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

by Amanda Foody

The Lowes shaped cruelty into a crown, and oh, they wear it well. A Tradition of Tragedy: The True Story of the Town that Sends its Children to Die

The Lowe family had always been the undisputed villains of their town’s ancient, bloodstained story, and no one understood that better than the Lowe brothers.

Alistair Lowe played a perfect villain. Not because he was instinctively cruel or openly proud, but because, sometimes, he liked to. Many of the stories whispered by the children of Ilvernath came from him.

Two weeks ago, the moon in Ilvernath had turned crimson, piercing and bright like a fresh wound in the sky. It was called the Blood Moon, the sign that, after twenty years of peace, the tournament was approaching once more. Only a fortnight remained until the fall of the Blood Veil, and neither brother wanted to spend it in the hushed, sinister halls of their home.

Alistair was thinking about death. More specifically, about causing it.

Magick was a valuable resource throughout the world—something to be found, collected, and then crafted into specific spells or curses.

Historically, the Lowes dominated. For every three tournaments, they won two. The last cycle, twenty years ago, Alistair’s aunt had murdered all the other competitors within four days. Before they’d learned about the tournament, the rest of Ilvernath could only point to the Lowes’ wealth and cruelty as the reasons an otherwise mysterious, reclusive family commanded such respect from lawmakers and spellmakers. Now they knew exactly how dangerous that family truly was.

“I heard the Darrows have chosen now, too. That makes three champions so far—Carbry Darrow, Elionor Payne, and you.” The first girl smiled viciously, in the kind of way that made Alistair guess the girls had once been friends. “But no one wants the Macaslans to win.”

Though it was seven great families who originally founded the tournament, it’s important to remember—that was a long time ago. Not all of them have remained great. A Tradition of Tragedy

Isobel Macaslan examined the raw common magick shimmering white across the graveyard, like glitter caught in rain. People had magick inside them, too. And when someone was laid to rest, that life magick dispersed. If left uncollected, the wind picked it up and carried it away, where it would later nestle itself into forgotten places.

“Seven rotten families in an insignificant city, fighting over the most powerful magic left in the world. Why do any of you deserve it?”

My family is proof that even depressing stories need a punchline. A Tradition of Tragedy

Because children born of parents from two tournament families could only be named champion of one, the competing families in Ilvernath considered marriage a game, a way to engineer powerful alliances with one another in their pursuit of high magick. By marrying into another family, one spouse would forfeit their name and accept the other’s. Callista was effectively abandoning ship.

The morning after the book’s publication, the Kendalle Parliament had summoned Gavin’s parents and grandparents for questioning. They’d returned from their interrogations visibly shaken. All Gavin had managed to pry out of them was that the Prime Minister had decided against executing every member of the tournament families in order to break the curse. Not only was it already too public for such brutality, but it would mean Ilvernath’s high magick could be used by anyone. And though the government didn’t relish letting a bunch of child-murderers keep this power, seven families were far easier to control than the whole world.

Elionor, the Payne champion, posed for a throng of reporters and photographers who clamored for her attention. She was a study in contrasts, with her dyed-black hair against paper-white skin and deep blue eyes. “Elionor!” called a man on her left. “Is it true you can craft class six curses?” “Of course I can,” she said. “As can any true competitor in the tournament.” Resentment built in Gavin’s throat. He could only manage class five.

Nobody cared enough about Gavin to take any pictures of him. His announcement had gone public that morning, a profile in the Ilvernath Eclipse that had been embarrassingly sparse—declaring him as the fourth member of what the tabloids had dubbed the “Slaughter Seven.” It didn’t matter that he was acing his classes or that he could deadlift 140 kilos. He was still a Grieve.

Gavin turned. The man had peeled off from a clique of people Gavin recognized as local spellmakers. Among them was Bayard Attwater, a pale and elderly man with a pretentious monocle. There was Fang Wen, who wore an intricate spellstone pin in her long black hair. And Diana Aleshire, a woman with dark skin and a designer purse whose shop downtown rivaled the size of a department store.

The tournament lasted either three months or until only one champion remained—whichever came first. Grieves rarely lasted longer than a week. A spellmaker agreeing to support him would help solve that problem. Make him able to compete with the likes of Elionor and Isobel.

Unfortunately, no spellmaker would sponsor a Grieve. “Yes?”

“that there are rules about how to conduct yourself in the weeks leading up to the tournament.”

“You cannot simply march into my shop and ask for an alliance. Our clientele expect a certain sort of experience in our store, and having you there, interrupting them? Well, you must understand the impression it leaves. No spellmaker has ever allied with your family. Do you really think we’d start now, after you’ve dragged our city through the mud?”

She was tall and muscular, with pale pink, freckly skin and chestnut brown hair tied in a long braid down her back. Briony Thorburn: a year behind him in Ilvernath’s largest public secondary school. She was the captain of half their sports teams and made a point of being everyone’s friend; just like the rest of her family, her reputation was so polished you could see your reflection in it. The Thorburns hadn’t named their champion yet, but she was the clear

“Whatever,” muttered Fergus. “I don’t care anymore, anyway.” “Yeah,” echoed the Payne cousin. “Me neither.” A moment later, they scampered away to rejoin their families. Gavin looked at Briony, whose smugness was palpable. “What did you do to them?” She shrugged, practically yawned. “The Know Your Enemy spell I cast allowed them to see the fight from the other’s perspective. They both realized they were being foolish, so they stopped. If you studied magick more closely, perhaps you’d have a more nuanced roster of spellstones to choose from.”

No spellmaker would ever ally with a Grieve.

In less than two weeks, those clouds would turn the crimson color of high magick, like a red-tinged shroud draped over Ilvernath, and the tournament would begin. The Blood Veil would lighten a little bit with every champion’s death, until at last, when only one remained, true day and night would return and seemingly wash all the blood away, just like that.

The Thorburn family loves nothing as much as they love their own reflections. A Tradition of Tragedy

The only qualities they all shared were a love for the spotlight and a wide, charming smile.

Their family might not have looked alike, but the two of them did—the brown hair they’d inherited from their father, who’d died when Briony was three and Innes was two; the fair, freckled skin they got from their mother, who, in her grief, had left Ilvernath behind. She didn’t take her daughters with her, and she had never come back for them. The sisters were raised in the Thornburns’ prized historic estate by a rotating cast of aunts and uncles and cousins; but mostly, they were raised on stories of the Thorburns’ noble history. The ways they’d used high magick to better Ilvernath whenever they won the tournament. In these tales, the Thorburns were legends. Heroes.

On a table in the gazebo’s center sat a gleaming hand mirror with a spellstone embedded at the top of its frame. The mirror was the Thorburns’ most prized magickal artifact. It was a replica of one of the Relics—the seven objects that fell from the sky randomly throughout the tournament, each granting the champion who claimed it three unique high magick enchantments. In the tournament, the Mirror let you spy on your opponents, answered any three questions, and cast a powerful reflecting spell to fling curses back at your enemies. The mirror in the gazebo, although not the Mirror Relic, was both an homage to Thorburn family heritage and the final obstacle between Briony and her future. It was meant to test the Thorburns’ fortitude and reveal their true souls. Once the tournament began, the terms of the curse forbade anyone—even the families—from interfering with the champions or entering the tournament grounds. But it was still expected that the Thorburn champion act in accordance with their values when cut off from their kin.

“Thank you for being so accommodating on such short notice. For those of you who may not know, I am Agent Helen Yoo of the Kendalle Parliament’s Curse Division. I’m here as a government representative to observe this year’s tournament.” Briony’s stomach coiled. Before that ridiculous book was published, the government hardly paid attention to a small, remote city like Ilvernath. But since its release, they’d interrogated every single one of the tournament families. Under the Curse Clause, they were protected from legal retribution for any crimes committed while bound by ancient enchantments. But the government could certainly ask questions. Briony had thought they were finished interfering, but apparently they had other ideas.

“Well, you’ll be pleased to know that they will do nothing but benefit your family,” Agent Yoo said briskly. “I’ve been observing the potential champions and reporting back to my superiors at Parliament. We’ve decided that we would prefer the Thorburns emerge victorious this fall.” A swell of pride swept through Briony, and she couldn’t suppress a grin. Of course the other families weren’t as well-suited to power as they were. The government had seen what she already knew. “The rules of the curse permit outside aid, at least before the tournament begins,” Agent Yoo continued. “We are willing to use government resources to equip you with all the spells and curses you could need in order to excel once the Blood Veil falls. On two conditions. One: that you allow us to work with you and study the high magick once it is acquired, so that we can ensure it’s being contained safely.” This didn’t sound so bad. After all, there was so much potential in that prize. Potential that wasn’t being used. “And two,” Agent Yoo said. “We get to choose your champion.” Unease flared in Briony’s chest. Now she understood why they were having this trial in secret, away from the rest of the family. Because it wasn’t a trial at all.

“We’ve chosen to share the truth of this situation with all three of you so that you may understand our decision fully,” Elder Malvina told them, a warning in her voice. “But we will be taking certain precautions to ensure that truth doesn’t leave this room.”

Of course they wouldn’t want this partnership getting out. It wasn’t just because their family would be upset—the tabloids would have a field day with something like this. They were vultures, all of them, swooping around the soon-to-be-dead and snapping tacky photographs. When the media had first descended, she’d thought of it as a valuable

“Very well then.” Agent Yoo opened her dossier and clicked a pen absently, the spellstone inside it glowing. “After careful consideration, I’ve selected Innes Thorburn as your champion.”

Her body went cold and stiff; her lips moved soundlessly, her ears foggy. She couldn’t bear to look at Innes’s face. Instead she turned to the elders, silently pleading for intervention. For a moment, she saw her own shock and disappointment reflected in Elder Malvina’s eyes. But then the old woman raised her hands and began to clap. The others joined in a moment later, if a little hesitantly. They weren’t going to protest.

The elders’ judgment was as absolute and impartial as the mirror that sat before them.

Most associate high magick with other distant brutalities of the past: pillaging, plague, and lawlessness. But in Ilvernath, a piece of that history lingers, every bit as threatening as it once was. A Tradition of Tragedy

Beneath the Lowe estate, there was a vault. Its walls measured one meter thick of industry-grade steel surrounded by three meters of coarse earth, to ensure not even the smallest speck of high magick escaped. Its door was warded against spells and curses of all kinds. No one could enter who wasn’t a Lowe, and even then, no one could enter without their grandmother’s express permission.

Around sunrise that morning, he’d taken his usual seat in the family library, memorizing the map of the wilderness surrounding Ilvernath’s city proper—where most of the tournament would take place.

I always knew you were weak, she often told Alistair. Afraid of the very stories meant to make you stronger.

Alistair thought of dear Aunt Alphina’s grave in their backyard. The last Lowe victor had died by suicide after the tournament, four years before Alistair was born. Alistair needed to be stronger than that. He needed to pass these tests, no matter how challenging they were. He needed to survive this so he could finally imagine a life beyond this estate, to discover if he was anything other than a Lowe, the city’s—and now the world’s—favorite villain.

The Lowe manor resembled a home plucked out of a haunting fairy tale. Each hearth crackled with fire, making every piece of upholstery, every room, and every Lowe smell of smoke. Full of dark-stained pine wood and iron candelabras, it was where maidens pricked their fingers on spinning wheels, where every fruit tasted of poison and vice. The boys grew up acting out these stories. Hendry played both the princess and the knight; Alistair was always and only the dragon.

Agent Yoo worked for the government, in some department of the military or security or something. She and her team had nearly blasted down the Lowes’ door after A Tradition of Tragedy revealed that the family was in possession of the most dangerous magick in the world. At first, even Marianne Lowe had been afraid. For eight centuries, it had been the silent responsibility of the winning family to use some of its high magick to keep the tournament secret, in fear of this very moment. They muddled the memories of any townspeople not directly involved.

Villainy in the modern age was a delicate balance.

The Lowes did not tell their children monster stories so that they could slay them. The Lowes told them so their children would become monsters themselves.

One of the spellmaker’s many rings began to glow. A moment later, a bolt of white light shaped like a stake flew toward Marianne’s heart.

The spellmaker stumbled, but he’d clearly been anticipating retaliation. He stretched out his hand and summoned a shield of his own. The walls of their house shook at the force of the spell. The chandeliers rattled. The portraits quivered. The shield shined with a light almost blinding to behold. It was one of the most powerful spells Alistair had ever seen. A class ten.

But high magick doubled the class of any casting. Alistair’s curse sprang out of his ring in a cloud of noxious red. It swarmed across the room, making other spellmakers throw up defenses of their own or clamber desperately out of its path. It shot through the man’s shield as though tearing through parchment. To the man’s credit, he did not scream. The color of his fair skin deepened and reddened into that of a vintage wine. The whites of his eyes wrinkled, the eyes themselves shrinking like pieces of rotten fruit. His limbs swelled, and he yanked off his spellrings as they started to strangle his bulging fingers. They clacked as they fell against the stone floor. For a moment, the man stood silently, swaying as though he might faint. Then a cough shuddered through him, spraying out a strange, violet liquid. The juice began to trickle from his eyes and ears, then pour freely down his neck. He was leaking, shriveling. And even amid his unspeakable punishment, he raised his head and looked Alistair Lowe in the eyes. What remained in his sockets looked like peach pits. Alistair gaped. Even with the high magick, it was merely a hangover curse. It shouldn’t have managed … this. Not unless he’d messed up the crafting. Unable to help himself, Alistair leaned over the arm of the couch and threw up on the carpet. When he finished, the man was on the ground. He wasn’t dead—his chest still rose and fell with his breaths, but he was gravely and likely permanently injured. He lay pathe...

Spellmakers are the silent eighth force of the tournament, and that makes them complicit, too. A Tradition of Tragedy

There was a competitiveness to the indie spellmaking business. To invent new spells to catch the public’s attention, to produce better versions of your competitor’s products, to sell enough simple spells to support your family’s favorite specialty. Her mother’s was divination.