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With a wary glance at me, he heads for the castle. I follow, doing my best to shake off the worst of the slime clinging to me before we reach the familiar door into the coliseum where the Council meets.
“They’ll be upset if you just barge in,” the monk says, wrinkling his nose. “And not just because of your smell.”
I shrug, and trying not to breathe too deeply, I step into the Council chambers.
Chapter Forty-Four
Kain is standing in the center of the amphitheater, the place usually reserved for whoever’s in trouble.
“I suggest we vote,” Nina is saying. “Those in—”
“I know who the murderer is,” I announce loudly.
All heads turn toward me.
Kain sniffs the air and looks half perplexed, half horrified. I open my mouth to say more when someone pushes me out of the way. I stagger and look around.
No one’s visible.
My pulse spikes into the stratosphere.
Hekima. He’s here.
Chapter Forty-Five
Instantly, my surroundings change.
I’m still in an amphitheater, only one a thousand times larger than where the Council meets. It looks like the Colosseum in Rome, only brand new. Confirming the Rome connection, screaming people appear in the seats. They look like extras in a movie about gladiators.
The emperor rises. It’s Hekima, dressed in a purple toga, with a gold laurel wreath perched on top of his frizzy gray curls.
He’s looking down at me, his dark eyes filled with genuine sadness. “You remind me of Siti,” he says in a warm, grandfatherly tone. “I wish I could let you live, but you know too much. It’s me or you—basically self-defense.”
My upper lip curls. “Whatever you need to tell yourself. If Siti were alive, she’d be ashamed of you.”
He looks as if I’ve punched him. Stiffening, he sinks onto his imperial seat, and an expression of concentration appears on his face. He must be showing illusions to the members of the Council.
The crowd cheers as though a rock star just walked onstage. I look down. My filthy clothing is gone, replaced with a hybrid of armor and a bikini—apparently Hekima’s dirty fantasy of what a gladiatrix would wear.
I scowl up at him. “I know this costume is an illusion, but it makes no sense as battle gear.” I slide my hand over my exposed cleavage. “It’s basically daring someone to stab me in the heart.”
As if in reply, the doors leading to the stage burst open and a puck saunters out.
It’s an illusion. I know that. There can be no pucks on Earth. Hekima is making me see that hairy body, the horns and the hoofed feet. In the real world, this is someone from the Council, or maybe no one at all. Yet the sights, sounds, and even smells are exactly as if I were at the real Colosseum facing a goat-reeking puck. Not that I have much room to talk—though now that I’m in Hekima’s illusion, I can’t smell my own funk.
The monster opens its mouth, flashing a grill a shark would envy and bathing me in the stench of decomposing meat.
The crowd goes wild.
Is pain one of the senses illusionists can control? Will it feel real when those teeth tear at my flesh?
The puck lunges at me and tries to punch me in the mouth. I dodge and strike at his sternum. I miss—yet I don’t see how I could have. Either I’m fighting someone smaller than a puck, or there’s no one around me at all.
The puck smashes a fist into my face.
Ouch.
That hurt, and my lip feels genuinely split. Either there’s a real person fighting me, or Hekima’s powers are megastrong.
I dodge another swing, then another. My face stings, but not proportionally to how much it would hurt if a real puck hit me—they’re incredibly powerful. Since I see no reason Hekima would hold back on illusory pain, I conclude that my opponent is real and isn’t super-strong. I guess that’s good. Still, I need to finish this battle before my opponent inevitably uses his or her Council-level powers.
The puck sweeps my feet. I jump over his hoof and throw a punch at his throat. My hand connects with flesh that feels more like a jawbone than neck. The puck staggers and falls down.
Yeah, right. No way a puck would be bested by such a hit.
The crowd goes wild.
The doors fly open again, and a monster more terrifying than a puck ambles out.
It’s a drekavac, a creature that kills by causing unspeakable pain.
I stagger back. Just looking at the thing is painful. It’s a nightmarish, insectoid wraith with too many tentacles and teeth.
Then something dawns on me.
If Hekima wants this encounter to seem realistic, he’ll use someone with the power to kill with a single touch.
Blood drains from my face.
There’s a Councilor perfectly suited for this, one whose touch causes gangrene.
Gertrude.
Chapter Forty-Six
“I can’t fight Gertrude!” I scream, in case Hekima cares.
