His name is Sinon. I file that bit of information away, because knowledge is power, and right now I am absolutely on the low end of both knowledge and power. Words burn in my throat, because I desperately want to talk to this man. I need him to listen to me. I need him to realize I’m not from the filthy streets of Aventine, or anywhere else in this land. I’m not from here at all.

I’m from freaking Chicago.

I’m still not entirely sure how I got here. The kids from Narnia went through a wardrobe dresser and became kings. The chick from Outlander touched some stones and ended up with a hot kilted Scotsman.

Me, I knock on my neighbor’s door because I hear voices shouting, and the next thing I know, I’m being shoved in a slave pen and referred to as “Tart.”

Hollywood has definitely misled me.

The most frustrating thing of all is that no one will listen to me. I’ve told everyone I’m not a slave, that I’m not from here. What did I get?

First, I got backhanded.

Then I got shoved into a slave pen.

Now I’ve been sold and I’m following behind Sinon, the bitchiest soldier ever, all because I was trying to be a good neighbor.

“You keeping up, Tart?” Sinon growls as he pushes his way into the busy streets.

“Absolutely.” I hop behind him as quickly as I can, considering I’ve got no shoes. Even though I don’t like this guy—and “don’t like” is being kind of mild—I know I can’t be left alone on the streets of Aventine. I learned that lesson already. I don’t have a “mark” that shows I’m from here, and everyone that doesn’t gets enslaved because apparently Aventine is at war with someone.

Despite the flowery name, this place is a lot more like a barracks than any city I know of. The streets are nothing but trodden mud, there are soldiers crawling everywhere, and all around the city there’s an enormous stone wall. It’s like a fort. A scuzzy one.

And all of the soldiers that pass by in their regiments, that file out of the city on the regular, and that pour forth from every tavern—all male.

This is not a good place to be a slave girl.

Or a girl, period.

Sinon grunts as I trot up to his side like an obedient little waif. “That’s better. Follow close. We’re going to a special party and then I’m passing you over to your new owner.” He gives me a thin-lipped smile that shows yellowing teeth and dark gums. “So behave and I won’t bruise you up before then.”

Whee. I don’t know if I should be excited he’s not going to be my permanent owner or if I should be scared. “Who’s my new owner?”

He doesn’t answer me. Just yanks on my chain again and leads me through the crowd of soldiers.

I study him as we walk. He’s thick-looking, but that might be the layers of padded armor he’s wearing. His head is shaven bald and the stubble there is a mixture of gray and black. He’s sweaty and stinks to high heaven, and his nose has probably been broken more times than I can count. He’s got a thick jaw so his shaved head actually looks more like a pear than a circle, and he’s got questionable dental hygiene.

I really, really hope he’s going to pass me off. If the outfit I’ve been given is any sort of clue, I haven’t been sold so I can wash dishes and mend socks.

I really am gonna be a tart.

Since my pajamas were stolen, the only clothing I have now is the same as the other slave women I’ve seen. It’s a long, unbleached skirt. That’s it. No top, no bra, no nothing. Of course, I’m not about to go all bare-titty through soldier-town, so I hiked it up to my armpits and I’m wearing it like a minidress. Every soldier that passes by us stares as if I’m wearing something far more scandalous, and they leer.

So far? Not a fan of Aventine.

“This way, Tart,” my new owner tells me and jerks on my chain again.

I put my hands to the neck cuff, trying to shield my abused skin from the next yank, and trot a little faster behind him. “Where are we going?”

He ignores me. In fact, he keeps ignoring me as we leave the mucky streets and head toward rickety, stinky docks that crawl with cats and fishermen. There are dozens of small boats moored here, and one flat-bottomed barge with a bright red linen top waits at the far end. We head there.

“Where you going?” the man standing in front of the boat asks Sinon.

I wait for Sinon to ignore him. Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest in a quasi-salute. “Heading to the temple. They’re expecting me.”

The sailor glances at me. “And her?”

“Tart’s a gift.”

I wave my fingers at him in greeting. Now’s not the time to debate my name.

“Gift for who?”

“Ain’t none of your business, is it?” Sinon’s grumpy.

“It is if you bring uninvited trash to the temple tonight. Prelate’ll have my head.” The sailor crosses his arms and rocks back on his feet.

My owner snorts. “Who do you think she’s a gift for, fool?”

Oh.

Okay, so I’m going to be for the prelate. I guess he likes…tarts. Lucky me.

The sailor smirks in my direction. “If I was placing odds, she’d be a cleaver bride.”

“What’s a cleaver bride?” I ask.

“Shut up, Tart,” Sinon says, and when the sailor moves aside, he pulls me after him without answering.

We ride on the flat-bottomed boat, crammed next to a bunch of other people. Someone reaches out and pinches me, and I slap at hands, wishing medieval plagues on all these armor-wearing bastards. It’s the longest boat ride ever, but eventually we pull up to the docks of the island…and the world is different.

This place is cool and clean and beautiful. I’m surprised. There are green manicured gardens and people in long red robes watering plants from what look like helmets. There are several marble buildings, all of them columned and lovely, and there’s a scent of incense in the air. It’s nothing like dirty, overrun, soldier-covered Aventine at all.

Clearly they take better care of their temples than their city.

We head to the front of the main building. Outside is a massive statue of a man, battleaxe raised. Immediately, Sinon drops to his knees and bows his head.

I wait behind him, fidgeting.

Sinon looks up and gives my chains a furious yank, sending me staggering forward. “You kneel before the gods, Tart! Lord Aron of the Cleaver, the Butcher God of Battle, deserves your respect.”

“Okay, okay!” I drop to my knees. Sheesh.

Sinon continues to glare at me with his egg-shaped head, so I even go so far as to put my forehead to the ground. Sheesh.

I figure a little kneeling won’t matter if I don’t mean it—and I don’t. I have no idea who Aron of the Cleaver is, after all. Clearly a god of some kind in this strange land. Maybe a war god, given that there’s a lot of guys covered in armor around here.

My owner continues to sit in front of the statue, eyes closed, meditating. When this goes on for a while, I sit up and study my surroundings. The statue’s made of marble, and the man behind the upraised battleaxe—Aron of the Cleaver—doesn’t look friendly. Most of his face is hidden behind the axe itself, but his hair is long and straight, held back from his head by a braid at the crown, and his stern, unyielding face has a long, wicked scar that goes from above the left eye all the way down to the jaw.

Pretty sure he didn’t get that from playing darts.

I continue to sit, watching my surroundings. More soldiers move past. Some pause to bow at the statue, some just pause, kiss their sword pommel and continue on. Definitely a war god. Maybe that’s why they were watering plants with helmets.

Though if this is a war god’s temple, why am I here? Why does their prelate want a tart? And what the hell is a cleaver bride? A nun of some kind?

Of course, I’ve been asking the same question for two days. Ten bucks says I’m not going to get an answer anytime soon.

I stare at the statue. If I’m in a new world, maybe the gods can send me home. “I’ll be your best friend, Aron,” I whisper. “Just get me back to Chicago.”