneers. At that moment, I was glad Alexei hadn’t led us to the mob of outcasts. “We will test to see if you will join our lowest squadron, the Bowels. The rest of you—Bowels, Trenchers, Devils, Tormentors, and Infernos—this is the time to try advancing to the next level. Remember, Tormentors, Infernos, and Nightmares have a specific number for their squads, and a spot needs to open before you advance. Nightmares, you must prove yourselves to hold your current spot—and maybe one of you will shine enough to elevate yourself to my hand-picked squad of Dreads.”
Someone in the back coughed and raised a shaky hand. The general slowly lifted a brow, as if surprised that someone had enough courage to interrupt him.
“How do you advance to the next level?” the male squeaked.
The general’s grin sent needles stabbing across my skin.
“There are three ways. The previous warrior either advances or dies, and you have to be at a level to take their spot. Or, in the final week, you can challenge them to a one-on-one, no-rules match for it. This is Hell. You prove yourself, or you die.
