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She smiles at me, absolutely unbothered by my shitty attitude. “Hold the handles together.”

“What?”

“The handles.” She motions with her hands, demonstrating what she wants me to do.

I pick up the sickles and hold them with their handles facing each other. There’s a tingle against my palm and the metal shifts. It happens in the blink of an eye; the handles connecting and shooting longer until they’re nearly the length of a staff when the blades are accounted for.

I whistle under my breath. “Neat trick.”

“As I said.”

“The Moon provides,” I say absently. “Got it.” I swing the new weapon, whirling it, letting the magic tell my body what to do. It’s not a sword, no, and can’t be used as such, but it gives me significantly longer reach. I can work with this. I don’t know if it will be enough against the Tower if he decides I’m not safe from him, but I don’t intend to find out. “How do I reverse it?”

“Concentrate.”

The command is confusing, but as I hold the staff in my two hands and envision it in two pieces, it snaps in half. I don’t see how it decreases back to the normal size. It occurs in a strange glimmer of movement that isn’t actually movement. “Interesting.” It’s a quick transition, but if I’m not careful, it’s still long enough to get me killed. “Thank you.”

“Fates be with you, champion.” Her smile has an almost bittersweet edge as she watches me slide the sickles into the harness that somehow perfectly complements the fancy dress. It’s studded with silver and looks like it’s for show, but fits just as perfectly as the one last night. It’s got a new feature, too: two small slits on either side that I can slip my Moon and Wheel of Fortune coins into.

I’m still a walking moonbeam in this dress, but at least I’m not unarmed. We might be forbidden from fighting or killing each other during the day, but the Sun will set soon enough. I don’t want to be caught defenseless when that happens. Somehow, I don’t think the Minor Court is going to release us from their events in time to scatter to the winds.

Tonight will be another massacre. I’m going to have to do my damnedest to ensure I’m not numbered among the victims.

One must never confuse the celebrations thrown by the Minor Court to be in celebration of the old gods. During the night, the deaths of the champions serve their purpose. The day, on the other hand, is for the Cups, the Pentacles, the Wands, and the Swords.

—EXCERPT FROM THE MAJOR ARCANA: A TREATISE ON THE HISTORY OF THE OLD GODS

CHAPTER NINE

I SHIELD MY EYES as I look around the courtyard. It feels absolutely absurd to be glittering beneath the Sun overhead. I can’t adjust to how much of it the people up on the hill experience. It’s nearly the twelfth strike, so this is right around the time we’d get a bit of sunlight in the Dregs. But it feels brighter right now. Warmer. More intense. It takes my eyes several seconds to adjust, and even then I have to squint a bit as I take in my competitors.

I instinctively tense in response to the presence of the other champions. Knowing the rules of the Trials doesn’t quite translate from my brain to my body. The Sun may be just starting Their descent, but eventually They will fall from the sky just like They always do. And when the light goes, the people in this courtyard will be out for blood. I’ll be out for blood.

The surviving champions are all dressed in similar fashion—completely impractical for the fight to come. Shining dresses. Suits that are impeccably tailored to athletic bodies. Clothing that I have no names for. All of it excessive and absurd.

When I trained to join the Trials, I had a very clear idea of what to expect—or at least I thought I did. Some of that has even come to pass, but it’s like looking at my reflection in a moving river; it’s familiar and yet unexpected at the same time. Not just the magical element of it. Never in a million years would I have expected Death to call the Tower off. Or that the Tower would eliminate one of the Cinque on the first night. There are too many variables to stick to Mouse’s original plan. Not if I want to live. The other champions must be feeling that split from expectation versus reality, too. The bravado of yesterday has waned; each of us watches the others with a new wariness.

I stay to the edge of the group, but my attention is pulled to familiar faces. There’s Cato, his arms limned with gold to match the kilt wrapped around his hips. His chest is bare but for more gold that shimmers with each movement of his warm brown skin. He’s wearing a short pair of daggers with jewel-encrusted hilts that should be ridiculous, but somehow he pulls them off. I hate that he looks every bit a Sun god, and I hate it even more when he catches me watching and smirks.

Vesper’s garment is a short dress, leaving a good portion of their legs bare but for a brace on their left side. Their shoulder armor appears to be made of deep maroon feathers and silver, just as ornamental as it was last night. Their ever-present cane is the same one they used last night. It’s the first time I get a good view of their leg; their foot is turned slightly too far inward, their calf twisted.

They catch me looking and give a small wave. “Good afternoon, Moon.”

No alliances. I ignore Mouse’s voice in my ear and nod at Vesper. “Good afternoon, Wheel of Fortune.” They attempted to use their magic to help me fight the Tower last night. I don’t trust them, but with the core elements of my plan no longer in play, I need to adapt. If Vesper is interested in an alliance, I’d be a fool not to explore that option. I clear my throat. “Let’s talk at the party.”

Vesper smiles bright enough to compete with the Sun overhead. “I would like that very much.”

I turn away, searching for one specific person. Death. He has the answers I seek, and I don’t intend to waste time getting them. I spot him standing on the other side of the gathered champions with a large open space around him. He’s wearing black, just like he was last night, a simple tunic and pants tucked into knee-high boots. His sword is visible over his narrow shoulders, and his expression is carefully blank as he surveys the rest of us.

I start toward him … only to have a tall form step into my path. My gaze goes up, up, up, to the Tower’s handsome face. “Moon.” He stares down at me, one dark eyebrow raised. His clothing is similar to Death’s, but gray instead of black and with the addition of a sash of deep yellow across his broad chest. His longsword, its handle plain and simple, is visible over his shoulder. He looks good, his dark hair slicked back, showcasing his freakishly attractive face. Without the evidence of his potential for violence painting his pale skin, I can almost forget how dangerous he is. Almost.

I don’t like it. “Tower,” I manage. Standing this close to him makes me skittish. I want to move back, to put some distance between us, but that would feel too much like running, and I know better than to run from a predator. “You’re in my way.”

“You’re going the wrong direction.” He jerks his chin, and even though I hate the thought of giving him my back, I twist to see our escort from the Cups Court arriving. Damn it. Talking to Death will have to wait.

The escort is dressed in Cups colors—copper, navy, and teal—the fabric of his tunic flowing and nearly transparent. The only nod to modesty is a small pair of shorts, patterned with copper that glints when he moves. His black hair falls in a perfect curtain to his shoulders. His beige skin is flawless and glowing, his dark eyes bright and happy. I don’t trust it for a moment.

We don’t get many Cups in the Dregs, though we hear stories about their decadence and politicking. There’s an old saying that Mouse drilled into my head from when I was a young child.