All of Us Villains (All of Us Villains, #1)

by Amanda Foody

The Relics—weapons powered by high magick—fall at random throughout the tournament’s three-month duration. They are the Cloak, the Hammer, the Mirror, the Sword, the Medallion, the Shoes, and the Crown.

“The Lamb’s Sacrifice is invincible, and an invincible curse demands an unthinkable price. This is how we always win.”

“The Castle bears the strongest defensive enchantments.… The Crypt is warded against intruders.… The Cottage contains a collection of survival spells that—”

High magick fell from the stars, and when we found it, we did what humans always do. We decided it was ours to claim.

“I guess you’d better sharpen your pitchforks, gents,” Alistair said, then laughed and strode away.

If no victor emerges after three months, then every champion dies and no family gets high magick for twenty years. That is the inherent joke in it all—if the families compete in the tournament to win magick and glory, why, then, does it feel like a punishment?

There’s a rumor that the Lowe champions often go mad after they win. Maybe it’s not the weight of their conscience—maybe it’s the weight of a secret. A Tradition of Tragedy

He cleared his throat. “Um … who goes there?” Those are some shitty last words, he scolded himself.

I believe the legends that magick comes from the stars, not just for how it looks, but because of how it rejects the earth, how the only way to capture it is a glass flask, a crystal stone. Even magick behaves with reason.

He wanted to draw them as far away from Isobel as possible, but he didn’t run for long. After half a kilometer, he collided with a tree. “Fuck,” he growled, clutching his throbbing knee. He should’ve known this was where nobility would get him.

“How are you feeling?” the Grieve asked. From anyone else, the question would’ve seemed considerate. From the Grieve, it sounded like a threat. “Like murder,” Alistair answered.

“Will you let me help you?” the Grieve asked with exasperation. “Should I? Isobel owes the Thorburn a favor. What reason do you have to be spared?” “It’s my Castle.” “You’re still deadweight.” The Grieve let go of Alistair, and Alistair crumpled gracelessly in the dirt. “Crawl there, Lair.” “Fuck yourself, Castle.”

The only thing worse than making another champion your enemy is making them a friend. A Tradition of Tragedy

Isobel remembered what her father had told her about the Macaslans once having a special connection to death, which was why their champions usually favored the Crypt and the Cloak.

Per old superstitions, a champion’s body is always buried face-down. If they attempt to claw their way from their graves to seek vengeance, they will only dig deeper into the earth. A Tradition of Tragedy

Villains. All of them.

“Stories have always had a way of burying themselves inside me,” he told her honestly. “The good and the bad.”

“A class eight? Nine?” Gavin asked, sounding begrudgingly impressed. “I guess the papers didn’t lie about you.” “That curse is a family favorite,” Alistair told her darkly. “You cast it better than I ever could.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know your name, you absolute gremlin.”