Page 79 of The Teras Trials

It’s never been done up like this—visually, I mean, not even to welcome us. So decorated with candles and flowers and food that it feels like a funeral feast. A grand farewell to see us all off before we are inevitably torn to shreds tomorrow.

More than that, it seems like a waste. London is not overflowing with food. That is part of why these trials exist, part of why we’re all competing for a place and the safety of our families. London has luxuries, but not like this. Even the food supplied to the University isn’t usually so excessive.

But, as Horace wrote, Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero. And I need a good meal.

Leo and I slip in and take our seats with the others. They are all waiting, halfway through their meal, and I can’t help but feel like their eyes can see more than I want them to. That somehow they can smell Leo on me, or my scent coating his fingers. Really unfounded fears, born from a kind of shame (though shame is doing a really poor job of stopping me from fucking men).

No one says anything, of course. Not about us, anyway. I immediately light a cigarette and take a few heavy drags, slowly catching up on the conversation. The hall is cold innately; somewhere deep in the stone, in the building’s marrow, it simply leaks heat. So when someone moves and shuts the outside door, I’m grateful. It gives me a chance to warm my bones. I shake out the latent worry, and the leftover drowsiness that always hits me after orgasm, and try to take comfort in tobacco.

“Stop drinking,” Victoria says when Bellamy pours himself another glass of wine. “I mean it. Tomorrow, you’ll be—”

“Gutted, most like,” Bellamy says with a sniff, half his mouth full of wine and meat. “So what’s the point in being sober for it?”

I don’t know what’s happened in the hour or so since we last saw each other. Why Bellamy expects to die tomorrow, why Silas is sitting apart from Fred. I settle awkwardly at the table, and I can feel the way the tension sits between us all.

“We’re not dying,” I tell Bellamy. He glares at me and drinks deep with a childish defiance. Victoria unfolds her arms and ends up drinking herself, jaw working as she repositions herself. Her body angles slightly away from Bellamy.

“Sure,” he says.

I sigh and pour myself my own drink. Beneath the table, Leo’s thigh grazes mine, and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself leaning into it. And then I tip my head back and scull the drink and grimace as my oesophagus lights up, burning with the alcohol.

“Shit,” I say. “This is strong.”

I’ve become so used to watered down wine that I’m shocked at the drink’s potency. I take another gulp and welcome the soft unwinding power of it, marvelling at how quickly my muscles relax. It feels good. Nice. I could see myself getting very drunk tonight, and facing the Nemean Lion hungover and half-dying.

“Definitely numbs the pain,” Silas murmurs.

“From the manticore?” I gesture to his side.

“And every damn movement since.”

I sigh. “We should have petitioned a Healer, too. Maybe—”

“No,” Silas cuts me off. “No, don’t worry about me, Mr Jones. We would have only been allowed one—and I’d much rather secure my spot in this University than worry about a flesh wound.”

Fred’s quietly sips her wine, which to me says ‘flesh wound’ is a massive understatement for the state of Silas’ body. But the problem is I agree with him. If the Ianus Blood Hunter had told us we could only choose one, in every reality I would have chosen Artificer.

“You’re right,” Fred murmurs suddenly. “This really is very strong.”

“Party,” Bellamy says deadpan.

And then I suddenly regret drinking. Awareness settles on me like something freezing and sharp; I see the hall, how drunk everyone is, how relaxed, and I think: surely not.

Surely they would give us this and mean it. Surely they would allow us a night to ourselves; they will make good on their promise, and give us the trial tomorrow.

Because, so far, everything has been fair and true.

“Don’t drink,” I say.

Leo notices how I’ve stiffened. “Cass,” he murmurs, cautious and testing. “What is it?”

The doors are closed. All of them, from every angle. I could have sworn—they were open, weren’t they? When we walked in? Or do I. . .

The alcohol’s effect is quick and strong. When I push back against the bench, wood scraping along the stone, and stand, my vision immediately swims. “Do not drink,” I say.

“Poison?” I hear Leo ask. He believes me instantly—I love that—but no.

“No, they just want us to relax. With our guards down.”

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