The Warrior

by Kay Camden

  He spots me then and holds up a hand. Stay there, it says.

  I point to the floor beside him. That’s where I’d rather be. He pulls a second handgun out of his waistband and slides it across the floor toward me. I snatch it up, retreat to the bedroom, and part the window shade to get a view of the front yard, expecting a cluster of shiny black cars with bright headlights and men returning fire.

  But there’s nothing—just a darkness so black the only way to see the sky is to imagine the gray clouds from earlier in the day are still there. I blow out the candle, hoping to see better out the window but it’s a pit of nothingness. Cracking the window gives me a strong scent of rain. Then I see the faintest shade of gray above—clouds doing their best to steal the light of the night sky. If there were men out there, they’d be as blind as me. I relight the candle and set it in the window, gathering power to send its flame high. It casts light across the yard, illuminating a slow rain. I see shadows moving in the waving grass. The pointy ears. The bushy tails.

  I take off down the hall before Rex starts firing again. If he thinks coyotes are a threat to us, he’s either gone crazy or he’s never learned a thing about our magic. He’s missing from his post. The oil lamp lights up bullet holes in the front door, and I resist the urge to rush outside for any hurt coyotes. I have to stop Rex first, before he shoots more.

  Something strikes my ankle from the shadows. I go down, rolling to avoid a broken bone. Kicking away rewards me with a few inches of distance from the assaulter—just enough to see the body attached to the arm and the face that goes along with it. Rex?

  He grabs both my ankles, yanking me toward where he kneels on the floor. I should be fighting back, but I’m paralyzed by the crazed, distracted look in his eyes that seems even more sinister in the low light. Recognition unfurrows his brow, and he releases me to hunker down and dart into the kitchen. He waves me toward him, as mechanical as a cop directing traffic.

  If mistaking me for an enemy is that easy, then I need to relieve him of that gun. Disarming him turns out harder than I thought—he’s in fight mode and slippery with sweat. Two effective counters by him allow the weapon to remain firmly in his hands, and judging from the words he’s spitting, he’s a little angry that I’m suddenly against and not with. So I change my strategy: I aim the gun he gave me at his forehead.

  He leaps under the table, knocking down chairs around him. So much for that. No pants means nowhere to stash a gun so I toss it in the sink and chase him out the other side, tackling him in the middle of the living room. He goes down easily, one robotic hunk of muscle just switching off. Even though he’s limp on his back on the floor, I jab an elbow into his forearm so he releases the gun. A kick slides it out of reach. His eyes lock onto the ceiling; I grab the front of his shirt with both fists and give him a hard shake. It’s the only way to communicate What the hell is wrong with you?!

  A panic attack, that’s what, by the rapid panting and running sweat that don’t seem to want to quit. I pat around his pockets for his phone, but he grabs my wrist, frantic, almost like he has something in there he doesn’t want me to see. With no phone, there’s no way to ask, What’s your problem?

  I sign it anyway. He makes a circling motion with his finger all around the house, and I catch one word: Surrounded.

  Coyotes won’t kill us you idiot. More ASL he won’t understand. Where’s his stupid phone?

  He tenses like he heard something. Then he’s halfway up, eyes on that gun on the floor. I tackle him before he’s made it upright but his strength is supernatural, and I have nothing to overcome it. Exhaustion stretches across me. What sleep have I had? Not enough for this. He drags me across the room, swiveling the overturned couch as we pass by. Behind it, he squats, holding my arm to keep me down with him. He’s gone so intense I don’t fight him. Whatever he hears has him breathing harder than during any of our brawls. He’s also got the shakes—either his muscles are too tense and exhausted like mine, or it’s nerves and fear. But from what?

  When I turn to get a better look at his face, he puts a finger to his lips like he’s forgotten I don’t speak.

  I close my eyes and find my moths. They’ve retreated because of him, but they’re still close enough to reach. I need their sense of hearing to tell me what’s gotten him so scared. They arrive, claiming no humans nearby, no predators. Nothing but nighttime and rain. Rex has me shielded behind a couch because of something he hears, when all the moths hear is a normal rainy night. I think I’ll go with the ones who have the best hearing of any earthbound creature.

  Shaking Rex’s arm, I put an imaginary phone to my ear.

  He unpockets his phone and shows me the black, dead screen. Great—I’ll have to figure out how to tell him everything’s okay the hard way. Some earth to write on in flame would be helpful right now, but all I have is a wooden floor, a couch, my body, and his.

  Marcas and I used to play a game where we’d write invisible words on each other’s arms and try to guess what they were. Before Rex can stop me, I reach around the couch for the lamp and drag it between us. I grab his hand. He jerks so violently I almost lose grip. I extend his arm, and lose my train of thought for a moment at the vision of that strange patch of skin on his arm. He catches me looking at it and tries to pull away, but I hold on. With my finger I write, Rex.

  His eyes flick to mine. Rex, I write again, tilting my head so he’ll look at his arm and not me.

  What? his eyes say.

  Moths, I write as he watches. He nods once, so I continue. Say all is OK.

  He lifts the shoulder of his T-shirt and wipes sweat off his brow. A muscle is trembling in his jaw.

  I write, What are you afraid of?

  I extend my arm in front of him. He takes hold of my wrist, hesitating. His breathing has slowed to a more normal level but that jaw muscle is still going nuts. He writes, Them.

  I take his arm and write, They are not here.

  He writes, Here. And points to his temple.

  My heart loses a beat. He means they’re in his head? The whole thing was in his head, an imaginary attack, some kind of PTSD hallucination. For real? I take his arm to write something else but there’s nothing simple enough to be written in the space on his arm. So instead I write, Are you OK?

  There’s a change in the way he’s looking at me then, a depth to how he’s taking me in. Instead of losing just one heartbeat, I lose them all.

  He takes my arm. The warmth of his hand against my wrist is a new, unexpected thing. Not just a hand anymore but skin and heat and pulse I’m painfully aware of as if it’s my own. He writes, I am now.

  But he doesn’t release me. Not that I’d have a response if he did. I should pull away, but I don’t because his thumb has traveled from my wrist into my palm. It’s an exploration, a forbidden move I’m not stopping because the solid pressure of that thumb has found a nerve and reached all the way up my arm in a way that’s left me unable to move. He’s watching it happen like he has no control over it, lips parted, fascinated.

  Somehow I manage to pull my hand away. He starts a little, still looking at the air where my hand used to be. I get up and move around the couch, tripping over its edge on legs that have lost their ability to hold me up. Now I’m the one breathing hard, though I’ve done nothing to cause it. I’m the one with the fatal pulse.

  He flips the couch so it lands back on its feet and stands up behind it. Then he presses his fingers against his temples and gazes at me. I shrug because, what? He rubs a hand across his mouth, looking at me as if I have something to say.

  Stop being weird, I sign. But “weird” isn’t the right word. Unless I’m a fan of weird. And if this is weird, I could totally be a fan.

  He gives me a half grin, like I’ve done something cute.

  I cover my mouth so I don’t smile because I’m so about to smile. Smiling would be bad right now. This territory we’re abo
ut to enter is super inescapable and a million times wrong. He comes around the corner of the couch and steps toward me as I’m stepping back until he’s backed me against the wall. I don’t know how he’s gotten closer because my hands are against his chest to keep him away but the rest of my body doesn’t seem to want to obey that or put any strength behind it. And now he’s flattened his own hands against the wall above me—some attempt to hold himself back that’s clearly not working for him either because we’re close now, very close, and my stupid hands have slid around him. His eyes have gone squinty with the effort of trying to figure something out. He’s not going to kiss me, no way, that would be a nuclear bomb of crazy I can’t allow. I can’t not allow it either, because if he doesn’t kiss me, I’m afraid I might kiss him, or die, or both.

  He licks his bottom lip. It sets a fire at my feet, flames climbing my legs and urging me to do something. I can’t stand here like this. It would be suicide.

  Don’t, I read on his lips.

  Don’t what? Think? Breathe? I’m already not doing that.

  Stop, he says. As if I’m the one who started this. The jerk’s way off.

  Don’t stop, he says, and I’m pretty sure the world implodes.

  Because I’m the sane one, I peel my arms from around him and flatten my body against the wall. It’s such a tearing, brutal gouge all over me that I raise to my toes and kiss him. For survival. I’d die otherwise.

  It’s a rushing river of sensation in the smallest physical touch. I press my arms against the wall—to reach for him now would be too much; it would short the circuit we’ve just made. I sink down, breaking the connection. His hands have turned to fists on the wall. His eyes are untamed.

  Don’t stop, I mouth.

  Now it’s his turn to kiss me. It’s not just lips this time, it’s a singular bond, his whole body crushing against mine, every masculine part of him joined to me like an unbreakable chemical connection. We’ll have to split atoms to get ourselves apart.

  He pushes away then, cursing and pressing fists against his temples. F-bombs all over. Looking at me while dropping them as if I’m to blame.

  I point at him. Your fault. Not mine.

  He points to himself, says, Me?

  I nod. For some reason I’m trembling—way too hot and trembling. We need to open more windows, get some air in here.

  He’s saying something I can’t read, something a lot gentler than what he was saying before. I unglue myself from the wall and step closer to better see his lips. I sign, What?

  I need sleep. He digs in his pocket, extracts his pill case. Takes out a pill and swallows it dry. It happens too fast for me to react, but I wish I’d had a warning because I’d wrestle that case away from him and ask what they’re for. I have a feeling whatever they are can’t be good. Before I can do anything, he’s backed up to the couch and fallen onto it, arms crossed over his eyes.

  I drag my bedding from the other room to the floor beside the couch. His arms have fallen away; he’s sleeping hard. Repositioning the oil lamp focuses light on the bullet holes in the front door. How could I be so distracted? I rush onto the porch, calling for the coyotes. They’re nearby and unharmed, only here to offer aid in case I need it. Turns out he probably wasn’t firing at them but imaginary Moores. It’s hard to decide if that’s going to help or hurt my case when I tell him my plan, but either way, I tell him. As soon as he wakes up.

  He sleeps slack and unmoving for twelve hours. The pulse in his neck is the only proof he’s even alive. I feast from the woods and another food box that arrives by drone. Aaron sent a lot of packaged snacks this time, perfect for a road trip. Rex must’ve told him we’re heading out soon, which works for me. The sooner we get started on ending the Moores, the sooner I can go home.

  I can’t stop thinking about what I did. What we did. That thing that’s wrong but feels so right. No way Winnie was referring to that, just no way. We can’t do it again. In fact, I’m going to deny it. He was probably in such a state his memory will be foggy, and if he brings it up—which he won’t, because come on—I’m going to plead the fifth. That’s another wrong thing that feels right. Deny making out with Rex Moore. I’m so very in.

  I’m cross-legged on the floor, gobbling snack mix and flipping through an old magazine, when he sits up so fast I skirt quickly out of range, spilling snack mix across the floor. Then he’s up and pacing, stepping all over the mess and squishing it into finer bits. And asking me something. Yelling, it looks like. Showing me his dead phone, pointing to his wrist.

  Well if he wants the time he’s going to have to stop freaking out and charge up that phone. I stand to peer out the windows for the sun—it’s not a perfect gauge of time but it’s close enough for two kids with no schedule whatsoever. I hold up two fingers and shrug because it’s not that precise.

  He checks out every window and clears the hall and bedrooms before plunking down beside me. Apparently I’m stupid enough to sit here and snack while the house crawls with enemy Moores. I can’t decide what would be more suspicious: looking at him or not looking at him. Staying in place or getting up. There’s a new form of matter filling the space between his body and mine. It’s not simply empty air anymore. It’s active and alive and moving, liquid and fire. A raw awareness, a draw.

  After sifting through the food box, he finds a bottle of water and twists the cap off. He closes his eyes to drink and that’s my chance to get a good look: the tight bulge of his trap muscle, the buzzed blond hair turned darker and spiky with sweat at the nape of his neck. I’m not quick enough to look away though; he’s lowered the bottle and paused, cheeks round with water still in his mouth, eyes on mine. Lowering to my mouth. My chest. He swallows, that bottle still held halfway to his mouth, stuck in place. He remembers. And his awareness of the element between us powers his side on, leveling everything up to unbearable.

  I stand but he’s faster, up and out the door, food box in hand. The door closes fast, thumping in the floor, an inferior degree of thump compared to what’s going on with my heart.

  Stewing in the heat of the air and my excited blood, I sit. We need to move, to get on the road, but how do I bring any of that up with the definitely-not-a-dream kiss that feels like a dream and I wish was a dream hanging between us? Unacknowledged it’s only going to grow, like a mistake caught early but not fixed, or a lie uncovered but allowed to remain without an apology to diffuse it.

  Because I’m not leaving a food mess in my dad’s house, I get the broom from the kitchen and sweep up. Rex hasn’t returned so I head out front and see him sitting in the car, doors closed, windows up. A distortion in the air by the back bumper tells me the car is running. I wouldn’t mind sitting in some cool air-conditioning either. The day is a smothering blanket of hot. The rain did nothing but add more steam to a rainforest.

  When I get in the passenger side, he keeps his focus on his phone that’s plugged in and charging. But that focus is strained. I can tell he wants to look at me. I poke him in the arm and with an open hand ask for his phone. He brings up the talking app and speaks before handing it over.

  The screen says: Your fault. Don’t do it again.

  He’s still hung up on blame? Elements help me. I type, Okay, I started it. But you did it back, and yours was …

  I pause, undecided between words. I want to say ‘better’ but I shouldn’t say that.

  Worse.

  He shifts his jaw sideways. That’s a mechanism, I see, to subdue a smile. Once it’s under control, he speaks. Next time will be worse. So don’t push me. I know pushing is in your Bevan blood—

  I take my eyes off the screen to glare at him hard enough he stops talking. There are so many things wrong with what he just said, and the way he turns in his seat to face me squarely and unashamed tells me he knows that, and right now he’s the one pushing me because he wants to see my reaction. And this sleaze-ball act is a game, a grasp f
or power. Well, try again, bro, because I could totally kill you.

  I type, That’s only a threat if it’s not consensual.

  He’s an escape artist for how fast he can leave a car. Heat billows into the open door as he paces, both hands on top of his head. Nothing about him is my type: muscular and brutish, rich and spoiled, blond and evil. At some point in the night he changed from the camo pants to shiny athletic shorts, turning him from army boy to jock. The geeky shaggy-haired artist boys I crush on at home must live in an alternate dimension. Rex Moore is nothing like them and nothing like me. Which makes him not just a challenge, but a thrill.

  How disgusting.

  I swipe out of the talking app because he’s obviously got a fit to throw in place of talking to me. Behind it is an ASL learning app. It looks like an alphabet lesson stopped on the letter S. Bombarded by questions of why and when, I glance out the window. He’s gone to a squat, fingers laced over the back of his bowed head. Right then the phone vibrates in my hand. A new text.

  Dad: Last chance.

  Resisting the urge to open his texts and see what it’s referring to, I lean over and tap on the window. A text from his dad is the perfect thing for him right now. If only I had some popcorn to go along with it.

  Chapter 14

  Rex

  Our eyes meet through the glass. She holds up the phone like it’s something urgent. I can’t be in that car with her right now, but I can barely breathe out here it’s so muggy. Come on, Rex. Grow the hell up. She’s Sloane Bevan. She’s not cute and she doesn’t feel like heaven against you. She has magic you need and then you’re going to uncork that bottle and kill her.