The inside was cluttered and cramped, the opposite of the false, fussy elegance of the larger spellshops. Precarious piles of scrolls and books and baubles lay everywhere. Gavin’s tall frame and broad shoulders made him feel too big for the space, but he liked it immediately. True power was knowing your store could look however you wanted and people would still come to you. His eyes lingered over a few of the curses labeled in neat script on the shelves—Ancient Arrows, Belladonna’s Bane, Inferno’s Wake. The MacTavishes were masters of their craft. They even had a distinctive style, oval gems in mostly grays and greens. He’d never seen another spellmaker in town dare to use a similar cut.
“Hello?” he called out. “Is anyone there?”
A rustle came from the back of the shop in response. Gavin nearly knocked over a bowl of cracked pewter rings as he whipped around. A moment later, a pair of black velvet curtains parted to reveal a boy a few years older than Gavin. His leather vest did little to hide that the black shirt beneath it was cut a fraction too low on his chest. A collection of dead magickal rings hung around his neck, each a broken, glimmering trophy to spells gone wrong. A curious choice of accessory for a cursemaker, but the MacTavishes were famously eccentric. Gavin wasn’t about to walk into someone’s family lair without doing a little research first.
Dark eyes, made darker by the black smudges beneath them, met his own. “Gavin Grieve. I was wondering when you’d come.”
“You didn’t know I would,” said Gavin.
Lazily, deliberately, the spellmaker flicked his tongue ring against his teeth. “The MacTavishes have been watching the tournament, and the tournament families, for centuries. Do you think you’re the first Grieve to believe we hold the salvation to your … unique predicament? To show up here the night before the tournament begins, begging for help?”
Anger sparked in Gavin’s chest. “I’m not here to beg.”
Reid drummed his fingers along the counter between them, chipped black nail polish tapping against the varnished wood. “Then what, exactly, are you here to do?”
“You visited the Lowes, didn’t you?”
Reid’s face flickered with something that might have been surprise. “Yes.”
“You saw how little respect they have for spellmakers. For you.”
Reid shook his head. “I see what you’re getting at, Grieve, and I admire your efforts. You’re trying to act like this meeting doesn’t matter much to you, like a starving dog that’s pretending it doesn’t need a meal. But you and I both know you’ll be dead in a day, and I’ll not be dragged down with you. Nothing personal.”
Memories rushed through Gavin’s mind: his mother, pouring a glass of wine as she calmly explained to him that her younger brother had been slain in the last tournament in less than an hour. Callista saying she’d been born a Grieve, but she certainly wasn’t going to die as one. Osmand Walsh’s smug, ruddy face. The girl he’d been seeing ignoring his calls the week after A Tradition of Tragedy appeared in the town bookshop, a classmate who’d been flirting with him backing off as soon as they realized who Gavin was.
Reid shifted to the side, tugging at his vest, and Gavin caught a glimpse of the book tucked inside. A worn copy of A Tradition of Tragedy, almost as well-read as his own. The sight of the book galvanized him. He couldn’t give up yet.
“I’ve been reading past accounts of the tournaments for years, just like the ones in that book,” Gavin said slowly. “When a Lowe doesn’t win the tournament, it’s usually because your family was backing the victor. Yet you don’t get the credit for those wins—the champion’s family does. If you chose to ally with me, and I won, I’d make sure you were remembered for it just as much as I was.”
“Or we’d be remembered as the fools who chose to ally with a Grieve.” Reid drew the book from his vest and placed it carelessly on the counter. “Everyone believes your family wrote this book because you’ve got no pride left to lose. Are you even strong enough to cast one of our curses? We don’t sell spellwork to people who can’t perform it.”
Gavin knew a challenge when he heard one. He smiled grimly as magick shimmered in the air around his hand, then sent a wispy tendril up toward his mouth. The Silvertongue was a brand-name spellring he’d splurged on after his encounter with Briony Thorburn. One that guaranteed the person it was cast on would tell the truth. It was class five, the strongest he could make on his own.