Baited (Gladiators of the Gryn #2)

Blayn

BLAYN

I ’m struggling to breathe as we’re led along the passage to the parade area. There’s plenty I hate, but this is the worst. I’d rather spend an eternity in the dome fighting a ziggurat than do one more parade.

And yet, here I am, ready to be paraded, poked and prodded when all I want is the dark. My skin itches, my feathers heavy with water because we’ve all been soaked prior to the parade to make it harder to fly, should we feel the need.

I’d fly. I’d fly away from here and never look back, even if I have nowhere to go. Or I’d disappear into the undercroft and not be found. There are pikrats I can survive on if I need to.

“No weapons this time,” the captain barks at us when we stop at the door. “Make this a good show and there will be a reward.”

No one reacts. Rewards are not usually worth any effort. I already have more credits than I can ever spend from wealthy patrons who pay to have a certain death or to know a challenger will be killed. I’m never paid to spare anyone—they all know it’s impossible for me.

Doesn’t stop the parades.

The doors open and a foul scent hits me. Maxym and Rych take the lead with Klynn and me in the rear. I shy away from their pulsar sticks as we’re made to mount a small dais with guards on either side.

“Vrex,” Rych mutters.

I look out over the large parade hall. It’s virtually empty save for a small gaggle of brightly dressed Oykig females, fussing around a selection of Habosu and Yetag traders, along with the new procurator of the dome. I didn’t like the old one much and I dislike the new one intensely.

“Ah! The gladiators are here!” His voice rings out through the room as he makes his way towards us, followed by the traders and the females.

My skin tightens. Part of me wishes I’d been able to take Maxym up on the offer of further marks. The tattoo process, like any injury, is all I can stand on my skin.

The only thing I can stand.

“Steady, ,” Klynn says out of the side of his mouth. “Wait until they get closer. Wait until you can bite them.” He bares his teeth.

Klynn might join me in the undercroft, but he has his own creatures of the dark. I’ve heard them. I’ve heard him talking to them too. He prefers a blow to a caress, but at least he can stand both.

The cohort reaches the dais.

“As you will see, I have inherited some of the best gladiators credits can buy,” the new procurator is a thickset Regah, his blocky blue form swathed in a multi-colored cloak which glitters with jewels.

“Your predecessor had an eye for flesh,” one of the Yetags says.

The smile widens on the procurator’s face.

“Yes, before his unfortunate accident and early retirement, he did invest in the dome considerably.”

“And what of the resistance? Has that problem been resolved?”

The procurator squirms briefly, draws himself up, puffs out his chest, and launches into some sort of speech about the resistance and his negotiations, but I tune him out, my attention concentrated on the Habosu male who is arm in arm with two Oykig females.

“Look at them,” one of the females coos, staring up at Klynn who doesn’t move. “They’re so big and…dangerous.”

Both females laugh.

“Not as dangerous as what I’m packing,” the Habosu says, clutching at his crotch and making the females titter again. “Anyway, these…creatures are nothing compared to a Habosu warrior.”

The trio move past Klynn until they’re in front of me. I glower, my feathers shivering, hoping my general demeanor is enough to keep them away.

“But this one is all painted,” the smaller of the females says. “So fearsome.” She simpers.

“I could take it in the dome without any problems.” The Habosu puffs up his chest.

The female puts out her hand, and it moves towards me as if in a dream, or a nightmare, getting closer and closer to my abdomen while my brain shuts down.

She touches me.

It burns like the brightest sun. I bat her hand away and take a step back. She cries out in alarm at my movement, recoiling instantly.

“Don’t touch,” I growl.

“Gak you! Gakking gladiator, you think you’re better than me?” The Habosu bristles with self-righteous anger, his muscles nothing but jelly. “If she wants to touch the goods, she gets to touch,” he says. “Go on, Glorii, touch him again if you want,” he exhorts the female.

“No!” I snarl, extending my wings.

“You will let her touch you, Gryn, or I’ll have your feathers to decorate my walls,” the Habosu goads, lifting his cloak to show a concealed plasma blaster.

“No.”

He reaches for the weapon, but he’s too slow, and the thing is in my hand before he can move his, and it’s a hand which now lies twitching on the floor.

There are screams.

There are psi-whips.

But I have a blaster and I aim it directly at the procurator.

“Don’t touch,” I say as he lifts his hands and a few tentacles.

“No one will touch you, ,” he says, his eyes darting from side to side, the remainder of his tentacles squirming beneath him. “Just hand over the weapon and we’ll say no more about this.”

There are sobs, there is dust in the air I don’t remember happening.

“You let them touch,” I rasp at the procurator.

“Put the blaster down, and we can talk about this, maybe reinstate your pass for Tatatunga?” the procurator simpers. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

He forgets, I don’t like anything.

“No more parades.”

At my words, his mouth sets into a thin line. “Don’t push it, . You are mine to do with as I please.”

Something stings on my neck. I whip around and fire off the blaster, but already my vision is going. The weapon falls from my hand as I drop to my knees and bindings are applied to my hands and wings.

“Take him out of my sight.” The procurator is standing over me, his skin flushed green with anger. He and the captain gaze down. “And make sure he doesn’t do this again, or it’ll be your hide I come for.”