Previously, in the moon-drenched valley behind the beach, Obi played the bastard one more time. Hidden in the dark, he watched Darce tear a strip off her whining companion, send the little man scurrying like a kicked dog, then turn, knowing exactly where Obi lurked behind the coconut tree. Lavender cut through the salt air; her white robe shimmered like a lure. She said she’d missed him. He told himself it was a terrible idea, alarms screaming in his head, yet he still flipped her against the trunk, slapped her thigh, twisted her hair, and let her pull the scrap of fabric aside. Midnight came and went. The night was still young, the party just beginning… and somewhere down there, a jealous man was already starting to burn.

‘It is impossible to picture to oneself the shame and moral degradation to which the jealous man can descend without a qualm of conscience.

And yet it’s not as though the jealous are all vulgar and base souls. On the contrary, a man of lofty feelings, whose love is pure and full of self-sacrifice, may yet hide under tables, bribe the vilest people, and be familiar with the lowest ignominy of spying and eavesdropping.’ So said Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

It was well into the hour of the wolf, and the party was in a frenzy. The pouches were almost burnt out, and the patrons, in their skimpy silks and linens, were far gone into the pits of primal debauchery.

“Now this, this is peak,” began Kot, coming up to me and putting his hand across my shoulders.

“Sure, it is,” I replied, drawing on my pipe.

The sand was warm under my bare feet, and the soft hum of the palm trees stilled my nerves a little, even though the roaring waves across the ridge held a foreboding eventuality.

“I bet she’s feeling it too,” I thought, watching Darce seated at the tiki bar with a lady I only knew in passing, drinking margaritas. She’d been at the Malindi masquerade, I suspected.

“There he is,” Amadi’s childish exclamation intruded, staggering in the arms of his assistant, Rashad, both wearing nothing but loincloths.

“What a pleasure it is to see you,” I said with a mock bow.

“Oh, aren’t you funny?” Rashad couldn’t hide the contempt in his voice.

“Aren't we here for fun?” I asked, sniggering in self-satisfaction. I knew he loathed me, but he just managed to mask it well until then.

“Now now, let’s not bandy words,” Amadi shrilled.

Kot looked at me inquisitively, then at the wiry assistant with glowing interest under the hurricane lamps.

“Let the games begin,” came the dreadful words from Amadi, and two brutes dropped a red flight case before me.

“Open it,” said Rashad, staring at me.

I stooped and opened it. Inside were more than a dozen throwing axes, with polished wooden handles.

“Is that steel?” Kot gasped in horror.

“What is the target?” I asked calmly, looking up at the other four.

“We’ll start with a tree,” Amadi said, spittle glistening in the corner of his mouth like a wolf that already smells blood, as he pointed to a white painted bark.

“Start with?” Kot asked.

“Then to whatever we say,” Rashad offered.

I smiled, weighing an axe in my hand.

“What is the prize?” I asked. Their blank stare meant they hadn’t thought beyond my horror. I was enthusiastic.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to play with steel at the party, Obi,” Kot cautioned.

“You signed to do our bidding, and this is one of many,” Amadi retorted, struggling to stand straight at full height, barely reaching Kot’s breast. “Besides, if you won't do it, I'll have my brutes eat your penis while you’re watching,” he threatened.

“They will, I’ve seen them do it, but that was in international waters,” Rashad obediently offered, like the lackey he was.

There it was, the fire in my belly, churning.

“We hear you're good, Obi. Now, my friends and I think that it’s all a myth, to fuel your legend in these Hunger Games, because we’ve never met anybody who has seen you throw,” Amadi said.

“So, who’s throwing against me?” I asked.

“You’re throwing against nobody,” he replied. “You’ll be throwing towards petrified targets, the bark is just to test your skills, in case you're a little rusty,” he added, laughing.

Then reached behind his waist and pulled out a small curved flaying knife with a hooked point and a razor-sharp edge, all with a hilt of yellow bone.

“But first, I flay,” he said, seriously. And a calmness came over him; his frame was steady, and he pointed the knife to a figure tied to a tree.