Aya stood looking at them, and Zevi walked up to her and briefly butted his head into her shoulder. He had the aptitude to handle all of the emotional intricacies that Kaleb had no desire to develop. Looking unexpectedly grateful, Aya smiled at Zevi, and then she was gone.

The circle had dropped, and Kaleb and Zevi were left in the lush surroundings alone. Kaleb wasn’t sure whether it was the removal of the circle or whatever spell Aya had cast while they were in the circle, but he felt relaxed. The silks and velvets appeared a bit shabbier in the daylight, and the tarnished brass looked dull where it had seemed to shimmer in the candlelight. The rare foods that had been delivered were still tempting, even if they were a little more obviously overripe now that they were clearly visible.

“Do you trust her?” Zevi asked.

Kaleb stretched. His pains weren’t gone, but he had a few hours left before the fight. Healing wasn’t instant. “Maybe.” He smiled at Zevi, but the scowl he received in reply made clear that he still wasn’t able to lie convincingly to the younger cur, so he added, “I don’t have many other options, Z. I fight today, or I forfeit. If I forfeit . . .”

“We could ask her to be our protector,” Zevi suggested.

“If I die, you can ask her.”

“We could leave The City.” Zevi contorted his body into what looked like a decidedly uncomfortable position. “I know you don’t want to live in the Untamed Lands, but what about the human world? If Aya’s witch enough to do what she did, I bet she could open a gate there for us.”

“I fight today, Z,” Kaleb said. The chance of victory was slim, but it was there. “I can’t forfeit.”

“I know.” Zevi picked up his satchel, withdrew his mask, and slipped it on. He grinned. “A daimon can only change his mask so often.”

“Maybe . . . or maybe he can stop wearing one.” Kaleb grabbed a piece of fruit from the crystal bowl on the counter and walked out into the Carnival of Souls. Vendors were just beginning to open up, and a few knowing glances were sent their way as they walked out of the pleasure quarter at the break of day. If he told them that he and Zevi hadn’t partaken of any mind alterations or sex, no one would believe him—especially since Zevi now wore his red mask pushed atop his head like a hat. His face was exposed for any and all to see.

Kaleb glanced at Zevi, who stared back at him with faux innocence.

“I didn’t mean that literally,” Kaleb pointed out.

“I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done to survive, Kaleb,” he said in his usual blunt way. Then he grinned and shrugged. “And it’s no real secret who I am when you’re with me, and by now word has gone round that we were in there with Aya. Might as well let them think we were doing that rather than anything else.”

Kaleb nodded. Did she set us up? He couldn’t see how it would be to her advantage to do so. Most likely, she simply wanted to start the rumor that they were allies. Without her witchery being exposed, no one would realize what they were up to. Misdirection and rumormongering. He felt foolish that she’d manipulated the situation so cleverly, but all that really mattered was that, unless Aya had been honest and was able to do as she promised, Kaleb would die today.

Should I trust her?

He had no idea, but he also hadn’t come up with any other options. If Aya could give him an extra something to survive this fight, he’d live. He’d protect Zevi. He’d have a chance with Mallory. He’d have more choices—and so would Aya and Zevi.

SEVERAL HOURS LATER, KALEB was no surer of Aya’s trustworthiness than he had been when he woke, but it didn’t much matter. He would fight whether or not she’d been telling the truth.

The spectators were lined at the edge of the circle, crushed against the wooden barricades that were erected beyond the fight circle, and overflowing the seats until they were near falling.

There was no question as to which fighter should, by rights, bow, but Kaleb wasn’t about to enter what was most likely his last fight with meekness. The barely there dip of the head that Kaleb offered Sol was testament not only to his cur opinion on being always thought lower but also to his standing in the fights. He would either be among the last fighters, or he’d die today. Either way, he wasn’t going to feign humility.

Sol’s lips pressed together in a tight line, but he said nothing.

They gathered the silty mixture in the bucket and closed the fight circle in that same silence. The awareness that this fight was essential to win was underscored by Sol—and everyone watching—knowing that Kaleb had been badly injured by Nic.

The circle closed with a snap that reverberated in Kaleb’s skin in a peculiar way. They’d both been in dozens of fight circles, but the tingle that flowed over Kaleb’s skin was utterly unfamiliar. Based on the flash of surprise in Sol’s face, Kaleb suspected that he felt it too.

In a blink, the fight began. Sol kicked out at Kaleb’s leg as Kaleb’s fist shot toward Sol’s throat. Unlike when he was fighting another cur, Kaleb didn’t worry about teeth or claws in this fight. Members of the ruling caste rarely used their alternate forms. Belias was an exception, but even with him, the shift was rare. They might let talons free, but that was it.

Sol’s second punch missed, but it distracted Kaleb, and he didn’t dodge the knee that rammed into his leg. That was the goal, apparently: go for the weakness. It was a backstreet move, not what Sol would do against a member of his own caste.

But I am less to him.

They each tested the other, watching for reactions, assessing strengths. They’d undoubtedly both already watched each other fight, and from the way Sol targeted Kaleb’s injured leg, it was abundantly clear that Sol had seen the fight with Nic or had reports of where Kaleb had been most hurt. The injuries Kaleb had tried to hide and heal weren’t eradicated, and he supposed it was foolish to believe that Aya’s methods would allow him full advantage.

As he and Sol punched each other, an unusual number of Watchers fell against the circle and were tossed back by the force of the magic that kept the fight zone clear. Their interest in getting closer resulted in their being flung into the carnival, and this time Kaleb was grateful for the security. He was far from fight ready; Aya’s promised energy hadn’t happened.

Did she lie?

There was no way to ask her that unless he lived through the fight, and in that moment he wasn’t sure he was going to.

Sol’s fists hammered Kaleb’s ribs, and despite the exhaustion and the mindlessness that came from transforming, he started to shift forms.

“Kill! Kill! Kill!” The voices outside the circle rose and fell rhythmically, their cadence a chant that matched the heartbeat thundering inside Kaleb. “Teeth! Claws! Kill!”

Sol, knowing that fighting against tooth and claw was harder, grabbed a long-handled trident-looking weapon that Kaleb hadn’t faced in any of the fights to date.

“Teeth! Claws! Kill!”

They were chanting for him, not Sol, not anyone else. They’d reveled in the bloody death he’d dealt Nic and wanted more of the same. What they cherished, what they craved, was the monstrosity he’d rather not embrace.

Sol stabbed the long-handled weapon toward him, trying to capture and pin one of Kaleb’s legs in the tines. The edge grazed and tore flesh. The burn of the cut registered but in the vague way that injury did in this form. Pain. That meant attack. If the upper class spent a little more time trying to understand curs, they’d do better at dealing with them—or fighting them. Stop pain.

Another stab of the trident came at him; this one missed completely.

Kill.

Reason began to vanish under a flood of anger and strength. The injuries that had made him sluggish in the other form were gone now. Kaleb lunged at Sol, moving faster than he was used to even at his peak.