our ragwort stalks when a guy about our age touches my arm, warm fingers closing just above my wrist.
âHey, sweetheart.â I have an impression of a too-big black shirt, jeans, a chain wallet, spiky hair. The glint of a cheap knife in his boot. âI saw you before, and I was just wonderingââ
I am turning before I can think, my fist cracking into his jaw. My booted foot hits his gut as he falls, rolling him over the pavement. I blink and find myself standing there, staring down at a kid who is gasping for air and starting to cry. My boot is raised to kick him in the throat, to crush his windpipe. The mortals standing around him are staring at me in horror. My nerves are jangling, but itâs an eager jangle. I am ready for more.
I think he was flirting with me.
I donât even remember deciding to hit him.
âCome on!â Taryn jerks my arm, and all three of us run. Someone shouts.
I look over my shoulder. One of the boyâs friends has given chase. âBitch!â he shouts. âCrazy bitch! Milo is bleeding!â
Vivi whispers a few words and makes a motion behind us. As she does, the crabgrass begins to grow, pushing gaps in the asphalt wider. The boy comes to a halt as something rushes by him, a look of confusion on his face. Pixie-led, they call it. He wanders through a row of cars as though he has no idea where heâs going. Unless he turns his clothes inside out, which I am fairly confident he doesnât know to do, heâll never find us.
We stop near the edge of the lot, and Vivi immediately begins to giggle. âMadoc would be so proudâhis little girl, remembering all her training,â she says. âStaving off the terrifying possibility of romance.â
I am too stunned to say anything. Hitting him was the most honest thing Iâve done in a long time. I feel better than great. I feel
nothing
, a glorious emptiness.
âSee,â I tell Vivi. âI canât go back to the world. Look what I would do to it.â
To that, she has no response.
I think about what I did all the way home and then, again, at school. A lecturer from a Court near the coast explains how things wither and die. Cardan gives me a significant look as she explains decomposition, rot. But what I am thinking about is the stillness I felt when I hit that boy. That and the Summer Tournament tomorrow.
I dreamed of my triumph there. None of Cardanâs threats would have kept me from wearing the gold braid and fighting as hard as I could. Now, though, his threats are the only reason I have to fightâthe sheer perverse glory of not backing down.
When we break to eat, Taryn and I climb up a tree to eat cheese and oatcakes slathered with chokecherry jelly. Fand calls up to me, wanting to know why I didnât attend the rehearsal for the mock war.
âI forgot,â I call back to her, which is not particularly believable, but I donât care.
âBut youâre going to fight tomorrow?â she asks. If I pull out, Fand will have to rearrange teams.
Taryn gives me a hopeful look, as though I may come to my senses.
âIâll be there,â I say. My pride compels me.
Lessons are almost over when I notice Taryn, standing beside Cardan, near a circle of thorn trees, weeping. I must not have been paying attention, must have gotten too involved in packing up our books and things. I didnât even see Cardan take my sister aside. I know she would have gone, though, no matter the excuse. She still believes that if we do what they want, theyâll get bored and leave us alone. Maybe sheâs right, but I donât care.
Tears spill over her cheeks.
There is such a deep well of rage inside me.
Youâre no killer.
I leave my books and cross the grass toward them. Cardan half-turns, and I shove him so hard that his back hits one of the trees. His eyes go wide.
âI donât know what you said to her, but donât you ever go near my
John McEnroe;James Kaplan
William K. Klingaman, Nicholas P. Klingaman