Wynter half-sobs.
Grasping at her fingers, I push on.
Until blood sputters down the blade and onto his lap and Dyers rocks forward.
Both of us yelp in surprise when momentum takes him down and the knife pierces the back of his skull.
A roar of approval races around the audience.
It’s the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever heard in my life and my husband’s love language is severed limbs.
I haul Wynter backward and away from the corpse, yanking on her arm when she sticks fast, almost frozen in place.
“You can do this, Wynter,” I hiss at her, needing her to get her shit together for whatever’s about to happen next.
She flicks me a terrified look, and I shoot her a grimace.
“We can have a meltdown later,” I urge.
Her bottom lip trembles. “You promise?”
“I swear.”
She nods. Short. Sharp. Then braces her shoulders.
Just in time, too.
A group of men suddenly appear at the edge of the sand pit.
This time, they’re not covered in hoods.
It’s my turn to tremble when I find two senators, the Secretaries of State and Defense, as well as other faces I see in the papers every day staring at me.
“Holy fuck,” Wynter rasps.
“Yeah.” It’s all I can say.
There’s only one guy whose face I don’t recognize. He’s the one who steps forward with his arms wide open, announcing, “Brothers, I introduce you to our new sisters—Brunhilda VI and Egilona II.”
The ugly ass names are roared in a chant that spins around the auditorium, making me dizzy as it seems to rage in time to my heartbeat.
“Come, sisters,” the man greets, his voice softer. “Collect the lifeblood of your kill. The proof of your devotion to our brotherhood.”
Devotion? Ha. More like complicity.
When he passes Wynter a chalice, one that looks like it belongs in St. Patrick’s Cathedral in the city, I snatch it from her grasp. No way in fuck does she have the stomach forthattask.
And I didn’t drag her through the ceremony for her to screw it up now.
With a calm that bewilders me, I step over to the corpse. The cadaver. A man who lived and breathed until I decided to write his final chapter.
The bite of the faceted gems against my fingertips stings, but it’s a grounding sensation. I rub them over the sharper edges, aware that these crudely cut gems must be ancient to have such a texture.
I grab Dyers's head, arch it back, and attempt to collect what wasn’t lost in the arterial spurt.
With a couple inches of the chalice’s base covered, I decide I’ve hit my ick factor and I straighten up.
Into the dearth of silence, a voice intones, “Collect his coin from his hand and his ring.”
