But Alistair would never use it. The idea of Hendry’s life magick annihilating another’s … in some ways, it felt more despicable than Hendry’s death. When Alistair pictured his brother, he thought of his dark curls, his sun-kissed complexion, how he smelled of sweets—and the Lowes had burned his body and forged a weapon from the ash. Just as they had done to Alistair his entire life.
Even if all six of the other champions allied against him, Alistair would still emerge victorious … and he would do it without using his brother’s curse.
The enchantments of the Cave Landmark hummed, its iron candelabras rattling, its spiderwebs trilling like violin strings. Someone was outside, approaching the defensive spells.
Ignoring his mild hangover, Alistair shot out of bed and raced down the cavernous halls, an assortment of cursestones clutched in his fist. Perhaps he was right, and the other champions had come to slay him. He took a deep breath, sucking in all of the past two days of anger and grief, preparing for whatever new horror was coming his way.
He crept toward the mouth of the cavern, barely breathing. It was still nighttime outside and drizzling, the air smelling of wet earth, the red moonlight making the puddles look like blood.
“Hello?” a female voice called.
If this was a band of champions here to kill him, Alistair somehow doubted their battle cry would be a frazzled “hello.” But he also wasn’t the best at reading people.
He cleared his throat. “Um … who goes there?”
Those are some shitty last words, he scolded himself.
“I want to talk,” the intruder said. Whoever they were, they were clever enough to see through the Landmark’s enchantments. That was the Cave’s unique power—it cloaked the location from prying eyes and made its entrance near impossible to find.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Isobel Macaslan.”
Isobel might’ve been powerful, but even for her, venturing to his lair alone was a deadly move. He had nine death curses on him, and countless more waiting in reserve.
“I’m unarmed,” Isobel said. “I didn’t come looking for a fight.”
“Last time we spoke, you called me ‘arrogant,’ ‘self-destructive,’ and ‘a waste of magick.’ Forgive me if I’m not convinced.”
A pause. He wondered if he’d actually frightened I-have-nothing-to-fear-from-you Isobel Macaslan, but then he felt the hum of the Landmark’s protective enchantment grow stronger, the very earth quaking beneath his trainers. She was walking toward the mouth of the Cave.
“Get back,” he warned.
“Or what?”
Alistair squeezed his cursestones tighter. He was already nauseous, and he didn’t want to use them for fear of blowback. But he might not have a choice. “Or you won’t take another step.”
“I told you I’m unarmed,” she said, then her voice rose higher, almost cracking. “Please.”
Alistair might not know Isobel well, but somehow he knew she didn’t plead very often. He left his hiding spot and stood at the Cave’s entrance—exposed, vulnerable. Oh, how his grandmother would curse his name if Alistair was slain by another champion just because he thought she was pretty.
Isobel was standing in the rain, shivering, her pink tracksuit drenched through and clinging to her skin. She hadn’t even used a cheap Waterproof spell to keep herself from getting wet. Her red curls were plastered to her face and neck, and she hugged her arms to herself.
“What are you doing?” he asked, genuinely surprised. Maybe this was some sort of trick. Earlier that night when she’d flirted with him, she’d proven she had more tools at her disposal than simply magick. She could be trying to get in his head.
“I need your help,” she said.
“Do I strike you as a generous person?”
“No, but I’ve seen in your head and I don’t think you’re so twisted that you’d kill an unarmed girl.”
He scoffed. “You’re not a girl; you’re an opponent.”
But the more he looked at her, the more he wondered how true that was. A cursemark scar was slashed across her left cheek, a thin line that hadn’t been there at the banquet. Her lip gloss couldn’t hide the chapped skin beneath it; her clothes were stained with mud.
She looked terrible, but terrible on her still looked pretty good.
Alistair flexed his fingers, readying to cast a curse, but his mouth went dry.
Hendry’s voice filled his mind. You should hear her out, Alistair imagined he’d say. It left a sick feeling in Alistair’s stomach that the only thing he had left of his brother was a cursed ring and a flimsy conscience.