Chapter 10 Sam
Sam
One hour before showtime with the press, and Rook’s in the foulest mood I’ve seen him contend with in weeks.
“Tamsin Blackwood’s a bitch,” he tells me for probably the fifteenth time in the last thirty minutes. I try not to sigh aloud. “You never warned me that she was a bitch.”
“Well, she hasn’t been a bitch to me,” I tell him blandly. “Or to anyone besides, apparently, you. So I’m not sure how I was supposed to know.”
“You’re my second!” seethes Rook. “It’s your job to know these things! You’ve watched all that tape on her, and you never figured it out yourself?”
I close my eyes for a few precious seconds. I will not murder my own champion. I will not murder my own champion. I will not murder my own champion. If I repeat the mantra enough times, maybe I’ll successfully manifest it. I haven’t killed Rook yet, so hopefully it’s working.
“Aw, princess.” When I open my eyes, I address my champion with a smile and a poisonously honeyed voice. “Watching all that tape, as you put it, taught me exactly as much as I need to know about Tamsin Blackwood—which is that you can beat her. Everything else is irrelevant.”
I see him open his mouth to protest and raise my own voice, talking over him before he can get going.
“I don’t care if Tamsin Blackwood is actually a bitch or if you just pissed her off by being yourself.
All I care about is making sure that you don’t make the news cycle for the wrong reasons after we finish up press today. ”
The truth is, I’d like nothing better than for Lysander Rook to savage Blackwood’s daughter in front of the entire press corps.
A girl like Tamsin—a nepo kid well-versed on the art of social media and public appearances—is going to be way more sensitive than she lets on.
Rook, at his most ruthless, can give her confidence a good shake.
It might not be enough to guarantee his victory on the night of the duel, but it’ll be enough to get her stuck in her own head when she faces him in the arena.
The less present she is in that moment—the less capable she is of defending herself—the better for Rook. The better for me.
Rook won’t tear into Tamsin just because I want him to do it, though.
As in all things, Rook needs to be carefully managed, especially when it comes to public behavior.
He’ll listen to me—to a point, if it concerns the craft of magic directly.
But when it comes to all the other component pieces of his star-making vehicle—social media clout, etiquette, and maybe most notoriously of all, the do’s and don’ts of talking to reporters—he chomps at the bit.
The harder I nag at him to be sweet and sportsmanlike, the less he’ll want to do it.
Good.
“Pressers are almost as important as actual duels, if you want to make a living on magic,” I tell Rook in the most condescending tone I can muster.
I channel my inner pedant. I pull out all the stops.
“You should know that by now. Which means some things are going to be taboo.” I tick them off on my finger, one by one: “Don’t insult Tamsin ad hominem.
It makes you look petty. Don’t goad her, you should save that for the duel.
” I hide a smile as I deliver the coup de grace: “And, for the love of God, don’t bring up her father.
It’s obviously going to be a sore subject. ”
I watch my champion’s eyes narrow at that last order.
It’s all I can do to keep from patting myself on the back.
With those words, I’ve all but ensured that Rook is going to label Tamsin Blackwood a useless daddy’s little girl in front of the entire magical community.
And Tamsin, bless her heart, will fall to pieces when it happens.
“So, tell me, princess, so I can hear it for myself.” I tip my champion’s chin toward my face with one finger. “Are you going to behave yourself in front of the esteemed members of the magical world press corps?”
Rook gives an exaggerated roll of those big blue eyes but doesn’t pull his face free from my hand. If anything, he leans into my touch a little as he pouts up at me. “Is that what we’re calling petty vultures now?”
“It is if you want to keep your reputation intact.”
“I don’t care about my reputation.”
“Yeah, you and Joan Jett both. Too bad.” I let go of his face to tap my own chest. “I care.” Then I say the magic words: “So let’s remind all those reporters what a good boy Lysander Rook can be.”
Rook looks like he wants to claw his own eyes out. I suppress a grin. This is going to be a bloodbath.
For what it’s worth, Rook does wait until the halfway point in the presser to really lay into Tamsin. By the time it happens, I’m almost relieved.
The whole thing was going far too smoothly in the first half hour.
Both magicians arrived on time and offered reasonably genuine-sounding pleasantries to the press corps.
You’d never guess what a tantrum Rook had been throwing just minutes before he was due in front of the cameras.
They’re oddly lovely together, Rook and Tamsin, which surprises me a little because the two of them look nothing alike.
Rook is all sharp angles and cool colors, bright blue eyes and blue-black hair, his white skin nearly translucent under the blinding flash of the cameras.
He rarely smiles in front of the press, but when he does, he looks like a wolf showing his teeth to its prey, which thankfully for me just feeds into his brand as the magical world’s mysterious yet highly dangerous bad (but not too bad!) boy duelist.
Tamsin’s a lot softer-looking, her features more rounded and inviting.
The hint of red in her thick curls is more obvious under this lighting, and it brings out the warmth in her rosy, freckled cheeks.
She smiles more than Rook does, and it looks exactly like the one she gave me when I intercepted her at Agatha’s: genuine, friendly, and well, happy.
Blackwood’s daughter is either a happier person than Rook by default or very good at faking it until she makes it.
But at the halfway mark, the mood shifts.
It all starts with Jensen Sykes. The guy’s a notorious contrarian, even among reporters, known for deliberately provoking interview subjects.
Everyone knows he only does it to get a good story out of the inevitable outburst, but people somehow still fall for it almost every time.
When Sykes raises his hand to ask a question, my heart leaps.
“My question is for Lysander Rook.” Sykes has this great dulcet voice, projecting to be heard easily, even over the disgruntled murmurs of his fellow reporters.
“You’ve made a mockery of every magician who’s ever entered the arena with you—to the point where established adult magicians are reportedly afraid of facing an eighteen-year-old. ”
The disgruntled murmurs grow louder and, well, more disgruntled. My heartbeat hammers against my rib cage. Something’s about to happen. We can all feel the tension in the air. The question is what.
Sykes eyes my champion over the frames of his designer glasses. “So my question is this: How do you feel about being considered an underdog, for the first time in your career, against Master Mateus Blackwood’s daughter?”
It’s a question that cuts to the quick. Everything about it is calculated, from the veiled implication that the oddsmakers have erred to the fact that Sykes doesn’t even bother using Tamsin’s name.
I spare a quick glance for my champion’s opponent. Sykes has done half of Rook’s work for him. The habitual smile on Tamsin Blackwood’s face freezes as she blinks rapidly, lashes fluttering. Her mouth parts for a moment. I wonder if she’ll defend herself or chastise Sykes.
But the question was directed at Tamsin’s opponent, not at Tamsin.
She seems to remember that at the last second.
She shuts her mouth again, pressing her lips into a thin line as she looks away from the press corps.
She blinks again, several times, very quickly, as she takes a deep breath. There’s no smile on her face now.
Rook, meanwhile, stares right at Sykes. At first, my champion says nothing. For a moment, I wonder if my needling has backfired—if my champion, for once in his life, is actually going to play the good boy for the press.
He doesn’t, of course.
Rook leans back in his seat and rests his head on his hands. He smirks at Sykes. “I was a little insulted by the oddsmakers at first,” he drawls. “But giving credit where credit’s due, there’s something special about Tamsin Blackwood. Something that none of my other opponents have going for them.”
The previously disgruntled murmurs take a turn for the curious. The other reporters smell blood. Rook’s got them eating out of his hand. Much like his magical style, when it comes to certain sorts of conversation, my champion’s got a great sense of timing and setup.
Sykes leans forward in his seat. He’s practically salivating. If he weren’t playing so perfectly into my plans, I’d want to wring his neck. “Oh? Care to enlighten us, Mr. Rook?”
“Sure.” Without so much as glancing at the still-frozen Tamsin, Rook tells the entire press corps, “You see, unlike every other magician I’ve ever beaten, Tam here has the remarkable distinction of being one of the greatest duelists of her generation.
The veteran of over fifty duels, the owner of one of the longest careers since— Wait, wait, wait.
” Rook’s bright blue eyes go wide as he feigns embarrassment.
“Oh, whoops, I misspoke. Silly me! That would be her father I’m talking about.
But does that really matter? I mean, the way the reporters in this room talk about her, Tamsin Blackwood is the closest the magical world can come to having Mateus Blackwood back in the arena in the flesh. ”