Endless Knight(46)

Meth-mouth led me up the steps, bones crunching beneath my feet—probably leftovers tossed to the dogs, like the Vikings used to do.

Guthrie welcomed me, offering the chair beside his. When I sat, he blinked at me. “You smell like flowers.”


“I get that a lot. It’s because I’m the Empress.”


He looked charmed. “Oh? Of what?”


“Of Tarot cards.”


His amiable expression faltered. “You sound overtired. You should eat. What would you like first?”


“Quail.” Was there blood on the table? No, no. Mead halls didn’t have bloody tables. As I waited to be served, Guthrie kissed my hand suavely; Jack yelled in the distance, “Damn you, girl, doan eat ANYTHING!” He must be jealous that I was about to get a full meal.

But when Meth-mouth returned with a metal camping plate filled with gore, I frowned. He grinned at me, cracking his lip blisters open. Pus ran down his bloody chin, dripping onto the plate.

I was no longer hungry.

“Is the leg of quail not to your liking?” Guthrie was looking at me intently. “You’re so hungry.”


I was starving! Like I’d give up a free meal?

Finding no silverware, I picked up the quail. It wasn’t very hot, and felt spongier than any I’d ever eaten. Still, I leaned in to take a bite—


Suddenly I heard Death’s coaxing voice: —Ask her about the game, Guthrie.—


When Guthrie saw me stiffen, he said, “You heard that too? His voice often fills my mind—has for months! Is he the devil?”


I huffed with irritation, tossing down my quail, making the plate rattle. “No, that’s a totally different card. You’re hearing Death. Because he always butts in when I’m enjoying myself. Earlier today, I was with Jack in a cave, and—”


“Who is Death?” Guthrie interrupted. “Why can I hear him? What is this game he speaks of? Answer me!”


I looked longingly at my quail, but obeyed Guthrie’s order. “Death is one of the Arcana, a group of twenty-two kids who’ve been chosen to play in a life-or-death game, all with special powers. We’re commemorated on Tarot cards, yadda, yadda. You’re one of us—the Hierophant. You can brainwash people.” I lowered my voice to a confidential tone. “I know you think you see spirits, but it’s really the images of our cards flashing over us. You hear our calls when we get near.”


“Why should I believe this?”


“You heard a boy murmuring Crazy like a fox, didn’t you? And a girl saying Behold the Bringer of Doubt.”


His lips parted. His were cracked almost as bad as Meth-mouth’s. “How could you know these things?”


“You might want to rework some of our commune’s beliefs. A tweak here and there?” I grimaced as I asked, “I just overstepped, didn’t I?” Way to insult your leader, Eves.

“I-I don’t understand.” For the first time I heard uncertainty in Guthrie’s melodic voice. “Who started the game? Why was I chosen?”


I put my elbow on the wet table—had someone spilled ketchup or something?—and settled in to dish. “Oh, Guthrie. Where do I even start?”


“At the beginning. But first, I want you to have a bite.” He flashed his pointy smile.

Death whispered in our minds: —Don’t you want to know who she slaughtered last week? This creature cut a man in two.—


Guthrie scowled, but couldn’t resist saying, “What is he speaking of? Someone like you could never harm another in such a manner.”


As I put down my supper yet again, I mentally yelled at Death: Leave us the hell alone! Struggling for composure, I said, “It’s an awful story, but if you really want to know . . .” Then I proceeded to tell him about Arthur. Throughout the tale, Guthrie’s skin grew paler, and his face started dripping with sweat.

I’d had no idea I was such a compelling storyteller!

A vague recollection tugged at the edges of my attention, of some wrong I might have done him, but I was too caught up answering his questions to pinpoint it.

Suddenly he clutched the table, nails digging in, and gave a long groan of pain. I heard more groans from the lower tables, then frenzied cries. Throughout the cavern, people started dropping to the floor, convulsing, clawing at their throats as if they couldn’t get enough air.

Guthrie shot to his feet, teetering as he swung his gaze on me. “What have you . . . wrought?”


My eyes went wide. “Oh, God, my poison! I didn’t know you then! Had no idea what you would come to mean to me!”


With a strangled gasp, he collapsed to his back, as if his legs had been taken out from under him. I rushed to kneel at his side, filled with guilt. Below, chairs clattered, tables overturning. Grown men screamed.

Over the pandemonium, I could hear Jack bellowing my name to the sound of rattling shackles.

“There are . . . more of us,” Guthrie grated to me. “Whole clans. Scouts, followers . . . throughout this range. They’ll feel my death . . . will follow my last order.”


“You can’t die!”


The chaos was already beginning to fade, the death throes below growing quieter and quieter.