“I don’t really drink,” Gavin mumbled. Because of that reputation, he didn’t say.
“Too bad. It’s fun.” Alistair took another sip, for emphasis.
If Gavin’s archenemy wanted to underestimate him, refused to even learn his name, that was fine. He could use that to his advantage, until the perfect opportunity presented itself. And then, for the first and last time, Alistair would see what he was truly capable of.
“Well then,” Gavin said, raising his mead bottle in the air. “To fun?”
Alistair’s laugh sounded like he hadn’t used it in years. “Why not?” He knocked his own bottle against Gavin’s. “You know, I almost hope you poisoned this.”
And with that, he drank deeply.
Gavin pretended to drink with him, a strange realization creeping through him.
He’d always known Alistair was dangerous. But he’d never had the chance to see how sad he was. It was unmistakable, in the lines of his profile, in the way his hand desperately gripped the bottle.
What right did he have to be sad?
“You know, in my research,” Gavin said, unable to keep the bite from his voice, “I saw that Lowes usually claim the Castle. But you didn’t even try.”
Briony had said something about patterns. Gavin agreed with her; champions from certain families did gravitate toward specific Relics and Landmarks. But he’d studied the history of the families extensively. If there was a way to break this curse, he would’ve seen a hint of it by now.
“I don’t need a fancy Landmark for people to know I’m a threat,” said Alistair, smirking. “The most dangerous monsters are the ones who sneak up on you. Haven’t you heard the stories?”
“My family doesn’t really tell stories. We don’t have any good ones.”
The words rang out starkly across the room. Gavin hadn’t meant to be so honest, but when he looked at Alistair, his brow was furrowed in thought.
Gavin was unfathomably grateful for that. Hatred or apathy, he could handle.
Pity would’ve been too much to bear.
“My mother used to tell me a bedtime story about changelings,” Alistair said hoarsely. “They’d switch a human baby out for one of their own. The child would be almost human, but not quite. They’d be more dangerous. Wilder. Stranger. And then, one day, the monsters would come back to claim their own, to bring them to their caverns below the earth.”
Alistair changed when he told stories. His voice took on a reverent, eager quality, and his face looked more like a boy’s, a boy with wistful eyes and a wry, gentle curl to his lips. It didn’t matter that the words he spoke were frightening—Gavin could have listened to him talk like this for hours.
“What about the human baby?” Gavin asked, trying not to let his fascination show. “What happened to them?”
Alistair smiled ghoulishly. “The changeling would slit their throat and feast on all the magick inside.”
“What kind of a bedtime story is that?” Gavin shivered, thinking about the deal he’d made, the way he’d mutilated his own body’s magick.
“Not all bedtime stories have happy endings.”
“But your family are winners. Shouldn’t all your stories have happy endings?”
“The Lowes win because they’re monsters,” Alistair said bitterly, coaxing raw magick into a spellring. “And we play our parts very well. We know who we’re supposed to be.”
The boy beside him was not what Gavin had expected, not the menace who’d nearly killed an elderly spellmaker, not the brash champion from the Magpie. He tried to remind himself that Alistair would always be a Lowe, and Gavin couldn’t—wouldn’t—let himself feel anything but hatred for him. Not when it was too easy to wonder if it had ever really been hatred at all.
“No, it’s a choice to be a monster.” The words came out more sharply than Gavin intended them to. “You could have the town eating out of your hand if you wanted. Your family decided to make them fear you. I wish I’d had that kind of choice.”
“I have fewer choices than you think,” said Alistair, quietly, dangerously. “And your family chose their reputation. They chose to give up centuries ago.”
Gavin bristled. “I’m not my family. And I haven’t given up.”
“I’ve noticed.” Alistair eyed him appraisingly.
Gavin felt a rush of pride, then a rush of annoyance that he wanted Alistair’s approval. He liked to think of himself as good at being alone, or at least accustomed to it. But one conversation with his supposed mortal enemy and his guard was already down. Was he really this desperate for validation?