Page 79 of Fatality on the Field

“I’d say about as well as Nana’s ‘don’t be a disappointment’ routine. She hated my mom’s side of the family so much she used to prank-call their business offices and hang up, just to keep them on edge. She would buy me gifts she knew they would hate and make sure I had them at every dual-family function. For one Blood Moon Festival, I had to wear this neon orange vest that made me look like a bear in a traffic cone, just so my other grandma would have to see it in every photo. Nana is both petty and brilliant.”

Iggy laughs, his head back and eyes closed as he smiles at the ceiling. “I like her already. The females in our family don’t defy shit unless they want to… find out what happens. It’s not good.”

“Nana also used to pay my nannies extra to read me the worst parts of Grimm’s fairy tales. She said it built character and taught you to spot monsters early.”

“Did it work?” he asks, his voice soft. “I mean, you seem pretty good at that.”

I let the smile fade a little. “Maybe it just made me hungry for affection that didn’t come with a price tag. That’s why I glommed onto sports so hard. You get banged around, but at least you know who’s on your side and who’s not every step of the way in sports. You get praise that’s earned through excellence, not compliance. It was easy in comparison to every other being I’d met before then—other than Nana, obviously.”

He considers this, then pushes the scotch bottle toward me in a silent dare. I pour a splash for myself and another for him, then we both drink. “My turn again?”

“Indeed.”

“My mother…” He pauses, working his jaw like it’s full of glass, but pushes through. “My mother tried to protect me, but she wasn’t brave enough to risk the punishments. She did things in the margins—little acts of sabotage, minor spells and such. I didn’t figure that out until I was grown, and by then it was too late because I was already exactly what the elders wanted me to be.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever not be angry about that.”

“You should be,” I reply with a shrug. “The men in your family have subjugated their women like brood stock and you couldn’t show them you were different because you got brainwashed. It sucks and I’m sure some aren’t around anymore to see the changes you’ve made.”

He’s silent, nursing the scotch, then nods. “You’re not what people expect, Wolfberg.”

“I am not, but I don’t hide it. Most simply don’t look any closer than the jersey and the bank book. I can’t help that.” I grin as I lean back in my chair.

He laughs and then his expression goes thoughtful. “Do you ever get the feeling that you’re not good enough for her?”

“All the time, but she picked me, and she hasn’t unpicked me. You know she cares about you, right? Lady M would not have given you the chance to fix shit if she didn’t. She wants you to win, man.”

Ignatius’s ears go pink, just enough for me to notice. “You’re full of shit, Wolfberg.”

I shake my head. “Nope. Ask Liam—or better yet, ask Slade. He knows and he’ll tell you even though you two are figuring things out. No way he’d keep anything from you that would make you happy.”

Tonight has the feel of something important, like the first time a wound scabs over and you realize it might actually heal.

We spend another hour that way, swapping stories, lowering the shields one anecdote at a time. He tells me about his time at the Institute, about a student who tried to curse him and ended up giving the entire class a rash that glowed in the dark. I tell him about the time I got trapped in a locker by a rival hockey team and peed my pants, then had to play the third period in wet shorts.

Eventually, our little dude night is invaded by the rest of our family, but by then, I’m actually digging the guy. He’s snooty, but he’s passionate about his job, keeping people safe, and subverting his family legacy. Morgana will love this once he opens up to her and this might have been the first step towards that.

I’ll gladly share a glass or two with him or the dragon if it helps them get out of their own way and complete our family—that’s a promise.

forty-eight

MORGANA

The Tantalus Bowl week is filled with an amalgam of public and private duties, none of which I want to do, but I have little choice. This ‘ramp-up rally’ is one such event and despite having a perfectly fine morning prior, I’m tense as hell now that it’s time for the damn thing.

I stand at the edge of the university quad in a custom-tailored suit in State U red augmented with black pinstripes. My hair is up in a twist so tight it’s making my skull throb, but there’s a reason for that. Only Des is out, the snake coiled twice around my left ear, her body doubled as an upper cartilage earring. She hisses, a faint tickle where her tongue brushes, but even she can’t complain too loudly—she knows today is important and requires me to be at my absolute best.

Even the slightest trace of weakness will invite things I do not have time to deal with.

Channing is at my right shoulder, the two of us sporting determined jawlines and ram-rod straight postures that dares anyone to fuck about in our presence. Her recently bandaged arm props her tablet against her ribs while her good hand flies across the glass, flicking notifications, drafting responses, and coordinating logistics. I watch her thumb navigate the screen like it’s a target list, and am perversely proud that she’s handling everything so well. It’s a small comfort, but I enjoy knowing that everyone will be salivating over my much maligned assistant when this shit is over.

In front of us, the quad is filling fast, both students and faculty mingling on the edges while the center of the seating has been colonized by the real power. There are donors in the front row and alumni all over in weirdly uniform family-themed team apparel, including the youngest kids done up in miniature versions of their elders’ outfits. Immediately behind the donors is the Board and their wealthy friends that glitter in an arms race of jewel tones and hair plugs. The press are herded behind a rope line, their cameras already rolling, and crews in branded jackets cluster around the bottom feeders as they jockey for position.

They’re here because it’s a big deal, but also because every single one of them is dying for me to fuck up while their reels are rolling.

Behind the press, the local politicians are assembling, their shiny faces and expensive Sunday best making them stand out amongst the ‘fan’ atmosphere. They keep a respectful distance, but make it clear they’re here to be seen and nothing more. I count both state senators, five Council members, and some sort of attorney who looks like he’d rather eat his own tie than be here. I lock eyes with one of the senators and grin when he looks away first. Politicians are cowards by nature and they frequently display their lack of spine when challenged directly.

On the periphery, I spot a small cluster of the new Society agents that arrived yesterday. Their uniform is aggressively unmemorable—bland shirts, black slacks, plain shoes, and zero personality to distinguish one from the other. They’re spaced at regular intervals along the edge of the quad, their attention neither focused on the crowd nor wandering—just tracking everyone with the flat-eyed patience of people paid to be the last line of defense. I only see seven from my spot near the dais, but I know there are more that are embedded or invisible. Seven extra people wouldn’t do shit in a crowd the size of what the Tantalus Bowl will draw, so perhaps this is simply the first wave.

I’m not certain I like that thought; I’ve never heard of the Society having anything resembling security—only agents, Guardians, and assassins.