Page 21 of A Court of Masks and Roses
I grab the opponent’s wrist before he can hide away the silver. “Rematch. Double odds.”
12
KALI
“Kal?” Luca shakes his head, shifting his bangs for a moment before they fall right back over his eyes. “What are you doing?”
Mustache stops clearing the target and looks over his shoulder at me. His face shows no sign of recognition, but that means little. If I’m right, our last meeting was in the dark and far from here. “Invitation only. Sorry, lad,” says Mustache.
Digging into my pocket, I toss two silver coins on the table and wink at the rose who just lightened Luca’s purse. “Good thing I’m invited.”
“Then let us dance, little bird.” The rose grins, and though his words slur, his hand is steady as he places his coin beside my own. “Three throws.”
Mustache shifts his weight, putting himself between us. “Come back when you start shaving, lad. And you, Cameron, let the new boy be. We are all here for a good evening.”
Up close, Mustache’s familiar voice is quickly erasing any doubt of his identity. This manismy old mark. Yet... hiswords, his behavior, they little match the terror monger who wanted to burn a stable-full of horses and hostlers alive just weeks ago.
“Aye, and I’m having a good evening, Samuels.” Cameron lifts his beer mug in salute to me. “Well, lad?”
“Don’t be an idiot, Kal,” a voice I know says quietly behind me. I turn my head to find Trace at my back, his muscled arms crossed over his chest. Luca, now flanking Trace’s left side, nods along with his partner.“How do you imagine this will end?” Trace asks.
“Your concern over my purse is noted,” I tell Trace, throwing him a stony glare before grinning at Cameron. “At your leisure, my lord.”
Cameron makes an elaborate bow and takes the knives. The patrons gathered around us murmur, small bets being offered and accepted between them. Across Dansil, pubs are all the same. Sticking my hands in my pockets, I watch Cameron embed his first knife in the third ring from the middle.
“Five points,” calls Mustache—Samuels.
Cameron takes a breath and hefts his second knife in his palm. A quick aim and step. He is either not as drunk as he seems or good enough that the drink little impacts his aim.
“Seven points,” says Samuels. Luca groans.
The thwack of Cameron’s last knife earns full applause. “Dead center. Ten points. Twenty-two is the number to beat.” Samuels clears the target and nods to me encouragingly. “All right, boy, first time is always the hardest. Choose your blades.”
“I’ll use Cameron’s.” I step forward to the chalked line and, accepting the offered blades, rest the first one in my palm. As decently balanced as one can hope at a pub. I’m not about to show my real knives over a few silver.
“Were you planning on gracing us with a throw this evening?” Cameron croons.
Glancing at the target once, I sink the knife into the center of the silly painted circle on the wall. Whoops and murmurs spring to life around the game. Cameron’s sudden anger ignites so hot, I’m half-surprised it doesn’t boil his beer.
Pausing only long enough to palm my next blade, I sink it beside my first knife. The two handles stick out beside each other like butterfly wings. I reach for the third.
And pause.
Something is wrong. I feel it in the sudden silence, the watching eyes, the shifting of feet for better purchase. My jaw tightens as the wordcheaterwhispers off someone’s lips.
It wasn’t the fate of my purse that had Trace and the rest worried; it was the no-win reality of a stranger challenging Cameron. If I lose, I’m out money. If I win, I cheated.
Beside the door, the strong-arm locks the weapons case. The barman puts his good liquor into the safety of lower cabinets.
Trace and Luca take a casual step toward me.
“Twenty points,” Samuels says quietly. “Last throw.”
Right. Taking a deep breath, I let my heartbeat return to a quiet steadiness. I need no help from Trace or anyone else. Resisting the urge to watch his face as I throw, I let my knife slip smoothly from my hand and don’t bother to look at the target.
“Two,” Samuels says quietly, then clears his throat and repeats with more force. “Twenty-two. Tied match.”
The exhales of many breaths at once is palpable.
