Chapter 10 Sam #2
My champion’s gaze is flinty as a young god’s as he surveys us from behind the microphone.
“Here’s the question that you should really be asking, Mr. Sykes: Who exactly is Tamsin Blackwood without old man Mateus?
” Rook smiles. “We all know the answer, I think. But I’ll say the quiet part aloud, for everyone’s benefit: without Mateus Blackwood, his daughter is… well, nothing at all, really, is she?”
The words hit me like a gut punch. I’m not the only one. The collective intake of breath from everyone in the press room is audible. There’s smack talk between duelists. And then there’s blatant cruelty.
This time, I can’t quite bring myself to look at Tamsin.
My champion rises and sketches a mocking bow to the press corps. “I look forward to dueling Old Man Mateus’s cute little clone in a couple weeks. Truly, I anticipate an experience like none other.”
I keep telling myself my guilt is misplaced, but I can’t really bring myself to believe it.
Maybe I’ve gotten so good at misdirecting the truth that I can’t tell when I’m lying to myself anymore. It doesn’t seem to matter how I justify what Rook did—really, what I did—to myself. I can reason with myself, offering logic and excuses and tough love self-talk.
I needed to rattle Tamsin. I needed to shake her confidence. I needed to give Rook the mental edge ahead of their duel. I accomplished all of those things. I owe Blackwood’s daughter nothing. Less than nothing.
Yet I still feel absolutely rotten.
It gets worse when I hear someone crying down in the training arena by the fitness center. I freeze as soon as the sound of it hits my ears. All I want is to take my mind off my own guilt by practicing my spells. I was hoping to find the arena empty. No such luck.
Naturally, I panic immediately. I’m terrible with crying people.
I always have been. Jamie—who, naturally, was excellent with crying people—used to tell me that dealing with crying people is just a matter of offering a shoulder, an ear, and when possible, a pack of tissues.
In my own personal experience, crying people do not generally seek out any of these things from me.
The door on the training arena room—the one with the lock that won’t close properly—sits ajar. Inside, I discover Tamsin Blackwood trying to muffle her sobs against the sleeve of her hoodie.
Oh, hell.
For a moment, I simply stand on the threshold like an idiot. A garden-variety crying person is bad enough. A crying person who’s probably crying because of what I did to them is considerably worse.
This is what you wanted, whispers a traitorous voice from the bowels of my mind. You wanted to break her, physically, mentally, emotionally. You wanted to ensure Rook’s destruction of her. Making her cry should be the least of what you do to her.
It’s true, every word.
I just didn’t expect it to feel like this.
I didn’t expect to have to witness the wreckage left behind by my own handiwork.
I should just leave. I’m going to leave. I can go back to the suite I share with Rook and quarrel harmlessly with him until I feel better, and then I can forget I ever saw this. I’ll never have to think about a swollen-eyed, red-nosed Tamsin Blackwood bawling her heart out ever again.
I turn away. And bang my knee directly into the still-ajar door. “Shit!”
Tamsin looks up immediately. “Who’s there?” She sniffs. “Sorry, I’ll be out in a minute.”
Like we’re in a high school bathroom and she’s hogging one of the stalls to have a self-pitying bawl over getting dumped by a prom date.
I step out from behind the door. I’ve raised my hands in front of me, which is ridiculous—what do I think I’m doing, turning myself over to a cop?
Still, I keep them raised. It looks stupid, but looking stupid feels better than looking threatening.
I don’t want Tamsin to think I’m going to hurt her.
Well. I don’t want her to think I’m going to hurt her any more than I already have.
“It’s just me,” I say. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I, um, I’m just going to head back up to my room—”
“Oh no, don’t!” Tamsin blurts out. “You were going to train, right? If you need the practice space—”
“I really don’t.”
“I wasn’t using it, really—”
“It looked like you were.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I swallow, then say, “Crying is a totally respectable use of a magicians’ training arena.” I try to smile. “Ask me how I know.”
Tamsin’s eyebrows climb, but at least she’s not sobbing anymore. “You’ve cried in a training arena?”
“Are you kidding me?” I fix her with an expression of pure disbelief. “I’ve probably cried more in training arenas than I’ve cried anywhere else in my life.” I count the locations off on my fingers. “In bed, at the movies, in bathroom stalls—”
“You don’t seem like the crying type.”
I stop talking. Tamsin’s watching me with an unreadable look on her face.
Even tear-streaked, she’s remarkably pretty.
Her makeup is still largely intact, which means she probably uses waterproof mascara.
Which, in turn, tells me that she knows a thing or two about crying while remaining presentable.
“You don’t seem like the sort of person that anyone could just…crack like that,” she elaborates. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she sounds jealous of me. “I bet you don’t let anyone get under your skin.”
Ah, sweet, naive little Blackwood girl. If only you knew.
“You’d be surprised,” I tell her. “Besides, I’m pretty sure every magician who spends enough time on the dueling circuit is the crying type. How could we not be? It’s too much, all of this.” I gesture vaguely around us. “The arena. The public eye. The magic, god, the magic most of all.”
Tamsin offers me a tiny, red-eyed smile. “But the magic’s the best part, right?”
I can’t help but smile back despite myself. “Yeah. I guess it kind of is.”
“So why aren’t you a duelist?”
The question catches me off guard. “What do you mean?”
“You’re really good.” Tamsin speaks with a bluntness that’s more like Rook—or even me—than herself.
She’s not buttering me up, just stating a fact.
“You could do well in a dueling arena in your own right. So why settle for being Lysander Rook’s second?
You can’t tell me a guy like that is worth it. ”
“Aw, come on, you’re just mad at him for all that smack talk at the press event.
You can’t deny he’s a brilliant magician, or you wouldn’t want to duel him yourself, would you?
But, um, about what happened with the presser.
” I bite my lip. “I…look. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let him tear into you that hard. He crossed a line.”
Maybe we both did.
Tamsin shrugs. “Not like he said anything that wasn’t what everyone else was already thinking. I should thank him, really. At least now we’re not dancing around the elephant in the room.” There’s no bitterness in her voice, just gentle resignation.
It should make me happy. I should take it as a sign that my gambit’s working. That I’m slowly but surely breaking Blackwood’s daughter down, mentally and emotionally.
It doesn’t make me happy, though. It doesn’t make me happy at all.
“Hey,” I say impulsively. “You know what I think might cheer you up?”
She throws me a suspicious glance. “If it has anything to do with talking to Rook, forget it. He doesn’t owe me any apologies or—”
I snort. “Don’t worry, you won’t get one from him. He’s got to maintain his reputation as a brilliant jerk, right? It’s all about the branding. No, I’ve got something better than half-baked contrition from my champion.”
“In that case, I’m all ears.”
I grin at her with more sincerity than I care to admit. “Arcane New York.”
“What about it?”
“You wanted to explore it.” I offer her my hand. “So screw it. Let’s explore.”
Tamsin eyes my hand dubiously. “I don’t know—”
“Look, I promise that if you hate it, at the very least, I will scout out an appropriate place there where you can continue crying to your heart’s content.”
That finally gets a watery laugh out of Tamsin. “Well, when you put up an offer like that, how can a girl resist?” She hesitates for a few more seconds then gingerly puts her hand in mine. It’s just as warm as it was that day we shook on her promise at Agatha’s.
“Okay then, Samantha Chan.” She matches my smile, her eyes fierce. “Let’s take on Arcane New York together.”