remaining men. “For the rest of you, an afternoon in the labyrinth.”
“Fucking shit,” Neil growled.
The back wall dissolved, revealing another stretch of tunnel, and the men reluctantly made their way inside.
“Good luck,” the Proctor said, “and may the best man win.”
One by one, the bricks realigned themselves, sealing the men in.
Black brick, grey stone, and blazing torches stretched far ahead. With a grunt, Garrick began his trek, and the other men begrudgingly followed.
The walk was a bore, but Tobias relished the tedium, content to be rid of Antaeus, Drake, and Kaleo, if just for a day. With nothing to do, he scanned the floor, the walls, searching for those inevitable instructions—and his mind was taken to his evening with Leila, to her pressing the bricks one by one. He glanced sidelong at the other men—they mumbled amongst one another, occupying their boredom—then trailed his fingers over the wall, surveying it just as Leila had. With a surge of conviction, he stopped at a single slab and pushed.
Nothing.
He pushed another brick, then another, but the wall remained stagnant.
“What are you doing?” Raphael said.
Tobias flinched, dropping his arm. “Nothing. Just…checking something.”
“That reminds me.” Flynn smacked Tobias in the chest. “What was all that fuss with the Giant about? Looked as though you were ’bout to come to blows.”
Tobias shrugged. “He was just flexing his muscles. No doubt he’ll try to kill me in my sleep one of these days.”
“You said it, not me,” Raphael muttered.
“I told you not to intervene,” Flynn said. “You just had to meddle—to save Lana.”
“Leila.”
“Irrelevant.” Flynn shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“I don’t recall you having any qualms with my behavior when I was pulling you out of those damn ribbons.”
“A valid point.” Orion chuckled.
Flynn waved him away. “Yes, well, you’ve left your mark. You’ve displayed your courage. Why must you continue to tempt fate?”
“I suppose if I’m going to die here, I’d rather die a man of principle,” Tobias said.
Zander froze in his tracks, gasping. “You think you’re going to die?”
“Aren’t most of us going to die?”
“Only weak die,” Enzo grunted. “Strong live.”
“Hear hear, good man.” Flynn looked Tobias up and down and scowled. “I swear, Artist, you’re so sour.”
“I’m not sour.”
“Of course you are. Why else would you be contemplating your death?”
Tobias glowered. “Because death is the most likely outcome of this tournament.”
Raphael stopped short, and everyone behind him skidded to a halt. “Gentlemen, I believe we’ve found our instructions.”
Craning his neck, Tobias read over the red word written across the wall.
SQUEAL
“Those aren’t instructions,” Garrick said. “This tells us nothing.”
“Guys.” Beau pointed at the stretch behind them. “Something’s coming.”
All heads turned toward the darkness, and the tunnel filled with the sound of feet scurrying—no, trotting—across the floor.
Zander’s expression became bleak. “Oh God…”
A new sound joined the scampering—grunting. Amid the flickering light of the torches were wisps of fine, white hair, black eyes, and four small hooves. Soon the creature was plainly visible, their unexpected visitor scuttling toward them.
A little pink pig.
Beau cocked his head. “It’s a pig?”
“It’s a pig.” Caesar laughed. “Look at the lot of you, practically pissing yourselves over a damn farm animal.”
“Don’t go near it,” Neil barked.
“Oh, relax.” Caesar squatted beside the pig. “I’ve taken shits larger than this. Must be a baby.”
Tobias glanced at Caesar, who patted the pig’s head, then back at the red writing. SQUEAL. “Caesar—”
“We should take him with us,” Caesar said. “Fry him up on a spit, finally have ourselves a decent meal.”
Zander took a hesitant step back. “Perhaps you shouldn’t touch it.”
“Why? Are you scared? Of this thing?” Caesar scratched the pig’s chin. “On second thought, let’s keep him as a pet. He’s a cute little fellow, isn’t he?”
A chomp echoed through the tunnel, and Caesar let out a piercing scream.
“Fuck!”
Caesar sprang to his feet, the pig dangling from his hand. Flailing, he swung his arm at the wall, slamming the pig against the brick until it fell to the floor.
“It has fangs!” Caesar dropped to his knees, holding his mangled hand against his chest. “It has fucking fangs!”
Beau’s eyebrows knitted together. “That’s implausible. It’s a pig. It can’t have fangs.” He glanced at Neil. “Right? Pigs don’t have fangs.”
Caesar gritted his teeth. “I swear to God, you stupid shit—”
“Are you absolutely certain it had fangs?” Beau asked.
Caesar held up his tattered hand. “I’m pretty fucking certain.”
Beau sighed. “I don’t know…”
“Would you like to test your luck?” Caesar gestured toward the pig. “Go on, stick your damn arm in the thing’s mouth. Better yet, go at it