by Tracy Deonn
Still, I can feel my cheeks burning. “Blond hair, blue eyes, and…”
“And?” Alice prompts, waving her hand for more. Laughter escapes me in a freeing rush. God, this feels good.
Words stream from my lips before I think about them too carefully. “And he looks like a gladiator. Like those oddly hot dudes on the sides of pottery from ancient Greece? Tall and athletic and”—Nick, pointing me to safety with his sword, his eyes hardened with both fear and focus—“heroic.”
“Ahh!” Alice collapses onto her side. “See, that’s the good stuff. Even if gladiators are Roman.”
I poke her knees with my toe. “How about you? Any ladies catch your eye?”
She swats at my foot. “Nice try, but your deflections don’t work on me. I’m immune. Let’s talk about how you have a crush on your peer mentor. Like, the person who’s supposed to be teaching you all about school? And tutoring you on how to achieve success after your brief descent into delinquency.”
“ ‘Crush’ is the wrong word. I just met him.”
“Bree.” She grabs my ankles with both hands. With a face drawn in mock solemnity, she declares, “This is like a book. Or a TV show where everyone has great hair and is way too old to play a teenager. You are literally a walking rom-com right now.”
“Alice.” I kick until she lets me go and hops up with a grin.
“I’ve got to go meet Teresa,” she says, walking backward and pointing at me, “but when you get back tonight, you’re telling me everything, Briana Matthews!”
I smile, even though I can’t tell Alice everything. Not ever. Not if I want to keep her safe.
20
WHEN I KNOCK on the door to the Lodge that night, it’s Evan who answers.
A grin splits the redhead’s face. “There she is! The Page who finally brought our knight-errant out of the woodwork.”
“Knight-errant?” He moves aside and I step through the door, shaking out my umbrella. It started drizzling on my way over.
“Yup,” he says, taking my umbrella and dropping it into the bronze holder in the foyer. “That’s old-timey for a knight who does their own thing and wanders around and stuff.”
“And that’s Nick?”
He smiles rakishly. “Not anymore.”
“Evan, you’re a frat boy by day and a Squire for an ancient order by night. How do you keep up with it all?”
“Magic,” he says, and bows with a flourish.
I laugh, but then I think of Alice and my split life. “No, for real. How do you lie to Charlotte every day about who you are and what you do?”
He winks. “Lies are easy when you’re fighting for the right cause.”
“Hm.” I consider my own lies and cause—and the person who’s lying to Evan and the entire chapter on my behalf. “Do you know if the knight-errant is here?”
“Who’s the knight-errant?” An amused voice interjects from the top of the stairs.
“There he is!”
Nick fixes Evan with a mock glare from where he’s leaning on the balcony railing. “Quit harassing my Page, Ev.”
Evan backs away, hands up. “Of course, my liege.”
Nick groans. “Yeah, you can stop with that ‘my liege’ crap anytime you want. Come on up, Bree. Evan, stay put.”
Evan closes the door with a loud laugh that echoes around the foyer.
Nick is waiting for me at the top of the stairs, and I absolutely blame Alice Chen for where my brain goes as I walk up to meet him, because all I can think is that he looks like a rom-com daydream come to life. His hands are stuffed in a pair of dark-wash jeans, and he’s wearing a blue Henley that brings out his eyes. Eyes that roam over me, too, with a soft, unreadable expression.
When I reach the landing, he tilts his head to the left. “This way.”
* * *
While the exterior is a castle and first floor interior a manor, the second floor, soaked in reds and browns and yellows, is truly the source for the Lodge’s name. Restored pine floors hold notches and whorls from the original trees, and the heavy brocade fabric lining the walls in between the doors makes the floor feel warm and residential. Someone’s music is bumping loud enough to make the sconces shake.
A door opens and Felicity and Russ emerge, their quiet giggles filling the hall. When the pair notices us approaching, Felicity’s face flushes to match her hair.
“Oh! H-hi!” She waves with one hand while batting at a clingy Russ with the other. She looks adorably flustered, while Russ is openly beaming. I don’t know whether to feel sympathy or laugh.
Nick doesn’t miss a beat. “Felicity, how are you feeling?”
Russ leans in, nuzzling her neck. “Yeah, Flick, how are you feelin’?”
Her eyes grow wide as saucers and she shoves him away—a bit too hard. He flies back so high he hangs suspended in the air for a second before landing in a crouch on the other side of the hall.
While she gasps in horror and apologizes, Russ laughs uncontrollably, barely managing a response. “That enough answer for you, Nick?”
“I can answer for myself, thank you!” Felicity marches up to us with as much dignity as she can muster. “I’m fine, Nick, thank you for asking. Just not”—she glances back at her Squire, who’s on his feet with a wide grin—“totally used to the strength yet.”
“Me neither,” Russ calls, striding over to us.
“And Lamorak had a temper, we’ve discovered,” Felicity adds. “Not my favorite inheritance in the world.”
“Are y’all okay?” Nick raises a brow. “Not fighting each other, are you?”
“No.” Felicity blushes. “Not exactly…”
Nick opens his mouth, sees Russ’s barely suppressed laughter, and his cheeks tinge pink. “We’ll see you downstairs for dinner.”
“Yep!” Russ loops an arm around his Scion’s shoulder.
The two of them descend the stairs quickly and Nick gestures to keep walking. We stop at a room labeled 208, and he produces a key from his pocket. “I never use it, but my father keeps this room here for me.”
“Why don’t you use it?”
He shrugs, pushing the door inward. “Living here would send a certain message.”
I begin to ask what he means, but the sight of his bedroom, and the realization that that’s where he wants to talk, temporarily shorts my brain.
The room is large enough to comfortably fit a full bed, a dresser, a chest of drawers, and a trestle desk without sacrificing open floor space, which is more than I can say for my dorm. I wonder if all of the rooms in the Lodge have a similar layout, with similar furniture. The ones occupied by other members probably aren’t decorated in sailor-themed blue-and-white stripes, with an anchor-shaped rug at the foot of the bed.
Lord Davis had definitely taken a trip to Bed Bath & Beyond.
Nick closes the door behind me. When I step farther inside, I realize our rooms have something in common: they’re barely lived in. There’s nothing about his room that feels like it belongs to anyone, much less Nick.
When I turn to say as much, I find myself engulfed in his arms, his fresh laundry–and–cedar scent folding around me in a warm cloud. His hands are so large they span the whole of my spine. Heat from his palms radiates out from where he clutches me. Face tucked into my neck, he mutters, “That thing was gonna kill you right in front of me. All I could think was that it was my fault for bringing you in.” The worry and guilt in his muffled voice make tears prick at my eyes. Without my permission, my arms wrap around him, too.
“Funny story,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ve been blaming myself for bringing you in.”
When he laughs, the muscles in his back flex under my fingers. “Yeah, well, I said it first.”
I grin into his shoulder. My “no reason at all” responses suddenly feel completely justified.
Nick lifts his head. His eyes roam over my face, my healed cheek, my torso. “Are you sure you’re okay?” His left hand hovers over my side, fingers lightly
touching the cotton material covering the now deep purple–and–black bruise on my ribs. Then, he seems to recognize how close his fingers are to other parts of me, so he steps back. Our arms fall awkwardly to our sides.
I’m floored that he knew to check for an injury there—that he’d been paying such close attention to where the uchel grabbed me. And I’m drawn to the two strawberry-colored thumbprints staining his cheeks.
“Bruised,” I mumble, still warm and confused, “just bruised.”
His voice comes out a tiny bit hoarse. “Good.”
“Yes.”
“Right.”
I clear my throat. “How’s your head?”
He rubs at the back of it. “Feels like I bumped it?”
“That is both an unbelievable and normal response, isn’t it?”
“This is both an unbelievable and normal situation.” His eyes twinkle.
We stare at each other, wrestling with this moment that feels both new and unfamiliar, both what we asked for and something we didn’t expect. Nick’s eyes are the waiting color of overcast skies.
I turn away first. “So, this is your room.” Why did I say that? We already covered that, Bree. Jesus.
“I claim no responsibility for the decor.”
I was wrong. The room isn’t entirely lacking in Nick. There are a few personal items pinned on the corkboard mounted over his desk. When I move closer, I see one is a picture of an elementary-aged Nick in front of the red wolf habitat at the North Carolina Zoo. His hair is white-blond, and several teeth are missing from his smile. A junior high academic achievement award is pinned down below. The last item is a picture of Nick at eleven or twelve, Nick’s father, and a smiling blond woman who must be his mother. The woman has his eyes and smile, even if Nick’s grin is mostly metal braces in this photo. They’re standing in front of a large hill under a clear blue sky.
“Arthur’s Seat,” Nick informs me. “Dad took us to Edinburgh for summer vacation. Couldn’t resist the photo op with his Scion son.”
“You look happy.”
He tilts his head as if processing the idea. “We were. Then.”
“You never talk about your mother.”
His smile turns down on one end. “Another day.”
He studies me like he did the first night we met. That feels like forever ago, but it’s only been forty-eight hours. And in another forty-eight hours I’ll know more about my mother’s magic, and maybe my own.
“We need to talk.”
I raise a brow. “About the fact that you’re the descendant of King Arthur?”
“I’m not the descendant. I’m one of many.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, irritation flaring.
Heat flashes through his eyes. “When could I have? When exactly, Bree? In the ten minutes before we walked into the Oath? In the two minutes before Sel attacked you?”
I cross my arms. “Yes.”
He glares at me, his jaw ticking. Inhales, then breathes out through his nose. “They tell you about the Lines?”
“I saw the Wall.”
“Who?”
“William.”
“And what else did William tell you?”
“I know about Camlann.”
His gaze hardens. “Then you know why I want you to forfeit.”
“I already told you I’m not quitting.” I blink, startled by the look on his face. “We made a deal!”
“And last night changed the deal. If Camlann is truly near, then becoming a Squire—mine, William’s, Pete’s—is too risky. You won’t be able to just bounce afterward because we’ll be at war.” He grabs me by the arms, inclining his head to meet my eyes. “People die during Camlann, Bree.”
Panic flutters in my chest like a caged bird. “No, this is the only way. This year. Right now.”
“I never should have agreed to this, but I wanted to help you. I—” His fingers tighten where they hold me. “Becoming a Squire during peacetime is one thing. Once I reclaimed my title, I’d planned to step in, get you out before you’re expected to take the Warrior’s Oath. But now? The Order is on alert, and I know Sel. He could be ordered to bond you to your Scion right away and… and I can’t let you do that.”
I pull out of his grip. I can see the word in his eyes even if he doesn’t say it: Abatement.
Nick doesn’t want me to suffer the consequences of bonding. Doesn’t want me to die before my time. The affection—and fear—on his face, all for me, makes my head swim. But there’s determination there, plain in the sharp angles of his brow and jaw. Right now, he’s giving me a choice to walk away. But now that I know who he is and what he could become, I know that choice could be taken from me.
I search his gaze, wondering. Would he do that? Have me thrown out? Would I let him?
Another tact first: “I can resist that Oath.”
“Maybe you can, but your Scion will know, so Sel will know. He’ll send you to the Regents.”
“And you can order him not to. Or we’ll find the information another way. Or maybe I take the Oath and just let it happen!” I throw up my hands. “I know about Abatement.”
His eyes widen like I’ve uttered a word not spoken in polite company. “That’s—”
“What I’m willing to risk to find the truth!” He begins to protest, but I cut him off again. The decision became clear as soon as I said it aloud. “She’d have done the same for me.”
After a long, measuring look, he finally nods. “I don’t like it, but I understand.”
The tension in the room dissolves some, and I can breathe easier. “Maybe Camlann won’t come after all. William said Arthur hasn’t Called his Scion in two hundred and fifty years.”
“He hasn’t needed to, but that doesn’t mean he won’t.” He runs a hand through his hair. “God, I wish things were different for you. Do you have any idea how many Scions and Squires wish they could just walk away?”
“Like you did?”
Nick’s jaw tightens; then he visibly forces himself to relax. I realize I’ve been watching him do a version of the same progression since we’ve met: anger, restraint, resignation.
“No one, not even the Regents, thought I’d be Called. My renouncement was symbolic. Political. A child’s protest. And it will take symbolic and political steps to restore the kingdom’s, and the Table’s, faith in me. To own the title in full.”
Before last night, the odds had been in Nick’s favor. Two hundred years since anyone in his Line had needed to step up to the plate, or had the power to. I see it now. The desperation in his face is for me, but it’s for himself, too. The road ahead is long, and the bridges burned.
“What happens to you if… if…”
He sits on the room’s window seat with a sigh. “If I am Called and Awakened, I’ll inherit Arthur’s strength and wisdom. And I’ve been trained for that moment since I could walk. If the Shadowborn army is rising, I won’t let my friends fight it alone.”
“And the Abatement?”
His face turns grave. “My father says focus is death’s most precious gift.”
“Death doesn’t give gifts.”
“Tell that to a Scion.”
I nudge his foot and he shifts over so that we can share the seat. “You don’t want to lead.”
He answers without meeting my eyes. “Never have.”
“Don’t want the glory?” I lean into him. “Don’t want to be a king?”
He turns to me then, eyes serious. “Bree, if I get all of that, it means that Camlann is inevitable. I don’t want the world to need a king.”
21
TEN MINUTES LATER, we descend the stairs with a prickly sort of awareness bouncing between us. Yesterday we entered the great room in agreement, but we each had limited information about the nature of our situation. Twenty-four hours later, Nick’s world is heading to war, and I’m preparing to unravel my mother’s history. As our paths continue, will we still find common ground?
When we reach the foyer, the so
unds of dinner reach us from the vast dining room around the corner. Clinking cutlery. Chairs scraping the floor. Voices.
I look back to find Nick watching me, my own uncertainty echoed on his face. “We good, B?”
I nod. “We’re good.”
His mouth quirks. “I don’t know why, but—”
Suddenly, the front doors open and humid, light rain sprays across the tiles. Outside, three women stand deep in conversation, shaking their umbrellas on the patio before entering. They’re dressed head to toe in country club–chic: blouses, cardigans, capris, spotless white tennis shoes. Their pale, perfectly contoured faces light up when they see Nick.
“As I live and breathe…” The woman on the left wears a neck scarf the deep yellow of the Line of Owain.
“Is that—?”
“Nick Davis.” The tallest woman, a brunette, speaks with a low rasp. The first woman elbows her, and she corrects herself. “Excuse me. Scion Davis.”
Nick inclines his head, addressing them all in turn. “Rose members Hood, Edwards, and Schaefer. What brings you to the Lodge tonight?” He steps back to let them in. “The tournament trials are closed, as you know…”
It takes a second, but I recognize their last names and facial features. These three are mothers of chapter members: Pete Hood, Scion of Owain; Ainsley Edwards, a second-year Page; and Vaughn Schaefer, from my Page class.
Rose member Schaefer’s eyes twinkle as she enters. She acknowledges me with a polite smile and a wave, then offers a sly glance to Nick. “We heard a rumor you returned.”
“Elena, please.” The Edwards woman waves a manicured hand adorned with nails the dark orange of Bors. “The Order of the Rose always supervises catering during the Trials.” Still addressing Nick, she extends her umbrella toward me, handle first. “Take this and dry it? Now, tonight’s meal—”