Before she could guess what he was doing over there, Theodore plopped the last marble into place.
“Go ahead,” the wizard said absent of generosity. “I’ll even give you the first move.”
Sikras examined the board. “Uh-huh. Interesting.” He reached toward an amethyst marble but left his hand hovering over it.
He waited.
And waited.
After waiting some more, he hovered over a different marble—a glossy, blueish one. “Yes, I think it’s obvious what the first move should be.”
“Then, make it,” came Theodore’s impatient reply.
“See, I thinkyouthink I’ll move this one.” Sikras pressed the pad of his index finger atop a frosty green marble. “But that would be much too obvious, wouldn’t it?”
The soft yet familiar sound of grinding teeth came next. “Just make your move.”
“Why the rush, Theodore? Do I sense a little fear?”
“Not from Siaphara’s reigning Metamorphose champion, no.”
Sikras tapped his chin and launched into a series of long, calculating noises of consideration. He smacked his lips before nodding to himself, tapping each marble to a tune he seemed to make up in his head. “One, two, three, which will it be?”
By the time Theodore slammed his fist atop the table, jostling marbles and board, Ben pulled away from the door and walked back toward the festivities. Helspira caught him and Sikras exchanging silent nods.
After, Sikras continued posturing.
“For the love of Entra,” howled Theodore, “make your bloody move!”
“Perfection takes patience.” Sikras chose a marble and moved it. “There we are. Top that.”
Theodore raised a brow. “That’syour move?”
“That’s my move.”
Theodore’s look of disbelief transformed into a laugh. A flurry of marble movement followed, lasting all of four seconds, before he shouted, “Ha! A Metamorphose master, are you? Pathetic. I haven’t won in a single move since I was a boy.”
“You won already?” Sikras’s words came out curious but even-toned. He surveyed the board and blinked. “Well, shit.”
A muffled hum rumbled inside Helspira’s clamped lips, and she raked her fingers into her scalp. “You lost? I thought you said—”
“A deal is a deal.” Theodore tapped Mr. Tibbons’s box. “Resurrect him. Now.”
Sikras offered Helspira a smile, but it failed to comfort her in any way.
Lost. They hadlost. No scroll. The banneret would murder her, then throw her and her parents back into Chthonia. No doubt, in that environment, her mum would enter another demonic state and lose what little of herself remained, and her da would be doomed to watch the love of his life deteriorate into a mindless beast. Some small part of her rejoiced at not having to send Ben into dangerous territory, but—
“A deal is a deal, indeed.” Sikras clasped his hands together. “Let’s get this over with.”
Theodore scooted toward the edge of his seat. “Hurry. The days have been too quiet without him.”
Helspira halted her panicked pacing and hugged her torso. The longing in Theodore’s voice was palpable. If he wasn’t such an ass—and if she wasn’t busy lamenting over her future—she might have pitied him. She watched Sikras flex his fingers, flick his hands, and close his eyes. One whispered spell later, black mist appeared in his open palms, and his body snapped from the sudden lash of recoil.
The marbles, still nestled in the board’s indentations, clattered like rain on a tin roof as the table rattled. Sweeping his trembling hand, Sikras pried off the box’s top and tossed it across the room. Sunlight through a nearby window caught particles of floating dust as the bones twitched in their makeshift coffin. Despite the absence of ligaments to hold its pre-death shape, the skeleton adopted a noticeably feline appearance—at least as feline as a pile of fleshless, furless bones could possibly look.
The cat’s skull snapped toward Theodore, and though its jaws parted in such a way that would indicate an irritated hiss, no sound emerged.
“Mr. Tibbons.” Theodore’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, but a sneer soured his expression. “Why does he sound like that?”
