Page 25 of The Black Table
“If I say yes, would you believe me?” I return.
“No.” She gets up and clasps me by the wrist. “Come here.”
SIX
KAI
There’s onlythree things I want to do at any given time: fence, fuck, or fight.
Even more so when it’s a Friday night.
And given that the latter two are fully off-limits according to my precious vow, I’ve spent the past two hours drilling up and down the piste until my muscles ache and the entire salle ripples with body heat.
Clang.
I let the saber clatter onto the floor right beneath the sign that saysKINDLY DO NOT DROP WEAPONS—fuck you and your blade integrity—and sink onto the bench.
It’s not enough. Physically exhausted, mentally wired. Me in a fucking nutshell.
I fumble for my cigarettes, strike a match on the sole of my Ballestras, and suck in a drag.
I blow a cloud out into the salle. It’s absolutely deluxe, this place: three practice pistes to spar on, a side room full of pristine weight machines and dumbbells, and an entire arsenal of kit: Negrini jackets, tailored to size and imported from Verona; weapons with razor-sharp aluminum and custom, 3D-printedhandgrips; Hungarian-made masks in our trademark Caliburn red.
Fencing, the sport of kings. The gentlemanly art. A prince’s duty and a scoundrel’s gambit.
I hate how much I love it.
And I’m sure that if little twelve-year-old Kai, in the cinderblock recreation centers of his youth, could see this place, all polished wood and nameplated lockers and pristine gear, he’d probably hate it too.
He’d certainly hate me.
But that was before Luther Pendragon came into my life and turned me into the swordsmanship machine I am today.And we’re ever so grateful, Daddy Pen. Another ruffian youth saved from a life on the streets. God bless you, sir.
I take another long pull on the cigarette and tip an imaginary hat to my foster father.
“King sees you doing that in here and he’ll have an aneurysm.”
Pretty Boy—Lanz—fixes my cigarette with his moony little stare of disapproval. Damn, I didn’t even hear him come in, and these floors are built with spring in them that makes every step audible. Talented motherfucker with the footwork, I’ll give him that.
I puff out a smoke ring and lean back, propping an ankle on the opposite knee. “Ooh, you promise?”
Lanz’s jaw twitches. Delicate flower, so anxious over rule-breaking. I snort and take another drag. The only rules I’ll stick to are the ones carved in literal stone over the mantel of this place, and even then I’ll bend them to the breaking point.
But sticklery bullshit about tidiness, appearances, keep our hair combed and shoes polished like the All-American good boys we’re supposed to be?
I catch my lip ring in my teeth.No fucking thank you.
I breathe out the smoke through my nostrils. Lanz pulls out an epee from his wall rack and inspects the guard.
“No practice for you today?” I ask, innocent enough.
Lanz shakes his head, jamming an Allen wrench into a tiny screw to tighten it. “Rest day.”
Suuure, I think, and lean forward. “Good news. It’s nighttime now.” Grinding out my smoke in the palm of a crumpled glove, I catch the grip of my saber on my toes, kick it up into the air, and snatch it to levy at Lanz. “En garde.”
He keeps his eyes trained on his weapon. “No thanks.”
God, he’s boring. All of them are, to be honest. I’m not a team player except when it comes to the literal sport. And even then, I have my compunctions.
