“A small trinket for such a tremendously talented lady,” Arobynn said, leaning down to kiss Lysandra’s bare neck.
Aelin clamped down on her disgust so hard that she choked on it.
Arobynn sauntered off into the crowd like a snake through the grass, catching the eye of the willowy pit-lord. When he was deep enough into the crowd, Aelin stepped closer to Lysandra. The courtesan glanced away from her, and Aelin knew it wasn’t an act.
So softly no one could hear, Aelin said, “Thank you—for the other day.”
Lysandra kept her eyes on the crowd and the bloodied fighters around them. They landed on the Valg, and she quickly looked at Aelin again, shifting so that the crowd formed a wall between her and the demons across the pit. “Is he all right?”
“Yes—just resting and eating as much as he can,” Aelin said. And now that Aedion was safe … she would soon have to begin fulfilling her little favor to Arobynn. Though she doubted her former master had long to live once Aedion recovered and found out what sort of danger Arobynn was putting her in. Let alone what he’d done to her throughout the years.
“Good,” Lysandra said, the crowd keeping them cocooned.
Arobynn clapped the pit-lord on the shoulder and stalked back toward them. Aelin tapped her foot until the King of the Assassins was between them again.
Chaol subtly moved within earshot, a hand on his sword.
Aelin just braced her hands on her hips. “Who shall my opponent be?”
Arobynn inclined his head toward a pack of the Valg guards. “Whichever one of them you desire. I just hope you choose one in less time than it’s taken you to decide which one to hand over to me.”
So that was what this was about. Who had the upper hand. And if she refused, with the debt unpaid … He could do worse. So much worse.
“You’re insane,” Chaol said to Arobynn, following his line of sight.
“So he speaks,” Arobynn purred. “You’re welcome, by the way—for the little tip.” He flicked his gaze toward the gathered Valg. So they were a gift for the captain, then.
Chaol glared. “I don’t need you to do my work—”
“Stay out of it,” Aelin snapped, hoping Chaol would understand the ire wasn’t for him. He turned back toward the blood-splattered sand, shaking his head. Let him be mad; she had plenty to rage at him for anyway.
The crowd died down, and the pit-lord called for the next fighter.
“You’re up,” Arobynn said, smiling. “Let’s see what those things are capable of.”
Lysandra squeezed his arm, as if pleading for him to let it go. “I would keep back,” Aelin said to her, cracking her neck. “You wouldn’t want to get blood on that pretty dress.”
Arobynn chuckled. “Put on a good show, would you? I want the owners impressed—and pissing themselves.”
Oh, she would put on a show. After days cooped up in the apartment at Aedion’s side, she had energy to spare.
And she didn’t mind spilling some Valg blood.
She shoved through the crowd, not daring to draw more attention to Chaol by saying good-bye. People took one look at her and backed away. With the suit, the boots, and the mask, she knew she was Death incarnate.
Aelin dropped into a swagger, her hips shifting with each step, rolling her shoulders as if loosening them. The crowd grew louder, restless.
She sidled up to the willowy pit-lord, who looked her over and said, “No weapons.”
She merely cocked her head and lifted her arms, turning in a circle, and even allowed the pit-lord’s little minion to pat her down with his sweaty hands to prove that she was unarmed.
As far as they could tell.
“Name,” the pit-lord demanded. Around her, gold was already flashing.
“Ansel of Briarcliff,” she said, the mask distorting her voice to a gravelly rasp.
“Opponent.”