Chapter 1 Tamsin #2
“Well, you sure looked it tonight!” The MC chuckles, clapping me hard on the shoulder.
“We’ll look forward to seeing more of you in this arena and beyond, if I do say so myself.
Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for your victor tonight, Tamsin Blackwood—making her senior debut here at Raven Queen Arena, and still undefeated! ”
I take my bow, trying to ignore the cold creeping into my veins. I’ll be ushered backstage now—which means my time is up.
Dad’s waiting.
My dressing room backstage is dark. Dad rarely bothers with more than a couple lights—he claims they hurt his eyes after he got knocked around a magicians’ arena one too many times in his youth.
As I slip inside, I catch a glimpse of him silhouetted against a window, backlit by the moon’s glow, as shadows flood the space between us.
I bow my head without budging from the entrance. “Hi, Dad.”
Dad stirs, very slowly, without answering. I can tell even before he says a word that it’s going to be bad. Silence rarely ever means anything good coming from Dad, especially after one of my duels.
“Shut the door behind you, Tamsin,” he says at last. His voice is flat.
I obey. There’s not much else I can do, in moments like these, but obey.
“I beat Dallas McCullough,” I venture cautiously.
“I saw.” Slowly, Dad turns around. The edges of his glasses glint in the scant moonlight. “Maybe my vision is going. But I don’t believe I saw you use any of the spells we agreed you would cast.”
“With respect, we never agreed on any specific spells for me to cast.” Not that that’s going to make a difference, but I might as well point it out.
“Oh?” Dad’s voice goes low and amused. Dangerously amused. “Then I must be misremembering all the spells I trained you on specifically for this duel.”
“We practiced your spells in training, yeah. But what we agreed was that I’d cast whatever was necessary to win the duel.”
“I see.” Dad’s voice is silky soft. He hasn’t budged an inch from his spot by the window. “So you, my daughter, determined all by yourself, in the heat of the moment, that you didn’t need any of my spells to win your duel.”
I didn’t, but I’m also not stupid enough to take Dad’s bait.
“I’m sorry, but that’s not what I said,” I tell him instead.
I keep my tone measured so he can’t accuse me of raising my voice to him.
“I didn’t know what spells I would need to cast to beat McCullough.
I never know what I’ll need to cast to win.
Every magician is different. Every duel is different.
So I practiced your spells in training because, as you have taught me”—I’m careful to emphasize the credit there— “it’s better to know a spell and not need it than to need a spell and not know it.
“So, no, I didn’t use your spells to win this duel,” I continue.
“Not directly, at least. But because I knew them, I had the confidence to win. I knew I could answer whatever McCullough threw at me.” I shrug, trying to look offhand and not like my heart’s racing a mile a minute.
“He just…didn’t throw anything at me that called for the spells we practiced.
Just my simple old tricks. We should be grateful for that, shouldn’t we?
” I smile. “Just like I’m grateful that you took the time to teach them to me. ”
Dad doesn’t answer me immediately. He’s quiet for a while, in fact, turning over my words in his head. Probably trying to figure out how he can twist what I’ve said into something awful.
“So you’re grateful then,” he says at last.
“Yes.”
He laughs bitterly. “Then why didn’t you say so in your interview?”
I wince. I didn’t anticipate him pivoting to a new topic of accusation. Clumsy of me. “I did,” I stammer in protest, but I’m unprepared, and Dad can tell. Clumsy, clumsy Tamsin. “I said—”
“You had every opportunity,” Dad continues, his voice growing slowly in volume. “You could have said to that interviewer that I was the reason you were victorious in your senior debut. You could have expressed your gratitude for everything I’ve done for you. But you didn’t say a word.”
“That’s not true!” The volume of my voice climbs as well, despite my best efforts.
“I told him—I told him that you were the one who got me into practicing magic.” I rein myself in.
It’s a weak effort, and I know it, but it’s all I’ve got.
A flimsy defense, weaker by far than any beginner magician’s mirror shield. “I told him that you started me young.”
“Oh, you did, didn’t you?” My father’s voice is rich with mockery.
“That’s right, I remember now. ‘My dad got me into it young.’ ” He imitates my voice, pitched high, as he bats his eyelashes at me from behind those glinting glasses.
“That’s all I did, is that right? Just paid for your magic lessons and sat back like every other parent at their kid’s first class?
You’ve been doing the rest of this on your own now, have you? ”
I force myself to take a deep breath. “That’s not what I said at all.”
“Could’ve fooled me!”
“Well, what do you want from me?” I demand at last. “All I can control is what I say. I can’t control what you hear. Or what you think you hear.”
I regret the last of those words as soon as they leave my mouth. Even before Dad’s eyes narrow at me, I know I’ve taken it a step too far.
“What I think I hear, huh?” His voice has softened again, in that silky, dangerous way I hate.
It’s worse than yelling. Slowly, he makes his way across the room as he speaks.
“Right, then. Maybe I hear things wrong when my old promotion connections offer us duels for you, practically fawning over the Blackwood name. Maybe I hear them wrong when they tell me that you deserve opportunities to show off your craft, to prove yourself a magician worthy of my legacy.”
He stops in front of me. “Maybe I should stop paying your way through these silly little duels and call it a day.”
“No!” I can’t help but cry out. It’s stupid.
I know Dad’s bluffing. The great magician of our era, Master Mateus Blackwood, has no other kids.
He doesn’t even have other magic students, not serious ones.
He’s invested everything into me since his retirement from the dueling circuit.
He wouldn’t give me up, not when I’m his best shot at reliving his glory days in the magicians’ arena.
But this one threat from Dad—empty as it is right now—still scares me. Because one day, he might decide to stop caring. He might decide that punishing me, keeping me in my proper place—which for the record, is in his shadow—is more important than living vicariously through me.
It’s a hell of a choice.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, cowed, just the way he wants me. “I didn’t mean any of it. You’re right. You’re the reason I’ve won all my duels. I owe you everything. I should say so next time. I promise I’ll say so next time, all right? Just…I need you, Dad.”
I hate that it’s true. I do need him. His connections, his purse strings, and most of all, that damnable, door-opening Blackwood name. The name that convinces all the promoters I’m a wunderkind before I so much as step into the arena.
Never mind my own accomplishments, or painstaking magical study, or long, grueling hours practicing my curses and counter-spells.
It’s my father’s name that makes me desirable.
Talented teen magicians are a dime a dozen—but everyone wants the great Mateus Blackwood’s only daughter on their magic show.
“I need you,” I repeat. I’m pathetic. But I’d rather be pathetic than forgotten. And every magic promoter in town will forget me—if my father tells them to.
Dad sighs. “I know, Tam,” he says. He’s all fatherly kindness now. “I know you just need reminding sometimes.”
“I do. Thank you.”
He chuckles. “You’re quite welcome.” He checks his watch. “I need to run to a meeting. You good to wrap up here on your own?”
I close my eyes. “Sure. I’ll see you at home.”
“Good girl.” He kisses my forehead. “It’s good that you won tonight, Tam. But you played things too safe. No promoter will keep inviting you to duel on their magic shows if all you do is stall and counter your opponent’s curses. We’ll work on it in training tomorrow.”
I wait until the dressing room door shuts behind him—until I hear the retreat of his footsteps. Then I grab a cushion off the nearest chair, press it against my face, and sob.
I give myself a little over five minutes to cry before I force myself back into business mode.
I’m already compiling a mental list of crap that needs to get done: I need a hot shower, I need to post on my social media channels, I need to answer the messages currently blowing up my phone, and at some point, I need to review tape from tonight so I can consider what to work on in training this week.
I start with the easiest task, which is opening my phone, while I wait for the dressing room shower to heat up. I pause on the first message.
Dear Tamsin Blackwood,
I’m writing to you to congratulate you on your victory over Dallas McCullough tonight and to invite you to consider taking a duel against my champion, Lysander Rook.
As Rook’s second, I’m partly responsible for proposing appropriate opponents to magic show promoters, and as you’re probably aware, we haven’t been able to secure a suitable magician to share an arena with Rook in quite some time.
We believe, however, that you would make an excellent match for him.
I know that your father and second, Master Mateus Blackwood, has yet to secure a duel for you with a cash prize on the line. Given your impressive record as a magician, Rook and I, along with the rest of our team, agree that you are long overdue for a potential payday.
With that in mind, should you accept our proposal, I have convinced Rook’s promoter to offer a generous purse to the victor of this duel. I have attached the proposed amount below.
Please provide your answer by the end of the week.
Yours sincerely,
Samantha Chan
My hands shake as I open the attachment. I practically drop my phone over the side of the shower stall when I see the figure Samantha Chan’s people are offering. It’s what Dad would call “screw-you money.” It’s money that would set me up independently for years to come.
It’s money that could support me even if Dad cut me off.
I can’t decide if I want to laugh, or scream, or throw up. Everyone knows who Lysander Rook is. He’s almost as famous as Dad. Another teen magician—also undefeated, like me.
The difference between us is that, unlike me, Lysander Rook isn’t new to the senior circuit.
He left the juniors at fifteen—and he’s been destroying full-grown adult magicians in their prime ever since.
So far, five grown magicians have retired after dueling him, their spirits crushed by whatever they experienced in that arena.
People call me a chip off the old block. My father’s daughter. A credit to the Blackwood name.
People don’t call Lysander Rook any of those things. Instead, they call him a genius. A prodigy. They also call him l’enfant terrible, the bad boy of the magical world, the young terror of the dueling circuits. They call him a monster. They call him invincible.
If I can beat Rook, I’ll have enough money to buy my freedom from Dad and enough clout to attract promoters without Dad’s help.
On the other hand, if I can’t beat Rook, it might end my career. He’s broken five grown, established magicians in the arena. Five brilliant duelists at the height of their careers, so traumatized by whatever Rook did to them that they’ll never practice magic again.
No wonder Samantha Chan’s people are offering such insane money. Talk about high risk, high reward. This duel is a gambler’s dream and nightmare, all wrapped up in one.
And it’s my choice to make, for once. Mine, not Dad’s. Samantha Chan came to me, not him. Which means I get to call the shots on this one.
I close my eyes, and with trembling fingers, set my phone aside.
I inhale and exhale as carefully as I can.
Shower steam fogs the mirrors in my dressing room, filling the atmosphere, condensing on my skin.
I breathe through the moisture clogging the air.
I breathe and breathe, even though I feel like I’m swimming deep underwater.
When I open my eyes, I pick my phone back up and send my answer to Samantha Chan.
Then I take the longest shower of my life.