“No, that wasn’t what—”
“You don’t get to choose the family you’re born into.” He stood up and stalked to the desk below the window. Its surface was covered in memorial cards, amassed over years of Ilvernath funerals. He grabbed a handful and waved them in front of her face, spewing dust into the air. “Do you know why we collect life magick?”
“Because if we don’t, someone else will,” Isobel answered quietly. She’d heard her father repeat those words often enough.
“Because we used to be great! One of the seven great families of this city! We might not be snooty like the Thorburns, or secretive like the Darrows, or powerful like the Lowes, but we kept our wealth. And our traditions.” The hiss of his voice lingered on the last word. “We used to have a special respect for life and death, you know. Why do you think our champions often claim the Crypt Landmark or the Cloak Relic? It’s because of history. It’s because of who we are.”
Isobel hadn’t known that her family had any sort of legacy or traditions. All the Macaslan name had ever brought her was scorn, scorn she often felt they deserved.
“I know what you think of us. Everyone likes to pretend that magick is all starlight and rose petals, but it’s not. You can find magick in waste. In anthills. In cadavers. It’s dirty money, maybe, but it’s that money that pays for your clothes, your school. You’re still a Macaslan, no matter how hard you and your mother try to deny it.”
He threw down the cards and jabbed his finger into her chest. She winced.
“Don’t you want your family to be great again?” he asked her.
“I do, but—”
“Do you really think I’d ask this of you if I wasn’t sure you’d win?”
She didn’t, just like she knew that her mother hadn’t sabotaged her chances of spellmaker sponsorships. Her parents might’ve had their disagreements with each other, but neither of them would let that get in the way of caring about her.
“But what if I’m not sure if I’ll win?” she whispered.
“Then you clearly can’t see what I see.” He squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. “That you’re so smart, and so talented, and stronger than I’ll ever be. Maybe some of that you get from your mother.” This surprised Isobel—she’d rarely heard him admit one good thing about his ex-wife. “But you know what else you are? You’re a survivor. You get that from me.”
Gently, he touched one of her red curls that perfectly matched his own.
“And all of that together? That’s why I know you’ll win.”
Isobel took a deep breath, the must and smoke no longer bothering her. He was right. The media and her friends might’ve discarded her, but she was still the strongest champion in the tournament. And if any of the other champions could do what it took to win, then so could she.
“I need to get ready.” Isobel stood up, and her father patted her cheek.
“That’s my girl.”
Upstairs, Isobel retreated into her bedroom. She’d selected her dress for the opening banquet weeks ago: white and sophisticated, with beautiful detailing along the sleeves. It hung in a plastic bag along her wardrobe door, and the hanger clacked against the wood as she threw the door open. She bent down, rooting around her shoes.
Wedged inside her favorite pair of heels was the piece of crumpled yellow paper she’d stolen from Reid’s grimoire. The recipe for the Reaper’s Embrace.
She hadn’t attempted it yet because the instructions were complicated—even for her, trained by a professional spellmaker. Although the curse didn’t promise instant death, it promised a certain one. And it was a class ten.
If Isobel was going to win this tournament for her family, then she would use every tool in her arsenal, even stealing. A class ten curse would be hellish to cast, more powerful than anything she’d ever attempted. But she was brilliant. And she was a survivor.
If she pulled this off, she would be undefeatable.
Perhaps this would be how she ended Alistair Lowe.
She rested the page on her bed and gathered her ingredients. From her duffel bag already packed for the tournament, she retrieved a wooden spellboard and set it on the floor. First, she sliced off a lock of her curls. Then she set out three flasks of collected raw magick. An empty quartz ring to store the curse. A dried chrysanthemum, removed from a jar on her nightstand.
After she laid out each of the other components, Isobel turned back to the spell. “A blood sacrifice must be given,” she read. She wasn’t surprised—powerful curses often demanded as much—but she couldn’t find any specifications about what blood it required. She guessed her own. She furrowed her eyebrows and retrieved her letter opener from her desk drawer.