We follow him, sitting at a table with eight place settings. As we walk, Nick leans in close and gives a wry grin. “You don’t text, you don’t call.”
“I know. I’m sorry for shutting you out—”
He wraps his hand around my wrist, his face warm and forgiving. “We can talk later. Right now, I’m just glad you’re here.”
I nod, because he’s right. We can talk later. Our final goodbye, our real one, should be in private.
Whitty and Greer are already seated when we arrive, and Evan and Fitz walk up at the same time we do. Tor and Sarah sit across from me and Nick.
Greer tips their head in my direction and waves. “There she is!” They’re looking sharp in a navy check three-piece suit and a matching Lamorak red tie and pocket square set. Tonight their long hair is completely up in an elegant crown braid.
The others greet me with smiles and raised glasses. The only sullen expression is on Fitz’s face, but even that I ignore. If my friends could accept that I’m here without dragging me over the coals, then I could, maybe, do the same.
Nick catches me looking around the room. “Who are you looking for?”
I smile, feeling rude for not paying attention to my own table. And, for some reason, sheepish about looking for Sel. “Is Vaughn here?” I ask.
Nick’s eyes darken. “I asked that he be seated on the opposite side of the room.”
Across the table, Fitz rolls his eyes. “He’s a good fighter, Nick.”
“He fights dirty.” Nick pulls his cloth napkin from the table and settles it over his lap.
Fitz snorts. “You think the Shadowborn fight clean?”
“Last I checked, it was my decision who my Squire is, Fitz.” Nick’s face is the picture of civility, but the steel in his blue eyes says the conversation is over.
“Hey, hey.” Evan leans forward, holding out a hand. “Let’s not bring drama to the dinner table. Let’s talk about how we get the waiters to serve the under twenty-ones instead, hm?” Evan waggles his eyebrows. “Or maybe rank everyone’s attire tonight on a one-to-ten scale? Bree, you’re a ten, obviously.” He makes a chef’s kiss motion for effect.
“Agreed,” Nick says, raising a glass with a wink in my direction.
A white-gloved hand holding a salad plate crosses my field of vision. When I look up, I see a pair of softly tilted brown eyes in a golden-brown face. The woman smiles and moves on to hand the next plate to Greer. The man to Nick’s right pours sweet tea into our waiting glasses, and I see that he’s brown too. I feel my brows draw into a line when I see that all of the waitstaff at the other tables in the room—all of them—are Black and brown people. Another reminder that this isn’t my world. I’m just here to say goodbye, the right way.
The back of Nick’s knuckle brushes my hand. “Everything okay?”
I blink. “Yeah,” I say, and his smile in response is achingly sweet.
The rest of dinner passes in a flavorful, multicourse blur: seared duck with parsnips, sautéed squash and zucchini with fresh strips of basil and pine nuts, and a vegetable risotto.
It’s not until the band starts up again during dessert that I remember that there’s a dance floor. We’re just finishing our bread pudding when Nick nudges my elbow. “Wanna dance?”
I do a double take, but he seems serious, so I stammer a yes and walk with him to the dance floor to the sound of Evan’s not-so-subtle whoops. Luckily, most of it is covered by the movement and noise across the room.
“Does that guy ever let up?” I mutter.
“Not that I’ve seen.”
We stop at an empty corner of the dance floor, but before we can begin, the band transitions to a loud swing beat. Nick wraps a hand around my waist and grins. There’s no talking to be done here. All we can do is dance—until a long-fingered hand taps him on the shoulder.
The man standing behind Nick is a silent ghoul in formal wear. Yellow-red eyes the color of dying leaves are set deep in a pale face under hawkish black brows. Underneath his black suit is a dark red shirt and thin black tie. He has a severe and undeniable beauty, but it’s been channeled into unsettling qualities; like an ancient Gothic structure, he’s all arches and sharp, aggressive features. The acrid, cloying smell of his signature collects in the back of my throat like bile.
A Merlin.
“Isaac.” A chill runs up my spine at Nick’s stiff greeting.
This terrifying man is Isaac Sorenson.
Lord Davis’s Kingsmage.
45
“NICHOLAS.”
Isaac inclines his head, but something about the motion feels mocking instead of respectful. His eyes flicker down to Nick’s shoulder. Looks like I’m not the only one who noticed that when Nick moved, he’d stepped slightly in front of me.
“What do you want?” Nick says, his voice an octave lower than usual.
“Your father would like you to join him in the antechamber,” Isaac says in a deep baritone. When he turns to indicate a side door by the stage, I notice the slight points at the top of his ears.
Nick’s jaw is already set in hard lines. They only get harder when Isaac mentions his father. “Right now?”
“I’m afraid so, my liege,” Isaac murmurs, holding his hands in front of him like a polite servant, even though the power and fierce intelligence in his eyes suggest he’s anything but.
Nick’s chest and shoulders rise in a heavy breath meant to calm. He turns back to me, effectively blocking Isaac from view.
“I’m really sorry. I’ve got to go.” His light brows turn down in thoughtful consternation, like he’s making a decision that he isn’t sure about. “I’ll find you after Selection, okay?”
The mixture of worry and hope in his blue eyes sends my heart lurching against my ribs. It finds its footing again when I hear myself say, “Okay.”
He lets out another breath, this time with a quiet sort of relief. I think we both expect Isaac to walk away with Nick, but the Merlin simply nods his head toward the door again. Nick’s eyes flicker between the two of us for a moment, landing finally on mine with a silent warning that I don’t need. I already know Isaac is dangerous.
When Nick disappears in the crowd, I feel the full force of Isaac’s gaze on my face. If Sel’s attention feels like sparks or embers, Isaac’s is a sweltering late July heat. His fathomless eyes bore into mine.
Even still, I don’t break our eye contact. I didn’t come here to cower.
‘Who is this man?’
When I jump at my grandmother’s voice, Isaac’s thin lips pull back in a horrid smile, revealing the longest canines I’ve ever seen. No, not canines. Fangs. “You’re the Unanedig girl.”
Someone bad, Grandma.
“I am.”
‘I don’t like his eyes.’
Neither do I, but I need to concentrate while I’m here with everyone. Can you— She fades, so fast and quiet I worry she may have gone for good. I close the door behind her for now, seal it tight.
Isaac’s gaze trails me up and down, and after a moment of inspection, he makes a small, amused sound. “Fascinating.” From anyone else, that word might be a compliment; from him, it twists my stomach like spoiled meat.