I look around the room, at the crowd of women. Their merriment seems to have a hard edge to it, and I realize some of the laughter is forced. In the corner, there’s a girl weeping though she’s doing her best to conceal it. Another one’s staring at the fountain so intently I’d swear she wants to drown herself in it.
“We have to get out of here,” I whisper to Avalla. “I need to get home.”
Her eyes go wide. “We cannot. We would be shamed before the gods.”
“I’ll eat my stupid skirt if the gods actually know what’s going on here.” I squeeze her hand again. “And that’s the only thing I have to wear. Come on. Do you want to die here?”
“No.” Her voice is so small I can barely hear it.
“Then let’s think. Do you know this temple? Is there a way out of here?”
She shakes her head, her movements jerky with fear. “My master brought me here last night. I am a stranger to this place, as you are.” The look on her face becomes bleak. She looks ready to cry. “Do you think I will be a cleaver bride, then?”
“Of course not. You’re awesome.” I give her a faint smile and wipe her cheek when a tear slides down it. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll think of something. When’s this ceremony?”
“Tonight. At sundown. The hour of storms.”
That means nothing to me other than we don’t have much time. An afternoon isn’t going to be enough. But I squeeze her hand. “We’ll figure something out.”
I might have overstated my abilities to figure something out.
There’s no exit and the crowded room is heavily guarded. Best I can do? Try to help Avalla become slave numero uno, because she wants it so badly. She keeps talking about the prelate and how she’d love to serve him, so I want her to win.
Unfortunately for her, the only coaching I can come up with is to tell her to bite her lip and bat her lashes. I’m worse than a pageant coach. It’s clear that there are a lot of experienced women in this room and some great beauties, so Avalla’s got earnestness and that’s about it.
I don’t even have that. I’m all right looking, but I’m definitely no Helen of Troy. I think I passed her by the fountain. Spoiler—she’s blonde.
Since I can’t escape, I decide I’m going to go down fighting. That means I need a weapon. I look around for one all day, and eventually find a chink of broken tile in a corner that has a hard edge and clutch it tightly in my hand. It’s about the size of my finger, but it’ll have to do.
I can always peck someone to death like the world’s angriest blonde chicken.
Because I’m not going to smile all the way to my funeral pyre. I did not end up on some strange podunk Game of Thrones ripoff world just to be part of the Million Blonde Funeral March.
I am getting the fuck out of this place, one way or another.
As the sun goes down, a familiar thrumming drumbeat begins. Goosebumps prick my bare arms and Avalla clutches my hand nervously. I grit my teeth, because it’s the same drumbeat I heard back in the apartment. It’s all tied to this somehow.
“You’ll do great,” I promise her as more guards file into the room. “Big smile. Fluttery lashes. Thrust your chest out. Smize.”
It must be time. The women are lined up, and one of the guards swoops up and down the row, rearranging us by height, and my grip tightens on Avalla’s hand. She’s shorter than me. I hate that we’re going to get separated, because it was nice to have someone to talk to for a change. Someone that didn’t call me “tart” or try to feel my tits.
I’ve felt so alone and friendless in this strange place. It was nice to have a buddy.
“You. This way,” the guard says, indicating that Avalla should follow him. She looks at me nervously and I give her an encouraging two thumbs up.
She moves forward in the line, sandwiched between two very busty and older-looking women. Really, that’s a win for her, because she’s going to look youthful and nubile and all those great, creepy things that a sex slave is supposed to be. I’m sandwiched between two beauties, but I don’t care because I don’t plan on being “picked.”
Of course, I haven’t figured out plan B yet, but I’m hoping