But then Alistair reached his hand forward, and his fingers traced a crack along the edge of the stone. It curled inward, like a piece of a broken heart. “That wasn’t there before.” His words sounded like a question. “I saw a crack on my own pillar, but now there’s two. Is it supposed to do that?”
Gavin didn’t know the answer, but he didn’t want to admit that. “Don’t start saying that you think Briony is onto something.”
Alistair pursed his lips and said nothing.
Gavin could go to bed. It had been an exhausting day. But he would be a fool to waste an opportunity like this—one night of guaranteed peace with Alistair Lowe. One night to find the monster’s weakness.
Gavin looked at Alistair’s blood-crusted knuckles. Other than his champion’s ring, he only wore one more, a plain yet finely crafted piece, with a stone the color of ash.
“Well, you’ve got raw magick now,” Gavin said, trying to sound casual. “Don’t you need to craft some spells?”
Alistair stared at his fingers, as if just now remembering why they were so bloodied and empty. He clenched his fists, then, after a pause, shrugged. Completely unfazed by his near encounter with death. Gavin didn’t know why he was even surprised.
“I’m not the only one. You’re only wearing three?”
“Some of us don’t need ten spellrings to fight.” Gavin stuffed his hands into his pockets. Suddenly, convincing Alistair to stay here and replenish his supplies seemed a little foolish. He didn’t want Alistair to ask questions about his own magick.
“Or you don’t have ten spellrings,” Alistair said pointedly. Gavin flushed with embarrassment, but it was better Alistair think him lacking in supplies than learn the real reason he wore so few. “So what happened to that liquor cabinet we were discussing?”
Gavin detested liquor thanks to his parents, but if drinking meant he’d get to study his opponent, then so be it.
“It’s full,” he answered.
Alistair smiled. “Perfect.”
The boys made their way to the dining hall and seated themselves at the impressive round stone table, each clutching a bottle of golden liquid so coated in dust that their fingerprints left streaks across the glass.
Alistair popped the cork on his and took a heavy swig. He made a revolted face. “What is this?”
Gavin sniffed his uneasily. It smelled … like alcohol. “Beer?” he guessed.
“I think it’s mead.” Despite being apparently disgusted, Alistair drank again.
Two spellboards sat in front of them, littered with empty spellstones. Gavin fiddled with his stones, making a bogus show of inspecting them each closely. He kept most of them in his pockets these days, only swapping out the few he felt he most needed. It wasn’t worth the risk of them constantly draining him. Alistair, meanwhile, coaxed the raw magick out of his flasks. You were supposed to draw it out gently, but Alistair reserved that treatment for the mead bottle, instead shaking the flask like a broken Magic 8-Ball.
Gavin watched him take yet another generous gulp. “Aren’t you worried about what will happen if you let your guard down?”
Alistair’s smile was sallow in the harsh filter of the Blood Veil through the windows, his teeth feral and pointed. The red was a little weaker now that Briony had killed Carbry.
Gavin thought of the boy’s corpse and shuddered. He’d never given much thought to how it would look when someone died. Now he realized it was more intimate, more messy, than he had anticipated. As he’d watched Carbry collapse to the ground, the life leaking out of him, Gavin had realized he could feel the boy’s life magick draining away—a cloud of white that dissipated into the air. It had felt … familiar.
Life magick was only supposed to come out of bodies when they were buried.
“Really, Grieve,” Alistair purred, his voice lingering on the last word with obvious disdain. “What could I possibly have to be afraid of?”
“I have a first name, you know.”
Alistair’s gaze dropped to the spellboard.
“You don’t know my name, do you?” Gavin demanded, humiliated. Isobel and Briony had both said it in Alistair’s earshot.
“Maybe I like calling you Grieve.”
Face flushing in anger, Gavin actually lifted the mead bottle to his lips and drank.
He immediately coughed, feeling the acidic sweetness burn its way down his throat.
“You know,” drawled Alistair, “I thought the Grieves were famous for handling their liquor.”