Page 147 of Twisted Ties
47
Rhi
Everybody goes mad around me.Even Winnie, jumping up and down and hugging Trent tightly. Banners sway, someone two rows below is actually sniffling, and the noise is deafening.
Not me. I’m standing statue still, my heart pounding, because the way he moved, his eyes. It’s so familiar. Like … like a wolf. But that can’t be right, can it? I shake my head. The werebeast came from outside. They’re highly dangerous creatures. There’s no way in hell one would be living among us in this school. I must be mistaken.
“Rhi,” Winnie says, squeezing me next now Trent has released her from his jubilant hug. “We’re going to win!”
“Aren’t there like … erm … another two quarters to go?”
“Yeah, but we’re crushing them. Spencer is on fire.” Ipull a face. “We can forgive him for being a dickhead for a few minutes if he brings the cup home to Arrow Hart.”
“He’ll be an even more insufferable dickhead if we all worship him like a god!”
“He is a dueling god,” Trent says in a way that would have me thinking he had a crush on the guy if he wasn’t so clearly nuts about Winnie.
“You didn’t even see half his takedowns,” Winnie says, “you were too busy off doing whatever you were doing.”
My cheeks sizzle and I decide to change the subject.
“How is this game even legal?” I say, grimacing as a player is thrown across the ground.
“Because the magical and physical strikes are restricted,” Trent tells me, eyes locked on the match. “Plus they’re wearing protective clothing. Their kits protect them from any real damage but register a deadly strike. Nobody actually ends up seriously hurt.”
“Really?” I say, watching one of our players hobbling off the pitch, his emerald kit now a muted gray.
“Well, occasionally, but it’s rare.”
“Hmm,” I say, wincing a second time as violent magic smacks Spencer’s helmet and explodes into sparks. “And how do we win?”
“You really never watched dueling before?” Trent says, finally swinging his gaze to me in amazement.
“Nope.”
Trent gapes at me until Winnie nudges him and points to the field.
“The winning team is the one with the most points at the end of the match or the final team standing if they manage to knock out all the opposing team’s duelers. And,” Winnie says, anticipating my next question, “you earn points by knocking players out of the game.”
The crowd start to cheer as Tristan and Spencer pin two of the opposition between them, battering them with their magic.
I can’t watch, not as more magic crashes against Spencer’s helmet and then Tristan’s.
I look away.
The man in black said his family would be here watching Tristan play, but he was adamant he wouldn’t be joining them. I search the elegant-looking boxes on the far side of the stands. The Chancellor occupies one with Principal York, several of the councilmen and women I recognize from the night I was brought to Los Magicos, and a man I assume is the Aropia Magical University’s headmaster. In the next box sit two well-dressed men who look remarkably alike, along with a blonde woman who can only be Tristan’s mother, the likeness uncanny. Which means the men must be Azlan’s father and uncle. I try to find the likeness between the two men and my mate, but I can’t. Mostly because the taller man in particular gives me the creeps, his eyes cold, his demeanor – his every movement – seeming calculated. There’s one other person in the box, a younger woman.
As I stare, the younger woman looks up from the pitch and meets my eye. She smiles for a fraction of a second before glancing the taller man’s way. I smile back, even though she’s no longer looking my way and my heart drops a little. How different things could have been if my fated mate had been from a family like Winnie’s. A family who would have welcomed me with open arms. Would I be sitting with them now if they had? What would that be like, to be surrounded by family? People who love and care for you? But Azlan’s family look about as capable of love and care as a pool of crocodiles.
I shake my head, trying to dispel the sadness, and run my gaze further along the boxes, ignoring the way Winnie grabs my hand and squeezes it with excitement.
The box next to Azlan’s family is empty. But as I squint, I notice a family crest painted on a banner hanging over the box. A moon and a crossbow. It’s a crest I’ve seen pinned to Spencer’s chest on more than one occasion, although I’d assumed it was some fashion brand. Is this his family box? Empty. I frown. He’s the star of this show. They’re all screaming his name. Why wouldn’t his family be here to watch his moment of glory? What can that mean?
I don’t linger on his box though, my eye is drawn onward, as if of its own accord, and I scan my eyes over the other spectators, examining with interest the large group of Aropia supporters. It’s as I’m doing so that I spot him, sitting in the crowd for everyone to see, a red rose pinned to the lapel of his jacket.
I jolt.
“Don’t worry,” Winnie says, “Tristan will take him down … See?” she says, pointing to the pitch.
