A queen who won her throne in battle.
They know. All of them. What Duncan and Duffy and Connor and Banks did. Why two of them are gone and the other two are caught in fear thicker than quicksand, slipping under inch by inch.
“Well,” says Magistra Copland, “I’m sure it was a very enlightening conversation.”
“It was,” I tell her. My eyes flit to the whole thirsting crowd behind her and I raise my eyebrows just enough to send them diving back behind their hands.
“Perhaps better suited to a different venue,” she says. “You and Mr. Banks both have classes to attend; am I correct?”
I nod once. “Of course. Just—” I measure the angle of her chin. Measure the way Banks’s shoulders strain against his blazer.
I take my chance. “May I speak with Mr. Mack? He’ll be right back, I promise.”
She hesitates. Casts a look at Banks and makes a prim little cluck in the back of her throat. “You may.” She steps back and holds the door wider. Mack scrambles out of his seat and into the hall.
“Get to class, Mr. Banks,” says Magistra Copland. The door shuts hard.
All our careful cordiality shatters. “Fucking bitch,” Banks says, spitting venom but keeping quiet. “Wish Dunc were back to get her ass fired.”
“What is it?” Mack asks me.
I step back and give Banks a hard stare. “You tell him.”
“She knows,” says Banks. The words leave a sick sticky trail.
“What did you tell her?” Mack breathes in stony and sharp.
“Just the truth. That you’re not as innocent as you want everyone to think.”
This time it’s Mack who shoves Banks. “Your guilt isn’t mine,” he says.
“Good thing.” Banks grins wide. “You’ve got plenty of your own to handle.” He checks my face. I paint Duncan’s blood across his eyes. I stay steady, almost.
Almost. Not quite.
Banks shakes his head. “You really don’t want me to spell it out, do you, Mack?”
And I say, “We do.”
He comes closer. “You’ve got it all, golden boy. The new girl. Connor’s spot, and now Duncan’s.”
Mack is sepulcher silent.
“You’ve got it all,” Banks says again. “Think you played dirty for it, though.”
“Fuck you,” I whisper, tight and burning.
“Playing the good boy,” says Banks. Eye to eye with Mack. “But you’re one of us. I know you, Mack. I’ve always known you.”
He throws us both his winning-winner grin. “See you tonight, huh?” Then he heads off down the hall with a stride so hard no one would dare try to pass him. “And watch your backs,” he calls over his shoulder. “Nobody knows who’s next anymore.”
He flanks right at the corner. The light shining in through the windows shades darker. Mack lets out a laboring breath. “Jade—”
“Don’t,” I whisper, and I take his face in my hands.
He flinches when my claws graze his skin. “He knows.”
“Don’t,” I say again. “He doesn’t know anything. He’s turning on you. He’s scared.”
“So am I,” he breathes out.
“No, you’re not.” I kiss him quick and fierce and three-in-a-row. “You’re the king. You’re the one they’re afraid of.”
“He’ll tell.” Mack’s eyes shift to his hands. He sees blood and daggers. He’s filled in Banks’s broad swinging accusations with his own guilt.
“He won’t.” I press close. “We won’t let him.”
“Not Banks.” He shivers. “I can’t.”
“Then I will.”
“This thing we’ve done.” He takes me in his arms. “It’s made good into bad. He’s my best friend.”
“You know what he did to her,” I say. “He’ll do anything to get away with it. You heard him. He thinks he’s innocent. He said it—he said you’re as guilty as him.”
Mack’s eyes close tight.
“Tonight,” I murmur into his darkness. Reckless, but I don’t care. If the columns of St Andrew’s cracked when Connor fell, they collapsed to ash and dust when Duncan took his last breath. We’re buried in the wreckage. Grasping at the crown.
We’ll fall, too, someday. I don’t care, as long as they fall first. As long as they know who pushed them.
“Tonight.” Mack’s eyes open. “But far away from here. They’re all watching too close.”
“Far away,” I echo. The thrill drips down my spine like water and blood. “So it’s done?”
“It’s done,” he says.
The words drop like stones and sink to hell.
Flight
I don’t go to class. I kiss Mack good-bye and let his hand linger on mine and stay close by Magistra Copland’s door until it seals shut behind him.
Then I fly away weightless, out of the shrinking stifling halls, down the front steps, clattering over the stone. The campus stretches wide and deserted from the palm trees to the parking lot to the radiation-glow green of the field.
I run into the lane. Fling my bag down and throw my arms out and spin and spin. Tip my head back to the blue-paint sky. Scream piercing and shrill.
The sky screams back at me and the sun blots out to black—
—and high above me, the thousand birds that perched on the roof all day have sprung into flight. A thousand sharp-winged blackbirds, all rising up together. All shrieking mad calls. Scattering apart and drawing back close. Their wings churn the air and ruin it.
I stand with my arms flung wide and stare up at the darkened sky. Watch the swirling flock sift and scream and soar away across the field and into the sun.
When the sky is rancid bright blue again I chase their shadows down the little hill. The door to the combat room is unlocked and I go in and sit against the wall under the silver-X sabres. Daring them to break loose and spill my blood.
I stare at the white wall on the other side of the room, far away and scarred with plaques. See tonight play out a thousand different ways until the wrong answers cut themselves free and die on the floor. Until the only right answer bows to me from the other end of the piste.
I know how Banks will die.
I stand and face the sabres on the wall. Run my fingers down the metal and find my reflection, warped but perfect, in the silver.
The girl in the blade stares back with murder in her eyes.
I love her.
Threats
Sunset starts early today.
I watch the wolf-pack run fast across the field. Thick gold light paints them magnificent against the green. There are fewer of them than last week. They look over their shoulders in the halls, but when they play, they look to Mack. He wears the captain’s C now.
He’s earned it.
Just before they crowd into their final huddle Piper climbs the bleachers and sits one row below me, sideways and cross-legged with her blazer thrown over her shoulder.
“Captain,” she says, dripping envy.
I keep my eyes on the field.