Chapter 43: Codename: Blackheart Chapter Forty-Three
I gulp down some pills and lay back against the headboard in my room, I’ve been popping pills like candy since they brought me back to my room and I swear I’m on the brink of developing a very expensive drug habit. I’ve been competing in this nightmare for ten years now and this is the worst the damage has ever been for me. I’ve never felt so helpless and vulnerable in all my life. Not even as a little girl fending off a grown attacker. I’ve wanted to break down and cry so many times, but I know they’re watching me, and I’ll be damned if I let them see me like that. I’d rather be dead.
I’m somewhere between awake and asleep when I hear a knock at the door.
“Come in,” I groan, remaining in bed since I can’t get up to answer the door. With great difficulty, I sit up as those same three, near-identical women from the first night, enter my room carrying their usual supplies.
“Miss Blackheart, we’re here to get you ready for dinner,” they announce.
I look at their cases and bags full of props designed to make me look like the perfect Barbie doll, even though I’m crippled and in agony. I want to smash things and toss them out, but it’s not their fault this is happening. For all I know, their families are being threatened. That honestly makes the most sense.
I carefully pull back the duvet and take a breath as I feel the stitches in my hand begin to pull. I manage to pull my feet out of the bed, and I suck in a sharp breath as every action feels like someone is dipping my feet in acid. The women act fast and pull a chair over for me and set up a fold-out table. They each help me into the chair and begin working on my hair and make-up. I remain silent as I let them work. When one of them begins working on my nails, she hesitates as she examines the bandages. I can tell she doesn’t want to hurt me, so I place my hands on the table.
“Do what you have to do, I won’t snap at you,” I assure her.
“I just don’t want to hurt you, ma’am,” she says warily.
“You can’t do anything worse to me. Trust me.”
Each woman shares an uncomfortable yet sympathetic look and resumes working. I watch as the one in front of me paints each nail a different design while sticking to a theme of lilac, silver, nude and diamond accents, then mirroring it on the other hand. I have to admit she does stunning work, especially on short nails. She’s also very gentle and cautious with my hands, and although she does cause me pain every now and then, I hold my tongue. I don’t want her thinking I’ll stab her with a nail file if she hurts me.
As each woman works, there’s another knock at the door, but they enter before I can even speak.
“Good evening, Miss Blackheart,” a young-looking doctor – I can tell from the scrubs – greets me politely. “I’m here to give you some aids for this evening’s events,” he says with a sad smile.
“What kind of aids?” I ask suspiciously.
He walks over, places a medical bag on the bed, and opens it, “I’ll be administering a nerve block into your ankles, so you won’t feel the pain in your feet.”
“But that will mean I can’t feel my feet at all. How can I be expected to walk or fight when I can’t move my feet? Not that I can do either of those things even without the block,” I say in irritation.
“I’ll be giving you a very small dose that should get you through the party, but it will begin to wear off by the time you are taken to the arena. I’m afraid I won’t be allowed to give you any painkillers after that,” he says regretfully.
“Of course not, but that doesn’t answer my question regarding walking.”
An answer to my question is given when another man enters my room, this time pushing the most compact, futuristic electric chair I’ve ever seen. It’s really just a small seat on top of big tyres. There’s not much to it, and it’s nowhere near as bulky or cumbersome as the kind you see the elderly use. It has a joystick control, black leather lining and a white exterior. I glare at the contraption with clear disdain. I’m reduced to an electric wheelchair because they won’t just let me go. Can’t walk or do shit, but still expected to make an appearance. I’ll be a sitting duck.
Before the doctor administers the nerve block, he changes the bandages on my hands to a thinner skin-coloured bandage, then the women help me into a one-shoulder floor-length lilac, glittering sequined gown with a sweetheart bust and a slit up to my hip on my left side. It’s stunning and hugs my body perfectly. My hair is styled in a large, intricate updo that appears full and voluminous while also being sleek. My nails match my dress perfectly, and in the mirror, I can see my eyes are a soft nude, with a pop of lilac in the corners and dramatic lilac wings. My lips are glittering a soft rose-pink and around my neck is a thin diamond choker with a large square-cut diamond at the centre.
Once the dress is on, they help me into the electric wheelchair. Then comes the good doctor who injects the nerve block into my ankles.
“Should only take a minute or so to work. Good luck,” he nods, packing up his things and leaving.
He wasn’t wrong. Within a minute I lose all sensation in my feet. I try to wiggle my toes but there is no movement at the station. I can lift my knees, but I can’t move anything below the ankle. I’m enjoying the no-pain part, though to be fair, I haven’t been able to feel the soles of my feet since I burned the nerves. It’s the edges of my feet where the burns aren’t as bad and are blistering, that hurt the most.
I watch as the women remove the bandages from my feet. They each look as though they’re about to be sick. They somehow manage to get my feet into a pair of glittering silver high heels, clasping the straps around my ankle. I can still see the ghastly state of my feet, so I try to use the dress to hide them. The women pack up their supplies and make a quick exit while the other man lingering in my room silently comes up behind me.
“Do you need help using the chair?” he asks, in a strong Italian accent.
“I think I can manage,” I say saccharinely.
I test out the joystick and quickly begin driving the chair out of the room. My chaperone quickly catches up and guides me through the halls and into an elevator. The elevator takes us up to the top floor and when the doors open, I drive out into a champagne-coloured, tiled hall, with golden cage vases and golden arches dripping with garlands of roses. The vases are filled with roses, and as I travel under this floral canopy I enter a large dining room decked out identically to the hall. Golden table scattered with roses and golden chairs.
My body turns rigid when I spot Hexton standing at the head of the table, conversing with Whiro. Hexton is in a white brocade jacket with a black, button-down shirt, white slacks, and black loafers. Even from here, I can tell the brocade pattern on the jacket is roses. Whiro’s ensemble makes me want to laugh. He’s wearing black loafers and a black suit jacket with metallic silver wings covering his chest and shoulders. He has no shirt on, showing off his tribal tattoos, and his black slacks are covered in outlines of white cherubs. I want it on the record that there is nothing angelic about this man.
“Ah, Heart! How wonderful of you to join us!” Hexton cheers, as I roll over to him.
“May I once again remind you; I didn’t have a say in the matter?” I say coldly.
“Heart,” he admonishes, “Tonight is for celebrating, not arguing. Do try to behave,” he encourages, placing a firm hand on my bare shoulder. His touch makes my skin crawl, but I remain perfectly still.
“I’m honestly disappointed,” says Whiro, “I was so excited to be the one to finally kill you but seeing you in this state doesn’t make it as much fun. What’s the point if she can barely put up a fight? I prefer when they fight back,” he smirks.
“Don’t be such a pessimist, I’m sure Heart here will give it her all despite her condition,” says Hexton confidently.
While Whiro is standing, he’s not without visible weaknesses. There’s a large gash down his cheek, and I notice two missing digits from his right hand. He’s still favouring his right leg after the injury he sustained in the house and I’m sure there are a few other internal injuries. He’ll have a standing advantage over me, but I’m not going down without a fight.
“Whiro, stop mistaking me for one of your marks. It’s not over till one of us is dead,” I say casually as I roll my chair forward, intentionally running over his toes as I drive around the table to an open spot at the table with no chair, clearly reserved for me. I smile internally as Whiro grabs the table for support, groaning and trying to keep weight off his left leg. I may be handicapped, but I’m not incapable.
Hexton laughs, “That’s the spirit! You two will give the crowd a fight they are not likely to forget. It will be one for the books, that’s for certain,” he says as he takes his seat at the head of the table. Whiro takes his seat to Hexton’s left, while I’m on his right. Whiro glowers at me and I once again resist the urge to laugh. Honestly, both his bark and his bite are pathetic. “Let us eat,” Hexton instructs, and with a clap of his hands, servers begin bringing out the food.
For entre, we enjoy a delicious lobster bisque with a seaweed foam, followed by mouth-watering duck l’orange. When you have endless money, of course, you can hire the best chefs to make the most exquisite last meal you’ll ever have, but it pales in comparison to my last meal with my family. Besides Alec’s outburst, it was a night of good food, laughs, joy and good company. This is just a fancy dinner with high-quality food, but I’m here under duress, injured and hating the company. Hardly the perfect last supper.
We’ve just been served dessert, which looks like decadent brownie parfaits served in martini glasses, but before we can dig in, Hexton snaps his fingers, and a waiter comes over with a tray and serves us each a glass of champagne in gold-rimmed glasses. Last I checked, the drugs I’m on are not meant to be mixed with alcohol, but I see Hexton doesn’t care. You’d think he wouldn’t want to risk harm coming to his champion just hours before the finale.
“A toast, to our final two competitors. May whoever comes out victorious have a prosperous year. You have each performed spectacularly and will no doubt make The Tournament proud in this final round. To victory!” he cheers, raising his glass.
“To my victory,” Whiro says smugly as he downs his drink.
I roll my eyes and down my drink, trying not to make a face at just how horribly bitter it tastes. The bitter taste is soon followed by an acidic burning sensation in my mouth. I stare into my glass and then lock eyes with the waiter who served me my drink. He averts his eyes immediately and I can see the beads of sweat forming on his brow.
Motherfucker just poisoned me.
I take a slow deep breath as my mouth slowly begins to go numb, and I place my glass down. There are thousands of poisons in the world and yet I’m very certain which one just went into my system. Fucking aconite. I recognise the taste and sensation. I accidentally ingested it when I was younger, and thankfully my mother was able to treat me, but that was four hours of utter hell. Now I’m stuck in this hell hole and don’t remotely have access to my mother’s antidote or anything close to an antidote.
“Heart, is something wrong?” Hexton asks as I continue to stare at the waiter who looks like he’s shitting bricks. Just who paid him off to poison me is what I want to know.
“Everything is fine. Just not sure mixing alcohol with drugs is a good idea,” I say casually, refusing to let either of them get wind of what’s going on. Hexton won’t help me. I’ll be forced to fight regardless, and Whiro will exploit this as another weakness. Which, let’s face it, it is. I’m about to try and fight Whiro to the death with a crippled body and now poison working through my system. Could I be more unlucky?
We dive into our dessert, which I’m sure is delicious, but the numbness in my mouth is ruining the taste. Nevertheless, I quaff it down as to not insult Hexton and give him a reason to make my life harder than it already is.
“How long till the final round?” Whiro asks.
“You have thirty minutes to get changed into the clothes provided, and then you’ll be escorted to the arena. I thank you both for joining me for this lovely dinner, I will see you both in the arena,” Hexton says pleasantly as he rises and leaves the room.
As I’m sitting here watching Hexton leave, I’m becoming uncomfortably aware of just how nauseous I feel. I can feel the churning in my stomach and gut, and I know things are about to take a turn for the wors.
“Thirty minutes until you meet your maker, Heart. I can’t wait,” Whiro gloats.
I ignore him and quickly back away from the table and drive the chair back to my room as fast as it will go. I wheel myself into my room and directly to the bathroom. I dive out of the chair, hitting the tiled bathroom with great force, crawl to the toilet, open the lid and throw up the entire dinner I just ate.
Every muscle is in agony as I continue to throw up every ounce of food in my stomach, and even when I’m certain there’s nothing left, I still can’t stop. Symptoms of aconite poisoning begin with gastrointestinal issues, nausea, vomiting and diarrhea, then escalate to cardiovascular symptoms. Basically, if I don’t find an antidote in the next four-six hours, I’m dead whether I survive my fight with Whiro or not.