“I’ve taken the bet to turn you into the best fighter here.”
I wasn’t much of a fighter and knew less than the average person of what it meant to survive in this world.
“I hate to say that you’ve wasted your money.”
“No, I know a thing or two about potential, and you have it. I can smell it on you, in you.” He leaned his head back and sniffed the air. “Whatever you have coursing through your veins now mutates.”
My mouth went dry. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You might not now, but you will. You see, the longer the fairy blood mixes with your own, it changes your DNA, my dear. Gifting you with skills you never knew and unlocking abilities you have yet to discover.”
I chuckled. “So, I won’t have to train, that’s good to know.”
“That is not the way the Fae gifts work. Most humans who take the blood die from the toxins, but not you. I wonder why.”
I remained quiet as he led me to G Block. A large G was painted on the wall next to the sliding gate, and someone had taken the time to create and paint a colorful phoenix on it. It was the most beautiful thing I'd seen since I'd arrived.
The gate slid open, and in I walked. The area was empty—three stories with barred cells.
Three tiers all painted in different colors: red, green, and yellow. Maybe that, too, signified something.
I followed him up the flight of stairs to the second floor, painted in the mustard yellow. “Since you are new, you will need to be tested to see where you go, and I will help you with that. But there are factions here. Uncomfortable factions. It is said that there are those here who bear the curse, and they seek nothing more than to kill, murder, destroy, and you will walk in their den.”
“Single bunk?”
“Everyone starts in solitary to gauge your talents. You are talented, yes?”
The way he asked made me even more uncertain of what I’d gotten myself into. I glanced around the sparse room: a single bunk, a stainless-steel toilet-sink combination, and barred windows that allowed some filtered sunlight to float in.
I plopped my pillow on my bunk.
“Now that you're settled, let's get started with why you’re here.”
The “why I was there” was irrelevant. “I'm just paying my debt to society.”
Without much thought, it seemed like this place was a maze. We walked up one corridor to then walk down another—a labyrinth of repercussions? Maybe.
Finally, we exited into a gymnasium-like room busy with prisoners sparring. The prison door clanked shut behind us with a loud click. The concrete walls had peeling paint, but it was filled with weapons. The clutter of weaponry included pikes, spears, pole axes, swords, everything a medieval armory needed, but nothing automatic like what this modern girl might be proficient with.
It didn't look right at all.
They gave prisoners weapons? What was the use of anyone making a shank then?
“Pick your poison.” He pointed at the large wooden weapons rack that rested against the white, scuffed wall. “Here in the weaponry depot, you will choose the weapon used to defend your very life.”
This wasn’t like entering a kitchen and yanking a random knife out of the knife block. My weapon out there in the real world had been a hunting rifle with a scope. Melee weapons that required hand-to-hand combat were out of my wheelhouse. It didn’t particularly matter if they were pointed, edged, or blunt. To me, they were like shoes that I might swat something with, but that was it.
“Uh,” I started.
“The thing about picking a weapon is finding one that speaks to you. I wouldn’t even try the one stuck in the stone, though.” He grimaced. “Just a little humor. No one has been able to pull that one out.”
I moved over toward the rack and stretched out my hand. It all felt utterly silly at first until I heard a slight humming that came the closer my hand moved toward the handle of a sword. The handle had runes etched into it.
“Oh, a good choice. Many have tried to use the sword, sing the kenning of the Laevateinn, Lord of the Fairy’s Frey’s sword. It must be meant for you.”
“Uh, doesn’t he need it?” I pulled the sword out from the rack, and a sizzle of energy moved through me. From everything I remembered of my Norse mythology, the god Freyr was the goddess’s Freyja’s brother, but also the god of plenty. Why would his sword work for me?
The bell chimed, and those who only a few seconds ago were sparring, were now sizing me up, and their gazes were hostile, their auras a fiery red.
“That’s new,” I said to myself. In all of my time of Ola talking about energy and having some sort of clairvoyance, I’d never understood. I thought auras were what you’d get only on video games to tell you the health of your character. But like all the other stuff coming my way, this was new, too.
“I might have forgotten to say that everyone has longed for that sword. Possessing it puts you automatically as the contender to beat.”
I dropped the sword with a quickness. It clattered to the ground, spun around, and levitated like it was trying to float back to my hand.
They surrounded me, ready to jump me.
I turned to Officer Oberon, who grinned in delight. He raised his arm and sliced it down in the air like he was chopping an invisible cement block. “Now, fight!”
I had no choice, no training, and it would only be a moment before I got my ass handed to me.
I was right. But it was from the ones surrounding me. They didn’t take a swing, but waited.
The ground shook, like an
