The last time the trickster and the brother had met, the families had tried to kill the brother. It had been the Clark, his children, the Bard, and the trickster against the brother. Now, the odds were flipped.
The trickster’s gaze flickered to the flames and then back to the brother. A trail of sweat leaked down his brow.
“Are you all alone?” the brother asked.
The wind growled. The battle-hardened brother had asked the same question right before flinging the boy off the cliff.
“Should we kill you right now?”
The trickster lifted an eyebrow. His cheeks were turning red from the heat. The wind felt the quick, urgent thud of his heartbeat. “Now, why would you do that?”
The brother twisted his hand and conjured a fire sword just like his father’s. “Because you’re aligned with the Clarks. Or am I mistaken?”
“Oh. Aligned. That’s a funny word. Uh-ligned. A-ligned. Hmm. Am I?”
“Are you?”
The trickster smiled. “Didn’t I fight alongside you at the closing ceremony?”
“You were bought.”
“Was I?”
“Can you be bought again?”
The trickster’s eyes widened innocently, then his cheeks dimpled. “Probably. I like being bought. What are you offering?”
The Smith standing behind the brother snorted again and then leaned forward to whisper to the brother. “He killed his siblings. He has no loyalty.”
The brother nodded.
“A fortune,” he said to the trickster, “and the promise that when everyone else dies, you won’t.”
The trickster snorted.
The brother frowned. “A city of your own, a fortune, and the promise that when everyone else dies, you won’t.”
“I want New York.”
“Chicago.”
“New York.”
“Toledo.”
The trickster laughed. “New York.”
“Los Angeles.”
The trickster grinned. “Done.”
“If you turn on us, you’ll die worse than everyone else.”
“I know.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, and then the brother smiled. “Your word is less than nothing.”
The trickster looked at his watch. Sweat rolled down his forehead, and the acrid air clung to his skin. “Are we done?”
