The Magic Trick (The Card Game #2)

Ch 6 - Pluma's Pledge

CHAPTER VI

PLUMA'S PLEDGE

Monday morning found the blood brothers standing outside of the Den, taking in the green, dew-covered forest at sunrise. Their days had been full of conversation about the Brassard graffiti and betrayers and Kings, but this morning was different. Silently they had brooded over their Blini pancakes and berries, and not even spiced sausage could lift Viktor's spirit. From here on out, nothing would be the same.

Romulus breathed in the scent of the forest. His strong frame was packed into his bearskin coat, black trousers, and leather boots. Snarly gold hair hung to his shoulders, and his eyes glinted with determination. "Well, this is it."

"Yeah ... it is." In an itchy tunic, dirty trousers, and a sheepskin-lined coat, Viktor didn't feel as confident.

"Good luck."

"Good luck," Viktor echoed. He watched for a moment as Romulus headed east toward the mines. Then he turned south toward the schoolhouse.

The walk through the woods was a strange one for Viktor. This was Romulus' old route. Now it was his. Suddenly he had become the boy of the forest, the outsider, the unknown. At first that was an alarming thought, but then Viktor remembered the respect that came with the title, and he wondered if the same was in store for him. It took him all of a minute of being on the schoolhouse field to realize that it was not.

"Hello, Viktor."

Fredek Spektor had grown so tall and muscled over the summer that Viktor would have mistaken him for his older brother, had Boris' giant frame not been standing beside him. As always their dark hair was closely shaved against their bony skulls, though their hard faces looked, if possible, crueler than ever.

"Last I saw you," said Boris, "you were lying in Prospekt Street with a Masqueraider's gun to your head. Pity no one pulled the trigger."

Viktor peered over their shoulders at the students outside the schoolhouse. Superstitious Mikhail was in the crowd chatting happily with little Uri, while Aleksandr, Viktor's old friend who had been called back from the mines, followed along.

How different our paths have become, Viktor thought.

"Come to think of it, your mongrel owner was in that alley, too," Boris continued. "Where is Romulus?"

"The mines." The words slipped out before Viktor could stop them. He realized his mistake just as Fredek's rock-hard fist slammed him in the gut. He would have collapsed then and there, but the larger boy hooked an arm around his neck, squeezing. The grip went tighter and tighter. Viktor had no air in his lungs. He dug his nails into Fredek's skin to no avail.

"Where's Romulus' wolf now?" Fredek snarled.

Boris chuckled. "Easy, Fredek. Don't strangle him here."

But Viktor was being strangled. His head was pounding, his eyes bulging. His veins screamed for oxygen.

"Alright then," Boris said, but his brother ignored him. "Fredek ... Fredek!"

Viktor's pain-wracked vision was turning black.

"Drop him, Aryk-angel, or I will lay you in the grave," said a voice so fierce and foreign that Fredek abruptly let go.

Collapsing to his knees, Viktor sucked in audible gasps. His recovery was slow, but when he had the strength to look up, his spirits soared.

The Crossbones Clan was like an explosion of color in a bleak, gray world. Arseni, with his olive skin, green topcoat, and fingerless fire-juggling gloves, was like a spark in the darkness. Beside him, Roksana's silky dark hair flowed freely, and her darker eyes sparkled joyfully. The twins, bare-chested as ever under their coats, stood like two pillars, Cappi with his Irish tweed hat, Dukker with his golden cross necklace. Then there was the musician, Rover, exuding his calm demeanor, and Belch, round-faced and rosy, showing off a murderous smile that undoubtedly belonged to a new Shakespearean character.