When Gavin looked down at his arm, he was glowing purple and green from the inside out.
His skin shimmered for a moment, and Gavin saw himself reflected in a pool of cloudy water, his skin turned to scales, his tongue forked and flickering like a snake’s. I am a monster now, he thought, a changeling—but it was just his imagination, an intrusive image from one of Alistair’s stories. In a blink, his skin returned to normal. All that was left was the original tattoo on his arm. Sand had begun to trickle in the opposite direction, from the bottom of the glass back to the top.
All the rules were breaking, but Gavin hadn’t lost sight of his original goal.
Victory in the tournament, however he had to achieve it.
And he already knew which champion he would strike down first, now that Isobel’s curse had provided him with a perfect opportunity.
Gavin reached into his pocket and pulled out the Mirror he had snatched from Elionor’s body. When he stared into it, the face he saw reflected was not his own—it was pale and pointed, dark hair swooping back into a widow’s peak.
As Elionor’s killer, the Mirror belonged to Alistair Lowe, and it showed only his image. But Gavin had it now.
He stared at his rival for several moments, picturing how sweet it would feel when Gavin drained every bit of life from his cruel face.
BRIONY THORBURN
Next time the Blood Moon rises and the tournament begins, it won’t just be Ilvernath watching.
A Tradition of Tragedy
Reid MacTavish had not seemed particularly surprised when three champions showed up on his front stoop. He’d handled them with an efficiency that felt almost practiced—invited them in, set up a woozy Isobel in his back room, and cast extra wards across the front windows in case of wandering paparazzi. Isobel had quickly fallen into a deep slumber. Reid had said that she’d wake up soon, that her body needed time to process what it had been put through, but Briony knew her stomach would be in knots until it actually happened.
Gavin Grieve had refused to come with them. He’d told them he was done with alliances before vanishing into thin air, and Briony was too exhausted to chase him down. She hoped he’d see reason, but she was no longer trying to force everyone to her side.
Her and Finley’s purpose here was twofold. Because surely the best cursemaker in town could help Isobel, and, now that they could pass through the Blood Veil, she and Finley had a chance to get more information from him about the tournament itself.
“So,” Finley said to Reid. “You helped Briony develop this theory?”
“I did, yes.” They’d convened in the main room of the shop, crammed between the shelves of expensive curses and the cabinets brimming with trinkets and ingredients. Everything smelled of incense and herbs. “And you two really managed to pair a Relic and a Landmark?”
“The Sword and the Cave,” Finley answered. “So we know that if we can do that six more times, we’ll successfully drain the enchantment. But we’re worried that … isn’t all that’s happening.”
“Oh?” Reid leaned forward, interest glimmering in his eyes.
“Remember what you told me at the banquet?” Briony asked. “About how there are two ways to break the tournament? How do we know if the second way … I mean…” She swallowed, then held up her hand. The champion’s ring on her pinky glimmered red and gold in the cobweb-coated lights above them. “When I took this from Innes, the Champions Pillar cracked. When Finley and I collapsed the Cave, it cracked again—but on a different side, the star side. We think that star side means we’re doing it right. And the side with the names…”
She trailed off, feeling sick.
Reid’s hand closed around one of the broken cursestones around his neck. They were dull and cracked. Dead. “You’re worried it’s going to implode completely.”
“Yes,” she choked.
“There are already three cracks on the side with names,” Finley said solemnly. “We need to know how to prevent more.”
“Hmm,” Reid said. “The tournament’s curse feeds on itself. Not just blood or high magick—but the repeated story. For centuries, it has been accustomed to a pattern. But you’ve all been changing it, as Briony did when she took Innes’s place. Those other two cracks must come from champions behaving in ways that deviate in extremes from the way this story has always been told.”
Briony thought of the paparazzi swarming their fight. Of Hendry standing next to Alistair, red flickering around him. So much had gone haywire—it was impossible to tell what events had been big enough to crack the pillars.