Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

By early evening, the skies have turned dark to bring in squally weather again, which means Calla navigates the alleys with more difficulty than usual, feeling around with her hands to make sure she isn’t tripping on a trash bag.

She glances at her pager, arriving at the section of the wall where she is needed. Just before she can emerge fully from the alley, she only pokes her head out, cautiously perusing the scene. Ahead, August and Galipei are waiting with a considerable number of palace guards.

“I thought you didn’t want to use the royal guard,” Calla mutters beneath her breath. She cannot fathom what he needs her here for. There hasn’t been a single location ping from her wristband today, even though night is crawling in. Maybe the games room is distracted.

A hand closes over her shoulder. Calla jumps, her sword already half-drawn, before the stranger whisper-shouts: “What fine daylight we have today!”

Calla’s hand drops from her sword. “For the final time, Makusa, quit sneaking up on me.”

“That’s my only mode. You wanted me to come stomping around while we’re trying to avoid getting killed by other players?”

Anton puts the tracker back into his pocket. Calla forgot that he was still holding on to it, following her wristband wherever it went.

“Well”—she tilts her head—“I suppose not.” The new body he’s wearing looks like another plucked from the financial district: a young banker or an accountant or some newly graduated strategic consultant for the few companies that have survived long enough in Er to build a legacy. His clothes are so unworn that there’s still a gleam to the cotton fabric.

“How is Otta?”

She watches for Anton’s reaction. A slight frown. The curve of his lips hold a troubled stiffness.

“She’s fine. The hospital doesn’t know what’s wrong, only that her vitals are all over the place. I was summoned as her emergency contact.”

Calla doesn’t have much of a reply. She casts a look out to the wall again and sees that the royal group is still in discussion among themselves. Heated discussion. A denser rain cloud rolls in above them, and Galipei Weisanna doesn’t seem to notice because he’s more caught up making frantic gesticulations in August’s direction.

A cool touch brushes her forehead. When Calla ignores him, Anton grasps her chin, snapping her gaze in his direction by mild force. “Why do you look so glum?”

Calla’s brow quirks. His light tone is a mask, overcompensating for another emotion he doesn’t want her to see. She knows him now, for better or worse.

“We are players in a set of games that demand slaughter,” she says. “I bid you to look more glum.”

“Ah, there’s no use,” Anton replies easily. “The games go on whether you approach them glumly or not.” He leans in, and when Calla arches her neck for him, he trails his lips along her jaw. “In the face of danger, we might as well have fun.”

Calla casts a glance out the alley again. They’re still arguing. The storm clouds are growing heavier and heavier as the sun begins to set, but it doesn’t appear that the rain is going to come down yet. Instead, the skies heave with motion, like a balloon filling toward capacity.

“Terrible scruples,” she whispers. She slides her hands around his torso, burying them under his jacket and smoothing down the fabric of his white shirt. “I hope you realize that your crown prince awaits a hundred feet away.”

“He can get fucked,” Anton says, and Calla doesn’t think he is joking.

“Sounds treasonous.”

Anton presses his lips harder into the hollow of her throat. His hands settle on her hips. “Getting fucked is certainly not treasonous. In fact, one would encourage it.”

Little shivers dart down her spine. Calla’s eyes flutter shut. “Oh?”

“Especially for royals. It prevents them from becoming sticks-in-the-mud.” His whole body is pressed into her now. “Maybe up against a wall, with—”

“Ahem.”

Anton freezes. Calla sighs, recognizing the sound and the person it came from. She gives Anton a small push, and he draws away from her slowly, a frown already setting into his expression.

“Hello, August,” Calla says pleasantly, like he didn’t just catch her committing unruly business in an alleyway. She straightens her jacket. “Did you need something?”

“Yes,” August replies. He does not look amused. “If you go to Galipei, he can direct you. Anton Makusa, could I have a minute?”

August is already walking off, pushing between them and heading for the end of the alley. Calla blinks. Anton’s displeased frown twitches, the plainest confusion crossing his face before he swallows it away.

“I suppose so,” Anton says evenly. He squeezes Calla’s shoulder once, then follows after August.

With a small grumble under her breath, Calla pivots the other way to go to Galipei.

Anton folds his arms, waiting for August to say whatever it is he needs his minute to say. The crown prince of San looks ill-fitting here amid the rotting trash. Even in a fancy stolen body, Anton has grown right at home with the grub and the grime, but August stands like he might get infected by ten illnesses if he so much as touches a bare surface with his hand.

Prince August doesn’t speak for a long while.

Then: “How have you been?”

Anton almost starts laughing. “Don’t tell me you pulled me aside just to ask that .”

When August swivels to face Anton head-on, the flash in his eyes is dangerous. “Fine. No. I pulled you aside to ask how often you’ve been seeing Otta.”

Otta? Anton sobers quickly, taking a step away and nudging one of the alley trash bags. “What does it matter? She’s lying comatose in a hospital bed.”

“Answer the question, Anton.”

Something has happened. Or else August wouldn’t be acting the dutiful younger brother seven years after the fact. Anton reaches up. Grabs a handful of his own hair and scrunches it. He might change bodies at every corner, but he cannot seem to shake his old habits, and August brings out all of his old habits, starting with his nervous tics.

“Once a fortnight.” He forces himself to stop messing with his hair. “Why?”

“Before she fell ill with the yaisu sickness”—a shout comes from the top of the wall, but both August and Anton ignore it—“what was the last thing she told you?”

Anton doesn’t like this one bit. He had thought he was being pulled aside about the games, about Calla, about anything that August might have a problem with at this precise point in time, but now it feels like an interrogation of the past, and because Anton cannot fathom why he is being interrogated, he worries that he must have been left out of something. Should Otta have told him something important? Did she keep it from him instead, and will August believe him if he says so?

“To wait for her by the Rubi Waterway if we got separated fleeing the palace,” Anton answers truthfully. “We were set on leaving even if you bailed.”

August doesn’t rise to the bait. His brow furrows in thought, silent until there is an even louder shout from the wall that startles them both. At once, the two of them lurch forward. Someone is fighting. The clang of metal echoes into the clearing.

“Calla?” Anton bellows.

August’s hand snaps out quickly, holding Anton back. “Don’t interfere.”

“ What? Let go of me, you—”

“It’s a ruse. Number Six is one of mine. I put him in the games as a fail-safe, and he’s being attacked now by hired help. Calla is fighting off the attackers. All I need to do now…”

August pushes him aside and walks forward. Utterly bewildered, Anton follows, watching August pick up the pace steadily before breaking into a run, rushing onto the scene. He looks odd to be running too. One would think a prince should never break a sweat.

Anton draws his knives, in case he needs them on hand. It is an empty gesture: August lunges in front of Number Six, giving an instruction that is drowned out in the clanging of swords. Calla, meanwhile, is locked in combat with a mysterious figure swathed in black, but the moment she sees August, she withdraws her blade. Her mouth opens, perhaps to shout an instruction for August to step back. She does not get the chance. Her opponent turns away from her and starts for August instead.

What is August playing at?

Calla doesn’t intrude. When Anton turns to search for Galipei, wondering how August’s bodyguard is taking this turn of events, Galipei is unmoving too. The rest of August’s guard team is a different manner. They surge forward, expressions under their masks terrified, and when the figure raises his sword high, right above August’s head—

Leida Miliu’s voice booms across the clearing, echoing under the heavy storm clouds despite the muffle of fabric.

“Vaire, stop! ”

The figure clothed in black halts. A long second passes, where nothing can be heard or felt but the slowly rising wind. When the figure tugs the covering off his face, pulls the whole square until it is a ball scrunched in his fist, it is not Leida whom he is looking at for further instruction, but August.

Leida staggers back. Whoever this is, it’s clearly not the face she was expecting. The man who stands before them—sword lowered placatingly like he hadn’t been slashing mere seconds ago—has dark-pink eyes.

“Why did you think that was Vaire?” August asks lightly, taking on the tone of small talk.

“I—” Leida looks to him, then back to the man. Her gaze, finally, settles on Calla, whose grip tightens on her sword.

Silence descends across the clearing. Then Galipei pulls a blindfold over Leida’s eyes without warning, announcing, “Leida Miliu, you are under arrest.”

There’s something dangerous about this moment. Calla doesn’t know what it is, but as she watches the palace guards descend on Leida and force her to her knees, her senses are screaming for her to leave, lest she risk becoming entangled in business that isn’t hers. Her sword feels heavy in her hand. The weight doesn’t lessen even once she’s sheathed the weapon.

She spots Anton hovering near the alleyway, eyes wide. He hadn’t caught the beginning of the fight, hadn’t caught Galipei’s quick, whispered instructions to Calla before pushing her off to combat the other player. He definitely hadn’t caught the whirl of confusion when another figure burst out of the shadows and started attacking them both, or else he might have wondered why Calla was holding back from the fight.

Galipei’s instructions had been simple: Don’t kill anyone. None of us are in danger. It’s someone pretending to be one of those “rural intruders” targeting players of the games—just stall and make it look convincing until August gets back on scene.

Calla pulls her mask tighter, securing it around her nose and mouth. She doesn’t wait for August to dismiss her, nor does she make eye contact with Galipei as she passes.

“Hey!” August calls anyway. The first syllable of her name almost slips from his lips, but then he casts a look at the guards and visibly holds back. “Where are you going?”

Calla waves a salute. When she reaches Anton, she snags him by the elbow. It’s not her safety she is worried about. It’s Anton’s. Every moment they linger here in view of August is a moment their prince might pull one of a thousand plans from his sleeve without consulting the people involved in them first, manufacturing a false fight just so he can catch his culprit.

“You’re on your own for this one, Your Highness. You know how to reach me for other business.”

She slips her hand into Anton’s and pulls them both out of view, away from San-Er’s wall.