Toadstool clutched his finger and glowered at Alistair. “Do you know who I am?”
Alistair raised his eyebrows. The whisky was warming him from the inside out. “Should I?”
“I’m Osmand Walsh. I was at your house that day.” Alistair dimly recognized him as a spellmaker who’d cowered as he’d cast the Vintner’s Plague. “You may be a Lowe, and your family has high magick now. But one day, you won’t. Your little display made sure of that.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You think that woman is just here to observe?” He nodded at Agent Yoo by the Thorburn table. “No, the government is here to interfere, and I say that it’s high time for it. Letting the Lowes hold all that power? It’s unthinkable. At least now, even if you don’t die in the tournament, you’ll die on somebody’s pitchfork.”
Because Marianne had forced Alistair through so many tests, he hadn’t realized just how important that one had been. Automatically, he concealed his nerves behind a wicked grin. He might despise his family, but they had taught him his role well.
Alistair plucked the glass of beer out of the spellmaker’s hands, and Toadstool blanched.
“I guess you’d better sharpen your pitchforks, gents,” Alistair said, then laughed and strode away.
Alistair made for the closest exit he could find, which ended up being not an exit but a coatroom. With no attendants in sight, Alistair jumped onto the counter and nursed the ale.
Hendry would’ve loved a party like this. In fact, Hendry had been looking forward to this night. Something about making ladies swoon and an open bar.
Alistair drank more beer. By the time he was halfway done, he felt extremely drunk. He’d hardly eaten anything since yesterday.
If you do ever want to talk about the tournament, I’m here. I’ll listen, Hendry had told him two weeks ago. Alistair had put the discussion off, not wanting to worry him, not wanting to spoil their fun. Now Alistair had no one to confess his fears to about leaving the tournament broken. Without his brother, he already was.
An awful voice inside him sneered that this was his fault. If he’d passed the Lowes’ tests, if he’d truly been the villain they’d raised him to be, then they wouldn’t have needed to kill Hendry.
Alistair stared into the golden liquid in his glass, searching for his salvation at the bottom. He wiped his eyes.
“What are you doing?”
He looked up and grimaced. It was Isobel Macaslan, the pretty champion he’d met at the Magpie. She wore a white dress, an antique locket necklace, and an expression of disgust.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he sneered.
“It looks like you’re cracking.” She ignored him and went for the coatrack.
Alistair drained the rest of his glass and leaped off the counter. His dress shoes hit the carpet with a thud. “How did the Asp’s Fang treat you?” He gave her a pitying expression. “You don’t look well.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You look terrible.”
“I am terrible.”
She snorted. “And drunk.” Her red curls bounced as she stepped closer to him. “So, rival, what are you thinking about now?” She reached for his wrist, where the white remainder of her spell was merely a smudge. Alistair let her touch him, if only because he needed a distraction from his angry, sorry thoughts.
She ran a manicured finger over the kiss mark.
“Maybe you’re thinking about your family’s monster stories,” she murmured. “The ones that still give you nightmares.”
Alistair narrowed his eyes. His memory was foggy, but he’d thought her Divining Kiss had only scratched the surface of his mind. He yanked his hand away.
“Maybe you’re thinking that you have nothing to worry about, because you believe you have the entire world convinced you’re going to win.” She took another step toward him. She was now close enough that he could smell her perfume—peonies. Close enough that she was definitely a distraction. “Maybe you’re thinking about the skirt I wore that night. I remember you liking it.”
If the Macaslan was attempting a new strategy on him, it was working. His gaze drifted down to her neck, her waist. He stifled a smile, imagining his family’s disdain if the paparazzi found their champion flirting with another hours before they were meant to kill each other.
“What are you doing?” he asked, like a dare. For the first time this evening, the nasty voices in his mind were quiet.