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I zoned out as Merci gave a rundown of how things would work. I knew generally how things would go. First, The Fates would spit the names it designated as worthy out of the cauldron, and those would become the nominees. There could be two or twelve, we never knew until the fires burned black and The Fates—our version of a higher power—gave us our options.
Then followed a month-long campaign in which the general public would get to know the nominees through debates, tours, interviews—what have you. When the campaign came to a close, the magical community would vote for our choice. It was a mixture of fate and democracy. I wanted no part of it.
I hoped my name didn’t shoot out of that cauldron in a mix of embers and inky black smoke. The last thing I needed was to be in the public eye while my brother was crawling out of hiding and wreaking havoc in my life. My name being chucked out of that cauldron would only lead to disaster.
“We’ll start with the incantation now.”
As Merci spoke, a podium of pure gold melted into place before her out of thin air. A moment later, a book slammed down onto the surface, cloaking her in a cloud of dust which she patiently waited to settle before she cracked it open.
As Merci began chanting in the old language, her fingers poised over the black flames, driving them into a frenzy as she called for the power of The Fates, my gaze was drawn across the circle to land on Trixie.
Trixie Gardens had to be the only person in the universe besides me who was unhappy about getting a summons to the wildcard summit. Everyone else in the audience watched the proceedings with rapt attention. And why wouldn’t they? Events like this didn’t happen often.
The elf who’d served before Yarrin had held the position of wildcard for 153 years. The elf before him, 320 years. It was unusual that Yarrin had only been in power for several decades. He’d been well-liked and mostly impartial, and he hadn’t caused waves. Whoever stepped into his shoes would have a hard task of gaining popularity to replace him.
“You think it’s going to be another elf?” Vix whispered. “It’s hard to think there’ll be a change after almost five hundred years of the elves holding the wildcard seat.”
I shrugged, not really caring. “Elves are traditionally impartial. They make for good judges. Not super emotional. Not particularly biased. It’s not surprising The Fates usually offer elfin candidates.”
“I can see someone’s cranky.”
It wasn’t that I was cranky. Well, I was cranky, but it was because I couldn’t make out what Trixie was whispering to Emmy. There were cloaking shields on this room set by The Circle that foiled even a vampire’s senses by dulling errant noises in the auditorium.
The way Trixie was looking at Emmy had a wisp of jealousy curling in my belly. It was the smile on her face that did me in. I’d never seen Trixie smile like that, as if radiating happiness from the inside out. She was a ray of sunlight in a dark room, and if I let her in, I was pretty sure she could brighten even my black heart.
I couldn’t help but smile as I caught Trixie taking another supposedly-sly nip of tequila. She passed the flask to Emmy, who looked disgusted as she took a pull as well. They both giggled a little, stashed the bottle away, and then tried to focus on Merci’s incantation.
The discontentment in my gut built. I couldn’t figure out why it bothered me that Trixie had a friend that was so close to her, a friend who made her smile so easily. For some inexplicable reason, I ached knowing I’d never see Trixie smile at me like that.
Then it hit me. I was jealous.
Which made no sense because the witch hated my guts. And after the sale of my building went through, I’d never see Trixie again. So why did the thought bother me so much?
“What is happening to you?” Vix looked at me like she was seriously concerned. “Did someone slip a love potion into your drink while I wasn’t looking? Merci’s about to start reading the names, and you’re pining over a witch who is for all intents and purposes your sworn enemy.”
“The first candidate is the wizard Lucas Paul the Third.” Merci read the name. “Please join us on stage, Lucas.”
Merci waved her hand, and a simple folding chair appeared behind her. A small wizard in the second row of the audience blinked. Stood up. The wizard looked shocked. I could practically feel the poor man’s trembling legs from across the room. Lucas Paul the Third was so nervous that as he approached the stage, his toupee drifted upwards about three inches above his head.
Merci watched him carefully, and even I could tell she was trying not to look shocked at The Fates’s first selection. It was not Merci’s job to judge the candidates. It wasn’t anyone’s, really. The Fates made their choices based on reasons we’d never understand. It was our job to make sense of it later.
“Our next nominee is an elfin candidate—Levian Brooklyn.” Merci let out a barely perceptible sigh of relief that an elf had been nominated. “Please take your place on stage.”
Another chair appeared behind Merci as she waved a hand. A silver-haired gentleman who truly looked the part of The Circle made his way up on stage. Levian had dressed for the occasion, as if he’d known there’d be a good chance his name would be called. I was familiar with the Brooklyn bloodline. It was long and boring. A perfect fit for a neutral seventh member of The Circle.
“Good,” I said, my hands circling the handles on my auditorium seat. “Let’s call that a wrap. Congrats to Levian. Let’s get this show on the road.”
“Our third nominee.” Merci looked at this slip of paper in her hands longer than necessary, as if she really couldn’t believe this one. She cleared her throat. “Dominic Kent.”
“Dammit,” I murmured.
“Congrats, boss,” Vix whispered in my ear. “Knock ’em dead.”
I felt my body rise without my brain really having a say about it. I made my way to the stage, feeling numb. My worst nightmare. Fortunately, the only saving grace of my nomination was that I was seated next to Levian Brooklyn. People would take one look at the two of us—a shining beacon of a long-standing, well-respected elfin bloodline and... me.
It might be a month of nuisance dodging interviews, but when the vote came, there’d be no contest, and I’d be forgotten about in another month. I just had to survive the next few weeks. I’d survived three hundred years of war, famine, and tragedy. One month of political rigamarole was nothing.
When I reached my seat, I could practically feel the tension in Merci’s shoulders. There’d only been three nominees last time. It seemed like everyone in the room was holding their breath, waiting to make sure it was really, truly over.
