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Cato snorts. “Just say you’re a coward and go.”

“Fuck you.” I slam my elbow into his stomach and push away from him, putting as much distance between us as I can. It’s not much, not with Vesper pressed to my other side. “You would be dead if not for Vesper’s bleeding heart.”

“Not a bleeding heart,” they murmur. “It’s called strategy, Kestrel. Our alliance wasn’t balanced before. Now it is.” They lean forward and pin Cato with a hard look. “And you. Stop antagonizing her. You would be dead if I didn’t convince her we need you. Prove me right.”

“I shouldn’t have to prove anything. I—” He cuts himself off and curses under his breath. “We don’t need a detailed plan—that’s a good way to end up dead when it inevitably falls apart. We just need the opportunity. The Chariot’s power is momentum. The longer he has to move, the faster and stronger he is—and harder to kill.”

“That’s not new information. Everyone during the Culling watched the Chariot display his powers. We need to know his weakness.”

“His weakness is the opposite of momentum. If we attack him before he has a chance to move, he’s just as vulnerable as anyone else.” Cato huffs out a breath. “The plan is to follow him using your stealth and the Wheel—Vesper’s—luck. Then you take me to a nice shadow right behind him and I melt his black fucking heart right in his chest.” The viciousness of his words sends goose bumps cascading over my skin.

It’s still not a plan, but I guess it’s close enough. Besides, the night is over. All three of us breathe identical sighs of relief as dawn washes over us, signaling the end to bloodshed.

At least for now.

One has to wonder at the wisdom of allowing five winners of the Tarot Trials. While five voting positions within the Concilium are still fewer total than the Minor Court and guilds hold, respectively, if the Cinque members were ever to unite in their goals, it could present a problem.

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

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

AFTER EVERYTHING THAT happened, getting off the roof is a nearly insurmountable challenge. Our exhausted group manages to climb down the water tower ladder, but the access door to the building below is locked. All three of us stare at it blankly, and Vesper rattles the handle again, as if this time will be any different. They look around, but there’s no flash of purple and no key magically appears.

Cato curses. “I’ll just burn it off.” The skin of his palm goes light, but it’s nowhere near as bright as it was last night. Instead of melting to nothing, the handle simply … droops a bit.

Vesper makes a sound that’s certainly not a giggle, but I’m too fucking tired to laugh at Cato’s power shorting out. I’m feeling pretty scraped empty right now, too. At least the hinges are on this side of the door. “Give me one of your daggers.”

“Fuck off.”

I give him a long look. “I’m not interested in a pissing match right now. I want to sleep, and we have to return to the champions’ island by sixth strike or risk disqualification. There’s no time. Give me a damn dagger.”

He bristles, but finally pulls one of the daggers free. It’s different from the ones he used in the Culling. That makes sense. I was hardly hauling around sickles before becoming the Moon’s champion.

The Moon.

I push thoughts of Them away to deal with later and move to the hinges. The knife is sharp and strong, and it takes very little time at all to work the pins free. From there, it’s easy enough to wedge the door open. I pass the knife back. “Thanks.”

He narrows those pretty dark eyes at me. It’s not the same look he gave me outside the Cups tower, but it’s close enough. “No problem.” He’s clearly reevaluating my worthiness—again.

Well, he can keep on reevaluating. I want sleep. I shoulder past him and plod down the narrow stairs. They’re clean-swept and smell faintly of pine. Because of course. It would be absolutely unforgivable for a Cup to have a set of barely used stairs that were allowed to gather dust. What would the people think?

A laugh wedges itself in my chest. I rub my knuckles against my sternum, but the sensation only gets worse. I exist in the place beyond exhaustion where I feel like I’ve downed one too many glasses of the clear liquor we make in the Dregs. It’s best not to ask what goes into the stills to create it, and the result is hardly uniform, so you never quite know what you’re going to get when you drink it. Except a hangover. That’s a guarantee.

“I’ll take the lead,” Vesper murmurs as we clear the stairs and find ourselves on a tiny landing in front of a door that clearly goes to the main floor of the building. “Stay behind me and don’t say anything rude.” I can’t tell if that last bit is aimed at me or Cato.

He snorts, but it sounds half-hearted. “Just get us out of here.”

I shrug. “I’m too tired to be rude.” I’ll never be the speaking part of this little alliance. Why bother when I have the damned Page of Swords in my corner?

Vesper leads the way through the door. It spits us out into a large room with tables made of glass. A sparkle catches my eye and I stop short. This is a jewelry store? And the only security is fragile-ass glass? At least there isn’t anyone in sight.

We all breathe out faint sighs of relief and exchange strangely bemused glances. It feels like a moment of perfect understanding—none of us wanted to deal with whatever conversation would have resulted from us showing up unexpectedly in a closed-up, private shop well before opening.

“This, at least, is an easy exit.” Vesper moves to the door—glass, again, as if these people are begging to be robbed—and flips a latch. “Let’s go.”

I press my hand to the closest table. All I’d have to do is shatter it. I could clear out the gem-studded necklaces and earrings in seconds. I could find a way to send them to Mouse. Or maybe Mara. She’d get better prices than Mouse would, and she promised to take care of the family. The money this kind of haul would bring in would ensure all of them were taken care of, even if I die in the Trials.

Warmth blooms at my side. I glance over to find Cato standing next to me. He looks at the jewelry with a critical eye, clearly doing the same calculations I just did. But instead of making a break for it, he just says, “It’s not worth it. You might be exempt from Wands justice—if you want to call it that—but whoever you’d send the money to isn’t.”