Or was it just because that attention was coming from Alistair Lowe?
Gavin tried to picture himself standing over Alistair’s body, watching the life drain from his eyes. Tried to believe that was what he wanted. But as he sat there, beside the mead he refused to drink, he couldn’t avoid the newfound knowledge that Alistair was more boy than monster—despite how much both of them pretended otherwise.
ALISTAIR LOWE
Per old superstitions, a champion’s body is always buried face-down. If they attempt to claw their way from their graves to seek vengeance, they will only dig deeper into the earth.
A Tradition of Tragedy
Alistair was torn between two harrowing options: to go to bed or to keep drinking. Isobel and Briony had disappeared somewhere—more than likely, they’d fallen asleep. He was still surprised Isobel had agreed to indulge Briony’s fantasies about ending the tournament. It wasn’t like her, but he didn’t know the girls’ history.
“Fantasies” seemed the right word for it. When their ancestors had devised the tournament’s curse, they had not engineered it to be broken.
Even so, foolish, useless hope burned in his stomach. He’d hoped the alcohol would douse it—the hope and every other sorry thing he felt. Instead, it all burned twice as strong.
The Grieve was sitting beside him, still horrifyingly sober. He’d been casting Alistair grave expressions all evening as he hunched over his spellboard, as though worried Alistair might kill him … or like he was plotting to kill Alistair himself.
Alistair would like to see him try.
He reached for the Grieve’s bottle and shook it emphatically.
“What are you doing?” the Grieve asked.
“I’ve made my decision,” Alistair declared. “I’m going to get you drunk.”
The Grieve smirked. “I’d like to see you try.”
Alistair frowned at the echoing of his thoughts. His gaze flickered down to his wrist, for any mark of the Divining Kiss, but found none. He and the Grieve were just equally combative.
Alistair grabbed a handful of freshly filled spellstones from his pile and scattered them across the table.
The Grieve narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What are those for?”
Alistair reached for a rose quartz and held it up to the light. “A game, of course.”
“Is this the part where the Lowe plays with their victims before they kill them?”
“Relax, Grieve. It’s just gambling.”
The Grieve leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, emphasizing his bulky frame. He smiled smugly. “Instead of bets, we could fight with fists. A drink for every hit landed.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Alistair had been beaten up quite enough tonight. “How about something more equal? I don’t know you. You don’t know me. If we both commit to honesty, whenever the other guesses something right about us, we sip. And we bet our stones.”
“That sounds like a quick way to get drunk. And lose your spells.”
“You assume you know me, then.”
“Fine.” The Grieve shrugged and raised one of his spellstones. “It’s a class five.”
Alistair tossed a class five Shark’s Skin in the pot.
“You’re wicked and childish,” the Grieve said, “and your family has probably been priming you to become champion since before you can remember. You’ve never been anything but strong. You take that for granted.”
Alistair didn’t wince as he raised the glass to his lips and slid the Grieve his spellstone as prize. “Fair enough.”
And so they played.
It was an easy distraction from the many things plaguing Alistair’s mind. Like the thought of Isobel sleeping somewhere else in the Castle, how she’d abandoned him the moment they left the lair, how he clearly wanted her more than she wanted him. He wondered how pathetic that made him.
He was also trying to avoid thinking about his brother, especially after hallucinating him in the forest. But it wasn’t working. He thought about their pinball game in the Magpie. About the times Hendry had stolen pastries for Alistair and left them among his books. The night the boys had snuck into town for a carnival—how Alistair had sloshed cider all over his clothes, how Hendry had eaten three funnel cakes and thrown up in a dunk tank, how Alistair had found a worm in his caramel apple, how Hendry had charmed one of the volunteers so much in the kissing booth that she’d given him his money back.
Now every fleeting happy memory was a wound. He should know. He’d already been mortally wounded once tonight.