Page 12 of Kiss of Embers
“Seelie. From the Spring Court, if I had to guess. They might look pretty, but they’re vicious.”
I nodded, recalling what my father had told me about the fae. Immensely powerful, they commanded the elements like the witches, but they were also capable of meddling with people’s minds. The Seelie insisted they shunned the dark magic their Unseelie counterparts embraced. My father called such claims “utter bullshit.” He’d always insisted the Seelie and Unseelie were two sides of the same dark and dangerous coin.
The murmur of voices swelled as Drute and I continued down the rows of tents. Other supernaturals fell into step around us. Werewolves I didn’t recognize shot me curious looks. Witches passed, their embroideredbarastasswinging around tall, glossy boots. A vampire in black leather emerged from a tent. He grimaced as he glanced at the sky, then withdrew a pair of sunglasses from his front shirt pocket and slid them onto his face.
“Starting at twilight, my ass,” he muttered, his words touched with a Slavic accent. He offered Drute and me a short nod, then strode ahead, his black trench coat flaring behind him like a cape.
Light blazed ahead. My heart sped up, adrenaline joining the nerves prickling under my skin. After a dozen more steps, the pathway opened onto a large clearing filled with competitors.
No,warriors. I couldn’t afford to forget that. The challenges were different in every Games, but they were always dangerous. Only the most skilled and battle-hardened among the Firstborn Races dared to compete. Some of my fellow contestants were almost certainly thousands of years old, with strategic knowledge gained over centuries of battle.
Chatter filled the air as Drute and I approached the edge of the crowd, which looked to number in the hundreds. A raised wooden platform stood in the center of the clearing. The platform was empty except for a row of four crude wooden chairs. Warriors dressed in various kinds of tacticalgear clustered around the platform’s base. A few groups were engaged in animated conversation. But plenty of the competitors stood alone, their arms folded over brawny chests and their expressions cold and unwelcoming.
Drute leaned close and put a hand over his mouth. “The witch at your twelve o’clock is Galen of House Baudelaire, the most dangerous fire-wielder in a generation. Rumor has it he’s picked up at least one arcane element through dueling. You’ll need to be wary around him.” Drute hesitated. “Actually, it’s best to avoid him altogether.”
“No problem,” I said, letting my gaze skid away from the tall, dark-haired witch standing on the clearing’s periphery. After a few more moments of observation, I turned back to Drute.
“No dragons are competing this year?”
His brow furrowed as he examined the clearing. “I suppose it’s not surprising. They’re focused on increasing their numbers now that they defeated Mullo Balfour. Cormac has no need for the elixir these days.”
“Must be nice,” I murmured.
As the chatter continued, I gazed around at the rest of the crowd, taking in the assortment of fae, witches, werewolves, and vampires. My heart lifted a little at the sight of two female fae. Dressed in skintight leather, they frowned at a burly werewolf who smiled as he spoke to them. The wind picked up, carrying his conversation to my ears.
“…but I didn’t see real results until I started counting my macros.”
One of the fae tilted her head, her hair slipping to reveal the tip of a pointed ear. She worked her jaw, snapping her gum. “Is that like crochet?”
The woman next to her tucked her chin, a smile pulling at her lips.
The werewolf blinked. “No… No, it’s about protein, carbs, and fat.” He glanced around and then lowered his voice like he was imparting sacred knowledge. “I could hook you up with a couple of YouTube videos that’ll totally change the way you see food.”
Drute snorted. “He’s lucky those two haven’t eatenhim.”
I bumped my shoulder against his bicep. “Hey, maybe they’re watching their macros.” As Drute chuckled, I let my gaze wander some more. The last of the sunlight bled from the sky, plunging the clearing into twilight. Stars winked overhead. Around the rim of the clearing, netherlights appeared one by one, the blue orbs suspended by some kind of invisible magic. The competitors’ eyes glittered in the darkness, their irises as bright as the supernatural illumination.
A stir near the platform drew my attention. The crowd quieted as a group of people ascended the wooden steps. Three demons and one demoness dressed in rich clothing seated themselves in the chairs. If not for the horns curled close to their heads, they would have looked human.
A fifth demon, a balding male wearing a pair of golden spectacles, ambled to the center of the platform. He lifted his arms away from his sides and spoke in a booming voice.
“Greetings, noble members of the Firstborn Races! I am Bolveg of Vozga, and I’m pleased to welcome you to the Firstborn Games. As you know, only the strongest, fastest, and most cunning compete. You are all the best among your peers.”
A cheer went up, along with a few battle cries. The werewolf who’d spoken to the pair of fae women puffed out his chest. On the periphery of the clearing, the netherlights appeared to shiver in response to the crowd’s noise.
Bolveg gestured to the demons in the chairs. “My colleagues and I are honored to host this most illustrious and immortal competition. We’ll also serve as the Rules Committee.”
“Buzzkill!” someone called from the back. Laughter rang out, and the offender’s friends yanked him backward and slapped a hand over his mouth.
Bolveg’s chest lifted as he inhaled and then exhaled heavily. “As I was saying, we’ll serve as arbiters for any disputes that may arise. However, the Committee will defer to a higher authority when and if the situation calls for it.” He looked toward the platform’s stairs.
A woman in a flowing white gown appeared on the top step—and she most certainly hadn’t been there a second before. Voluminous skirts flowed around her ankles as she crossed the platform like it was a catwalk during Paris Fashion Week. Red waves cascaded to the middle of her back, and a soft glow emanated from her flawless skin. She stopped a short distance away from Bolveg and propped a hand tipped with cherry red nails on her hip.
“Thanks, demon,” she drawled. She waved her free hand in a languid gesture. “Continue.”
Bolveg cleared his throat. “Um…right.” He looked at the crowd. “Inessa, the goddess of victory, has graciously?—”
“And other sundry things,” the woman said. An irritated expression crossed her face. “I started using my full title after that attention whore Nike had her lawyers send me a cease and desist.” Inessa released a short, humorless laugh. “Just try getting her to oversee something like this. Her rates are astronomical. Anyway, go on.”