“I provided an assortment of my favorite curses,” the one with the eyeliner said. He had a flat, bored voice, even while standing in the lion’s den. “The Inferno’s Wake will burn anything within a nine-meter radius to ash. The Treacherous Tripwire pack allows you to set deadly traps that an enemy can only perceive with very close attention.”
Each time a spell-or cursemaker provided their spiel, Marianne nodded and motioned for them to add their contributions to the hoard. Agent Yoo, true to her word, watched and said nothing.
“A collection of survivalist spells,” the one with the monocle said. “They include basic water-cleaning spells, food replenishment, a few healing spells—”
“You own one of the largest spellmaking emporiums in town,” his grandmother said tightly. “But all you’ve provided are cheap spells we could acquire anywhere, and with far less trouble. Where is your family’s signature spellwork?”
The spellmaker paled but lifted his chin higher. “I’ve already given my work and my sponsorship to the Thorburn family.” Their champion, whoever she was, had been named the fifth of the Slaughter Seven in the papers this morning. Alistair had no interest in learning the names of the people he was about to kill.
“I’m not naive,” Marianne snapped. “Nearly all of you here have promised sponsorship to a family other than ours. I only allow it because it’s meaningless.”
“I will not see my daughter come here before the next tournament and grovel to your family because of your high magick.” The spellmaker’s words made Alistair’s blood run cold. No one spoke that way to his grandmother. “I won’t give you any more than I already have.”
His grandmother glanced at Agent Yoo. Then, carefully, she said, “But for twenty years, the Lowes have used our high magick to keep the town’s affairs in order. All we ask from you and from your daughter…” Her tone lingered threateningly on the word. “… is a little recompense.”
The spellmaker swayed where he stood. His bulging eyes flitted from Marianne to the door.
Marianne placed a bony hand on Alistair’s shoulder and squeezed. Alistair stiffened.
“If he attacks,” she whispered in his ear, “so do you.”
For several moments, the crowd hung in tense silence, and as though they’d heard Marianne’s words, Alistair felt the eyes of everyone in the room on him. Of his mother, uncle, and cousin watching passively behind them. Of Hendry shaking his head as imperceptibly as he dared. Of the other spellmakers each taking a fearful step back.
The Lowes did not tell their children monster stories so that they could slay them.
The Lowes told them so their children would become monsters themselves.
One of the spellmaker’s many rings began to glow. A moment later, a bolt of white light shaped like a stake flew toward Marianne’s heart.
Startled, Agent Yoo stood up. But she reacted too slowly.
Marianne and Alistair didn’t.
With a snap of Marianne’s fingers, a Shark’s Skin shield spell enveloped the sofa, red with high magick. The stake disintegrated and rained glittery dust onto the floor.
A second later, Alistair focused his concentration and summoned the curse he’d crafted, determined to do his grandmother proud.
The spellmaker stumbled, but he’d clearly been anticipating retaliation. He stretched out his hand and summoned a shield of his own. The walls of their house shook at the force of the spell. The chandeliers rattled. The portraits quivered. The shield shined with a light almost blinding to behold. It was one of the most powerful spells Alistair had ever seen. A class ten.
With common magick, the Vintner’s Plague ranked at a six.
But high magick doubled the class of any casting.
Alistair’s curse sprang out of his ring in a cloud of noxious red. It swarmed across the room, making other spellmakers throw up defenses of their own or clamber desperately out of its path. It shot through the man’s shield as though tearing through parchment.
To the man’s credit, he did not scream.
The color of his fair skin deepened and reddened into that of a vintage wine. The whites of his eyes wrinkled, the eyes themselves shrinking like pieces of rotten fruit. His limbs swelled, and he yanked off his spellrings as they started to strangle his bulging fingers. They clacked as they fell against the stone floor.
For a moment, the man stood silently, swaying as though he might faint. Then a cough shuddered through him, spraying out a strange, violet liquid. The juice began to trickle from his eyes and ears, then pour freely down his neck. He was leaking, shriveling. And even amid his unspeakable punishment, he raised his head and looked Alistair Lowe in the eyes. What remained in his sockets looked like peach pits.