Page 77 of Immortal Longings
Anton exhales. “Calla. I cannot.”
She pulls a fistful of his shirt collar. Not in threat, if her blank expression is any indication.
“Do you love her?”
There’s little doubt who she means. Otta Avia—the one he’s doing this for. Does he? He loves her the way everyone loves keepsakes from their childhood. He loves her the way no one can let go of the first person they ever wholly adored.
“Will it change how these games end?” he counters. An image of Otta flashes in his head. Not her cunning smile in the palace, but her comatose form lying in that hospital bed. How can he walk away from the only money that will keep her alive?
Calla lets go of his shirt collar. Her hands turn idle in her lap while her chin rests back down onto his shoulder. He can no longer see her expression.
“I suppose not,” she says. “But I have an idea, nevertheless.”
“An idea?”
“For us to survive and claim a victory on both fronts.”
“You want the king dead, and I want the victor’s prize,” Anton states. Of course he wants them both to survive, but he hardly dares hope. “To have the king dead, you need the victor’s prize. Am I missing something here?”
“Yes. Kasa watches the Juedou from the throne room every year. His location is set.”
“And we’ll barge in, weapons raised?”
Calla pulls away with exaggerated exasperation. “May I finish, Makusa? Or would you like to draw the plan instead?”
Anton isn’t sure if he still loves Otta, but he thinks he loves Calla. He loves her quick temper, her sharp words, even when they’re directed at him. He loves the rush every time he turns her scowl into a grin, or her grin darkens into a glare. Is that love? It’s not as if he ever really learned what love is supposed to feel like.
“No, please,” he says. He tugs her back. “Continue.”
Calla grumbles something under her breath, crossing her arms. Anton doesn’t catch it, but since she settles into him again, he figures it cannot be anything too worrying.
“We’re not both barging in,” Calla continues. “Iam. Soon as we filter down to the final three, I’ll pull my chip. They’ll call the Juedou, summon you to the arena battle. You must play it as if everything is normal, as if these games are proceeding like any other year.”
“And are they not?” Anton asks, only to annoy her.
“Andthen,” Calla says, ignoring him, “I make my way to King Kasa. The Juedou is always one of the busiest days of the year, practically a citywide holiday. The palace guard will be widely dispersed and surrounding the arena instead of the palace proper. I know the layout and the grounds. I don’t need a victory to kill him, I just need access.”
He loves that too. The pure confidence. The resolve in her voice as soon as she has set her mind to a task.
“Even on such days,” he says, “the palace is highly guarded.”
“I have a secret weapon.”
Anton raises his eyebrows. There’s a new shroud of smoke wafting up, bringing the scent of factory ash and burning plastic. He nudges his nose into Calla’s hair, so that all he can smell instead is something sweet and metallic.
“Don’t tell me your weapon is yourself.”
“Do you think I’m that conceited?” Before Anton can give his answer and risk being pushed off the building, Calla says, “It’s August. I have his cooperation, so surely he can get me in.”
August. Anton goes rigid. Calla must feel it, because she straightens, throwing a concerned glance over at him.
“I’m not sure you can trust him,” Anton says. He has chosen his words carefully, trying not to betray his total doubt. With a curious noise, Calla draws her leg up from the side of the building and rests it across his lap.
“Trustworthy or not, he is a necessary tool. He won’t helpyou, which is why you need to win the prize fairly. Me, however… if he stabs me in the back, he’ll be receiving a sword through the heart too.”
Anton grimaces. “That doesn’t assure me very much.”
“Well”—Calla leans in, her mouth an inch from his, and he draws a very low breath to control the hitch in his throat—“it’s either we try this, or we fight each other in the coliseum. Which do you prefer?”
