Chapter 8 Sam
Sam
On some days, Lysander Rook truly, genuinely strikes awe into my heart. When he’s in top form, the magic he casts is beautiful and terrifying to witness. He’s like a magician of old, a god on earth, his wrath a tangible work of art and destruction in equal measure.
And then, on some days, I don’t see so much as a whiff of that. All I see, when I look at my champion, is a pain in the ass that I was nuts enough to shackle all my hopes and dreams and dark, dark desires to.
Today is one of the latter days.
“I can’t believe you’re making me watch grainy videos of some girl’s old duels all afternoon,” grouses Rook. “This is such a waste of time.”
“I’m very sorry to interrupt your regularly scheduled itinerary of preening in the lobby, bumming cigarettes from strangers, and lying on the carpet feeling sorry for yourself,” I tell him dryly, “but studying tape on your opponent is, in fact, important.”
Rook heaves his best drama-queen sigh. “Isn’t that what I have you around for, though? A champion’s second is meant to handle all that bullshit.”
“If by ‘all that bullshit,’ you mean understanding your opponent’s habits and strategy so that you don’t eat a nasty surprise in the arena, yes, I can help you to a point, but you need to see it for yourself to really understand what to look for.
” I sigh. “You know all this, Rook. Why are you being deliberately difficult?”
Rook’s full mouth tugs itself into a mulish line.
He’s sprawled out on the floor of our shared quarters, looking like nothing so much as an overgrown toddler in the aftermath of a particularly exhausting tantrum.
Master Silverstein got us a hotel suite on the promoter’s dime, conveniently located right next door to the New York Magicians’ Arena.
Rook’s bedroom and mine are adjoined by an unusually spacious common area—no doubt so we’d have extra training space, in case the local magicians’ sparring arenas were all taken up.
Instead, so far, that space has mostly gone toward my champion’s insistence on lying in the middle of the floor and complaining at the ceiling any time I try to convince him to do anything productive with his time.
“They’re going to hate me,” Rook says. His voice is curiously empty of emotion, those striking blue eyes of his poised on the clean white ceiling of our suite. He’s fascinated by something I can’t see, or pretending to be, at any rate.
I sigh. “No one hates you.” A blatant lie.
I, for one, kind of hate him right now, at least a little.
So does a small but outspoken corner of the Internet—a minority within the magicians’ community, compared to the hordes who worship the ground he walks on, but one that bothers him more than he lets on.
“But they will,” Rook insists. He continues to stare up at the ceiling, the back of his head pillowed on his arms. “If I lose, I mean. Everyone will hate me if I lose.”
Stifling another sigh, I plop down beside him on the carpet. I could lie to him again. I could feed him sweet consolations. I could tell him that he’s going to win no matter what, so why does it matter?
“To hell with them,” I say instead. “To hell with the lot of them.”
Rook’s head twists, blue eyes swiveling to find me.
“To hell with the lot of them? That doesn’t sound much like the dedicated, discipline- and duty-driven second I know.
” He pauses, then waggles his eyebrows at me before snickering to himself.
“Give me another minute or two, and I’ll give you even more D words that describe you, none of them a synonym for ‘fun-loving.’ Shocker, I know. ”
I roll my eyes. “To hell with the lot of them,” I repeat, insistent. “It doesn’t matter who hates you or who loves you. What matters is what you do in the arena.”
“Winning, you mean.”
“Magic, I mean,” I counter. “You’re the one who whines and moans about the pageantry and parades around magicians’ duels, right? Well, you can hate all the pomp and circumstance as much as you’d like, but you know why all this frippery exists.”
I reach over and tap Lysander Rook right on the nose. “Magic,” I tell him. “That’s why. That’s what it’s all about. Because people will pay through the nose to witness real magic, and it’s worth it, every time.”
“Every time,” repeats Rook, skeptical, scrunching up his nose. He swats at my finger.
I retract the offending finger deftly. “Every time.”
I lean a little closer toward him without meaning to.
I’m telling my champion the truth now. Full stop, no lies of omission, no uncertainty, no obfuscation.
I don’t think I could be more truthful if I tried.
“It’s worth it, every time, for the chance to experience—just for a little while—something extraordinary.
” I smile, though not without bitterness. “Something terrifying and beautiful.”
My brother used to say that the best of magic was the best of beauty and terror entwined. That in a magicians’ arena, neither could be distinguished from the other.
I wonder if Jamie saw beauty or terror the night he died in the arena.
Slowly, Rook sits up on his elbows. He makes a great show of yawning at me. “And is that what you’re going to show me on these dusty old YouTube videos of yours?” he asks. “Something beautiful and terrifying?”
“It’s Mateus Blackwood’s daughter.” I smile wider at him. “You tell me.”
Rook harrumphs as he pulls himself into a fully seated position, but at least he doesn’t complain or try to stop me as I pull up one of Tamsin’s old duels on my laptop screen.
It’s a well-fought duel. There’s less one-sided dominance than her victory against poor, doomed Dallas McCullough.
Chianne Nichols is made of sterner stuff than the McCullough boy, and she lands several nasty unconventional hexes against Tamsin before a cut-up, bloody-faced Tamsin grimly finishes Chianne with a well-timed curse that knocks the other girl out cold.
Rook’s silent for the entire duration of the duel. As the master of ceremonies raises Tamsin’s hand to declare her the victor, he whistles low. “So that’s her.”
I hit pause on the video footage. “That’s her.”
He shakes his head with a bitter chuckle. His eyes haven’t left the screen. I can see Tamsin’s jubilant, bloodstained face reflected in those bright blue irises. “You know, the betting odds currently favor her.”
“You can’t think about the betting odds. You’re barely an underdog; the numbers might as well be fifty-fifty, they’re so close. Besides, you know it’s only because of who her father is. That doesn’t matter.”
Rook’s head whips around toward mine. “Doesn’t it? A lot of guys say Mateus Blackwood was the best to ever do it, back in his heyday—and that his daughter’s better now than he was at her age.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I repeat firmly. The last thing I need right now is for Rook to doubt himself.
Rook’s eyes narrow thoughtfully at me. “Does it matter to you?” His hand goes to his heart. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, come on, Sammy.” Rook huffs impatiently as he gesticulates toward my laptop.
“This is one of, like, fifteen different Tamsin Blackwood videos you’ve got lined up for me to watch.
Half the magicians on the senior circuit haven’t even had fifteen duels to their name.
There’s studying tape, and then there’s obsession. What are you, in love with her?”
My blood runs cold. “Watch it, Rook.”
“Wait, are you?” Rook looks just short of delighted. “I wouldn’t blame you, you know. She’s really pretty. Like, maybe not as pretty as that Blanche chick—”
“Blythe.”
“Whatever. Anyway, she’s still really pretty.
And unlike Blythe, the Blackwood chick is one hell of a magician, and it’s hard not to find that attractive.
” Rook laughs, wagging a finger in my face.
“Though I gotta say, Sammy, I’m gonna be pissed if I find you sleeping with the enemy.
” A dark expression flickers through his eyes, despite the laughter dimpling his handsome face.
“You do still want me to destroy her, don’t you?
Because that’s what we came here to do.”
“Of course I want you to destroy her!” I snap. “You think I spend hours dealing with your asshole behavior for fun?”
“Whoa, whoa.” Surprise flashes across Rook’s features. Surprise that almost looks like hurt. “I’m just playing, Sammy.”
“Well, don’t,” I practically snarl at him.
“You want to destroy Tamsin Blackwood? You want to beat the betting odds on this duel?” I tap the screen of my laptop, an aggressive clack clack clack of my finger against the plastic.
“Study the tape,” I spit. “I want you to watch her curses, her hexes, her physical combative skills. I want you to watch her mistakes and her triumphs. I want you to become, yes, obsessed with her, because unless you’re obsessed with her, she’s going to have the upper hand on you. ”
“Why?” Rook lifts his chin stubbornly. “Because of Mateus Blackwood?”
Yes. Because she’s a Blackwood. Because she’s her father’s most precious possession. Because Mateus Blackwood will stop at nothing to ensure her safety. To ensure that I leave this duel empty-handed, my fingers damnably clean of the blood I’ve craved for the last four years.
I can’t say any of that to Rook. Rook wouldn’t understand. Rook wouldn’t care. So instead, I speak to Rook—my awful, brilliant, violently ambitious champion—in the only language he understands.
“Because,” I tell him softly, “right now, Tamsin Blackwood wants to beat you more than you want to beat her.” I pat his cheek gently. “Never underestimate how much that matters. Now watch the tape.”
I leave him to it and get the hell out of that suite before I reveal more than I can afford.
Because luck apparently has no desire to favor me today, I run into Master Silverstein almost immediately. And I literally do mean run into. I’m rounding the corner from the suite and practically bark my nose on his chest.