He breathes out again, slower. Steady. “St Andrew’s will be ours,” he says.
“The whole fucking world will be ours.”
He’s still afraid. I can see it on his face and feel it in his heartbeat. But bravery isn’t being fearless—
—it’s swallowing the fear and spitting it back out.
“Just—what if—”
I pull away from him. Find my good long knife. I hold it between us, so when I look at him I see the blade across his face and my eyes, mirrored back, instead of his.
“What if,” says Mack, “doing this makes me the same as them?”
“You could never be anything like them.”
“What if I can’t do it?”
I hold the knife to Mack’s throat. “You’re a coward.”
He presses closer against the blade. “I’m not.”
“You’re a fucking coward.” I won’t give him the blindfold he wants—the one he’s hiding behind every time he doesn’t say what he means. Doesn’t say kill the king. “You said you’d kill him. You do what you swear you’ll do.” I press the knife tighter. “If I promised I’d kill Duncan I’d kill him. If I promised I’d kill you—”
I come so close that if either of us slipped his throat would split open.
“—I’d kill you right here,” I hiss.
I drop the knife. It falls between our feet. The room shines white and outside, below us, a low warning rumble snakes up from the valley.
“I’m not a coward,” he says. There’s a red line against his throat where the blade marked him mine. “I’ll do it.”
“You will,” I tell him. “And it’s going to make you. Being great is being more than what you were. Tonight you’ll be more.”
Mack picks up the knife and holds it, blade up, in both hands. “And if we fail?”
I wrap my hands around his. “Take your courage and nail it down. Nail it to your heart. We won’t fail.”
The starlight sparks off the knife and paints his face darker than I’ve ever seen it.
I speak faster now. An incantation. “As soon as they’re sleeping I’ll take Porter’s knife. You’ll do what you promised. They’re drunk enough that they’ll sleep harder than dead boys sleep. There’s nothing we can’t do.”
He looks at me like the world is only this room. Only the two of us with our hands locked around the knife.
We draw together like something outside of us is guiding us to each other. Our lips meet with the knife between our hearts. We kiss. It’s an oath.
“You’re sure they’ll believe it was Porter?” he murmurs against me.
“They couldn’t think anything else.”
“Then it’s settled,” he says. Deadly and resolved.
Outside the sky flashes its brightest yet—
and it’s lightning, real now because I made it real—
and the thunder claps hard and trembling—
—and the rain pours down.
Defenseless
Mack takes the stairs so stalking-silent I feel my chest fill up with pride. He’s the warrior king and I’m his queen and together, we are fate.
I stand on the landing in front of the grandfather clock. My wings loom wide. The shadows bury me. The rain rushes and the thunder cracks—the storm only Jenny knew was coming.
Downstairs in the living room, Banks says, “Who’s there?”
And Mack says, “Just me.”
Smoke rises up to where I stand. “God, I’m tired,” says Banks.
“Drunk,” says Mack, and they both laugh.
“That, too,” says Banks. Thunder cracks again. “Why are you still up? Even Dunc’s in bed now.”
My claws dig into the railing.
“Your girl made his night. What did he call her—” His sneer turns it bright. “‘A girl to end them all.’ I think that was it. You know drunk Dunc.”
Mack doesn’t answer.
“Got him in a good mood, anyway. Maybe he’ll be off the martial law tomorrow. You know he’s got Porter outside his door? With his damn knife. This week is fucked.”
Finally Mack says, “So was last week.”
Banks makes a low sound deep in his throat. For a long slow moment they’re both silent. Behind me the clock ticks louder. The metal inside it groans and clanks.
Banks says, “I dreamed about those girls last night.” His voice edges darker. “Turns out they told you the truth. At least part of it. Right, golden boy?”
I think, All of it.
“‘Connor will fall,’” says Banks. “Have to wonder what they know. Have to wonder—”
I send my words to Mack without speaking: Let him say it. Let him believe it.
“Have to wonder if it was Dunc all along.” Banks is slurring deeper now. He’ll fight sleep—tonight and the night it’s his turn for the dagger—but he’ll fail. “And the posters. If he’s just trying to keep us under him.”
Mack waits. The clock creaks again. “If you’re right,” he says, careful but with meaning clinging to it, “can I count on you to stick with me when the time comes?”
The silence sags with everything they haven’t said.
And Banks says, “If that’s what it comes to.”
Their handshake claps together.
I slip away down the hall to the very end. Porter sprawls outside of Duncan’s suite, his mouth hanging wide and his head heavy against the wall. Behind him, the door is cracked just enough for the spirit-stillness to leak out.
It’s a dream, all of it, almost. I’m a wraith floating close and kneeling down. I’m a guardian angel who fell from heaven before I ever got inside the gates. He’s a stupid child with drool on his face and his knife sliding out of his hand.
He doesn’t stir when my thumb grazes across his eyelids like he’s the corpse and I’m the coroner. Or when I pick up his knife and tuck it into the back of my waistband, exactly where Duncan slipped his hand onto my skin.
Or when I pluck his phone out of his pocket and press his finger against it until it blinks unlocked.
I find Duffy’s name. Dead-drunk dead-asleep Duffy, who won’t look until the morning rips all of them apart.
I text him—Porter texts him, im scared. im seeing things. he said whos next—
Porter texts him, i think its me, i think hell kill me—
Porter texts him, i dont know what to do. its already too late.
I wipe my fingerprints away. I take Porter’s blue-webbed hand in mine and press it around the phone and slide it back into his pocket.
Poor Porter. Too drunk to remember. Too drunk to be trusted with the truth once the sun comes up.
It’s his fault.
I leave him where he lies. Lightning hits, and thunder, exactly at once. Singing along the knife-blade.
In Duncan’s room Lilia sleeps on the window seat with her breath so shallow I could think she was already dead. Her king splays out across knotted sheets. Strong arms limp. Bruising hands trailing harmless.
My hand finds Porter’s knife. I close in on him. I block out the door.