ELIA

Elia blinked a few times, but the scene before her of a forest of twisted trees under an indigo moonlit sky was impossible, so she closed her eyes and tried to wake up.

She had been at the Patron's ball in Henderson House at the University. And she'd been drinking—this must be a drunk dream.

She opened her eyes again, but now her view was blocked by the face of a woman with a very thin, angular face, tilted sideways, staring at her from just a few inches away.

Elia gasped and tried to push herself back, away from the strange woman, her hands scrabbling on dirt. She very definitely wasn't at the university anymore. And she wasn't at home in bed, either. This was no dream.

"Wh—where am I?"

The woman knelt in the dirt in front of her, very graceful as she clasped her hands in front of her. Her face was kind, but her features were very sharp. "You're in Wildwood," she said in a high voice and tipped her head to the side again as if Elia should know where that was. "Look around you, child, meet your destiny."

"My—what?"

The woman extended her hand, the long, bell-like sleeves of her thick robe swinging like a bird's wing as she opened her hand to the forest around them and Elia turned and gasped, scrambling to her feet.

She was in an almost perfectly round clearing surrounded by trees whose branches twisted and twined together. The trees were silhouetted in moonlight so bright it made everything look silver and cast shadows on the dirt and grass. Shadows of a hundred people or more stood shoulder-to-shoulder between the trees.

"The sacrifice is frightened," a shaky voice whispered behind her and was immediately shushed by others. "What? It is only the truth!"

"Lane, shut your mouth, or we'll put you back into the nursery herd and you'll have to wait another year for your coming out." The angry bleat—deeper, a man's voice—came from the same direction.

Elia whirled to see where the voice came from, but the trees were thicker behind her, so she found only the silent figures, strangers staring at her.

"What is this? Where am I? How did I get here?"

"Your questions are normal, of course. But really quite pointless. The ritual is about to begin. You would do better to make peace with your god if you have one," the woman in front of her said.

"Tell me where I am, and who are these people?" her voice shook—and so did her body.

The woman sighed and fluffed her thick robe.

"If you wish to spend your final moments in the search for truth, very well. But know your questions will only bring more questions. You are in Wildwood. You were brought here as a sacrifice—one who fights for the pleasure of the King. It is a rare honor, though I know you were not raised in your world to appreciate it. You will likely not survive the night, but your death is not in vain. It will assure the survival of the Anima. You should take great pride in it."

Elia's mouth dropped open. "A sacrifice? What king? Who the hell are you people?"

The woman sighed and made a small clucking noise. "You see, I did tell you, the questions would only bring more questions. Hear me, then prepare yourself: When the drums begin to beat, the others will enter and the fighting will begin. Show yourself worthy for the choosing. Die with honor."

"Die?! I'm not fighting anyone—"

"You do not have a choice." The woman ruffled the robe again. "If you do not fight you will be slain. It is not an honorable death."

"Stop talking about me dying! I'm not dying. This is a—a dream, or a hallucination, or something!"

"No," the woman said firmly and stepped close. So close, Elia put her hands up to stop her in case this fighting was about to begin. Her fingers brushed the woman's robe—it wasn't fur, it was feathers. Soft, tiny feathers. But Elia didn't have time to consider what that meant before the woman continued, her eyes fixed on Elia's with a fierce light. "This is not a dream. You are no longer in your world, and the chances of you ever returning to it dim with every moment you refuse to fight. You must accept that your life has been altered and meet the challenge before you, or you will die, Elia."

"How do you know my name?"

"You were chosen for this. Selected by—" A deep, rhythmic boom rang between the trees and the crowd shifted, whispering. The woman cut off and turned, staring in the direction of the moonlight. "He comes," she said breathlessly. "And the other sacrifices also. Give your life to please him and you will be honored by the tribes." Then she bowed to Elia, muttered a few words under her breath, and with a snap of her robe, disappeared to join the circle under the trees.

Gaping, Elia turned in the direction of the drums. Between the two largest trees directly under the full moon, more than a dozen people walked slowly, their steps taken in time with the drums' beat. There didn't seem to be lines or order to how the people were gathered, but they moved in clusters, all of them walking before a tall figure, still deep in the dark under the more distant trees, a drummer at his elbow keeping the time, and several behind him in a line, their instruments echoing in the chill night air.

As the first of the people at the front emerged from the shadows and she could finally see them in the silver light, Elia covered her mouth with her hands.

They were all women.

They were all painted, their bodies dotted and lined in swipes of some kind of paint that glowed white in the moonlight, making patterns on them that resembled spots, stripes, feathers, and fur.

But, other than the paint… they were all completely naked.

Elia looked in every direction, searching wildly for a way out, an escape from this nightmare—who were these people? And what were they going to do? But everywhere she turned, she met eyes fixed on her, sometimes teeth bared, and a wall of bodies that did not move to give her ground.

Then the drums stopped.

Elia turned on her heel as the man who was clearly this King the woman had spoken of, finally stepped out of the darkness and into the moonlit clearing.

Head and shoulders taller than anyone near him, and a chest so broad he seemed to threaten the trees, he stepped into the circle bringing with him an air of violence only barely leashed, a sense of sheer animal power. His hair fell into his eyes, and the thick, fur collar of his vest that looked like a massive lion's mane framed his angular face and light eyes.

Under the high-collared vest that fell to sweep around his knees, he wore leather pants and no shirt. His biceps, chest, and abdomen were oiled and shining in the moonlight.

He was perhaps the most carnal man Elia had ever laid eyes on, and he scanned the clearing as if it—and everyone within it—belonged to him.

There was a rustle in the trees and Elia realized everyone watching had bowed to him—including the naked women who had spaced themselves around the circle, each of them facing him with their heads bowed. Everyone, that is, except Elia. She swallowed hard as they all straightened, the watchers in the trees leaning in, breathless and waiting for him to speak.

But Elia froze. Because as he raised his great head and scanned the clearing, his eyes locked on her, and for a split-second the light of recognition burned in them. There was a crystal moment during which their gazes held and Elia would have sworn he called her name—yet his lips didn't move.

She blinked and sucked in a breath.

But his face remained a flat mask. Then he dragged his gaze to her left, and as he continued to scan the crowd, opened his mouth and began to speak.