Blazewrath Games Read online

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SO THE WHOLE WORLD KNOWS I’M PUERTO RICO’S RUNNER NOW.

  Four days before the opening ceremonies, the IBF released our team photo and solo portraits. Joaquín taped the group pic to our fridge. He’s stared at it every morning like it’s a blessed trinket from the sports gods. Even though I don’t tell him, I’m happy to see him happy. Someone who’s as dedicated as he is should get rewarded, even in the little ways.

  Manny’s glanced at the photo twice. His only response upon seeing it was, “Good thing our dragons are black. Can you imagine if they were neon orange?”

  Online reactions have been much kinder. A lot of people hadn’t suspected I’d be the chosen replacement for Brian Santana. Jeffrey Hines did a whole segment praising me on his show. It has forty million views on BlazeReel already.

  Then there’s the other video with sixty million views.

  “Welcome to The Wright Report on the Flash News Channel. I’m your host, Martin B. Wright,” says the black-haired American man in a drab gray suit. He’s lanky enough to pass as a wannabe Count Olaf. I’m in Training Room E, watching him on my phone instead of paying attention to whatever my teammates are gossiping about. “Lana Torres has been confirmed as the Puerto Rican Runner for this year’s Cup. We know she can run thanks to the Waxbyrne video. What’s up for debate is whether Torres belongs on a team representing a country she hasn’t lived in since she was five years old. This is what I like to call the Convenient Latina. She remembered she’s from Puerto Rico when the Blazewrath World Cup came knocking. And let’s not kid ourselves. She’s only been named Runner because she’s famous.”

  I hit pause on the fifty-six-minute video. This guy has dedicated a whole episode to tearing me down way worse than Victoria. Do they hate me simply because I haven’t gone back to the island? Am I supposed to yell out “Boricua pride!” whenever a camera’s in front of me and tweet about tostones every day? Martin B. Wright isn’t even Latino. He’s all high and mighty over something that doesn’t concern him just to get more ratings.

  Joaquín has advised me not to acknowledge the video publicly. Samira and Papi have told me the same thing. I’d messaged Mom to ask her not to give him the time of day if he comes fishing for an exclusive. She still hasn’t replied. Not that I’m surprised.

  “Please tell me you’re not watching that crap again.” Héctor covers my phone’s screen with his hand. “That stuff’s bad for your mind.”

  “Actually, it helps me stay motivated.” I quickly glance at Victoria. “I want to prove my haters wrong.” It’s like Marisol told me: Don’t burn yourself away, but dabble in the fire long enough to stay hot.

  Victoria nods. “Using the hate as fuel. I like it.”

  Of course you like it.

  “All right, gather round,” says Joaquín. He’s holding up a tablet with the Round of Sixteen groups that were announced this morning. This is the Cup’s first phase. Teams get lumped into four different groups, each of which consists of four teams. One of the three other teams in our group will be our first opponent. The other two teams will battle each other in their first match. That winner plays against us during quarterfinals, if we win the first match.

  Each Cup day is reserved for two matches from the same group. One in the morning. One in the afternoon. Hopefully, our match will be in the morning. I wouldn’t want to run up a mountain in the dead of night because the morning match went on for too long.

  The group brackets are zoomed in on Joaquín’s tablet:

  GROUP D

  Guatemala versus France

  Argentina versus Pakistan

  GROUP C

  Venezuela versus South Korea

  México versus Sweden

  GROUP B

  Scotland versus Portugal

  Spain versus Egypt

  GROUP A

  Zimbabwe versus China

  Puerto Rico versus Russia

  Yep. We’re going up against the Zmey Gorynych. Not the biggest dragons in the tournament, but they have three heads. Three. That means three different sets of flames aiming for me at the same time. Also, the Zmey Gorynych are so fast. I’ll get blown off the mountain before I can see the first Block Zone. And then there are the Volkov twins. Kirill and Artem are trained in martial arts, of course, but their tactical skills are out of control.

  “We are all going to die.” Luis is on the verge of hysterical tears.

  “¡No digas eso!” says Edwin. “Vamos a estar bien, así que cálmate.”

  “That’s right. We’ll be fine,” Génesis says, even though she’s staring at the tablet like the devil’s dancing on top of corpses on-screen. “It’s just … that’s a hard group to beat.”

  Victoria could cut through metal with her glare. “Puerto Rico is counting on us. My mother is counting on me. We’ve both been treated like trash, but that’s never happening again. This is our Cup. We’re winners.”

  I’m so taken aback I can’t even hide it. This is the first time I’ve heard her speak of her mom like this. The first time she’s admitted to being something other than the greatest. I can’t imagine what it’s like to endure years of physical abuse, let alone admit to it.

  Victoria doesn’t seem to realize how big of a deal this is. She watches us like she’s waiting for confirmation. Everyone nods in agreement.

  “Así es,” says Héctor. He’s upbeat as he hugs us all one by one. “We’re going to win.”

  I let him hold on to me. He has no idea what Andrew and I have been secretly planning. Will he call me a traitor after he watches me protest? Will he finally tell me how much he’s doubted me all this time? Will the others join him?

  My nerves grow tenfold with every reassuring tap on the back Héctor gives me.

  “You got this, Lana,” he says. “You hear me?”

  “Loud and clear, Captain.” I stand on the Runner’s mark as he rushes off to where Titán awaits, bracing myself to fly up the mountain harder than ever before.

  The opening ceremonies are tomorrow, but it definitely feels like the Cup has already begun.

  SIXTEEN BLACK SUVS ARRIVE AT 7:00 A.M. SHARP THE NEXT DAY.

  Each team gets its own car, complete with tinted windows and license plates that read WRATH. They’re here to take us in a caravan to the Blazewrath stadium.

  The whole team is suited up and waiting for Manny in the living room.

  “Don’t you think that’s too much highlighter?” a disapproving Marisol asks Gabriela, who’s touching up her cheeks with a fan brush. Victoria, Génesis, and I are all set with what Gabriela calls the Laidback Drama look, which is a mix of nude tones and big eyelashes.

  Gabriela looks offended. “Marisol, there’s no such thing as too much highlighter.” She’s also sporting nude lips like me, but I have no idea how she’s pulling off neon pink and robin’s egg blue on her eyelids and not looking like a clown. “Does anyone need retouching?”

  “I’m good, thanks,” says Héctor. “Marisol, are you coming to the stadium?”

  “Oh, no, no. You’re on your own, papito. But before you abandon me”—she pulls out her phone—“selfie!” She waits for us to squish together behind her, with Luis and Héctor throwing peace signs at the camera. We all break apart after the photo’s been taken.

  Manny bursts out of the double doors. He’s in a suit jacket and unironed pants. His tie is loosely hanging around his neck. “Let’s hit it, mi gente.”

  Sunlight warms me on the way to the SUV. Most teams are already inside their cars. There are three choppers above us. They’ve been sent to broadcast live footage of the teams’ drive. It’s so weird seeing them from this perspective. I’m used to bouncing on my bed as the sixteen SUVs trail behind one another in a single file, exiting the Compound as one long snake dipped in oil. I’d figured it would be more exciting from this angle. It would be such a rush to climb into that passenger seat, knowing reporters from all over the globe were waiting for me.

  But all I feel is the weight
of the world’s eyes chained to me.

  I hear Martin B. Wright’s rant again. After today, there will be more of everything. Good and bad. The protest will be worth it, though. How can President Turner ignore me after something so blatantly disrespectful? Unless he’s too pissed off to face me. What if he sends someone else over instead? Or worse, rips my contract to shreds? Would he be capable of kicking me out of the Cup this close to the start? Am I making a huge mistake?

  Chill. The hell. Out. You’re starting to burn too much again.

  “When you get there, we’ll already be waiting at the entrance,” Manny says as I buckle my seat belt in the car’s last row. He and Joaquín aren’t coming with us in the car. A wizard clad in security black is supposed to Transport them and the dragons right after we depart. The red carpet is meant for the players alone. It’s tradition to keep the dragons from flying on camera until the opening ceremonies start. “Don’t pay any attention to whatever it is that you see when you get there. And don’t speak to anyone that’s not your teammate, ¿me entienden?”

  Everyone says “Sí” except for me.

  “You mean fans?” I ask Manny. “They’re waiting outside the stadium?”

  “You walk into that stadium without stopping for anyone or anything.”

  Manny slams the door shut.

  While he heads back to Joaquín and the security guard, our driver turns on the ignition. We don’t go anywhere, though. The car sits idly in the middle of the sand.

  “Waiting for something, sir?” Luis asks him politely.

  “Scotland,” Victoria says. Their house’s doors are wide open. Since the cars move as one, no one can drive off until all the teams are inside.

  Five minutes later, Team Scotland exits their house. Four boys. Three girls. They’re wearing sky-blue leather uniforms with pale-white armor. Andrew leads the charge, sporting aviator sunglasses and messy bedhead, but he lets his teammates get into the car before him.

  meet me by my team’s greenroom before the ceremonies start, he’d texted me last night. i have something we can both use when we fly onto the field.

  I’d replied within seconds: Count on it. I don’t know how Andrew will be able to sneak anything into the stadium, but he’s crafty.

  Our driver hits the gas. The invisible shield flickers a bit as we exit the protected area. The helicopters move with us. As the car goes deeper into Pink Rock Desert, weaving through dune after dune, they descend to capture better shots.

  “There!” Gabriela says out of the blue. “There’s the stadium, you guys!”

  I search past the windshield. The Blazewrath World Cup stadium is a circular, roofless building triple the size of a football stadium. Its walls are made of glistening white marble, same as the dozens of sculptures that have been placed around the edges. Each sculpture is a Fire Drake in a different pose. Some are breaking out of their eggs and spreading their wings. Others are crouched with their fangs exposed, ready for a fight. And a few are ripping out their invisible opponents’ throats with their claws. And few more are using their tails as spears. Only one dragon breathes fire at the wind—the one that’s right above the stadium entrance.

  “That’s not the paparazzi,” Génesis whispers.

  A crowd has gathered outside the stadium’s entrance. About a hundred people hold up homemade signs. Security guards block their way to the doors. Their messages are written in bloodred paint: CANCEL THE CUP! A few have blown-up pictures of the late Hikaru.

  Sayuri Endo stands at the head of the group.

  She’s a short wisp of a woman, with chin-length black hair that frames her deep frown and a short black dress. Her sign is the smallest, but it’s a giant among ants: No MORE BLOOD.

  “Cancel the Cup! Cancel the Cup! Cancel the Cup!”

  The chant erupts as the cars approach the red carpet. This is what Manny warned us about. Protesters. Here in Dubai, right where we have no choice but to face them.

  “Cancel the Cup! Cancel the Cup! Cancel the Cup!”

  After parking the car, our driver opens the door for us. I’m the last to leave the vehicle. The protesters’ chants whirl me around until I can’t think straight. I’m stuck in my seat, hurting for Hikaru—the dragon the whole world misses—and for those of us who once loved Takeshi Endo. His mother might still think he’s good like Andrew. She might be protesting for his safe return more than the lives that will be lost thanks to his master. I can’t walk up to her and ask, and maybe I’ll never know, but I want this woman to find the peace she’s seeking.

  “Lana?” Héctor says. “Are you okay?”

  “We need to go,” Victoria says spitefully.

  I suck in a shaky breath, then exit the SUV.

  “Cancel the Cup! Cancel the Cup! Cancel the Cup!”

  My teammates lead me farther away from the bloodred words.

  “THE DRAGONS ARE WAITING FOR US IN THE STADIUM’S HIGHEST level, getting harnessed to the Runner’s chariot as we speak,” Manny informs us in our greenroom. “Once we’re cleared to leave, follow me in single file so we can get you all ready for the march.”

  Calling it a march feels silly. We’ll be flying around the stadium. My rider teammates get to show off their steeds while I wave our flag behind them. The Runner’s chariot is usually designed to fit the dragons’ colors, so mine will be black.

  I’m squished between Edwin and Génesis on a velvet couch. Luis and Gabriela are attacking one of the fruit bowls, with Luis snatching a fistful of grapes. Héctor and Joaquín hover close to a flat-screen TV, which is showing a news recap of the red-carpet entrances. I see myself with pale cheeks avoiding Mrs. Endo and looking like I’m about to cry. None of the other teams paid the protesters any mind. Their managers must’ve warned them, too. The SUV carrying Team Scotland is last in line. I wait for Andrew to show his support for the protesters.

  He disappears inside the stadium without acknowledging his best friend’s mother.

  Smart man. Don’t let them suspect anything.

  I should meet up with him now. We don’t have long before showtime.

  “Manny, I’m going to the bathroom real quick,” I say.

  He gives me a pointed look and says a gruff, “Hurry up.”

  I walk briskly to the greenroom door.

  Someone opens it first.

  “Hello, hello!” A giddy President Turner barges inside. “Pardon the intrusion, but I have a few people here who’d like a word with our wonderful talent!”

  There are three people behind him. I immediately recognize Agent Horowitz and Director Sandhar, but it takes me a second to place the man in the cherry-red suit. His glasses are round and horn rimmed, just as dark as his hair. He has a slight, lean build, like that of a swimmer who trains often, but the closer he walks toward me, the more I remember all the cupcakes he ate from his husband’s plate when he served as guest judge on that baking show.

  While my teammates all stand to greet our guests, President Turner says: “Everyone, this is Nirek Sandhar, director of the Department of Magical Investigations at the bureau.”

  Director Sandhar nods. “Just wanted to assure you I’m committed to protecting you at all costs. The Department of Magical Investigations is more than qualified to keep you safe.”

  “Thank you,” most of the team replies. A soft-spoken Edwin says, “Gracias.”

  “Have any other Dragon Knights been caught, director?” Joaquín says. Bless his soul.

  “Not yet, but Ravensworth Penitentiary will be filling up soon,” Agent Horowitz replies. She waves to the team. “A pleasure to meet you all. Agent Sienna Horowitz at your service.”

  While my teammates say hello, I point to the man in the cherry-red suit. “Who’s this?”

  President Turner wraps an arm around him. “Last but not least, this is my darling husband, Corwin Sykes, headmaster of Foxrose Preparatory School for the Magically Gifted.”

  Headmaster Sykes waves hello. “Good morning! It’s an honor to stand in your presence.” His
voice is a deep, velvety sound that belongs in voicemail greetings.

  “You’re the Foxrose Prep headmaster?” a wide-eyed Luis asks.

  “I am, yes.” Foxrose is the same school he studied at with President Turner, which means Headmaster Sykes once knew Edward Barnes, too.

  He once knew the Sire.

  “What’s it like? Your school?” Gabriela asks.

  “Loud. I’m afraid magic and children can be a cacophonous combination.”

  “Try combining dragons and teenagers. You won’t sleep for years!” President Turner starts to laugh. Then he coughs four times in a row. It sounds as if he’s just been plucked from underwater, but the poor man’s still drowning at the same time.

  Joaquín pours him a glass of water. “Here you go, Mr. President.”

  “Thank you … so much …” President Turner reaches for the glass, but his knees buckle.

  He crashes to the floor.

  I’m a breathless, useless pile of nothing while President Turner sinks into a seizure. He arches his back as if he’s mercilessly being whipped over and over.

  “Russell!” Headmaster Sykes holds him in a bear hug. Despite his efforts, President Turner is still twisting, sweating, and coughing. “Russell, hang on, love!”

  “We have to move him!” Director Sandhar tries to lift President Turner, who keeps writhing, as if he’s tethered to the spot, an invisible magnet dragging him against his will.

  Manny pulls me back like I’m a ragdoll. The whole team is shielded behind him.

  “Damn it,” he mutters.

  The TV screen flashes that static, no-signal snow. Darkness replaces it, drifting forward, farther and farther away from the screen.

  I bite down hard. The darkness is the back of a leather trench coat, and when its bearer turns around, a man made of stardust scales beams at the camera.

  “The last time I addressed you, a man died,” says the Sire. “His death is the fault of those who choose to challenge me. Those who foolishly defy the gods.”

  The camera pans out even more. It’s not a mansion this time. The walls are built from stone that’s been scratched in all sorts of ways. Shrubberies and a lake fill the space behind the Sire. More scratch marks adorn the soil. Some trees have been hacked down and others singed to ashes. The industrial lights have been dimmed, the area is vacant, but I know it’s a habitat for an Un-Bonded, vicious dragon. He’s at a sanctuary again.