Chapter 12
TWELVE
KAI
Wrought iron, stone, and silence.
The ceilings arch overhead, banners hanging dark like reminders of everything we’re supposed to uphold. We sit—Kingston, Lanz, and me—lined up at the Black Table like obedient soldiers.
I hate it. Like we’re in a fucking cathedral instead of the second basement level of Camlann House.
But that’s the point. The quiet, the secrecy, the ceremonial bullshit. The empty ivory throne that’s ceremonially unoccupied, the round table. Supposed to be egalitarian—no one at the head, no one at the foot. A cute little circle.
But somehow, Kingston always manages to take things over.
“Next meet,” he declares. “Coming soon.” His hair’s still damp from the shower, golden strands clinging to his temples. We were up at 5 a.m. for conditioning, and for once I woke up raring to go, like I was pre-caffeinated and had done a bump to boot.
Maybe it’s the lingering effects of Saturday—of something actually interesting happening for once. Sure, it’s mostly a hazy blur for me, and it all got cut short when Morgan bitched and moaned to Kingston and sounded the alarm, but still .
A change of pace. A fight I neither started nor found myself at the center of.
And call me a whore for drama—among other things—but my interest is piqued.
That girl Gwenna could be trouble.
And I like trouble.
“Sainte-Odile is watching,” Kingston goes on. “So we need to?—”
“Watching? What, in their crystal ball?” I cross an ankle over my knee and lean back, earning me a dagger-sharp stare from Kingston.
Bro, keep it up and I’ll put my boots right on the fucking table.
“I just mean,” I clarify, “what meet footage of us could they possibly have gotten? We don’t film.
” I toss a side eye at Lanz. “Unless Pretty Boy here has an OnlyFans where he’s selling us out. ”
Lanz flushes pink. Sweet summer child. But Kingston, humorless bastard, shuts it down like he always does.
“An assistant coach at the scrimmage,” he says. “Watched and took notes.”
Just that, but it lands like a bell toll.
Sainte-Odile’s fine. School out of Quebec, same old-style fencing as us. Good enough to trip us up if we’re sloppy, but usually that’s not a problem.
Usually.
I grip my knee until it aches while King and Cal get into details about Sainte-Odile’s lineup, but my mind keeps drifting. Back to Saturday.
You’d think, with us being avowedly celibate and all, that we wouldn’t be the subject of relationship drama on campus.
But you’d think wrong. A place like Caliburn tends to attract the, let’s say, nerdier variety of male students—not exactly physical specimens—which leaves our poor, lustful coeds with no one to pine after but the athletes—us, basically.
Because what’s sexier than forbidden fruit?
Hell, I’d bet folding money that more than a few mattress springs in Broceliande Hall have been worn out from some desperately horny girls squinting their eyes shut and rubbing one out to fantasies of yours truly.
So the fact that Elena Shalott’s been creaming her panties for Lanz since orientation day isn’t exactly groundbreaking.
But an honest-to-God catfight? That’s a real novelty.
Especially when one of the kittens seemed totally uninterested in the prize. I don’t know who this Gwenna Vale is—besides some kind of Latin genius, judging by her placement test results—but what I do know, I like.
That, to me, is a girl worth keeping an eye on.
“Where’s Cal?” Lanz frowns, and it’s only then that I notice Callahan isn’t here yet. I look left and right, exaggerating my search.
“Getting his land legs back?” I shrug. “I don’t fucking know.”
How someone goes from a championship swimmer to a championship fencer in the course of a little less than a year is beyond me.
That takes at least equal parts discipline and raw talent, and personally, I’ve only got one of those.
When Callahan turned up as essentially a walk-on to our squad, I was skeptical to say the least. But I have to hand it to the big guy: he’s got the goods.
Kingston does his little disapproving schoolmarm frown. “It’s not like him to be late. Did he?—”
The door bursts open. And there he is. Callahan.
“So good of you to join us,” I say. Someone has to break the tension, and Kingston’s sanctimonious silence pisses me off more than anything. “We were just discussing how Sainte-Odile is going to kick our ass. Want to weigh in?”
Cal ignores me. “She almost drowned.”
“What?” Kingston says, irritation in his tone. “Who?”
“The new girl,” Cal says. “Gwenna. ”
Even the sound of her name has my already-pumping blood going faster. I can’t help it.
“In the lake,” Cal goes on. “I was out swimming and?—”
“The hell was she doing out in the lake?” I ask. Is this girl nuts? The water’s probably fifty degrees max, and you’ve gotta have polar bear DNA like Callahan O’Brian to survive that, let alone opt for it.
Or…
…or does she know?
I feel Kingston’s glare before I see it. Because he’s wondering the same thing.
“Did she see anything?”
“Seriously?” This, from Lanz. “Cal comes in and says someone almost drowns in the lake, and the first thing you ask is whether she saw anything? ”
Kingston glowers. “We never know when the Lady might awaken. And if this girl was out there on her own, she might know to look for?—”
“No, no,” Callahan says, shaking his head. “It wasn’t like that. It was some kind of setup. Her swim test. Elena Shalott was proctoring her test. Tricked her into going to the lake.”
Whoa. Juicy. My eyebrows go up. But Kingston isn’t having it.
“That’s not our problem.” His voice could split stone. “Any of our problem.”
A pointed glance in my direction. I press a hand to my chest, eyebrows high. Me, your honor?
Kingston ignores it. Callahan, meanwhile, protests.
“But—”
“Can we focus, please?” Kingston all but roars. “Need I remind you why we are all here?” he goes on, voice iron. His eyes flick down to the center of the table, to the hidden Caliburn crest designed into the wood itself.
“We have a mission,” he goes on. “We have a charge. A commitment to excellence in the pursuit of the greater good.” His stare pins Cal in place. “I understand you’re the newest, Callahan, but getting involved in this kind of?—”
“No,” Cal chokes. “I’m fine. I’m sorry, Kingston.”
He drops into the seat next to me, face pale, knuckles white. On his other side, Lanz, too, looks worried. Way more worried than anyone should be. And Cal glances his way, just once, quick and desperate, like he needs reassurance only Lanz can give.
Well, fair enough. Because he sure as hell isn’t getting it from me.
“Yes,” I mutter, flipping open my pocket knife to clean under my nails.
“Heaven forbid we perform under pressure. Let’s all build ourselves a little hermetic tube so we never make contact with the outside world.
Just study hard, play with our swords, and figure out where X marks the spot so we can find?—”
Kingston narrows his eyes at me.
“ Quiet ,” he barks.
To my surprise, I shut up.
It sounds ridiculous when I put it that way, I know. But to be fair, it sounds ridiculous even when I don’t put it that way. It sure as hell did to me, anyway: seek the Holy Grail ?
Fucking excuse me ?
But damned if I haven’t seen shit since then that’s convinced me. Convinced me enough to sign on, body, mind, and soul.
A loyal knight. Just like all of us.
Kingston starts droning strategy again, voice flat, eyes sharp. Cal stares straight ahead. Lanz fidgets like he always does: 10% man, 90% nervous energy.
That’s the real problem with this table. It’s supposed to be this sacred thing that brings us all together, unites us in brotherhood and service, proves us all to be equals no matter what and blah blah fucking blah .
In reality? It’s all tilting one way. Ever since the Lady of the Lake made her decision.
Ever since she picked Kingston.
He’s supposed to be leading this. Leading us.
But this death grip of his, this hero complex and hardass attitude…
It’s ripping us apart.
Finally, when what feels like two hours have passed and I’m hungry enough to gnaw off my own arm, Kingston declares we’re done.
“Kai. Wait.”
Except, apparently, me.
I skid to an exaggerated stop, just a few feet from the door and just a few steps away from whatever’s waiting for us in the dining room, which smells absolutely fucking delicious.
So this had better be important.
“Yes?” I say. All innocence. Until proven guilty, I think.
At the table, Kingston sits with his back straight, arms folded, like the anal-retentive CEO he’d probably have ended up becoming if his destiny wasn’t all wrapped up in this wild fucking goose chase for a magical cup.
“Father knows,” he says. “About this weekend.”
“Oh?”
I only half-remember what happened. But I remember enough to remember that I was probably a dick—a justified dick, but not like that matters.
I fold my arms.
“So you ratted me out,” I clarify. “Is what you’re saying.”
“I informed him that you’d had an incident,” Kingston says. Pitch-perfect bureaucratese. Jesus Christ, he really could be one of those psychopath billionaires. Christian Bale could play him. Or that cannibal guy from the Facebook movie. “As in keeping with the code we follow. ”
“Oh, well, then, ” I say, soaking my words in sarcasm. “What’ll it be this time? The iron maiden, or the rack?”
Kingston doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even fucking twitch .
“Repercussions aren’t up to me,” he says. “If the Consistory feels that the violation was severe enough, then the code says?—”
“The code says, the code says,” I singsong. “You know what we used to say, on the mean streets of Chicago?” I all but snarl. “Snitches get stitches. That was our code. Is that what you want, bro? ”
Sudden as a lightning strike, Kingston gets to his feet.
“I want, Kai,” he bites out, “for you to get your goddamn act together. Take this seriously. For once.” He hardens his eyes on me. “Do you even understand how critical this whole thing is? Do you?—”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” I interrupt. “What difference does it make?” I shrug, resisting every urge to haul off and deck him again.
Twice in three days is probably too much.
“I’m just hired muscle. Work me ’til I’m useless, then cut me loose.
” I plant my palms on the table, lean over so we’re eye to eye.
“And if you don’t know how to do that, just ask your fucking father. ”