Free Defiance by Lili St. Crow

staring at Nat’s back.
    Or, more precisely, a little lower than her back.
    “You’re going down ,” she continued. “Is someone looking at me?”
    I’d say he’s trying to undress you visually, but that’s just me. “Totally. Or at least, looking at part of you.”
    The puck spat back out, she popped it hard, leaning a little further over the table than was strictly necessary. With her jacket gone, creamy skin showed above in an indigo silk spaghetti-strap tank top, the shoulder holster looking just like a decoration. Muscle rippled decorously in her arms. “Great. He stares, but he won’t talk.”
    “Are all wulf boys like that?” I slapped it back to her, the jolt going all the way up my arm. She leaned to the side, her hand flicking out, and the sound of puck meeting the mallet was the crack of a rifle shot.
    She gave an eyeroll that could have won an award. “Wulf aside, svetocha , boys are stupid . Always were, always will be, world without end, amen.”
    “So how do you get him to act interested? Or get a little closer?” Like I didn’t care about the answer. My heart cracked inside my chest, I shoved the feeling down and we spent about half a minute concentrating completely on the game. She finally slugged the puck past my defenses and straightened, grinning, as I let out a groan.
    “Simple. He either steps up or he doesn’t get to play.” She shrugged. “What time is it?”
    I twisted to check the clock over the front counter. “We’ve got plenty . . .” But my mother’s locket chilled against my chest, and I cocked my head. The touch thrilled through me, not scraping but tingling. Still . . . “Whoops. Trouble coming.”
    She dropped her mallet with a clatter and scooped up her coat. “Back door. Right through there.”
    Shanks was on his feet. The other wulfen scattered, and I hoped they’d paid for the beer. Nat and I were through the steaming-hot kitchen in a flash, bathed in the yeasty cheesy bubbling-tomato-and-oregano smell before she pushed me out through a door that gave onto an alley. A rusting Folgers can full of cat litter and cigarette butts propped the door a little open, and she was up the fire escape in a trice, pausing only to brace her legs and lean down, offering me one hand. I leapt and grabbed, she hauled me up, and we were on the roof in time to see a boy in a thin black V-neck sweater and jeans saunter down the sidewalk in front of the pizza place.
    Christophe. Blond highlights slid through his hair, and if we were seeing him, it was probably because he wanted us to. Letting us know that he knew, keeping tabs on me.
    Nat let out a soft breath.
    My heart leapt up into my throat and did its best to strangle me. Nat shrugged into her jacket and tugged on my hand; I followed her without demur. The sun was sinking lower in the sky, and we’d be back at the Schola before dusk really got settled.
    Even though I was glad to get out, I also couldn’t wait to go back to the only safety I had.
    How was that for weird?

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    The Schola wakes up just slightly before dusk when the days get longer. There’s a sort of sound to the place, one you can’t quite hear with your ears. It’s the sound of attention, of awareness—and of possible violence.
    I wasn’t concerned about that so much, though. Right now I was glad I’d had the pizza, and I was concerned about staying one step ahead of Christophe. The malaika -shaped stick slid through the air, almost kissing the front of my hoodie, and I leapt back like a cat finding a snake on the road, snapping a kick at his knee. It didn’t connect, but it did force him back a half-step. I flung myself away, falling and rolling, and came up with the stick he’d knocked out of my hands. Whirling, had to get more speed, slashing at empty air because he’d twisted aside. That was okay. I had enough room to breathe now, stepping back cautiously. Every time I shifted weight, it was to sure footing.
    Arcus would be proud.