1
Afunk reminiscent of dead mice decomposing in the walls and unwashed armpits ripening under the hot Alabama sun wafted to my nose and kicked my tear ducts into high gear. Had it been summer and not a tepid February day, I might have retched at the macabre trophies mounded before me in a precarious stack.
Death fogged their eyes. Bloody hair caked their foreheads. Mouths gaped on their final roars.
And then there were the spines. So many spines. So, so many spines.
Beyond that, on the killing field, the daemon performed a victory dance he’d learned from Mystic Realms.
Around me, in bleachers constructed from the weathered bones of challengers past, loomed daemons.
Fangs. Horns. Wings. Fins. Tails. Claws.
The appendage combinations alone threatened to drop my jaw upon entering the otherworldly arena.
The entire coliseum existed inside a magical construct adjacent to Hael. A pocket realm with a dedicated purpose and set location you could reach via a gate anchored to the arena. Or, if you were fancy like me, through a doorway you carved yourself.
Odds of an ambush were slim but never zero. Why chance it? There were seven challengers vying for the throne without the daemon making himself a target by arriving with the veritable rainbow of spectators.
All of whom had set aside their differences and united today with one desire.
To witness their prince slaughter usurpers who coveted his crown with extreme prejudice.
“Pleat my skirt and call me a cheerleader.” Clay, back from plundering the concession stand, plunked down next to me in the royal family’s box. “Got pompoms? A megaphone?”
The crimson mohawk he rocked was an impressive two feet high, and yes, he measured it before we left the house. The tee with the daemon’s grinning face made me wish I had ordered one when Clay offered. The black rosettes stenciled down his arms were cute, but he had abandoned the set of temporary fangs after swallowing one.
“Do I look like a spirit store to you?” I coughed as I caught a whiff of his snack, a greasy paper bag of what resembled fried pinkish crickets in hot sauce. “What are those?”
“A daemon delicacy.” He held one out to me. “Try it.”
“No thanks.” I did my best not to gag. “I’m trying to cut back.”
“I have an idea.” He bit it in two then offered me the top half. “Now try it.”
“Yeah.” I shoved away his hand. “Still no.”
“It works when Ace does it.” He popped out his bottom lip. “Is my spit not good enough for you?”
“No one’s spit is going to make me eat that.” I sniffed the bag. “That’s not hot sauce, is it?”
“Nope.” He tossed the reject into his mouth and crunched down. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“You don’t know what you’re eating.”
“Mmm.” He ate another one. “Zesty with a hint of what thehell did I just put in my mouth.”
“I worry about you.” I inched farther away from him. “You’ll try anything once.”
“You’re not wrong.” His grin flashed twitching legs caught between his teeth. “What did I miss?”
“Somebody got disemboweled. Then beheaded. Somebody else got torn in half. Then beheaded.”
A subtle clap-stomp-clap beat through the ranks, which I echoed, but it was hard to rah-rah for senseless violence. Even if the participants volunteered for slaughter in droves, as if it weren’t a death sentence.
“I was gone ten minutes.” A not-cricket fell out of his mouth. “Tops.”
“The daemon has a guild thing with Colby in two hours. He wants to hurry up and get home.”