Page 33 of Nemesis Mine
It was the perfect get-out clause, a win for both. Maximillian was not losing the fight if he was stopping Cyrus from decimating the town. Cyrus was not losing the fight if all believed that he did in fact possess the power to do that.
Cyrus raised his arms, not because he needed to but because he enjoyed the theatre of it. It was enough to provoke a flurry of cries from the crowd.
“He calls upon his powers!”
“He will shake the ground and kill us all!”
The crowd erupted into chaos, pushing and shoving in frantic attempts to escape. Cyrus needed to get out of here, but he spared one last glance for Maximillian before he did.
The champion looked back at him. He still wore an expression of false alarm, eyes wide and brow furrowed, but as their gazes met, Maximillian allowed the smallest of secretive smiles. For some reason, it was harder than it should be to look away.
But Cyrus had to. He forced his tongue to action. “Until next time, champion,” he said softly, and then he took off amid the screams of the panicked crowd, vanishing into the shadows before anyone could think to stop him.
Chapter Nine
With Maximillian’s busy schedule, six days passed before a chance arose to catch up on the fight. Cyrus carried the rush all the way home, but with only Soulripper and the sprites to hear his tale, the euphoria soon fell flat. As the days crept on, Cyrus might have wondered if he’d conjured the nemesis scheme from an idle daydream, if not for his aching muscles and the coverage inAthaca News.
Page two again, and a pleasing headline.
Earthshaker Ambushes Maximillian: Signs of a Growing Feud?
On the fifth day, a raven arrived. A young sprite amused itself by chasing the familiar blue ribbon affixing the letter to the bird’s leg as it trailed in the breeze, darting swiftly away when the raven snapped its beak. Cyrus pretended not to feel a leap of excitement as he leaned in his doorwayand cast an eye over Maximillian’s brief scribble, letting him know he’d visit the following morning. He’d signed off asM, as though Cyrus needed any help distinguishing him from hordes of nonexistent guests.
When Maximillian arrived, Cyrus tried to maintain an impassive expression as he opened the door—it wouldn’t do to let him think that Cyrus hadlooked forwardto his visit, that was far too embarrassing, and anyway, he hadn’t. He was just in a good mood, that was all.
He found the champion bent over Cyrus’s begonias, peering down at a cluster of sprites who liked to doze there when they had drunk their fill of tree sap. Distracted from their snoozing by the unusual prospect of a visitor, the creatures peeked out from between the leaves, whispering to each other. The bravest among them flew up to inspect the newcomer in more detail, minuscule wings whirring. Maximillian reached out but the sprite flitted to the shelter of the honeysuckle, the movement almost too quick to catch.
Hearing the creak of the door, Maximillian straightened up. He wore a quizzical expression as he looked from the sprites to Cyrus.
Damn it. This didn’t exactly look professional. A fearsome wrongdoer, tolerating a gaggle of sleepy-eyed sprites in his flower beds? He should pretend that he didn’t realise they were there. He didn’t want to stamp on his begonias, but he probably still had some sprite spray somewhere. He could give them a good spritz, they’d get over it, not that he cared if they didn’t—
“You’ve a lovely garden,” Maximillian commented before he could, his tone casual.
Cyrus squinted at him. There was a note to his voice that almost sounded teasing. That was... interesting. But Cyrus could give as good as he got.
“Ah, you noticed,” he replied, just as casually. “As it turns out, corpses make wonderful fertiliser.”
Maximillian’s mouth dropped open. But after a moment he caught the grin quirking at Cyrus’s mouth, and he smiled too, his eyes crinkling at the edges.
Then he turned and called over his shoulder, “Hurry up, would you?” and Cyrus’s grin vanished. Balthazar was tethering their horses to a birch at the mouth of the path, flapping in agitation at another pair of sprites as they buzzed around his ears. His grey mount looked stumpy in comparison to Maximillian’s handsome chestnut. It figured.
At least his presence was a reminder that Cyrus had appearances to maintain. “Come on, then,” he muttered, moving back into the lair. Maximillian brushed by as he stepped inside. His cologne was familiar by now: patchouli, maybe, with a woodiness to it that made Cyrus want to breathe deeper whenever he caught the scent. It made him think of dappled sunlight on tree bark, the warmth of summer.
... No, that was entirely too flattering a comparison. Cyrus caught himself before he could inhale again and made a mental correction. Old, rotting tree bark. Slimy moss. A wood louse. That was more like it.
Maximillian made himself comfortable on Cyrus’s couch like he belonged there, even moving Cyrus’s favourite cushion and plumping it up behind him. He stretched an arm out along the back of the couch and said, “Fetch us a Champion’s Bane, would you?”
Cyrus had half turned towards the kitchen before he registered that he was doing as Maximillian had asked. He dithered in place for a moment, then decided it looked worse to backtrack. Maximillian had better appreciate that Cyrus was only doing this becausehewanted a drink too.
Balthazar marched in, casting Cyrus a baleful look and tipping his chin up as though he expected a challenge. Then he looked from the bottle of mead in Cyrus’s hand to Maximillian, immediately disapproving.
“Should you really be drinking that?”
“Relax, he’s not going to poison me.” Even with his back turned, Cyrus could sense Maximillian’s eye roll. “There’s no audience here, it wouldn’t be worth it.”
“I meant should you be drinking something calledChampion’s Bane?”
“Relax,” repeated Maximillian. “It’s just a name.”
