“Come to the field,” he says, excitement in his voice.
“Why?” I ask, trying, and failing, to keep my eyes ahead. There’s a dangerous sparkle in his eyes, a look I recognize from the wolves that used to circle the village herds.
“Because we’re playing a game. And you’re on my team,” he says.
I shake my head. “No, thanks.”
He blocks my way, all six-seven or so of him. “Please? For me? It’ll be fun.” Then, more softly, “You said you like outside. This is the best outside there is.”
I don’t know how to refuse without being rude. So I follow him outside, through an arch of climbing roses, and out to a large open field bordered by the same strange trees as yesterday.
King Cassius is already there, rolling an oblong ball between his palms. King Oberon and Ashton are at opposite ends of the grass, stretching their arms behind their heads, showing off chests and stomachs as if it’s perfectly normal to do so.
King Oberon sees me and calls, “You’re on the enemy team.”
“Enemy team?” I say.
“You’re on a team with me and King Sylvian,” King Cassius tells me, then flips the ball to King Ashton, who catches it one-handed and spins it in his grip.
“What is this game?” I ask.
“PigSkin,” King Sylvian says, puffing with pride. “We invented it during the last siege. Rules are simple: get the ball to the far line.”
“And each team tries to stop the other team from getting there before them,” King Ashton adds, grinning like a cat.
“By any means necessary,” King Oberon says.
My stomach drops, but the way they all smirk at each other, I think maybe it’s a joke. It has to be a joke. Right? Because if these men are supposed to stop me, they’re going to be able to do it. Easily. I’d already seen that.
We line up: me, King Sylvian, and King Cassius against King Oberon and King Ashton. The teams are pretty fair, given that I doubt I’ll add much to my team, so it’s really two versus two.
King Sylvian puts his hands on my shoulders and leans down, his breath warm against my ear. “Try to stay out of the way at the start. You’ll get flattened. Then, try to be open for a pass.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I say, trying not to let my horror at this whole thing show.
King Oberon and King Ashton move in a blur of muscle and violence. They don’t even pretend to go easy on each other. Every tackle lands hard, and every time the ball changes hands, it’s with a twist of the wrist or a sweep of the legs that would shatter a normal person.
King Sylvian and King Cassius move like water, their motions sharp and instinctive. They’re beautiful, though I hate to admit it. Watching them, I could almost pretend they’re some other creature, something less horrible than the fae. King Oberon and Ashton are more brute force. They look like they could level the very earth if it got in their way.
After three plays, I realize they keep glancing over to see if I’m watching.Why do these four men like to see me watching them so much?They’re like the children from the village shouting, “Look at me! Look at me! Are you watching me?” Except, it’s all unspoken.
On the fourth play, King Sylvian gets the ball and sprints toward the line. King Oberon barrels into him, sending both men to the ground in a heap. King Oberon’s hand lands on King Sylvian’s face, grinding it into the grass, and King Sylvian bites his hand. King Oberon swears and shoves King Sylvian’s head harder.
“Keep your hands out of my face, you brute,” King Sylvian growls.
“Stop putting your face where my hands go,” King Oberon retorts, teeth bared.
“Boy, this is fun,” I mutter to myself.
Why would anyone ever play this “game”?
King Ashton cackles, clutching the ball in his hands tighter, then spins, eyes on King Cassius. “Remember the rules. No magic.”
“No magic,” King Cassius says, but there’s trouble in his eyes.
King Cassius waits for him, arms crossed. Tension brews. There’s going to be another play. And another excuse for them to pummel each other.
“Go on,” King Cassius taunts.
