Chapter 8
EIGHT
KINGSTON
I sit at the table alone.
It is, by design, a meeting place. A center, literal and figurative, of our order. Our team. Our brotherhood. The deepest and oldest chamber in all of Camlann House, sunk a full story below the ground,
But right now, it is my sanctuary.
I press my hands into the ebony wood surface and close my eyes. Try to call up guidance, ask forgiveness, seek penance to do.
It isn’t working. Hasn’t been. Not for days.
The chapel—I was interrupted.
Morgan’s tonic—a cheap replacement for real discipline. Effective, but short-lived. And not anything I want to be dependent on.
Practice—always.
But the fact remains.
He’s in my head. Moroslav. And I don’t like it.
I inhale, exhale. Tense, relax.
A buzz against my thigh. My phone. I ignore it.
Two seconds later, another buzz. Harder—unnaturally so. Almost hard enough to hurt.
I pull it out and see the contact: Morgan .
Of course. I swipe it unlocked.
“Jesus, King, pick up on the first right next time or else I’ll make the damn thing explode.”
“Good evening, Morgan.” I have to hold back to wince as I put the phone to my ear; whatever power she channeled to make it vibrate like that has the case hot and crackling with energy. “You need?—”
“Get to the cap,” she says, breathless. “Now. There’s a fight starting, and?—”
“Kai?” I feel my fingers tense.
Morgan gives a brief ha. “Yes and no. It’s more?—”
What does she mean? “Not the other two?” That’s not like Lanz, and certainly not like Cal.
“No, no. It’s—Christ, would you let me finish?” Morgan rushes on. “It’s a girl thing, I think. But Kai’s getting aggro.”
I let out a long, steadying breath. “We don’t start fights.”
“I know, ” Morgan says, “and I’m not asking you to start one. I’m asking you to end it. Isn’t that something you have to do?”
I don’t say anything. She knows the answer.
“That’s what I thought,” she finishes. “Porter’s. Get down here. Now. ”
A sharp crack and a flash of blue light sends the phone from my fingers and thudding onto the table.
I pause only a moment, then stand. Not allowing myself to feel the reluctance.
She’s right. This is my duty.
It’s all of ours.
Minutes later, outside Porter’s. I roll my shoulders, release tension. Unneeded wear on the muscles.
I start walking. Footsteps at my side: Lanz .
“You all right?”
I nod, eyes front.
I don’t like interfering like that.
No, correction: I don’t like having to interfere like that.
I don’t like that this kind of confrontation is happening on campus. My campus—our campus.
Not when what we need is peace. Concentration. Absolute focus.
Lanz drops away, and the four of us make the walk back to Camlann in silence, nothing but our footsteps on the gravel.
I certainly have nothing to say.
The house is dark when we step back in. A dramatic sigh from my left—Kai. My jaw clenches against my will.
“Well, now what?” he says, throwing himself on a couch.
“Everyone to bed.” I answer without looking at him. Because as soon as I lock him in my sights, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.
Instead, I head for the staircase to the salle.
Kai snorts and mutters something I don’t allow myself to hear.
“What about you?” Callahan asks me.
“I’ll sleep later.”
I flick on the lights, the walls white against the stark black of the window glass looking out on the night, and unrack my blade. Take to the strip.
En garde. Parry 4. Riposte. Recover. Again.
No opponent. No mask, even. Only myself.
Minutes pass, or hours. The balls of my feet ache and my calves are taut with fatigue, shoulder and forearm burning.
Still, I persist.
Because now, especially now, there is something inside me, a burgeoning sense of dread I can’t shake, not with prayer or magic or drill after drill after drill.
That girl is going to be a problem.