I begin wondering if we were supposed to plan and practice these little party tricks. I don’t have anything planned, but then, maybe that’s the best plan of all.
Rev
Icross my arms andwait for the other champions to be announced. They each have their little tricks. Enough to showcase their court’s magic, but not enough to give away their power.
“Drake of the Whirling Court,” Miss Koran, a puck I’ve known since childhood calls out. I hold back a grimace. Drake is easily my biggest competition for the crown, and therefore, the one I’m most concerned will win the trials. He’s not the strongest physically, but he’s smart, and he knows politics better than anyone. Drake smiles big and bright as he tosses his hands into the air, thrusting a small cyclone into the crowd. It whips and pulls at the spectators’ clothing and hair, even pulling up a female’s skirt.
Pig, I think.
“Kari of the Crystal Court.” Drake’s closest ally. She looks up to the ceiling as deep purple crystals grow down like stalactites, then all at once they shatter and fall to the ground sending up a puff of harmless glittering smoke. Crystals have many uses, but I know from experience that Kari also has several types of earth powers. She’s a formidable opponent.
“Crevin of the Crackling Court.” The oldest fae in the competition, a contender for the crown himself, although I’ve heard rumors of an alliance with Drake. I suppose we’ll have to see about that. His white hair flies back as he sends sparks sizzling up and around the room, twisting through the lights and then finally raining down on the spectators. They ooh and ahh and hold up their faces to feel the heat—unafraid of being burned. The sparks fade into nothing before they touch anyone, and the crowd murmurs their approval.
“Brielle of the Flicker Court.” Brielle holds out her hand and flames erupt into a moving sculpture of a couple dancing. The male flickers and glows with a white flame that I know represents my bother. Tears well in Brielle’s eyes as they dance. Red flame and white.
Then a black flame creeps over the male, and he disintegrates leaving only the red-flame woman standing still.
I blink and swallow, and my eyes drift to the next in line. My brother’s murderer stares at the flame, and though the rest of her face is smooth and calm, her pupils are dilated. Does she realize what Brielle’s performance means?
“Caelynn of the Shadow Court,” Miss Koran’s voice betrays her pain at having to say the betrayer’s name. Speaking a fae’s name is a sign of respect. It’s something I will never do for the shade witch.
The crowd boos and roars at her.
The female stands there, looking straight ahead. Even as her court attempts a cheer, they’re drowned out by the rest of the room’s jeers. Everyone hates her. Everyone but her minuscule and worthless court.
She doesn’t move. She doesn’t blink. No power comes from her in anyway.
I narrow my eyes, watching. A deviled-egg flies from somewhere in the crowd and hits her shoulder, splattering bits of yolk. She doesn’t even blink. She doesn’t move to wipe it off.
I watch her closely. What is she doing? What point is she trying to make?
Does she have no power to show? She used none to defend herself today in the woods, and she shows nothing in the showcase. She must have had some magic if she’d been able to kill my brother.
She’s been in the human world for over a decade. Perhaps her magic is rusty from disuse? Perhaps she emptied her well so thoroughly to kill him she wasn’t able to regrow it—maybe she doesn’t have anything left.
That’s a comforting thought.
