Page 45 of The Black Table
Not what I saw in the church back home.
Not real. Not real. Not real.
All the while, Callahan says nothing. Just narrows his eyes, almost imperceptibly, firms his mouth to a line.
“You’re shivering,” he says, and I realize I am. Shaking, practically. I hug myself tighter, push myself to standing, and he scrambles up after me, offering an arm that feels steady and strong as a bough of oak.
“Thank you for—” I shake my head. “I guess rescuing me.”
Callahan nods and withdraws his hand swiftly once it’s clear I’ve found my balance, like he doesn’t want to risk touching me too long. But it’s different than the way Kingston did it. No edge of disgust that I may or may not be imagining. Just simple, precise duty.
“You should look after yourself around here,” he says. “Please take better care, all right?”
I’m astonished. No one’s ever said anything like that to me.
Take care,in a way that sounds genuine. Shuddering with cold, as water drips down my back, I nod.
TWELVE
KAI
Wrought iron,stone, and silence.
The ceilings arch overhead, banners hanging dark like reminders of everything we’re supposed to uphold. We sit—Kingston, Lanz, and me—lined up at the Black Table like obedient soldiers.
I hate it. Like we’re in a fucking cathedral instead of the second basement level of Camlann House.
But that’s the point. The quiet, the secrecy, the ceremonial bullshit. The empty ivory throne that’s ceremonially unoccupied, the round table. Supposed to be egalitarian—no one at the head, no one at the foot. A cute little circle.
But somehow, Kingston always manages to take things over.
“Next meet,” he declares. “Coming soon.” His hair’s still damp from the shower, golden strands clinging to his temples. We were up at 5 a.m. for conditioning, and for once I woke up raring to go, like I was pre-caffeinated and had done a bump to boot.
Maybe it’s the lingering effects of Saturday—of something actually interesting happening for once. Sure, it’s mostly a hazy blur for me, and it all got cut short when Morgan bitched and moaned to Kingston and sounded the alarm, but still.
A change of pace. A fight I neither started nor found myself at the center of.
And call me a whore for drama—among other things—but my interest is piqued.
That girl Gwenna could be trouble.
And Iliketrouble.
“Sainte-Odile is watching,” Kingston goes on. “So we need to?—”
“Watching? What, in their crystal ball?” I cross an ankle over my knee and lean back, earning me a dagger-sharp stare from Kingston.Bro, keep it up and I’ll put my boots right on the fucking table.“I just mean,” I clarify, “what meet footage of us could they possibly have gotten? We don’t film.” I toss a side eye at Lanz. “Unless Pretty Boy here has an OnlyFans where he’s selling us out.”
Lanz flushes pink. Sweet summer child. But Kingston, humorless bastard, shuts it down like he always does.
“An assistant coach at the scrimmage,” he says. “Watched and took notes.”
Just that, but it lands like a bell toll.
Sainte-Odile’s fine. School out of Quebec, same old-style fencing as us. Good enough to trip us up if we’re sloppy, but usually that’s not a problem.
Usually.
I grip my knee until it aches while King and Cal get into details about Sainte-Odile’s lineup, but my mind keeps drifting. Back to Saturday.
