“You got it, Commander.”
Ada, Bronson, and Dave stood as Samson left. After all, he was acting captain of the Hive. When he was gone, Les took a seat again and massaged his temples.
“I sure hope Katrina knows what she’s doing,” he said, more to himself than to anyone else. His son was out there, on a warship in the middle of the ocean, and closing in on the Metal Islands.
The thought got Les to his feet. There was much work to be done.
He asked Michael, “You sure you don’t want to come to my meeting with Sergeant Sloan, Commander?”
Michael shook his head, digging in, despite Layla’s protests.
“Okay, but I would like—I expect—to have both of you by my side during the announcement tonight. It will be good for everyone to see some veteran Hell Divers up there with me.”
“We’ll be there,” Layla said.
Magnolia had never worn a dress this fancy. She stood in front of a cracked mirror, turning from side to side to examine the loose-fitting white shift that came up just above her knees and fit snugly over her breasts.
“El Pulpo will like this very much,” Imulah said.
The two Cazador women helping her with the dress and makeup nodded. Both were beautiful, and they spoke both English and Spanish. One, a slender freckled redhead, smiled warmly.
The other, olive skinned with a braid of black hair down her back, was even more stunning.
She focused her dark eyes on Magnolia and said, “Imulah is correct. El Pulpo will like you in this.”
“Screw what he likes,” Magnolia said, scowling.
Imulah ran a hand over his bald pate—the first time she had seen him flustered. She was getting on his nerves, but then, that was the point.
“What are your names?” Magnolia asked the women.
“Pardon me for not introducing them earlier,” Imulah said. “This is Inge,” he said, nodding at the redhead. “And Sofia.”
“And they are who exactly?” Magnolia asked.
“El Pulpo’s favorite wives, of course,” Imulah said.
Magnolia almost gagged. Inge looked to be still in her teens, and Sofia didn’t appear much older. It wasn’t hard to imagine how terribly the barbarians treated them. Magnolia would teach them a thing or two about how to deal with men like el Pulpo.
For now, she just wanted out of this dress. She didn’t even know why the hell she was wearing it.
“The blue streaks need to go,” Sofia said, reaching out toward Magnolia with a pair of scissors.
She grabbed the girl’s narrow wrist and squeezed. “No, they don’t.”
Sofia looked to Imulah, who sighed and nodded.
“Lo siento,” she said. “Sorry.”
Magnolia loosened her grip and turned back to the mirror. She hardly recognized the woman standing there. The dress fit her muscular body like a glove, and the makeup Sofia and Inge had applied gave a glow to her pale skin.
This wasn’t the black-market crap she bought on the Hive. This was the real stuff that women in the picture books had once worn. It did a great job of masking her bruises and cuts.
Imulah pulled out a pocket watch. “We must hurry,” he said, flipping the lid shut with his thumb.
Sofia and Inge remained in front of the mirror while Magnolia walked out of the narrow quarters. She stopped at the hatch and turned back to the two young wives, feeling guilty for being so harsh.
“Sorry about your wrist,” Magnolia said. “Hopefully, it won’t cause a bruise, but if it does, you’ve got that makeup.”
The two women stared back at her. Inge seemed frightened, but Sofia looked mad. Perhaps there was some fire in this woman’s belly after all.
“I was like you when I was a bit younger,” Sofia said. “Proud and aggressive. This is what happens to people who resist. She turned away and dropped her dress. Reaching over her shoulder, she pulled her long braid away from her back to expose a network of scars.
Magnolia gasped, but the lash marks didn’t surprise her. She knew the monster who had done this. It was the same monster she was scheduled to marry.
She had to get out of this hell.
“Let’s go,” Imulah said gently. He put a soft hand on her back, and Magnolia flinched at his cold touch.
“Don’t touch me,” she said.
Imulah lowered his hand and gestured toward a staircase where two Cazador soldiers waited. One of them started up the stairs, his sandals hardly making a sound on the metal rungs.
They climbed until she was out of breath, but she didn’t stop to rest. When they finally reached the top of the tower, the two soldiers opened a hatch that led outside.
This time she didn’t have to squint into the sun or shield her eyes. It would be dark soon—another day passed on the Metal Islands.
Birds soared overhead, and not the mutant vultures from the Turks and Caicos Islands. These birds weren’t monsters, and the sun over the shimmering water in the distance wasn’t an illusion.
How could hell be this beautiful?
She followed the two soldiers and Imulah down a dirt path inside what she now realized was the airship she had seen from the decks below. Along the outer rim grew a jungle of trees, rooted deeply in soil trekked in from who knew where.
Magnolia stopped when she saw their destination: an arena carved from the center of the airship’s roof, with rows of seats surrounding a central pit of white sand. Hundreds of people were already in the seats or standing near the pit. Above the stands were several elevated booths with fans blowing on their occupants.
Imulah beckoned her toward a platform built over the dirt, surrounded by lush tropical plants and flowers. The two soldiers ahead stopped at the largest booth overlooking the arena and jammed their spear butts into the dirt. They stiffened and looked ahead, ready to protect their king, who sat inside on a throne overlooking the arena.
She could see el Pulpo, hunched over and enjoying a meal. He looked up at her approach, dropping a bone on the ground as he stood. The octopus tattoo on his forehead glistened with sweat. He mopped it with his sleeve and displayed his sharpened teeth in a stupid grin.
“Welcome,” he said. “Tú eres muy, muy bonita.”
Magnolia stopped in the entrance with Imulah. The two soldiers behind her crossed their spears in an X, fencing her inside the booth.
“Let’s go,” Imulah said.
She walked into the booth and sat in a chair under a ceiling fan. The breeze felt good, but it blew her dress, exposing her legs. She pressed the material back down.
El Pulpo grinned and stepped over to the rail overlooking the sand pit. It took every bit of resistance to not stab him in the back of the head with the scissors she had taken from her quarters when the others weren’t looking. But she had to play the long game now.
Cheers rang out from the stands as a wide hatch opened in the bulkhead of the hollowed-out airship. The cargo bay hatches looked a lot like the launch bay on Deliverance. Could this have been the same class of ship?
A middle-aged man in faded blue pants and a blood-red shirt strode out into the sand pit. He tipped back his spiked hair and raised a megaphone to his mouth. They all stood and cheered as he spoke in Spanish. When he finished, he repeated the words in English.
“Tonight, Hammerhead, with ninety-nine victories, returns to the Sky Arena.” He raised his other arm into the air and clicked his tongue. “Never in the history of the Sky Arena has a warrior achieved one hundred kills. Will tonight be that night?”
He made a sweeping gesture as a huge warrior strode through the open gate. He walked over to the announcer, giving half the arena a view of the octopus tattoo covering the length of his back. The eight purple arms flexed and stretched with his muscular arms and thighs.