by Dante King
Without another word, Igor turned on his heel and bustled off, leaving a trail of chemical clouds behind him.
“Ah,” Bradley exhaled as I stepped down from the podium. “Isn’t it nice to know that you’re being sponsored by the best?”
Damien laughed and punched me on the shoulder. “If by best, you mean the most addled man in this stadium!”
Bradley pointed at Reginald Chaosbane and grinned. “And that’s saying something.”
“I do not understand what you are finding so funny, friend,” Rick said. “It is as clear as the nose on my face that you might not actually be the Headmaster’s son, but you are most certainly of Chaosbane lineage!”
Nigel chuckled and wagged his head knowingly. “I would have to agree with Rick on that one, low-man,” the halfling said, in his squeaky voice. “The coloration of the hair alone is enough for me to entertain the idea that you’re far more likely to be Igor’s son than Reginald’s!”
Bradley’s face was a picture of despair. “This isn’t any better! The Headmaster might be wacky, but this other fellow, he’s at least ten times worse.” He shook his head, then looked around at us accusingly. “And when do I get to stop being the bloody low-man?” he asked.
We all laughed.
“Don’t worry about any of that,” I said. “We can work out which crazy Chaosbane is your dad after we’re done becoming the best War Mages around. You heard what Igor said. He’s going to sort us out with the runes we need.”
“A positive outlook is most often rather helpful,” Nigel put in.
“Exactly,” I said.
“I suppose we’ll be able to test how many times we have to die before we go bonkers,” Damien said wryly.
“There’s a potion for that,” Nigel commented. “It’ll at least alert us to when we’re nearing the region of insanity caused by an overabundance of recreational regeneration.”
“I didn’t know that, but that makes me even more determined,” I said. “We’re going to be able to train, guys. We’ll actually get better and stronger. We’ll level up our spells and gain new ones from the inscribers. We’re going to actually compete with the other frats and sororities that would have otherwise kicked our asses. This is going to buy us the time we need to figure out how to get a goddamn poltergeist!” My voice had reached a crescendo by the end of my little pep-talk, and my limbs were shaking with excitement.
“And the Mage Games are coming up too!” Bradley said, looking a lot more cheerful than he had only a second or two before.
“Yeah,” I said, “things are going to get interesting over the next few weeks, you can bet your balls on that.”
The lads all cheered at this. Bromance was thick in the air, and a night of heavy drinking and debauchery was on the cards. First and foremost on my mind, as far as debauchery was concerned, was the beautiful Elven noblewoman, Cecilia Chillgrave. I looked around then, searching for my partner in carnage.
Cecilia was talking with her parents and, to my surprise, they were looking in my direction and unmistakably sneering. From their expressions, I figured they weren’t my biggest fans. Either they were betting upon some team other than their daughter’s winning the matches, or they didn’t like her choice of team member.
Her mother looked much like Cecilia: fine Elven features, a slender frame, and a plump ass. I couldn’t help checking out the Chillgrave matriarch. She was, after all, Elven, which meant she didn’t look a day over thirty. She was attractive, sure, but the look on her face made me wonder if she hadn’t had a large object stuck up her ass for at least the better part of a century.
Cecilia’s father, on the other hand, looked like he was encroaching upon seventy, so I guessed he was at least three times as old, being an elf and all. His wispy gray hair was swept back into a thin ponytail, and his age-spotted hand clutched a golden cane that was probably his vector.
Both Chillgraves wore fine blue garments: the matriarch a flowing gown with subtle hints of gold, while the patriarch was wrapped in something that resembled a priest’s cassock, complete with a collar was buttoned all the way to the top.
They looked, for all intents and purposes, like the magical world’s equivalent of Ken and Karen (a meme that was likely to die out in the next week, but that tended to be the way of memes).
Before I could walk over there and introduce myself, Cecilia came storming over to me.
“What’s the matter with your folks?” I asked. “Your old man looks like someone just slipped Pusstoad guts down the back of his pants. And I can’t say your mom seems any happier.”
“My parents aren’t exactly thrilled with my choice of partner, darling,” Cecilia said. “And I might have mentioned something about us, potentially, starting something of a, well, a relationship.”
I grinned at her. “Oh, yeah? I thought it might be something like that.”
“They even mentioned the four-year-old prince and how they’re trying to sort something out between us! Can you believe that?”
I smiled at Cecilia. “You know what would really piss your parents off?”
“I’m not marrying you, Justin, darling, handsome as you may be.”
“Who said anything about marrying?” I took Cecilia in my arms, stared straight over the top of her head at her parents, and kissed her hungrily.
Cecilia was a bit surprised at first, but then she surrendered with pleasing abandon. I glanced up after a few seconds of vigorous tongue action and saliva swapping. My lips curved into a smile as I saw Cecilia’s parents leaving in a huff.
I looked down at the Elven beauty in my arms. Then I swept my gaze around at the arena, the spectators lingering about, and my women and my friends as they mingled.
“I think we’re in for a hell of a time,” I said, bending to kiss her again.
“Oh, darling,” Cecilia murmured, “you have no idea…”
End of Book 2
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Dante King is an author of Men’s Adventure fiction in various flavors. His books involve strong male protagonists who know what they want and do what’s required to get it.
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