I check my phone while I wait. Patricia’s called me eight times. I’d sent her a text on the way over saying that I needed to take care of something, and that I’d explain later. Her warnings echo in my mind—Bloodcrafters, curses come to life. I don’t doubt that there’s truth to what she said. Abatement is evidence enough. But right now I need to talk to Nick and tell him about the Gate.
At the bar inside, Greer chooses a local craft beer right away but changes their mind when Felicity points out that the bar makes a mean Cheerwine and bourbon. The surly bartender mixes a shot of bourbon with soda until it’s a deep red-purple and smells like spiked candy.
Felicity hands me a gin and tonic. “Tastes kinda like Sprite.”
I almost refuse, but then I think of the conversation I need to have with Nick and suddenly alcohol sounds like a good idea. I take a sip and cough at the burn. “Sprite’s a stretch,” I say hoarsely.
She shrugs. “I could take it off your hands. How ’bout a whiskey and Coke?”
I choke, mind spinning with thoughts of the occasional scent I pick up in Sel’s castings. “No! No whiskey.”
Felicity laughs and leans a hip against the bar. “So what are y’all wearing to the Selection Gala?”
I hold up a hand. “Say what now?”
“Oh no.” Felicity sets her drink down. “Did no one tell you? I’m so sorry. I guess I thought everyone knew…”
Greer grimaces. “Sorry.”
I purse my lips. “It’s fine.”
Felicity is quick to fill me in. “The gala is a big formal event at one of the campus clubs. Dinner, dancing, champagne everywhere. Every year, Vassal families come and schmooze with Page and Legendborn families to celebrate the end of the tournament. After dinner, the Scions who need Squires announce which Page they’ve chosen. But shopping for dresses is the best part! The Order of the Rose even sends professional hair stylists…”
Felicity’s voice fades away. I can’t wrap my head around a formal dinner party. Or formal wear. Or dancing. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but suddenly all I can think of is Nick, standing in front of everyone and announcing his chosen Squire who isn’t me.
Felicity’s voice returns. “I like an updo, but I think Bree should wear her hair loose. I mean, look at these curls!”
Someone—no, two someones—tug gently at my hair.
I yank my head away. “What the hell?” Both Greer and Felicity have their hands up, surprise clear on their faces. “Don’t touch my hair.”
Greer looks chagrined. Felicity stammers, “I—I was just telling Greer about the stylist that comes to the Lodge, and your hair—”
“Is different than yours?” I snap. “Is curly? Big? Sure, but that doesn’t mean you get to touch it whenever you want. I’m not a petting zoo.”
“Sorry, Bree,” Greer says, flushing.
Felicity blinks, almost starts speaking again, then stops herself. Nods. “Sorry. I didn’t realize…”
“Yeah.” I take a deep breath, nodding. “Well, now you do.”
* * *
Back at the porch, the group has split into two. The raucous crowd at the table is working on second and third rounds. Someone ordered pitchers. From the lawn comes the irregular thunk, ga-thunk, thunk of cornhole. To any outside observer, they’re all just a table of college students out for drinks. Not descendants of ancient bloodlines, not healers, or speedsters, or strong women, or warriors. Just kids. To any outside observer, I’m one of them.
Pete is just starting a story about his father hunting a demon on the Appalachian Trail when Nick and Sel walk out onto the porch. It looks like the Kingsmage is taking his job as Nick’s personal guard more seriously after Wednesday night’s attack. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen them arrive somewhere together, or even stand next to each other without fighting. Sel’s in dour black, as always, but Nick’s in a comfortable-looking X-Men tee and a pair of old jeans. After the day I’ve had, it takes everything in me not to run into his arms, but Russ jumps up instead, clapping Nick on the back and shoving a drink into his hand.
After a few hellos, Nick spots me and makes a beeline toward the end of the table. He drops down on my other side, laundry and cedar on max, and shoves a red-and-white checkered paper basket of bacon-cheddar tater tots in front of me. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I try not to focus on the way Nick sits so close to me. Or how, after he settles, he doesn’t move his body away from mine. Or how warm his bicep and hip are through his clothing. But it’s difficult. Suddenly, my low halter-top back feels too low. My skin too exposed. I’d just spent the last twenty-four hours obsessing over every text, every emoji, but now I’m so attuned to him that his very closeness makes me want to run far, far away? What the hell, Matthews? Get it together.
Sel takes a spot across from us, tucked back under the overhang, and balances against the wall on the back legs of a chair. He seems plenty happy to keep his eyes on me and doesn’t look interested in budging. After our confrontation and the revelation about his heritage, half of me is screaming to look away, and the other half wants to keep an eye on him. The left side of his mouth curls upward in a smirk, like he knows what I’m thinking and finds it amusing.
Ass.
Beside me, Nick tilts his head with a frown, eyes drawn to my mouth. “No smile. Everything okay?”
“Not exactly.” How do I talk about what I saw on the memory walk? I witnessed something no one I know has ever seen. How would I even begin to talk about it with a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy who would have never been on the receiving end of Carr’s whip? Would Cecilia and Ruth even want me to share their memories? They hadn’t shown them to Patricia.
I don’t know how to carry the borrowed images that still feel alive and raw in my body. How does Patricia do it?
“You said you wanted to talk?”
I gesture off to the side of the porch where we can have some privacy. He catches my drift and shoves up from the table, grabbing a tot on the way. Before we can untangle our legs from the picnic table, Vaughn strolls by. Without preamble, he asks, “So, is the Table being reunited or what?”
A beat of silence.
Nick regards the other boy quietly before he answers. “If you’re asking if Arthur has Called me yet…” He looks down the table at the other listening faces. “If any of you are wondering that, the answer is no. Not yet.”
“I got a friend up at Western.” Whitty shoves his hands in his pockets beside Evan. “Said they’ve seen six Shadowborn up there in the last week.”
Nick sighs so quietly that only I can hear it. He drops his half-eaten tater tot into the basket and wipes his fingertips. “My dad is talking it over with the Regents tonight and tomorrow. If Tor is Called”—he looks down the table where Sar is perched on Tor’s lap—“the plan may change, but for now, we’re to sit tight, keep training, and keep our eyes open.”
“Here, here!” Evan calls, and those with drinks raise their glasses. Some of the Legendborn toast to their Lines or the Order itself.
Nick and I take the opportunity to slip away and head down the steps to the empty lawn and abandoned cornhole tables. Once we reach the bottom of the stairs, he tugs me into the dark nook underneath the porch and leans down to my ear. “You look great tonight.”