Page 126 of The Black Table
It’s easy. Playful, almost. The way he bats away hits. Darts out of the way, only to advance.
Bzzzt.
Kingston’s blade flexes against his opponent’s shoulder.
“Touch left. Point Caliburn.”
Cheers. They barely have time to die down before they take their place again, and this time Kingston doesn’t wait. Two steps, a parry, and…
Bzzzt.
“Point Caliburn.”
It’s like everything’s on double speed. The remaining points fly by. Kingston dancing across the piste and tapping out his points. One, two, three, until final point, the official calls.
“Caliburn wins, 3-0 in bouts.”
The space explodes. Sound rings and bounces and careens from every surface, out of every source.
Morgan leaps to her feet, hands smack on both sides of her face, astonished. Kai gives a whoop of victory and hooks an elbow around Lanz’s neck, ruffling his hair, while Callahan just beams a big, broad smile and folds his arms, satisfied like I’ve never seen him. And I am overcome, overwhelmed, thrilled, happy, normal.
It’s so good to feel this good, I think.
And for a moment, there isn’t a dark past or a dark secret or vows and rules and complications and Latin puzzles and accidental kisses. There’s just them. These four boys, four men, in exquisite victory, having disposed of their rivals with talent and sureness.
Kingston is still on the piste, his mask off and under his arm, finally caving and waving to the crowd, which only gets louder and more boisterous in response. But he’s soon overcome by the other three, jumping to his side, mussing his hair, throwing good-natured punches at his shoulders and stomach, and he laughs. He actually laughs.
And it seizes me all over again, how much I love being around them, all four of them.
“So it is you. Their little whore.”
The voice is cold as poison and dark as an abyss. I almost jump out of my skin. He’s right next to me.
Moroslav.
“You,” I say. “What?—”
“The famous little choir boys of Caliburn,” he says, running ahand through his dark curls, cocking his head. “The prim and proper chosen ones, always so pure. So they claim. Because they have you helping them out, eh? They have?—”
He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence because Kai’s fist plows into the side of his head.
“Hey!” Kingston yells, throwing an arm across Kai’s chest, looking not at Moroslav sprawled on the ground but at me. “Watch it,” he says to Kai. To me, he says, “Gwenna, are you okay? Did he?—”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Totally fine. He just?—”
My hands are shaking, I realize. I tuck them under my arms, step back once, twice, putting as much distance as I can between me and the fallen fighter. From the floor he glowers up at me, suddenly wreathed by the legs of his teammates who throw me equally dark glares.
“Bitch,” I hear him mutter and he spits blood onto the floor.
Kingston snaps his gaze to Lanz.
“Get her out of here.”
Lanz nods. “We’ll see you at the house.”
Something claws at the back of my throat—a cry, a sob, I’m not sure what, just pure unadulterated angst at having the perfect moment cut short, but when I catch Kingston’s gaze, it’s like he isn’t having any of it.
Go, he mouths.
