“Oh, you looked the same.”
“Then what made me a monster?”
“You were collecting the spellrings of dead children and hiding them in your wardrobe, cackling about souls trapped inside them.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alistair said. “I’d do something like that now.”
“You know, you should take a page out of that Macaslan girl’s book and try to seem more likable. This tournament is different—the curse isn’t a secret anymore. I mean, look at all these tourists! In Ilvernath! If you plan to survive, you’ll need alliances with other champions. Partnerships with spellmakers. You’ll need the world’s favor.”
Alistair looked at his brother intensely. Hendry was breaking their unspoken rule not to discuss the tournament, and it wasn’t like him to be so serious. Besides, it didn’t matter that A Tradition of Tragedy had turned Ilvernath’s peculiar red moon and its bloody history into a global scandal. The Lowes had their pick of spellmakers lining up to offer Alistair their wares. Misfortune had a way of finding those who defied the Lowe family—their grandmother’s notorious curses made certain of that.
“Are you worried about me?” Alistair asked.
“Of course.”
“The family isn’t.”
“I’m your big brother. I have to worry about you.”
Alistair’s first instinct, as always, was to crack a joke. But confident or not, it was difficult to find humor in the tournament.
Kill or be killed. It was a somber affair.
Alistair’s fear wasn’t for his life, but for his mind. Even the most villainous Lowe victors left the tournament changed, broken. But Alistair refused to accept such a fate. No matter how brutal, how terrible he’d need to be, he couldn’t let himself care. Not about the other champions. Not about his soul.
He needed to become the most villainous of them all.
He was still debating how to respond to Hendry when he was tapped on the shoulder.
“We’ve never met before,” said the Macaslan girl as Alistair abandoned his game and turned around. Her words weren’t a statement—they were an accusation. The other townies and cursechasers behind her whispered, their wide eyes fixed on the two boys who’d drawn the local Macaslan celebrity’s attention.
Hendry flashed his sunlight smile and held out his hand. “We’re not from here. We came to see if the book was true. That Blood Moon really is something.”
His smile proved ineffective against the girl, who didn’t return it. Her gaze dropped to his outstretched hand, to the rings with crystal spellstones dotting his fingers. “Sharma, Aleshire, Walsh, Wen,” she said. “How impressive that, as a tourist, you’ve managed to purchase from half the spellmakers in town.”
Hendry withdrew his hand and laughed awkwardly. “Impressive you can identify a spellring’s maker simply by looking at it.”
He elbowed Alistair in the side for him to say something. Unfortunately, despite their grandmother’s warnings about exposing themselves, Alistair had little desire to keep up the charade. The cursechasers were going to stare anyway—he might as well give them something to look at.
Grins like goblins. Alistair smiled.
“What would it take for you to leave us alone?” he asked, even though he hoped she’d do the opposite.
The girl crossed her arms. “Your names.”
Pale as plague and silent as spirits.
Alistair took a threatening step closer, though she stood taller than him in her heels. He liked that. “I’d like to know yours.”
He held out his hand.
“I’m Isobel Macaslan,” she told him firmly.
They’ll tear your throat and drink your soul.
She grabbed his hand and shook. Her touch was cold, but his was colder.
“I believe you called me your rival.”
A curse shot from one of his rings to her wrist, twisting and slithering its way up her arm like a snake. Its teeth sank into her neck, leaving two puncture marks above her collarbone. Her ivory skin instantly swelled violet.
She gasped and jolted back, her hand covering her wound. But rather than shout at him, Isobel regained her composure in moments, turning discomfort into a wicked smile. It made her look unfairly attractive. “Then it’s my pleasure, Alistair Lowe.”
Alistair felt a pinch on his wrist. He frowned down at the mark over his pulse point: white lips. The mark of the Divining Kiss.
It wasn’t a curse, like what he’d placed on her. It was worse. She’d looked into his mind and plucked out his name. A cunning, clever spell. What else had she learned? A twinge of embarrassment gripped his chest, but he quickly swallowed that feeling down.