I gave him a sweet smile in return. “If you don’t move along, I’m going to shove my fist into your throat and make you choke for real.”

Vance dropped his hands and glared at me, and I glared right back at him.

Devon stepped in between us. “Good luck, Vance,” he said in a pointed tone.

Vance rolled his eyes. “I don’t need luck. That’s for all the other losers here.”

Devon’s face hardened at the insult. “Well, I guess we’ll see who the real losers are at the end of the tournament.”

“Whatever, dude.” Vance rolled his eyes again and moved over to his friends, who were clustered around one of the drink tables.

“What a jackass,” Devon muttered.

“No argument here.”

We moved deeper into the tent, both of us giving and receiving more well-wishes. I might be supercynical, but even I had to admit that the camaraderie was . . . nice. It made me feel like I truly was a member of the Family and part of something bigger and more important than just myself.

It made me proud to be a Sinclair.

“Isn’t this great!” Oscar said, zooming over to me, his violet eyes bright with excitement.

I eyed the caramel apple in his hand, which was about twice the size of his entire body. “I think that you’ve had too much sugar already. You’re worse than a little kid when you get all hopped up on it.”

“Too much sugar?” Oscar said, his voice high and twangy. “Too much sugar? There is no such thing!”

He took another bite of his apple, and his wings started twitching even faster than before, making the black cape flutter around his shoulders. Oscar gave me a manic grin, then zoomed off to chatter to another pixie.

Devon was talking to a couple of the other competitors, so I wandered over to where Mo was standing along one of the tent walls, scribbling on a notepad. Several pens were stuck through the brim of his white straw hat, while still more pens bristled in the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt, which was black and patterned with white orchids.

“What are you doing?”

Mo’s eyes never left his notepad. “Overseeing some friendly wagers about the tournament—for the good of the Family, of course.”

“You mean you’ve gone from pawnbroker to bookie.”

The corner of his mouth lifted up in a sly smile. “Can’t get anything past you, kid.”

“Just be sure I get my cut.”

Mo arched an eyebrow. “Would I try to cheat you out of money that I’ve made betting on you?”

“Absolutely.”

He grinned. “You know me too well, Lila.”

I laughed.

The cheery conversation went on for several more minutes, until Claudia put her phone away, rose to her feet, and strolled to the center of the tent. Devon handed his sword to her, and she twirled the Sinclair Family black blade around in her hand. Everyone stopped what they were doing, quieted down, and faced her. She straightened to her full height, her green gaze sweeping back and forth over everyone gathered here. Beyond the fabric walls, the murmur of the crowd continued, but everything was still and silent in here.

“No matter what happens in the tournament, who wins and who loses, I want you all to know how very proud I am that you are members of my Family,” Claudia said, looking at each one of us in turn.

My eyes locked with hers, and her warm pride filled my chest. She really was happy to call us her Family, in more ways than one, and it wasn’t just some pep talk to get us excited for the tournament.

“That being said,” Claudia continued, a wry smile curving her lips, “if we manage to show the other Families how strong we are by excelling in the tournament, well, I wouldn’t be opposed to that either. Would any of you?”

We all grinned back at her.

Claudia raised her black blade, her hand holding the sword high, mimicking her Family crest. “To the Sinclairs!”

“To the Sinclairs!” we all roared back to her.

There were more cheers, laughs, and well-wishes; then Devon and I filed out of the tent with the other competitors. Vance made kissy noises when I walked past, but I ignored him. Devon was right. Vance was a total jackass.

Several tables had been set up outside the white tent, which was serving as command central and the medical center, and we got in line with the other competitors. In an instant, everyone turned from cheery and loud to tense and quiet, their gazes cutting left and right, scanning the lines, and checking out the competition.

As the Sinclair bruiser, Devon got his share of speculative looks, but most folks were focused on Deah, who stood at the front of one of the lines, along with Blake and the rest of the Draconis.

Deah was dressed in a red T-shirt with a gold snarling dragon crest and matching shorts, just like the rest of the Draconis. Her blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her gold cuff glimmered on her wrist. Instead of smirking at everyone like Blake was, Deah stared straight ahead, pretending she didn’t notice everyone staring at her. She didn’t seem to like being the center of attention any more than I did.

Each competitor was assigned a random number. Devon drew number seventeen, while I was number three. Naturally. Bad things always came in threes. I wondered if this was an omen that I wouldn’t do well in the tournament. Probably. But I pinned the paper number to my T-shirt anyway.

Once we got our numbers, there was nothing to do until the first event, an obstacle course. So Devon, Felix, and I ended up hanging around outside the Sinclair tent, watching the ebb and flow of people and pixies.

“You guys are going to do great,” Felix said. “It wouldn’t surprise me if you both ended up facing off in the final round against each other.”

Devon groaned. “I hope not. Lila will kick my ass for sure.”

I lightly punched him in the shoulder. “You’d better believe it, Sinclair.”

He laughed and looked at me, and I found myself falling into his green, green eyes—

“Felix! There you are!” a voice called out.

The three of us turned to see Katia Volkov weaving through the crowd and heading our way. She bounced up beside Felix and gave him a dazzling smile, her dark red braid swishing across her back. Like everyone else, Katia was dressed in a Family T-shirt and matching shorts, dark green with the silver wolf head that was the Volkov crest. A matching silver cuff glimmered on her wrist, while the number thirty-three was pinned to her T-shirt.