He disabled the spell and pulled open the drawer. Inside were six file folders and a well-worn copy of A Tradition of Tragedy, annotated and marked with dozens of tabs. Initially, his notes had begun as research on the history of high magick and the competing families, but as the tournament had drawn closer, they’d become something different.
Dossiers. On the other possible champions.
Isobel Macaslan. Elionor Payne. Carbry Darrow. Innes Thorburn. Three potential Blairs.
And the front-runner, the champion he cared about most of all.
Gavin pulled out that file and flipped it open.
The flare of lightning outside only accentuated Alistair Lowe’s vicious scowl.
Gavin had ripped out the picture from the Ilvernath Eclipse and clipped it to the front of the file. It was the first image he’d found of the boy—his family was deliberately reclusive. In the flash of a cursechaser’s camera, Alistair Lowe looked deeply annoyed. He had an older brother, Gavin knew, and although both were technically eligible to become champion, Gavin—along with the mainstream media—was certain Alistair would be chosen. Even before the book had been published, there were rumors about Alistair whispered by the other families: his power, his wickedness, his cruelty. Spellmakers were undoubtedly begging at his feet to sponsor him.
Gavin chose not to think about the other thing the photograph proved: even in unflattering light, even scowling, Alistair Lowe was extremely good-looking. Not that it mattered.
“I’m going to kill you,” Gavin said aloud, jabbing a finger into the center of the photo.
The door to his room creaked open. “What are you doing?” Fergus’s high, slightly nasal voice drifted through the room.
Gavin slammed the file shut and whipped around. “I told you not to come in here.”
His brother frowned. His blond hair was plastered to his forehead; behind him, a trail of wet footprints led into the hallway. “Then you should get a stronger spell on your door.” Fergus’s gaze darted from the weight rack in the corner to the wardrobe, filled with a row of identical T-shirts sorted by color, and finally, to the open desk drawer. “What’s in there? Dirty magazines?”
“None of your business.”
But Fergus, hopelessly nosy, had already darted forward and yanked out the book. His eyes widened as he flipped it open. “You’ve underlined practically every sentence. Gav, how many times have you read this?”
“Not enough,” Gavin snapped, rising from his seat. He had four years and nine kilos of muscle on Fergus—he didn’t need magick to make his brother sorry for snooping. “Now give it back.”
“I don’t get it. There’s nothing in it we don’t already know.”
“Have you actually read it?”
Fergus hesitated, then shook his head. “Mum said it wasn’t important.”
“Well it is, because this book made the town hate us,” Gavin said. “It’s full of all our families’ weaknesses—weaknesses I’m going to use to make sure the people who I’m about to be forced to kill don’t kill me first.”
Gavin despised everything the last year had brought him. It had ruined the few friendships he’d had, made the boys and girls he would’ve flirted with beforehand shy away from him with a combination of pity and revulsion. Nobody wanted to be around a dead boy walking.
Fergus’s face flushed, and he lowered the file. “We’re not forcing … I mean, I thought you wanted to be champion.”
Gavin wasn’t sure want was the right word. Want implied a choice he’d never been given. Becoming the Grieve champion had been more a process of elimination than anything else. Most of the time, he could convince himself he’d made this decision of his own free will, but in quiet moments, without the rain drumming down outside or Fergus’s voice to fill the silence, he knew it wasn’t true.
Still, it didn’t matter, and there was no sense making Fergus feel guilty about it. Fergus, who was their mother’s favorite, who would never understand why Gavin was so bitter, so cold. Gavin wanted to hate him. Gavin wanted to hate them all for doing this to him. But he’d decided long ago to save that hate for the tournament—meld it into a weapon at his disposal.
“I do,” he said, trying to soften his voice. “You just surprised me. What do you actually want?”
“A spellstone.” Fergus gestured at his wet clothes. “It’s awful outside, and I’m supposed to meet Brian—”
“I’m not giving you a spellstone,” Gavin said flatly. “I need every spell I have, since, as you’ve undoubtedly noticed, we’re not exactly swimming in spellmaker alliances.”