Hold Me Never (Holding Never) (13 page)

There is a gasp from Bain, which is immediately followed
by a whimper and a strangled sound at the back of his throat.

Owen doesn't even blink.

“
Now, Slaves, fight.” The Emperor leans
back, and pops a grape into his mouth. “To the death.”

Bain starts to back away, staring at Owen in disbelief
and despair. Owen doesn't look at him, but turns his head to meet my
horrified stare head on.

His stare is intense but unreadable. I can't tell if
those green eyes are filled with hostility, resolve or remorse. What
is he feeling? What is he going to do?

I am unable to look away even as I hear Hani's warning
in my head.
Keep your eyes down. Once you catch someone's eye,
you're dead
.

It's too late, I think. I can't look away.

Owen holds my gaze unflinchingly, heedless to the rising
taunts and jeers of the Generals.

His lips part slightly.
Zoey
, he mouths my name.

Behind him, Bain is looking around frantically. In
desperation, he looks to General Link, the one who has singled him
out for this terrible fate. General Link rises slowly from the table
and growls at Bain, “Kill him—or be killed.”

Bain starts to shake his head, his eyes darting between
General Link and Owen. The agonized, hysterical look on Bain's face
slowly contorts and hardens into a desperate resolve. It is the look
of the damned. Nothing can be more terrible than the fate that
awaits him. Nothing is more terrifying than the horror that is now
consuming his heart and soul.

Instinct overrides his senses. The instinct to survive.
The fight or flight instinct.

He has no choice.

Kill, or be killed.

Like a cornered beast, he can either wait for death, or
lash out.

Bain decides not to wait.

Owen is still staring at me, seemingly oblivious to the
danger behind him. Bain crouches and springs forward, his eyes
crazed with terror and blood lust. My eyes flick over Owen's
shoulder at the sudden movement and widen.

At the very last instant before Bain delivers a blow to
the back of his head, Owen whirls round. Owen's arm shoots up and he
catches Bain's fist in his palm. Owen's face takes on an expression
of deadly intent, as he squeezes Bain's fist viciously. Loud cracks
can be heard as Bain is forced to his knees in agony.

Owen releases Bain's hand suddenly, and Bain immediately
cradles his broken hand to his stomach. Breathing heavily, he
scrambles to his feet, backing warily away from Owen.

Threats and insults spew from General Link. Bain shakes
his head hard, like a dog out of water, and backs away. It is only
when General Link draws his gun and threatens to put a bullet through
his foot if he doesn't go forward and fight that Bain puts his head
down and barrels towards Owen resignedly and recklessly, like a
battering ram. He charges blindly, without grace or strategy.

Owen simply watches him in silence and dodges his
attacks with ease. He doesn't even bother attacking back.

Bain is beginning to pant, his mindless attacks wearing
him out. His muttered words are unintelligible. A string of drool
hangs from the corner of his mouth.

Boos and barbs are hurled at both fighters from the
banquet table, but only Bain seems to be affected by all those
hateful words. The words seem to hit him like rocks, chipping away
his confidence and his composure. Shaken, he continues his reckless
attacks with unseeing, unthinking brute force. But the more
heedlessly he attacks, the more often he misses and falls. The more
tired he feels, the more desperate and frightened he becomes. And
his panic translates into a clumsy, lurching violence.

At this rate, Bain will simply drive himself to
exhaustion or madness.

It is horrible to watch.

While Bain's breathing and stomping steps are loud and
uneven, Owen has remained ominously silent. I can't hear his quick,
light footsteps, let alone his breathing. He is swift and nimble on
his feet, crouching and ducking effortlessly out of Bain's way.

The Generals begin to place bets, cheering and jeering
as they spear their food with their forks and knives. General Link's
face is beetroot red with all his shrieking and shouting. He seems
to be yelling instructions to Bain but his words are drowned out by
all the foot stomping, laughter and shrill whistles.

Bain wipes his brow and blinks repeatedly. Frustrated
and fatigued, his mistakes multiply. As his perspiration drips to
the floor, he slips and stumbles around, falling on his back and
skidding on his side. None of his strikes have even grazed Owen. He
has not drawn blood, and neither has Owen.

They circle each other, their eyes locked. Bain yanks
at his metal collar, and yelps in shock and pain. He clutches his
neck and stares at his fingertips, as if expecting to see blood. The
Emperor chuckles and informs the Generals, “If they try to take
off that collar, it delivers a jolt of electricity to their
misbehaving bodies. So if they don't perform, you zap them again.
Very effective.” His words are slurring. “Maybe you can
consider collaring your soldiers, Generals, if they don't succeed in
crushing all those pesky rebels.”

Some of the Generals shift uncomfortably and mumble
non-committal replies.

The Emperor howls with laughter, like he has just made
the funniest joke. He pours the contents of his glass into his
yawning mouth. He fills his glass again, and stands unsteadily.
“Come on! This is boring!” he yells, sloshing the wine
over the rim. “Fight! We want a fight—to the death!
Where's the blood? We want to see some blood. We want to see lots
of blood! We want to see you rip each other to pieces! Raaaaaaa!”

With that, the Emperor hurls his wine glass into the
ring. The glass shatters at the feet of the fighters, glass shards
littering the ground, wine spreading around their feet.

Tentative laughter and applause echo round the Great
Hall. The Empress narrows her eyes, then runs a finger languidly
down the Emperor's arm. “That—was brilliant, my dear.
Simply brilliant.”

The applause and grunts of approval immediately grow
louder, escalating until the whole hall is baying for blood.

The spilled wine spreads across the floor, looking too
much like the blood that will soon mingle with it.

Owen and Bain look down at the broken glass scattered
all over the floor. Bain stares at the line of red dripping down his
leg. Reaching down, he runs his finger up that crimson line, and
raises the finger to his lips. His eyes close briefly as he sucks on
the tip of his finger.

Owen is slowly lowering his body to a crouch, his hand
moving slowly towards a jagged glass shard near his feet. Bain's
eyes fly open suddenly. He sees the deadly glass shard in Owen's
grip, and lets out a cry that sounds more animal than human.

Grabbing a fistful of splinters, Bain flies forward,
ignoring the glass cutting into his feet. He throws the glass
splinters into Owen's face, aiming for his eyes.

With a jerk, Owen raises his arm to shield his face.
Bain plows into him, knocking him to the ground. The shard falls
away from his hand, and Bain snatches it up.

The lethal glass shard is poised over Owen's throat.

Bain growls and snarls, pushing the jagged tip closer
and closer to Owen's neck. Straining and grunting, Owen manages to
twist away. The two men roll and wrestle on the ground, the tiny
glass splinters peppering their arms and backs.

Owen's flailing hand shoots out and grabs a long, thin
piece of glass, the broken stem of the wine glass.

With a roar, he stabs it straight into Bain's shoulder.

Shoving Bain off him, Owen staggers up and curls his
fingers into claws, preparing to rip into his opponent.

Bain spins round, his face contorted in pain. Blood
oozes down his arm as he wrenches the broken glass stem free of his
flesh. He stares at the piece of glass in his fist, and his own
blood that is flowing thickly down his body.

“
Blood...” he mumbles, his eyes growing wide
and wild.

Owen approaches him slowly and silently, like a predator
moving in for the kill. Sensing danger, Bain jerks his head up and
backs away. He hacks at the air with the blood-stained glass
fragment in his hand.

“
Don't want to die, don't want to die...” he
wheezes, his head shaking to and fro.

His eyes are too wild, and it is too late when I realize
that his mind is gone. I have been staring unblinkingly,
unthinkingly at him, and the moment our gazes clash, something
ignites in his wide, demented eyes. Something snaps in him, the last
shred of his sanity.

With a roar, he barrels towards me, the sharp tip of
that deadly glass shard aiming for my heart.

I stumble back and scream.

But he never reaches me.

A lean, tanned arm wraps around Bain's neck, yanking him
back. As Bain thrashes and screeches, Owen grabs his wrist and
squeezes hard, forcing him to release that shaking glass fragment.

I watch that deadly glass shard fall from Bain's grip in
slow motion.

Every sound, every voice, every breath seems to have
drained from the Great Hall in that falling moment.

All I see is the glinting glass shard spiraling through
the air, down, down, down towards the wet, red floor.

Quick as lightning, Owen's hand swoops down, snatching
up the glass shard just before it shatters on the floor.

Catching the light, that thin, lethal glass fragment
winks obscenely at me as it rises in Owen's fist.

Time freezes just for an instant.

Then everything shatters with a blood-curdling scream.

The glass shard plunges down. Blood spurts from Bain's
throat, which has been sliced wide open. The fountain at his neck
gurgles as he falls to his knees. Bain's twitching body slumps to
the ground, the blood pooling and spreading around him.

His eyes are open, his lips moving.
“...don't...want...to...d-d-”

Owen's face is awash with blood. He staggers back,
blood dripping form his chin like tears as he turns slowly to face
the rising applause from the banquet table.

The Empress stands and claps. The Generals immediately
join her, standing up to applaud and toast Owen's gory victory.

“
What a show!” the Empress declares. “A
fine Slave, a very fine specimen indeed.” She smiles. “You
have made an excellent choice, General Day. You have great taste
indeed, General.”

General Day demurs and bows awkwardly, as if not quite
sure if he has just been thrown a compliment or an insult.

If it is the latter, he is careful not to show the
slightest offense. The Emperor grunts and snatches up the wine
bottle. He raises it mockingly at Owen before taking a noisy swig
from it.

The Empress titters that awful high pitched laugh and
lays a warning hand on the Emperor's arm, which he shakes off,
spilling the remnants of the wine bottle down his shirt. The Emperor
curses and slams the empty bottle on the table.

Ignoring the Emperor's little outburst, the Empress
rises and walks round the long banquet table, keeping her eyes on
Owen. Owen glares back at her, his chest rising and falling as blood
flows down his glistening body.

The Empress's blue lips lift in a knowing smile. “Oh,
such fire in your eyes, in your body. I can see the anger and the
hunger in your stare.” She smiles and purrs his name. “Owen.”

His eyes flash but he doesn't respond. The Empress
stands facing him for a moment, then lifts her skirts and enters the
ring.

The Great Hall falls silent as she circles him, trailing
a finger across his chest and down his back. He doesn't move a
muscle. His angry, green eyes stare at a spot straight in front of
him, refusing to look down at her.

“
So strong,” she coos, looking pointedly
down between his legs. “And so potent. I like how hard you
thrust into...”

She turns her head to Bain, whose blood she is
deliberately fingering from Owen's chest and tasting on her lips.
“Hmm. He lives.” She cocks her head, her eyes
narrowing.

Owen snaps his eyes to the man whose throat he has just
cut. Bain lies gurgling in his own blood, his eyes rolling back in
his head. His limbs are jerking in spasms as his life drains away,
his body no longer his to control.

The Empress looks down at his twitching body, twirling
her necklace thoughtfully. Blinking slowly, she lifts the necklace,
fishing out a small diamond vial from the depths of her bosom.

Pulling the diamond stopper from the vial, she bends
over and lifts the loin cloth from Bain's hips. With a sadistic
smile, she drips a colorless liquid between the dying man's thighs.
In a few seconds, his penis pushes up from between his legs, standing
tall and straight, perpendicular to his prone body.