I stilled. His cold, lifeless voice washed slowly over my skin. Master’s footsteps approached, the light padding of his shoes on the sand slicing through the cloying silence to where I stood. He hovered a moment, asserting his authority over me. Then, finally, he walked away.

When his footsteps died in the distance, I marched back to my cell. His words ran through my brain with every step, my lips curling in pure hatred.

Long ago I had resolved that no matter what he said or did, I would not let him break me. I wouldn’t kill my opponents slower and I certainly wouldn’t “put on a show”—feign failure and hide the power my body held. More important, I wouldn’t show weakness. In my twenty-one years in this hellhole, I had never shown him weakness. Because this was the motherfucking Blood Pit. Weak males died. Champions fell. Only the most brutal killers survived.

And I too would die on this sand, but not until Master brought me someone who was worthy and ruthless enough to stop my heart. Only then would I breathe my last breath.

My strength, my refusal to bend to his will, was the only choice I had left in this life. He’d stripped me of everything else—freedom, happiness, free will. But my pride as a warrior was just for me, the only thing I called my own. I wouldn’t let him take that, too.

I sucked in a deep breath and increased my speed. Safe in the knowledge that there was no one out there that could defeat me anytime soon.

Because I was the Russian Pit Bull.

The collector of souls.

This was my domain.

The Blood Pit was my arena.

And I’d fight until the end.

1

152

The Blood Pit

Georgia

Unknown Location

A warm breeze rippled over my skin, rousing me from sleep. My eyes were leaden as I tried to blink them open. When I finally succeeded, my vision was blurred. I tried to lift my head, but it ached, and pain pulsed down my spine.

A small cry left my lips as I tried to lift my arms and legs. They were racked by aches and featured the sensation of being pricked with a thousand needles. My mouth was dry. My eyes finally cleared enough to stare at the stone ceiling above me. The stone was a dull gray. Yet, in contrast to my surroundings, I lay on something soft and comfortable, my head sinking into what felt like the softest of down covered in silk.

My eyebrows pulled together in confusion. Managing to move my stiff fingers, I ran them along the soft fabric beneath me. Taking a deep breath, I held it in and forced myself to turn onto my side. I stifled a pained moan that was about to slip through my lips. I panted with exertion.

I squeezed my eyes shut. When the pain had subsided, I opened my eyes and stared at what was before me. I was in a … bed? A real bed. A large, soft bed. My head was thick with confusion. My heart raced in panic at being here. I had never earned the privilege of a bed.

This time I ignored the pain and shuffled my head higher on the luxurious pillow until the room loomed into view. It was large and decorated beautifully. White drapery hung from the ceiling, tenting the room. There were several carpets of the richest reds and what appeared to be old brown furniture, perfectly situated around the outskirts.

I tried to think of where I could be, but my mind was a thick fog. I shut my eyes, the harsh light forcing me to shy away. Then it dawned: I wasn’t used to the light; I was used to darkness. But why? I didn’t know! I racked my brain trying to remember. All that emerged were fragmented images: cages, needles, pain, red-hot fire in my veins, the unbearable need for it to be extinguished. Then darker visions followed: visions of males dressed in heavy suits of black, a house filled with children, those children being taken away. Ripped from their beds.

My hands began to shake, fingers curling into weak fists. Wraiths. Night Wraiths, my mind whispered as the words moved on.

Then a featureless face came forth. A brutally scarred, featureless face. The face of a monster, yet as scary as this huge muscled, scarred monster was, I felt no fear. In fact, it was the opposite—I felt safe. On seeing this face, warmth cocooned me. My hands stopped trembling. But the face remained. It gave way to a deep, raw voice assuring me that he would save me. At any cost. That he would come for me, wherever I was. That we’d once again be free.

I felt the soft, wet touch of a teardrop on my hand. Only then did I realize I was crying. My eyebrows furrowed, wondering why I was crying. Once again I racked my brain, trying in earnest to remember why this man was so important to me. I teetered on the very edge of this discovery, until the door to my right opened. I froze, as a young woman slowly entered the room. My eyes were wide and my breathing labored as I inspected her. She was small, dressed in a long, ill-fitted gray dress. She walked with a slight limp. When her head finally turned in my direction, I gasped audibly. The right side of her face was disfigured. No hair grew on that side of her head. The young female’s dark features were marred by thick, ugly scars.

On her back, I noticed the unique identity tattoo that betrayed her status: a chiri. One of the “plagues.” The lowest type of slave in the Blood Pit. Their tattoos read 000, denoting that they had no names. They were the shades of our world, the bit players who were so lowly they were not even worthy of a personal ID. I frowned at how I knew all of this information.

The Blood Pit … My mind raced with the realization of where I was. The place I feared most. I was in the Blood Pit. But how … where … why…?

As if feeling my shocked stare, the chiri’s dark eyes met my own. She stilled, then quickly dropped her head. A lump clogged my throat. She looked no older than a teenager. Maybe fifteen or sixteen?

The chiri turned to scurry to the other side of the large room, but I managed to call out, “No, please don’t.” I swallowed hard, feeling as if a million shards of glass were massaging my throat.

I coughed to rid myself of the unpleasant sensation. As I did, the chiri rocked on her feet with indecision. Finally, her shoulders slumped and she dropped the linens she was holding in her hands and rushed to my bedside. I watched her as she poured water from the jug beside me into a glass. Without lifting her downcast eyes, she handed me the glass. I tried to lift my hand to take the drink, but the pain of moving even a muscle was too great. Tears welled in my eyes. The frustration of my confusing predicament too much to take.

As a teardrop fell to the pillow beneath me, the edge of the glass was suddenly placed at my lips. When I blinked back the tears blurring my vision, the chiri was gesturing for me to drink. As soon as the cool liquid hit my tongue, I closed my eyes. I drank and I drank until I had emptied the glass. The chiri refilled the glass and I drank that, too.