Arena

  Before the night was over, would the rest of them be home as well? Or would they be in mutant hands? Strengthened and rejuvenated by the fire curtain, their enemies could sustain an assault until the defenders had no more E-cubes. Or, even easier, they could just wait for their water to run out.

  Callie swallowed and closed her eyes, fighting hysteria. Pierce stirred, muttered. She smoothed the hair from his face. The new scar on his temple gleamed pink against his skin.

  She kept coming back to the same thing. Why had they been brought here? Were they supposed to wait for a door to open? Or had something gone wrong? Perhaps the Tohvani had gained the upper hand offstage, and now Elhanu couldn’t carry through on what he’d promised.

  The light from the slit was fading when Gerry slapped his knee and cried, “We can’t just sit here!”

  “What do you suggest?” John asked, lifting his head. “A frontal assault?”

  “We could surrender,” Ian said.

  Everyone stared at him.

  He studied his big hands. “I went through it. It wasn’t that bad.”

  “They didn’t torture you first,” Brody sneered. “Or rape you or cut off your—”

  “Shut up, Brody,” John said.

  “What, afraid to face the inevitable? Maybe a frontal assault isn’t such a bad idea. We take out as many of ’em as we can, then blow our own brains out.”

  Whit came around the curtain of flowstone then. His face was haggard, his ruined eye socket still shocking. He hunkered down beside Callie and Pierce. “Has he said anything?

  “Nothing new.”

  Whit’s dark brow furrowed. “I don’t get it. Why bring us here and hide the passage?”

  “Obviously your great leader miscalculated,” Brody sneered.

  Whit shook his head. “I’m certain we’re where we’re supposed to be.” He looked at Callie. “John said you all were led over the mountain pretty deliberately.”

  “Yeah, by a bunch of goats,” Brody said. “Real deliberate.” He shifted against the wall, grimacing. “Man, you guys are stubborn. Isn’t it obvious this is a mistake? We should’ve followed Morgan.”

  “Following Morgan didn’t do you much good,” Callie said dryly.

  “If we’d listened to him in the first place, we’d still be on the road.” He snorted. “I would’ve been better off staying back in that pen.”

  “Yeah,” John said, “but then you wouldn’t be able to blow your brains out.”

  Brody scowled at him.

  The air pulsed with a familiar nauseating disorientation, and then came the high-pitched, brain-spearing tone and the antlike crawling of the skin. But there were no ants, and no amount of thrashing would diminish the sensation. The Trogs had turned on their fire curtain.

  “What did the manual say?” Whit asked. “Beneath the Devil’s Window where the water of life mingles with the Blood of Sacrifice? I thought it was that flowstone, but there’s nothing there.”

  Callie shook her head grimly. “Nothing we can see, anyway.”

  The irritating buzz backed off to a soft vibration of almost pleasure, promising relief, empowerment, ecstasy. Pierce stirred, opened his eyes, and moaned about his belt. Outside, the Trogs began to shriek and howl. Soon after, the first of their victims screamed. The sound crawled up the scale, ululating with agony. It cut off briefly, and then began again as the Trogs roared approval.

  Brody’s wide eyes were fixed upon the slit. His swarthy face was gray beneath streaks of dirt and blood. Gerry lifted his head, and Ian stepped into the opening, resting a quivering hand upon the rock beside it. After that, no one moved. They just listened in silence as the screams went on and on and on.

  Callie’s fingers dropped to her belt, flipped the switch from long habit. She felt the vibration as it started up and quickly died. She did not turn it on again. It had been off for hours. What good would it do her now? It couldn’t ward off sound.

  The keening degenerated into dreadful animal gruntings, then momentary silence, swiftly followed by the roar of the mutant spectators.

  Callie’s eyes strayed back to the glittering flowstone. Blood of Sacrifice— water of life. Was that the door? Had the Trogs or Tohvani somehow obscured it? They could have entered this cavern earlier and somehow covered over the telltale marks.

  “There’s something I keep wondering about,” Dell said, drawing everyone’s attention. His hazel eyes flicked around the circle, his baby face drawn. “Those bodies we saw hanging in the camp—the human ones. If they’re destroying our bodies, how can we be sent home?”

  The question unnerved them all, and no one had an answer. Callie looked down at Pierce, his face lined with pain even in unconsciousness. A vision of that awful rack assailed her, and her stomach knotted.

  John leapt to his feet. “Gerry’s right. We can’t just sit here. Maybe there’s another slit outside. With all the explosions, who knows how much it was changed? That must be what the mutants intended all along.”

  Whit glanced at him. “You’re suggesting we blunder outside in the dark?”

  John gestured at Pierce. “He’s dying, Whit. If we don’t do something soon, we’re gonna lose him. And the others, too. And ourselves. All given up to that thing out there.”

  Whit had no answer to that.

  “I could use Pierce’s armor. You could use Dell’s, and Gerry and Tuck still have their own. With the belts, we’d be protected—”

  “Not from their bare hands,” Whit said, frowning. “Not from exploding rocks—”

  “They’re distracted right now. And it shouldn’t take long with the belts enhancing our vision.”

  Callie gasped. “The belts!” Letting go of Pierce’s limp hand, she leapt up. “Of course! How could we have been so stupid?

  ” Whit looked at her in dawning comprehension, his hands going to his own waist, which had been stripped of its belt when he’d been taken prisoner by the Trogs.

  Callie was already fumbling with the switch on her own belt, turning to face the flowstone.

  “Water of life . . . eyes to see . . . belt off . . .”

  Pierce hadn’t been out of his head. He’d been trying to tell her all along. And she’d been too dense—maybe too upset—to figure it out.

  If he dies because of my— She felt the initial vibration as the belt’s power cells burst to life—and died.

  Calm down!

  “I can see it!” Tuck cried. He was standing in front of the flowstone, one hand on his belt. “I don’t believe this! It’s been here all along. I can see it!”

  “So can I!” Gerry exclaimed, standing beside him.

  Callie drew a deep breath, forced all the fear and recriminations from her mind, and switched on the belt again, trying this time to maintain it. Something flickered in the flowstone behind the two men, then vanished. Tuck had his key out. He plunged it into the stone and turned it slowly—

  Hope rose in Callie, and this time her belt stayed on. She saw three red circles in triangular array drawing together as Tuck turned the key. The entire stone glowed neon bright, red crystals streaking down its face like streams of blood. Where the water of life mingles with the Blood of Sacrifice. The circles contracted into perfect intersection and a blinding light flared as a group of gray-uniformed figures burst out of the exposed corridor, gurneys floating in their wake. As Callie blinked away tears, one of them knelt beside Pierce and checked his pulse while the other waved the gurney to the ground beside him.

  “He’s still alive,” the Aggillon murmured. “But barely. I don’t know if we’ve made it in time or not.”

  He inserted an intravenous drip pack, and they moved him onto the gurney. Callie started to walk with them, but they waved her back, herding patient and platform ahead of them into the blue-lit corridor. Four other pairs hurried after them with their own patients and float tables, and they all disappeared around a bend in the corridor.

  The passage remained open in their wake, and now the rest of them stirred.

/>   “Well, I’ll be,” Brody said, gaping at the opening.

  “Outstanding!” Gerry agreed with a broad grin. Then he and Tuck helped Brody up, while John assisted Dell. Whit led the way, and there was nothing left for Callie but to follow.

  CHAPTER

  24

  The corridor led to a platform where a train of open-topped cars awaited. Seeing no sign of the Aggillon, who had evidently taken their patients another way, the rest of the group could only board the train in hopes it would bring them back together. Gliding silently on a single rail, it bore them through a serpentine tunnel past stunning rock formations illuminated by hidden lights. Beds of tiny red teeth gave way to walls of short green knobs, then to vast stretches of slender white fibers that crumbled at the touch and shimmered in the glow of the train’s lamps.

  Though the sights were beautiful, Callie couldn’t enjoy them for worrying about Pierce. The Aggillon’s words kept recycling through her mind. “Alive . . . barely. I don’t know if we’ve made it in time.” She could hardly stand not knowing where he was, or how he was, or what they were doing to him, and the train’s leisurely crawl only stoked the fires of her impatience. More than once she considered getting out and running up the track ahead.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the train stopped at a second platform, where an elevator whisked them upward for so long that Callie’s ears popped. Finally, though, the car stopped, its doors opening on a white-stone courtyard illuminated by tall globe lamps beneath the dark sky. A graceful two-storied building surrounded the courtyard, and twinkle lights sparkled across the vine-hung balconies, while a jasmine-scented breeze tinkled through the wind chimes hanging along the eaves. Several white-and-gray-uniformed Aggillon stood near tables laden with punch bowls, cups, cheeses, crackers, fruit, and cookies.

  As the travelers entered the courtyard, the closest man smiled in greeting. “I am Nahmel,” he said. “Welcome to Hope.”

  Like all the Aggillon Callie had encountered thus far, Nahmel was incredibly handsome—dark skin and hair, dark eyes, perfect features.

  “And congratulations on your progress,” he continued. “We salute you.”

  The Aggillon behind him smiled and nodded, and Callie felt a peculiar rush of satisfaction, as if they had somehow conferred upon her the warmth of their feelings. Tall or short, well muscled or slender, dark or fair, they were all gorgeous. She wondered what they really looked like.

  Then wondered if it mattered.

  Three of them came at once to help Brody and Dell, leading them and the other injured down a side passage. “Help yourselves,” Nahmel said to the rest of the group, gesturing at the table of goodies. “We have prepared rooms for each of you, when you are ready.”

  “What of our friends?” Whit asked. “Are they all right?”

  “They are in surgery now, sir.”

  Callie pushed around Whit to confront Nahmel. “Will they be back?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t answer that, Miss Hayes.” Nahmel paused. “If they don’t, you may rest easy knowing they have resumed their lives on Earth well-compensated.”

  He seemed no more cheered by this prospect than his listerners.

  “How long can we stay here?” John asked.

  “You have three weeks.” Nahmel lifted his voice to address them all. “Our dining room serves breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and there are always snacks in the lounge.” He spread his hands. “Hope is yours. Enjoy it as you will.”

  As the others made for the tables, Callie cornered Nahmel. “I want to see Pierce.”

  He spread his hands. “You can do nothing for him, Miss Hayes. No more there than here.”

  “I would feel better there.”

  The Aggillon studied her expressionlessly. “Very well.”

  He led her through a lighted garden to a circular building and left her in a small salon looking out on an artfully lit and landscaped patio. She stood before the window, staring at her blood-and-grime-smeared reflection, feeling cold and jittery. Her stomach was a hard, painful knot, and every time she thought of Pierce, tremors swept along her arms and legs so powerfully she finally had to sit down. As much as she tried not to consider it, the possibility of losing him loomed very large. If that happened, she didn’t see how she could go on. It would be like having her heart and soul wrenched from her body. The worst of it would be knowing she might have saved him had she kept her wits about her.

  She sat there a long time before she realized someone had joined her. Turning, she found a white-haired, bearded man regarding her soberly from the bench beside the door. He wore one of the Aggillon uniforms, though his had gold piping along the yoke and was all white. She recognized him immediately and leapt to her feet.

  “Mr. C! We thought you were lost. How did you get through?”

  He stood to meet her enthusiasm, his dark eyes crinkling in amusement. “Get through?”

  “All those Trogs.”

  “Ah.” His smile faded. “Callie, I couldn’t go through the Cauldron with you. At least not in this form. It wouldn’t have been a proper test.”

  She stared at him, grappling with his words until understanding dawned and her mouth fell open. He was an Aggillon. An Aggillon! She’d trusted him, confided in him, loved him—grieved him, for heaven’s sake!—and he wasn’t even human. Never had she felt so betrayed. His care, his concern, his friendly manner—all an act to worm his way into her confidence so he could . . .

  Her outrage sputtered away. No. That sober, dark-eyed gaze proved his care was genuine. And his counsel, his actions, had never been less than supportive. Without him . . . without him, she wouldn’t even be here.

  She studied her clasped hands, feeling suddenly awkward.

  “You wanted to see Pierce?”

  Pierce! Old concerns wrenched at her, and she looked up. He smiled. “He’s going to make it. Come.” He led her down a long white-walled, beige-carpeted corridor. “You understand you won’t be able to talk to him.”

  “I don’t care. As long as he’s going to be okay.”

  Awkwardness closed about them again. Mr. C’s presence reminded her of her failures, how she hadn’t even remembered the most basic policy of keeping her belt on.

  “You needn’t flail yourself about it, lass. Everyone fails.”

  He never ceased to surprise her with his uncanny ability to read her mind. “Perhaps,” she said, “but that’s no excuse.”

  “No. But any penalty associated with failure has already been paid.” He stopped in front of a door. “He’s in there.”

  She hesitated, torn between the curiosity his cryptic words had roused and the sudden intense need to see what lay behind the door. The door won. Beyond it, she walked into a dimly lit room lined with monitors and smelling of oranges and spice. At its midst stood a transparent capsule holding a man submerged in amber fluid.

  A blond Aggillon turned from the capsule as she entered. “Miss Hayes, I’m afraid—”

  “It’s all right, Jaalel,” Mr. C said, coming in behind her.

  The Aggillon bowed. “Of course, my lord. Shall I leave you?”

  Callie didn’t hear the answer, her attention riveted on the man in the capsule. He lay naked in the fluid, eyes closed, arms drifting at his sides, hair floating around his head in a dark nimbus. As she drew near, she saw his ribs rising and falling ever so slightly—somehow he was breathing that stuff. He was shockingly thin, and his beard was far thicker than a few hours would account for. Dark amber coagulations floated at the puncture in his chest, hovered along his broken ribs, and completely obscured his pelvis.

  It was hard to see him like this. If he hadn’t been breathing, she would have suspected a hoax. As it was, she kept wanting to take a deep breath, and never had she longed to touch him more. She laid a bloodstained hand on the capsule. It was cool beneath her palm, thrumming softly. She felt shaky again, close to losing it.

  “This is why we discourage visitors,” Mr. C murmured. “He’s actually respondin
g quite well.”

  “I thought he was going to die in my arms,” she whispered.

  “His injuries were severe: broken ribs, broken pelvis, ruptured spleen, punctured lung, concussion, plus that crossbow quarrel nicked an artery. The vessel burst just as they got him into the operating chamber.”

  She took a moment to absorb the information. “What is this stuff he’s in?”

  “Post-op growth stimulation gel. It’s nutrient rich and charged with a slight current to enhance absorption and stimulate tissue regeneration. He’ll be here for another ten hours, at least.”

  Callie shuddered, and her gaze returned to the beloved face obscured by the beard and the red-gold fluid. How had she ever believed she did not care about this man? She splayed her hand on the box, and suddenly tears spilled down her cheeks. She hardly knew why she was crying. Grief, gratitude, relief, shame—it all roiled together and took her by storm. Mr. C wrapped an arm around her, and she leaned against him gratefully.

  Her composure was slow in returning. At length she wiped the moisture from her face and chuckled. “All that outrage I nursed over his walking through that curtain, and here I’ve blown it ten times worse.”

  His arm tightened around her. “It does no good to compare, lass. You’re not the same person. You don’t have the same weaknesses.”

  She leaned away to see his face and he released her.

  “Besides,” he added, “it’s behind you. Best learn what you can from it and leave the rest in the past.”

  “You mean like remember to keep my wits about me and my belt activated?”

  He regarded her soberly, his hair and beard glowing amber in the light. “I think it goes a little further than that.”

  Yes. She should’ve trusted Elhanu. Except . . .

  Callie shook her head, frowning. “Why didn’t you open the door? We’d made it across the meadow.”

  “The doors only open from your side.”