“But you can’t do that!” Gareth protested, his cheeks mottling as his gaze pinballed wildly between the two of us. “You’re a combatant, Talia! And she’s, she’s the Arbiter!”

“The Arbiter whose mantle enforces impartiality,” I reminded him. “And I don’t remember any prohibitions on . . . dancing with a Gauntlet combatant. So what’s your issue?”

“But, but, still,” he sputtered. “What if it, I don’t know, affects the magic somehow? Skews your calls? That’s just—”

“Unethical?” I suggested, voice rimed with frost. “Unfair? Just plain wrong? Wouldn’t those be more your areas of expertise?”

He wilted under the ice in my gaze, still fumbling for a response. Without sparing another glance for him, I turned on my heel and struck off toward the dance floor with Talia in tow.

9

The Color of Impure Thoughts

This early in the evening—though by non-witch time, it was already well after eleven—Talia and I had the dance floor nearly to ourselves. Haunting minor-key sonatas wafted around us as I let her draw me close, and spin us into a lazy, swaying dance. She was one of those aggravating (yet irresistible) people who looked even better up close; skin seemingly poreless, eyeliner perfectly winged, deep plum gloss lending her lips an edible sheen.

Or maybe it was just a gloss like any other, and me who wanted to bite her.

“Well, that was delightful,” she crowed, her wolf’s eyes sparkling. “I feel almost faint with glee.”

I felt myself flush hot, elated by her admiration. “I just thought making him sweat a little could come in handy for you and Rowan on Saturday. Throw Gareth off his game for once.”

She let out a low whistle, lifting an approving eyebrow. “Downright diabolical. I really didn’t think you had it in you, Harlow. Would have figured classic psychological warfare to be out-of-bounds for such a good girl.”

“It’s just like chess; there’s cheating, and then there’s outwitting your opponent,” I replied with a one-shoulder shrug. “One is dishonorable and vile. The other? Just good strategy.”

“The honor of a Girl Scout, and the twisted mind of a Targaryen.” Talia shuddered in mock ecstasy, grinning. “I’m perilously close to liking you, Harlow.”

“How close, though? Close enough to consider using my first name?”

She leaned in, dipping her head until our cheeks nearly brushed. Her warm breath fanned out against my ear, sending a flurry of goose bumps racing down my neck.

“Let’s just say I’m trying to pace myself.”

The music segued into something a little more up-tempo, closer to a macabre version of a waltz. Now that I thought about it, the eerie strains of song purling around the ballroom sounded live, but I hadn’t seen a single musician all night.

“What’s the deal with your invisible help?” I asked Talia. “The trays, the music . . . How does it work?”