Riot (Scarred Souls 4)

My hand fell from her shoulder, and once it did, the chiri scuttled out of the room, waiting in the doorway for me to follow. Knowing that I had no other choice, I followed. We entered the room where Master was waiting. As soon as he saw me, his eyes flared and his lips tightened as though he was fighting for breath.

Once again he was dressed impeccably in his suit, not a hair out of place. Master held out his hand. Forcing my feet to move, I walked to where he stood, placing my palm against his. Lifting my hand to his mouth, he placed a kiss on the back of my hand and pulled me beside him, linking his arm through mine.

Turning us to the only door in the room, he paused, looked at me, and declared, “You look beautiful, 152. Like a vision.”

Bowing my head, I replied, “Thank you, Master.”

Leaning in close, he brushed a strand of hair from my neck, placed a single kiss over my pulse, and added, “And a quick study. Let’s hope you stay this obedient. My High Monebi have a habit of breaking my trust and consequently losing their lives.” He nuzzled his rough cheek against my cheek and said, “I would really dislike it if you forced my hand. I’d hate to see such beauty fall.”

“Yes, Master,” I whispered, my hands shaking.

Master straightened and smiled wide. “That’s what I like to hear.” Securing my arm through his, he led us out the door, past a guard dressed in a jet-black uniform. I glanced back at the guard, just to see his hard eyes staring at us as we left.

A trickle of ice-cold shivers ghosted over the nape of my neck as an image sprang to mind of two children—an older boy and a younger girl hiding under a bed. A deep sense of sorrow followed. I racked my brain, fighting to keep tight hold of the memory, as Master guided us through a dank, dark hallway and down a set of stone stairs.

Guards lined the hallways every so often, and as we passed, they stood attention and saluted Master. He paid no heed to their obvious show of allegiance and respect. He just kept his head high and his attention straightforward.

As the faint sound of clattering metal and shouts increased in volume the farther we walked, I began to wonder where we were going. I didn’t have to wonder long, for as we turned a corner, the mouth of the hallway revealed the answer to my question.

I stared, gaping at the vast expanse before me. A space so wide that I struggled to interpret exactly what I was seeing.

Master stepped forward and held out his free hand. “The Blood Pit,” he announced, his voice laced with pride and conceit.

The Blood Pit … My eyes struggled to absorb the many males, segregated into hundreds of small sand pits. And they were fighting. Weapons of all descriptions were being used. The males were of all shapes and sizes, but most were huge; muscle packed upon muscle as they circled one another, sparring and drawing blood. They were all dressed the same: bare torsos, bare feet, and black pants.

Guards lined the sides of the pits. Most held metal prods, sparking at their tips with what appeared to be arcs of blue fire. If a male stepped out-of-bounds or stopped fighting, he was struck with the prod. Most fell to the ground in obvious pain, like boiling-hot lead was scalding them from within.

Suddenly, the image of the scarred male that had plagued my thoughts since I’d awoken filled my mind. I could see him, as clear as day, standing before me as a boy, a large tattoo on his chest, as he was forced to fight … forced to fight as I was forced to watch … just like this.

And he did. He fought everyone, as commanded, reaching for me when all of his opponents had been defeated. But as had happened every day since, I was taken away. And then … then …

I didn’t know.

As my vision cleared, I whispered, “I have seen this before. I’ve been here before.”

Master stiffened beside me, then asked, “What?”

My heart raced with the fear. I shouldn’t have spoken of my own accord. Swallowing back my nerves, I repeated, “I said, I think I have been here before.” I frowned, struggling to remember. Master’s dark eyes narrowed. Straightening my shoulders, I continued, “But I do not remember how, why, or when. Surely I must be mistaken?”

Master did not move for several seconds, nor did his expression change. Eventually, he moved to stand before me, blocking out the view of hundreds of males fighting. His hands reached up to cup my cheeks, and he smiled. “You were raised here, 152. You have spent many days here as a child and as a teen, one of our most stand-out monebi.” Suddenly, his face frosted over as he unleashed his anger. “If I had known you before, you would have been with me from a young age. But my sister found you first. And now, you are home…”

He stepped back and linked my arm through his again. “… To my empire,” he added. My attention was immediately drawn to his face. I studied his expression and saw the happiness radiating through. “I am the only male on the planet who has this as his kingdom.” He gestured with a sweep of his arm, then continued, “A Caesar for the modern age. An empire built on strength and skill. A gladiatorial Rome right here in Georgia. An arena where we root out the gods from the men. The arena where my word is law, where lives are saved or taken by the simple flick of my wrist.”

In a split second, Master dropped his exuberant, insane excitement and assumed a neutral air of composure. My head ached with his constant change of moods. But more than anything, my fear of him grew minute by minute. In the short time I had spent with him, he had shown many versions of himself—none of which I liked. All of which were terrifying.

Master patted my hand and pulled me forward along a path that ran around the edge of the sunken pits. From our vantage point we could see every strain of bare muscle, every drop of sweat glistening over scarred skin, and we could hear every grunt of exertion. Such energies generated a highly charged static, which hovered in the musty air. This place stank of violence and death. The male beside me, the male who had just taken me, was truly the master of all he surveyed and king of these slaves.

Master pointed out certain pits as we passed. “New fighters, they’ll be first-round fighters only,” he explained without feeling, casually talking about the group of males in training as though their days were numbered. He pointed to a pit farther across the room. It was a larger ring filled with larger men. “New transfers from our gulags in Western Europe. We’re still determining their capabilities.” As my eyes focused on the males in training, one looked up and blatantly stared my way. Master tensed beside me. Then I cried out when his opponent swung his ax and buried its blade straight into the chest of the staring male. The male dropped to his knees. I stopped. Yet I didn’t react. My nerves were altogether too calm, my demeanor too collected. I instinctively knew that I had seen death before. Death just like this: quick, brutal, violent, senseless.

Many deaths.

Master continued my tour as though a male had not just lost his life. Glancing back, I stared at the number on his chest, 129. I repeated the number in my head. I silently mouthed the number on my lips. I did it because I knew, without thought, that no one else would ever remember the male who had just died here in the pits.

Merely one of many nameless to needlessly perish.

I frowned at this flicker of knowledge. Then Master pointed out other groups to me as we slowly circled his enterprise—paired fighters, group fighters, veterans, those brought in from gulags from all areas of the world. I listened enough to show I was attentive and nodded in all of the right places, and I offered a “Yes, Master” or “No, Master” response when it was expected.

Then we stopped. We stopped at a secluded pit in the far rear of the training space. As I glanced into the sunken pit below, I saw the biggest male I had ever seen, dressed only in black pants, menacingly circling another male.

“And here is the most important pit of all,” Master explained. I looked to his face and watched as a smile, a maniacal smile, spread on his lips. But he didn’t look to me; instead his attention was fixed on the male in the pit. I followed his gaze. Just then, the male turned, his large chest facing us. His identity number was showcased for all to see: 901.

As if feeling my stare, 901 glanced up. Blue eyes met mine. But these were not kind blue eyes. They were cold and devoid of life. No warmth lived in that stare. No, all that glared up at me from this pit were the eyes of a killer. A brutal, and what appeared to be the most successful, killer under Master’s command.