He lifts his head up, and there’s a spark in his eyes. It’s a small one, but I’ll take it. At this point, I’m getting desperate. Glancing down at the arena, I see that Breise is lying on the ground, her skin puckered with burns, her hair melted to her scalp. Bile rises into my throat and I turn away, looking back at Stryker. Guess this battle’s over. That was quick.
I wonder if I’m up next?
“One thing, Stryker, come on …” I trail off, wringing my hands and wondering if this is going to be one of the last conversations I ever have. I mean, I get that Bain’s mark on my forehead is supposed to keep me alive, no matter what, but that didn’t stop Dorothy from having Stryker set on fire.
I don’t want to be set on fire.
I don’t want to be imprisoned until they find and kill Bain then come after me next.
And I thought living in Kansas sucked.
Oz is so much worse.
“I … I don’t remember,” he breathes again, a sense of desperation coloring his voice as he looks over at me. “To be quite honest, I’m not even sure who you are or if I should know your name.”
Cursing under my breath, I step forward and grab Stryker’s face between my hands, pressing our mouths together with a zing of magic. I figure the kiss thing has worked more than once before, so why the hell not? I don’t quite expect him to return the kiss, wrapping an arm around my waist and pushing my back into the glass. Stryker’s hot tongue sweeps against my own, and a groan escapes me, embarrassingly loud in the small room.
Both my hair and Stryker’s lifts up in a supernatural breeze. It sweeps around us, rustling our clothing, knocking the cakes off Stryker’s plate, and knocking over a gilded chair in the corner. My eyes close as our kiss deepens, but even then, I don’t miss the flash of light in the room, like a bolt of lightning.
One of Stryker’s hands slides just a bit lower, heading south, right toward my ass.
Taavi snarls and grabs the edge of my jacket, tugging on it and snapping me out of the moment. My eyes fly open and I push Stryker back just a bit, but not before I miss the arrogant smirk crawling across his lips.
“Ah, I think I’ve just remembered how to have sex,” he murmurs, rubbing his chin with a hand as I glare at him. To be fair, I was the one that started that. I can almost forgive Bain for kissing me the way he did. Desperate times call for desperate measures, right?
“That’s fantastic, but I need you to—”
“Magic, yes,” Stryker murmurs, reaching up and rubbing at his forehead. I notice that the pink scar is gone. He lifts his golden eyes to me, and I take a small step back in surprise. The glassiness has faded a bit, and some of that spark is back. His mouth curves to one side as he straightens up and then looks down at the frosting on his pants with a small frown. Swiping it away, Stryker lifts his gaze to Taavi, nods briefly and then turns back to me. “Okay, Oz, the Great and Terrible.” He taps the side of his head. “That power of yours is incredible. I’ve not only just remembered how to fuck properly, but I think I can pass on a few tips and tricks.”
He moves over to one of the orbs and very lightly skims a finger across it, introducing sound back to the room. Just … not quite so much of it.
I turn around to see the burnt girl on her feet, slicing her arm from elbow to wrist and then drawing what looks like metal from her blood.
“Uh.” I’m temporarily rendered speechless as Stryker steps up to stand beside me. I notice that Taavi very purposely positions himself between us.
“You thought she was down and out, did you?” he asks, giving me a tight-lipped smile. “I guess she isn’t afraid of a lit match, now is she?”
The burnt girl—her name was Breise, right?—creates a metal spear that looks like it’s made of iron. When she hurls it, it’s very clearly propelled by magic, travelling the entire length of the arena before plunging into the throat of her opponent.
Blood blooms on Marilyn’s throat as her eyes widen and she claws at the iron pole briefly before falling to her knees and collapsing into the singed grass beneath her feet.
My mouth drops open as the audience roars their approval and Dorothy, ever the prim and proper little tyrant, claps her hands delicately.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I turn back to Stryker, and he must sense the raw desperation in my gaze because he turns and takes my hands in his.
