Halo (Blood and Fire Series (A Young Adult Dystopian Series)) (3 page)

“Remember to smile when my children lead you out tonight,” Miranda snaps. She doesn’t look at me; I only know she is speaking to me because of her tone of voice—hard and sharp. “I have friends in the boxes. If you embarrass me…”

She doesn’t finish her threat. A flicker of curiosity sparks inside me that I immediately suppress, although not before I have chance to wonder how she will punish me if I don’t perform to her liking. Will she take away my technology like she does her own children (I have none), or has she a more macabre plan in mind? Without fear or pain as a motivator, she would really need to get creative with me. She knows this, too—I see it in her face when she casts a displeased look in my general direction. “Just make sure you smile, girl.”

I test out a smile on my face and it feels like a grimace. Lowrence sees it and growls. He goes pacing again, and for a moment his footsteps fall into time with the crowds above us. There is a knock at the door, and an adjudicator pokes a bald head into the room.

“Five minutes,” he says. Lowrence blows out a shaky breath, leans back against the wall. He is wearing a black shirt that probably cost a small fortune, and there are lines pressed down the sleeves where my birth mother has ironed it for him. I’m in my combat gear as usual, the jacket unzipped, and I have Kevlar stretch bandages wound around my wrists. This is allowed during the amphi-matches, but generally fighters don’t use them. It’s considered a sign of weakness, but the wrists are vulnerable when knife fighting, and I know Falin Asha too well. If he spots any weakness in me, he will use it to his advantage. We’re too equally matched in our fighting skills, and I will be doing exactly the same thing.

I have extra knives in my belt tonight. I favour small daggers and throwing knives, but I’ve added a Karambit, a wicked claw-shaped blade, and a Balisong. The Balisong is a last resort, a foldable butterfly knife that can only lead to dirty, skirmish-style fighting. I don’t want to get that close to Falin Asha. I’m hopeful that my throwing knives will remove any need for that, but I can’t be too careful.

Another knock at the door reveals the Kitsch Elin; all three of them are dressed in the same royal blue
―
Andre and Michael in matching suits, and Lexa in a velveteen dress and white socks pulled up to her knobbly knees. I give them each a small smile that none of them return. They roll their eyes at me and hurl themselves at Lowrence, wrapping their arms around his legs and waist. The boys are seven and eight, and Lexa is only five. They all seem to have adopted Miranda’s distaste for fraternizing with the lower classes. Michael has a slight pug nose, which he turns up when he glances at me.

“Do we have to do this, Father?” he whines.

Lowrence pats his hand on Michael’s head and ruffles his hair. “It’s only this once and then you’ll never have to step foot on that floor again, okay? Now, you’ve got to have big smiles this evening. You want to please your mother, don’t you?”

All three of them nod, although none of them seem too happy. Andre’s blue eyes are cold when he turns to me and says, “You might die tonight. Then we’ll never have to see you again.”

I don’t know what it is I’ve done to make a seven year old hate me so much, but I can tell that’s what he feels
―
hate. I run my fingers absently across the hilts of the daggers pressing against my hipbones and pull my mouth into a respectful smile. “That’s true,” I agree.

He scowls, annoyed that I am not crushed by his comment. Surprising, because I’m sure Andre knows I’m not capable of being wounded by anything he has to say to me. The halo would take care of that if I did feel anything, but it’s not even necessary. It doesn’t click into life around my neck as I stand there rubbing my thumbs slowly over the weapons in my belt. I’m just focusing on what I have to do.

Kill Falin Asha. I have to kill Falin Asha.

When the adjudicator comes for me, the children lead out like they’re supposed to, and suddenly they’re all smiles and laughter. They leave their mother and father without a backward glance and start walking down the tunnel towards the lit arena beyond. There are flashes of cameras going off up there, and the children seem excited by the prospect of so many thousands of people all looking down on them. Lowrence grabs my arm as I go to follow, and he says in his sternest voice, “Remember, do what you have to do.”

I don’t get chance to reassure him yet again, because the adjudicator rushes me up the tunnel—dust, echoing chants, adrenalin—and then I am standing in the arena. The first thing I do is check the two massive screens looming at either end of the match floor. On them the twelve most influential Houses are displayed, showing their fighters’ names, number of wins, and how much has been bet on them tonight.
Kitsch
sits at the top of the board, right next to the name
Asha,
glowing in brilliant red. Beside our House statistics, an obscene amount of money continues to grow and grow as the late bets roll in. I don’t focus on the numbers. I’m concentrating on my surroundings.

It always smells the same down here—musky dirt and blood and sweat. The ground is littered with hundreds of swatches of ruby-coloured cloth, and the air is thick with fluttering red tickertape that the crowds throw down on us in handfuls. Lexa seems thrilled when it drifts down to land in her hair. She smiles at me, open-mouthed, before she realises who I am and turns back to her brothers.

When the music kicks in, a loud, brassy fanfare of trumpets underscored by rumbling drums, the children form a line and start walking towards the triangular court lines where the amphi-match will be held. Miranda must have had them practice, because they walk at the same speed and hold each other’s hands, waving with their free ones at the people in the stands. On the other side of the arena, Falin Asha appears from the opposing combatants’ entrance. Not to be outdone, his mother and father have sent their one and only Elin, Penny, a tall, red-headed girl, to lead Falin Asha out. She isn’t smiling, though, and she looks thoroughly miserable. She’s older than Falin Asha by three years, and by rights she should have nothing to do with the fights. She’s not a child anymore and it’s surprising that she’s here.

Falin Asha looks a little pale following behind Penny. Confusingly, he’s wearing his knife belt slung low on his waist. Like that, it’s only going to impede his movement, and oddly enough he isn’t wearing the Kevlar stretch bandages like I assumed he would be. This makes me feel strange, and I touch my halo self-consciously. I don’t know if it’s working right now because the noise of the conversations going on in the stands overwhelms everything else.

Miranda’s potent gaze burns into my back from the Kitsch’s box, and I remember I’m supposed to be smiling. I flash my teeth at the crowd but it feels forced and weird. Andre, Michael and Lexa do a few three-sixties when we reach the thick white, painted lines of the match court, etched into a large triangle, and wave enthusiastically at the crowd. Trues and their Elin in the other boxes whoop and cheer at their show, but everyone else in the crowd claps politely, just as custom dictates.

Eventually, the children are ushered away by adjudicators and shown to the box where Miranda and Lowrence wait, but Penny moves off to hover over by the court line. I don’t know why, but I had assumed she would join Falin Asha’s Trues in their box, strategically placed right next to the Kitsch’s. I guess I was wrong. Falin Asha and I pause on the outskirts of the court lines, waiting for the music to stop so that we can enter. He is too far away for me to make out his expression right now, but his shoulders are sloped oddly, and his fingers tap impatiently at the dagger strapped to his thigh, like he is desperate to jump into the arena and finish me off. Maybe he’s confident that he can beat me.

Honestly, I have no idea what will happen once we step onto that court. Huge amounts of money will be lost either way, because there have been no other fighters like us. We are both undefeated, and everyone will have a favourite.

The music ends abruptly, which is our cue to step into the triangle. We aren’t permitted to draw our weapons until the alarm sounds, but Falin Asha is tapping his dagger again. I frown at him, wondering what he’s thinking. The stony set of his face doesn’t betray much.

Red paper falls down to rest on the back of my hand and I glance down at it, catching sight of the ribbon Falin Asha tied around my wrist earlier. I tug at it absently until it pokes out above my bandages, and I see him freeze.

The alarm sounds quicker than I was expecting, and for a moment all I can hear are the raucous cries of the people in the boxes around the perimeter of the Colosseum floor going up and up and up. Their wild emotion is almost enough to make up for the fact that no one else in the crowd is experiencing any.

After a moment, I do what is expected of me.

I step forward.

Falin Asha responds.

FIGHT

Falin Asha reaches for a weapon first, and it’s not even the dagger he’s been tapping at for the past few minutes. This surprises me, and I’m almost too late when he snatches a throwing knife from his belt and darts it at me. I dive forward and roll the way I have a hundred times before, ending up a safe distance from the knife as it spins end over end through the air. It will lose momentum and fall to the dirt long before there’s any chance of it hitting someone in the crowd, so I don’t stop to check where it’s gone.

I grab my own throwing knives and stack all three of them in my hand, ready to flick them out. Crouching low, I stalk closer to the centre of the match court, never taking my eyes off Falin Asha. He’s staring at me, too, and I have to remember to watch his hands. He’s always excelled at misdirection, and if I’m caught making eye contact with him for too long, he’ll have grabbed another knife and thrown it without me even noticing. My index finger on my right hand strokes the length of the sharp knife waiting in my palm. It feels as though the cold steel is humming against my skin, begging to be let loose.

I give in and lunge forward swiftly, raising my hand back towards my chest before flicking my wrist out and letting go. The knife sings as it cuts through the air, making the hairs on my arms stand up. I put a slight curve on the throw, but Falin Asha sees it coming. He ducks back out of its trajectory and drops to the floor. The throwing knife spins past him and buries itself blade-first in the dirt. The crowd hisses, as though they thought it might have all been over by the time we’d both thrown our first blades. Right on cue, the stacks of numbers on the Colosseum screens start spiralling away; the profit and loss cycles of the big Houses have begun.

Falin Asha’s hair is pulled back out of his face into a small ponytail, but a few strands have fallen loose. He bats them out of his eyes and smiles at me softly. The hard edge to his face, there only a moment ago, is suddenly gone, and I instantly feel like we’re just training. He straightens up and purposefully draws his dagger slow enough that I can see what he’s doing. He tosses it over in his hand in a showy fashion, catching it easily by the hilt. “You enjoying yourself, Kit?” he calls to me.

I rock back, confused. He’s never called me that before, and there’s an odd light shining in his eyes. His smile grows wider at the look on my face. I ready my next throwing knife, ignoring the fact that he clearly thinks we’re going to be fighting at close quarters now that he’s drawn his dagger. He takes a clumsy step towards me and I flick the knife. I’m surprised when it hits him. It slashes across his arm, actually renting open the material of his combat gear. That material is strong, yet it tears open impossibly easily. Blood blossoms like a scarlet flower through the clean cut in his sleeve, and Falin Asha looks down at it, laughing shakily. Something isn’t right here and I know it. He shouldn’t be reacting this way.

He’s been cut worse than this before and barely even registered the fact. But today it seems like he’s actually feeling the pain, and he doesn’t seem to like it. I cast my last throwing knife before I can really analyse what any of this means, only knowing that he is distracted and this is good for me. The knife flies forward and sinks into his right thigh. I wasn’t aiming for his leg; I was aiming for his stomach
―
one of the most damaging places to be stabbed
―
but I take the hit, anyway. An opponent with a leg out of commission is a weak opponent, and I may have just tipped the balance in my favour.

Falin Asha sinks to one knee as I prowl forward, drawing out my daggers. I like fighting with a knife in either hand, and it’s good to have a spare to parry and block with while the other one is striking. Falin Asha is back on his feet by the time I’m within range. I keep back, knowing his arms are long. His reach is further than mine, so I’m going to have to lunge and attack, making sure I leave myself an opening to pull back quickly. He’s beaten me like that in practice before, and I’m wary not to stray within a metre of him.

I want to wait for him to lead out on the second round of the fight, but he seems hesitant. He keeps staring at me like he’s not even paying attention, lost in thought. I clear my throat and growl at him.