by W. J. May
Argyle shook his head sympathetically. “At least no one knows what your tatù is yet—even though everyone is guessing. That’s going to be the deciding factor.”
“The deciding factor?” Simon frowned. “What does that mean?”
“As to whether or not you become the new top dog around here.” Argyle looked mildly surprised that this hadn’t occurred to him already. “Like it or not, ink is currency. The rarer and stronger the better. The warlock’s going to make the biggest splash this place has seen in ages. After that, it’s really a question of whether they decide to anoint you, or if they find the whole thing too terrifying and shut you out forever.”
Simon’s eyes flickered to his half-eaten breakfast. “I’m guessing that you’re leaning towards the latter?”
Argyle flushed. “I’m…just taking precautions until we see which way the wind is blowing.”
Simon nodded briskly, and tried to act like he couldn’t care less either way. “Well, until then, thanks in advance for the meal service. Next time I’ll be sure to leave you a tip.”
Argyle chuckled and lifted himself up off the bed. “Hey, anything I can do to help.”
“Actually,” a sudden surge of warmth rushed through Simon’s veins, “there is something.”
In a rush of giddy excitement that made Simon temporarily forget the fact that his body was coming apart at the seams, he swept across the room and pulled a slightly crumpled envelope out of his desk. After scribbling on a hasty address, he handed it to Argyle.
“Do you think you could maybe pass this along for me? It’s for Beth,” he added unnecessarily. Argyle had long ago come to terms with the fact that Simon was in love with his sister. These letters were a regular occurrence.
He stared at it for a second before slipping it into his bag. “Sure. Can’t say when exactly she’s going to get it. I’ve had to start channeling them through Hannah just so that my dad won’t find out.”
Simon flushed. The last time he’d had the pleasure of seeing Beth and Argyle’s father, it was when the man threw him onto a departing train and warned him never to come back.
“Any time is fine,” he said quickly. “And thank Hannah for me.”
Argyle’s winter romance had also blossomed through the spring… something that had turned out to be greatly convenient for his sister and Simon.
“No problem.” He zipped the bag and nudged open the door. “Well, I’d better go. I’m going to be late for Luther. Do you have another session tonight?”
Simon shuddered involuntarily. “Yep.”
Argyle grimaced. “Bring some Tylenol. Or maybe a helmet. Or maybe we could find you some of that full-body armor—you know, just until you get your footing…”
Simon grinned. “Get out of here.” As the door swung shut, he added, “And thanks for breakfast.” But as the door clicked shut between them, the grin faded slowly off Simon’s face.
So this was what it had come to, was it? Smuggling food out of the cafeteria? Dodging the entire student population? Hiding away in his room?
A king or a pariah. Those are my options? It’s got to be one or the other?
At first, Simon was greatly disturbed by the idea.
Why was it that a place that should have been so progressive was so entrenched in the ideology of the past? Why was it that Guilder dealt in absolutes? They’d either prize something above all else, or remove it completely? No middle ground. Not even an attempt at forward-thinking growth or basic understanding. What the hell kind of thinking was that?
But the longer he thought about it, the more Simon secretly thrilled at the idea. Who would want to fall into the middle ground anyway? Who could want to be some nameless face in the center of the pack? Maybe the wretched plebeians had stumbled across an unintentional truth?
Power was power.
It could be followed, or it could be feared. But one way or another, it couldn’t be ignored. Maybe that was the way it was supposed to be. Maybe it was inevitable after all.
A king or a pariah, huh? I guess we’ll have to wait and see…
Chapter 7
Simon spent the next two days living in a state of captivity. In the daytime, instead of going to class he kept himself hidden away in his dorm room like a hermit. It was actually a lot easier than he thought it would be. Brick was barely speaking to him—his colossus of a roommate seemed to be the only person on campus who couldn’t care less about what people were saying about him—which was a plus. And Argyle, ever the loyal friend, stopped by his room three times a day, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It saved his need to leave Joist Hall.
Before the self-isolation began, Simon had gone to the school nurse with a host of symptoms that Argyle had helped him cook up. So, as far as the school was concerned, he was on temporarily sick leave. Argyle brought his homework assignments along with his meals, and the two of them worked together throughout the afternoons.
It was the evening hours that were proving more of a challenge.
Despite his constant efforts, Simon had yet to make any progress during his training sessions with Jason. No matter how hard they both tried. Which, for Simon, basically implied standing there as Jason patiently beat him to death. It didn’t matter; they were unable to trigger whatever it was that had allowed Simon to first use his tatù. Simon began to think that he had imagined the whole thing. If it weren’t for the fact that Tristan and his band of followers were still avoiding him like the plague, he’d have had himself checked out for neurological lapses and hysteria.
The only time he was able to get any peace at all was at night.
When the rest of the campus was asleep, he’d sneak out of Joist Hall, creep down the winding staircase, and ghost across the damp lawns until he’d reached the old office building at the edge of campus. The one where Masters occasionally worked when he happened to be in town. Simon didn’t know why he’d picked this particular place as his sanctuary, but for whatever reason, the first time he’d made his nighttime trek he’d made a bee-line right for the roof. It wasn’t that hard to climb up, even without the stupid fox tatù to help him. Just a quick scramble up a rusted water pipe and he was there. Any semi-athletic person didn’t need a tatù to help him.
He couldn’t tell you how many hours he’d spent sitting on the tiles, tilting his head back as he gazed up at the moon. Lost in thought. The world seemed a lot smaller from up there. Simpler. Easier to manage and control. With all his problems trapped safely on the ground below him, Simon was able to sort through them one by one, safe from consequence and the threat of prying eyes.
First on his list, as always, was Beth.
He didn’t know how long she would reasonably wait for them to be together. More immediately, he didn’t know how much longer he could possibly stand for them to be apart. For him, this was it. He’d known it the minute he first laid eyes on her. The first moment she’d flashed him that beautiful smile. She was the girl for him. Always was, always would be. He’d move heaven and earth just to get another night with her in the barn—laying his head on her lap, and listening as she read to him from one of her favorite books.
In all his life, he’d never known such peace. Such exquisite vulnerability.
The kind that came from being with someone that you deeply loved.
On more than one occasion, when Jason was slamming his head into the mats, he’d retreat into his mind and imagine that he was back there. The perfect mental escape. It always worked. Always. No matter how he was feeling at the time, the simple act of picturing her face made it better. The only downside was that more than once, Jason had stopped mid-swing and asked him why the hell he was smiling. That had been a tough one to talk his way out of…
Which brought him to his next problem.
His tatù.
In a way, it was an even greater issue than Beth. It was more pressing, to say the least. He didn’t know how much longer he and Jason could continue on with their painful little dance. Not that his Botcher seemed to
be tiring. Quite the contrary, actually. He started each session with the same cheerful, “Evening, Simon. Let’s see what damage I can do today.” But the longer they went on without any meaningful results, the more embarrassed Simon had become. He wasn’t accustomed to failing, much less at something as important as this. In every other aspect of his life: academia, family, fitness—he was at the top of his game. He’d been strictly raised to never accept any other position than front of the pack, and he didn’t think his father would take too kindly to the fact that, with something as important as developing his tatù, Simon was absolutely nowhere.
Parental expectations aside, Simon wasn’t taking too kindly to it himself.
Why couldn’t he figure this out? Why wasn’t anything he tried working? Jason had gone above and beyond, doing everything he could think of to ‘scare’ or ‘stress’ the tatù out of him. He’d effectively terrorized Simon to a point far beyond anything Tristan could ever have done. When that didn’t work, they’d switched temporarily to meditation. To extremes in temperature. To simply walking around the Oratory training mats and discussing it at length. Nothing was working. And as much as Simon hated to admit it, at this point the fault lay with him and him alone.
Sometimes, especially when he was up on the roof, he would roll up his sleeve and simply stare down at the mysterious man etched into his skin. Although the expression on his face never became more clear, after a while Simon was sure that the man was staring back at him. Mocking him. Taunting him with powers beyond his comprehension or control. Always just a little out of reach, just a little past his ability.
Once or twice, Simon had even found himself wishing that he’d gotten a normal tatù after all. Something like electricity or speed. Something that would have been easy to figure out, so he could have gotten on with his life already, and moved on to the actual training part of his training.
If only wishing made it so. He got the warlock. End of story. The burden of the ink was his and his alone. He would just have to figure out a way beat it, before it ended up beating him.
* * *
“Well, someone’s happy this evening,” Jason greeted Simon as he walked through the Oratory door. The place was deserted, just like it had been every night before. Simon wasn’t sure if this was by accident, or by design. But he had a feeling that the PC, or Guilder, hadn’t decided yet whether or not Jason, the rebel, would play well with others.
Simon tossed his water bottle on the ground with a shrug. “What? I can’t be in a good mood?”
Truth be told, he was feeling a lot more cheerful this evening. He’d had a dream about Beth the night before. A dream that he would most certainly be keeping to himself, but one that had put an uncharacteristic smile on his face for the entire day.
“Nope. Privy Council rules,” Jason teased. He was decked out in his normal workout attire. Black pants, black T-shirt, and black shoes. All made out of the same unknown fabric. Something that breathed, but clung to one’s skin as well. Something that Simon could only describe as ‘spy-wear.’
It was something that Simon secretly longed for himself.
But Jason had a reason to be wearing it. Simon didn’t. He actually got a workout in these sessions. Apparently throwing around a teenage boy for two hours every night was no easy task.
Not to mention the fact that Jason actually was a Privy Council-employed spy.
“Is that, like, a uniform or something?” Simon asked as they met in the center of the room.
Jason followed his gaze and glanced down at his clothes. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called it that before, but, yeah—it’s something most of us wear. Depending on the situation.”
“Yeah?” Simon stalled, walking in a little circle around his trainer. “And what sorts of situations have you gotten into?”
Jason flashed him a grin. “Sounds like someone’s fishing around for classified information.” He turned slowly so that the two of them were always facing, no matter how many times Simon circled. “Also sounds like someone’s trying to put off the inevitable.”
Simon sighed and came to a stop. Was he truly that transparent, or was Jason just really good at reading people? “Maybe.”
Jason chuckled, then raised up his hands. “Come on. Let’s see if we can knock that smile off your face.”
Before Simon knew what was happening, he was lying flat on the floor. An intense throbbing at his temple let him know where Jason had struck, but other than that the entire thing had happened too fast for him to make any sense of.
He lay there for a second, momentarily stunned, before pushing slowly to his feet. “Congratulations,” he panted, forcing himself straight, “I’m officially having a bad night.”
But the time for jokes had passed. Jason was frowning at him now, readjusting the gauze across the knuckles on his left hand. “You come at me,” he instructed.
Simon hesitated a moment before rushing towards him, swinging wildly with his fist.
Jason deflected it as easily as if he had been moving in slow motion. “Come on, Kerrigan,” he said in exasperation. “You’ve done this before. Do it again.”
As Simon tried a second time, Jason actually caught him by the arm and pulled him back so that they were standing face to face.
“You threw Tristan. Throw me.”
He lowered his arms and actually stood there as Simon did his best to tackle him to the floor. Each try was as unsuccessful as the next. In the end, Jason ended up kicking him halfway across the room in frustration.
As Simon hit the floor, all the air rushed out of his body in one fell swoop. He made no move to get up, other than rolling to his back so he could breathe.
It baffled him—the way Jason was able to move. Even after seeing it so many times up close, it was still a thing of beauty.
His tatù didn’t give him super strength, but the speed at which he was able to move had hyper-developed all of his muscles. The result was the PC’s perfect soldier. Maybe not in mindset, but in body. For the life of him, Simon couldn’t imagine how anyone could ever beat Jason in a fight. If nothing else, it would simply be too hard to see him.
“Get up, Simon.”
Simon tried to push off the mat, but found that his quivering legs wouldn’t support him. “When are you going to let me train with other witnesses?”
People. He’d meant to say people. ‘Witnesses’ had just kind of slipped out. But, to be fair, it was a far more accurate word when taken into account his training thus far.
Jason crossed the mats with his usual brisk efficiency, but his lips had twitched up at the word ‘witnesses.’ With a hint of a smile, he reached down and pulled Simon to his feet. “You really want to be doing this in front of other people? You want people to witness this?”
Simon’s body tried to blush, but involuntarily decided that it needed to keep what blood it had left in active circulation. “No, I guess not,” he mumbled.
Jason softened slightly when he heard his defeated tone. “You know,” he looked Simon up and down, “you’re not doing half bad.”
Simon shot him a doubtful look and Jason laughed.
“Alright, fine. You’re doing terribly. But you haven’t tapped into your tatù yet. Which means that you’re basically just standing here while I try to come up with new ways to knock you on your ass.” He held up his hands. “Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy it immensely. But it’s not exactly a fair fight.”
Simon bowed his head and watched as a little stream of blood dripped down onto the floor. It would never be a fair fight. Because he would never get this damn ink of his to work.
As if reading his mind, Jason reached out and gave him an uncharacteristic clap on the shoulder. “Just give it a little time. That thing on your arm is more complicated than anything I’ve ever seen. A hell of a lot more complicated than mine. I expected this,” he gestured around, “I expected that it would take a while. You should too. Have a little faith, Kerrigan.”
Even with his broken lip, Simon
had to grin. Fortune cookie words of wisdom brought to you by Jason Archer? He must really be in bad shape to warrant that. “Wow,” he said with mock seriousness. “I’m going to…I’m going to turn my whole life around. I’m going to put that on a T-shirt and wear it around campus.”
Jason took a step back as the look of sympathy melted off his face. “I forgot. You’re a dick.”
“I’m serious,” Simon continued, “I might even set up a little stand by the cafeteria and sell them between classes. Pick up a little milkshake money.”
And let the bantering begin. Fun, but dangerous. Especially dangerous for Simon, seeing as how Jason was the only one between the two of them who could do any real damage.
“You want to play games, Simon?” he asked in a quiet voice that sent chills of dreadful anticipation running up Simon’s back. “How about this? What was with that smile?”
This time it was Simon who took a step back. All the wry humor faded from his face as he paced to the other side of the mats. Beth was off-limits, no matter what kind of sadistic game they had started to play. The problem was, he didn’t doubt for a moment that Jason would somehow zero in on it and figure it out. He had a knack for that sort of thing.
Sure enough, his relentless mentor appeared out of thin air right in front of him, having streaked across the entire room. “We’ve hit a nerve, haven’t we?” Jason grinned, keeping himself casually in Simon’s path so as to block any sort of escape. “So what is it, Simon? A class? A girl?” He paused. “A guy?”
Simon whirled around, incensed into disclosure. “It’s not a guy.”
“A girl, then.” Jason smiled, pleased with the ease of his verbal trick. “So who is she? Anyone I know?”
Simon tried to step past him, but Jason stood firm.
“It’s none of your business, alright?”
“Blonde, brunette? Or maybe a redhead?” His eyes danced as he hovered in front of Simon, always just out of reach. “I bet it’s a redhead. I bet our little Simon has a type.”