To the Death

I’m about to mop the floor with one of the best magicians in the state, and all I can think about is what Dad will say backstage.

Maybe he’ll be pleased—because the nasty little chain of curses I cast actually worked.

Or maybe—and this would suck, but it’s realistically more probable, knowing Dad—he’ll be pissed off because I didn’t use any of the spells he actually wanted me to cast. Which means I’ll need to come up with a plan to deal with a potential foul mood from Dad.

Fantastic.

A crackle of pure arcane energy whizzes right toward my nose. The audience gasps—they’re so collectively stunned that I can hear them even over the pulse of blood thrumming in my ears.

I barely dodge the curse in time. Sloppy.

Right. First things first: I need to win, here in this arena. The last thing I need right now is to preemptively tire myself out figuring out how to manage Dad before I actually beat the man in front of me.

With considerable effort, I return to studying my opponent. We circle each other like two dogs on the hunt—but by the end of this duel, only one of us will prove itself the prey, the other its predator.

My opponent, Dallas McCullough, is thoroughly stuck on his back foot. Less than eight minutes ago, he entered this arena brimming with confidence, the all-American golden boy with the pretty, pearly- toothed smile, famous for casting close-quarters curses that cut his last three opponents up something awful.

Curses of that nature skirt the bounds of legality—it’s part of what separates legitimate arcane duels from the underground magicians’ circuit, after all. We have rules in place to keep truly dangerous illegal spells out of our arenas. But that doesn’t mean our fights don’t get bloody or vicious.

Some members of the magical community frown on curses that cut opponents up as bad as McCullough’s do. I don’t have a problem with it, personally. His favored curses aren’t technically illegal—not yet, anyway—and he’s always honored an opponent’s decision to yield be- fore further blood is shed. I respect McCullough and his willingness to do what’s necessary to secure victory even when it gets nasty.

To that end, I can’t fault my opponent for his confidence. You don’t get to be one of the top five magicians in the state by accident. McCullough earned his place in this arena tonight with blood and sweat and a hunger to win.

Unfortunately for McCullough, he’s sharing that arena with me. Eight minutes have taken their toll on my opponent. Right now, McCullough’s pretty, square-jawed face is beet red with exertion, his golden curls dark with sweat. A bruise blooms purple over one of McCullough’s sea-blue eyes, and his pearly whites have gone pink with his own blood.

My handiwork isn’t half bad. I should know; I planned every curse I cast, every counter I threw at McCullough’s increasingly desperate spell-casting attempts. We’ve got less than two minutes left of allotted time in this arena before the judges call a stop to our little war—and it’s clear which of us will emerge the victor, unless McCullough does something drastic.

But I refuse to get cocky. Not when McCullough’s still got fight left in him—and, knowing him, a couple fail-safe curses hidden up his sleeve.

As if he’s heard my thoughts, McCullough grins at me with those bloodstained teeth. Wordlessly, he beckons me forward with one hand. I’d almost buy the bravado, if not for the fear lurking in my opponent’s gaze.

Oh, he’s ready to do something drastic, all right.

Quietly, I shake my head at McCullough, as I offer him a close- mouthed smile. Magicians lose duels all the time because they assume they’ve already won before their opponent actually yields. Better magicians than me have eaten nasty curses that knocked them out cold in the last thirty seconds of allotted duel time. Undefeated phenoms suddenly rendered mortal. Beatable. Laughable, even.

That’s not going to be me. I refuse to be the duelist who loses because she assumes she can’t.

I sprawl flat to the floor, as another desperate Hail Mary curse from McCullough whizzes over my head. Good. He’s already tired. If I can bait him into depleting his energy on do-nothing magic, I can wear him down for the final seconds of our duel.

I might not even have to cast anything else myself.

“Come on, Blackwood!” roars McCullough from the other end of the arena. “Quit stalling and fight me for real!”

I smile at him. “I appreciate the sentiment,” I call back, “but I’d rather just win.”

As I speak, I crook the fingers of both hands and plant my feet. It’s such a simple spell. It barely counts as casting. But as any decent magician could tell you, the complexity of a spell is nothing compared to how well we time the casting.

McCullough’s final Hail Mary roars toward me. He’s not stupid. This curse has wider range than the sparklers he threw at me earlier—way wider. I have nowhere to run. McCullough knows the clock’s ticking. He knows he’s almost out of time. So he’s chosen this moment to empty his last reserves of arcane energy into a spell that I can’t just dodge.

Which makes my timing perfect.

I close my eyes, right as the curse envelops me—and the spell I’ve prepared. I hear another crescendo of gasps and screams from the crowd, but I don’t open my eyes. I need to focus.

Even without the aid of eyesight, I know what’s happening. Magic at this level is more about what you sense than what you see. Everything happens precisely as I planned it: My little shield springs to life. A bubble of bright, arcane energy closes around me, creating a spherical mirror. And McCullough’s curse crashes right into it.

Mind you, mine isn’t an especially powerful spell. Most magicians learn to cast their first mirror shield within the first three or four months of study. No one thinks mirror shields are sexy. Practical, obviously, and an important fundamental skill. But a basic mirror shield is not going to make anyone’s highlight reel, not if they’re trying to show off how fancy and advanced their magical repertoire is.

A basic, well-timed mirror shield, though, is also exactly what I need to finish McCullough off.

His curse ricochets off the surface of my mirror. I open my eyes just in time to see McCullough pancake himself flat to the arena floor. He’s too late. The fragments of his failed curse roar right back toward their maker. Flattening himself out allows McCullough to avoid the worst of my counter—but not all of it.

The remnants of McCullough’s curse—glittering, sharp-edged pieces of arcane energy—bury themselves in his exposed back. He cries out, trying to rise to his feet, then falls.

Forty seconds remain on the clock.

Slowly, I walk toward him. “It’s over,” I tell him as kindly as I can.

He shakes his head, gritting those bloodstained teeth, as he tries to rise again. I wince as he yelps and falls again, shuddering.

“You can yield,” I tell him. I pitch my voice low so the audience won’t hear. These words are for my opponent, and my opponent alone. “You know I’ve already won the judges’ favor. Yield, and you won’t hurt yourself worse. There’s no shame in that.”

McCullough stares up at me with bright, bruise-blackened eyes. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that, Blackwood?”

I offer him another tiny, toothless smile. “I get that a lot.” I bow my head. “You’re a great magician. It means a lot, coming from you.”

McCullough’s answering laugh rattles inside his chest before it turns into a nasty cough that fades into a whimper.

Twenty-five seconds remain on the clock.

“Please,” I whisper. “Please, just yield. I don’t want to keep hurting you.”

Twelve seconds.

McCullough finally slaps his palm against the arena floor. “Yield!” he screams. “I yield, I yield!”

I close my eyes against the delighted roar of the audience. Now it’s time to prepare for my real battle: facing Dad.