The common magick wasn’t the only thing Isobel couldn’t see. The Landmark itself looked no different to her than it had before the Blood Veil fell. Its furniture was rotten and decrepit, and everything was coated in a filthy layer of dust. But knowing Alistair’s taste, Isobel suspected the true version of the Cave looked no different.
While Alistair worked, Isobel clutched the torn page from Reid MacTavish’s grimoire, reading out loud.
“The Reaper’s Embrace is an ancient curse, made famous by stories that have, over time, distorted its true nature—”
“Have you ever crafted a curse?” Alistair interrupted her. He got up and stood over the bed, rubbing the dirt off his refilled curse-and spellstones and tossing them into various piles. From the hyper-practiced way he carried himself, Isobel would’ve assumed him a tidy person, but he left a mess behind him wherever he walked. He’d eaten two of her protein bars and thrown the wrappers on the desk. The blazer he’d worn at the banquet was discarded on the floor, still reeking of liquor.
“Of course I’ve crafted a curse,” she snapped. “Even if it’s not my mother’s specialty, I’m a trained spellmaker. I’ve learned far more than what they teach you in school.”
Plus, Isobel had heard the story of the botched curse Alistair had cast on that spellmaker, so she’d hardly be taking cursemaking advice from him.
“I don’t pretend to be an expert.” Alistair set his backpack down on the desk chair and walked over to her. He snatched the paper out of her hands. “I’m no good at…” He gestured vaguely at the recipe.
“Directions?”
“Sure, but I was taught by the best. I’m sure you’re familiar with my grandmother’s reputation.”
“Of course I am.”
Marianne Lowe’s high magick curses were the stuff of nightmares. Even with the government watching over her shoulder, the threat of Marianne’s wrath was enough to keep every spellmaker in town paying the Lowes tribute.
Although after what Alistair had done to Bayard Attwater, Isobel wasn’t so sure that was true. She shuddered and tried not to think too hard about who she’d made this bargain with.
“According to her, curses aren’t magick’s natural state. You need to twist the power into that shape, and it will do everything it can to resist you. So you have to mean them. Death curses especially. If your command is weak, the curse won’t work—or worse.” He gave her a pointed look.
Isobel nearly rolled her eyes. Meaning a curse was pointless. The sort of idea a villain would fancy. Crafting enchantments was a neutral art.
But she wouldn’t tell him that. She was completely powerless in the lair of the tournament’s most infamous champion, alive based only on his mood swings. Survival meant swallowing her insults and forcing a smile.
“Maybe you can help, then,” she said, as though she’d offered him the page he’d grabbed from her.
He scoffed. “I can’t teach you how to be wicked.”
He was being serious, but the words made Isobel laugh. There was a dirty joke to be found there, and she thought of the way Alistair had looked at her the night they’d met in that pub and she’d gotten a peek into his mind. And standing there, dressed in cable knits like he was visiting the library rather than competing in their bloody tournament, his features sharp in the flickering candlelight, he did look attractive.
She immediately cast the thought away. If Alistair knew any telepathic spells, then she would be an open book right now. It was an intrusive thought—nothing more.
“I think my mistake had to do with the sacrifice,” she said quickly. “I didn’t give the curse enough blood.” It was the only part of the recipe with unclear instructions. It had to be that.
“Was it your own blood?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Maybe that’s your problem.”
“I should’ve used an animal?” That felt needlessly cruel.
“I never said that.” He crumpled the paper and dropped it lazily on the ground, as though he was already bored of helping her. Then he walked away and collapsed on the bed. Isobel’s nose crinkled. Cobwebs clung to the dusty headboard and pillows, but she knew Alistair saw a different version of this place. He reached for a crossword on the nightstand beside him—a funny thing to bring to a death tournament, but Isobel guessed even a Lowe needed his small comforts.
“Who else’s blood should I have used?” The instructions clearly said sacrifice, so whose blood was more precious than her own? This was hardly a problem in spellmaking.