The Warrior

by Kay Camden

  He flinches when I draw a line on his forearm. Luckily his finger wasn’t on the trigger. I’m halfway through the R when he grabs my wrist, halting what he knows I’m about to do. It’s only then that I realize how close we are, how my knees are jammed against his thigh, how he’s turned, putting his arm dangerously close to my chest. He’s not looking at me but into me, this Panic Rex, the one I haven’t allied with, the one I don’t know. His pupils are too big for his eyes and they have a suction—no. I close my eyes and shake it off. His magic is spilling out, shrouding me, drawing out my own. But not just my known magic. The new kind too. The kind I don’t know how to control.

  His gun hand gives a little, the gun dipping down. I disarm him before I know I’m going to do it. One second it’s in his hand, the next it’s in mine. He makes an unsuccessful grab, earning a knee in the chest and a leg around his neck, contorting him into a wrestling hold I forgot I knew. I pop out the magazine and toss it though the doorway, empty the chamber and toss that bullet too. He braces his feet and bursts against me, my hands going to the wall to protect my head from the tile.

  We end up as a two-person pretzel, way too personal for my comfort especially with the way I’m straddling his upper body. I twist away and lower my legs; he unravels himself and sits up. Takes in me and the room, looking unsure how he got here, probably wondering what he did. With his now empty hand, he rakes his head, back to front. There’s the Rex I know. He does it again and I stop his hand because that’s just too rough. Why would that ever feel good? The bristles of his buzzed hair brush my wrist. I run my hand against it, fingers gently digging, just to experience it again. I don’t know why. It’s like the automatic gun grab, it happens before I think it, my reflexes faster than my brain.

  His shoulders square and go stiff as his lips part—a quick breath in. Surprise, but not a bad one because now he’s waiting like there’s more if he just holds still. So I rub his head again, slower this time, against the grain of his hair, starting at the back of his neck where I know it feels so good. He puts a hand against the wall like he needs a brace to prevent himself from collapse. Closes his eyes.

  If I do it again he looks like he might faint. I shouldn’t do it again. I have to do it again. So I do. Fingers splayed, combing through the soft bristle of his hair.

  And this time he opens his eyes and turns to me like he’s just come up for air. On his lips I easily read, What magic is that?

  I hold up my fingers and wiggle them, mouthing, Not magic. Just fingers.

  He rises fast on his knees, his hands going to my shoulders, gripping hard and giving me a little shake. He’s talking, eyes big, words running together too fast to read. But then I see it’s just one repeated phrase over and over: Say it again, Sloane, say it again.

  I’m flattened by a rush of terror. My brain does a complete reverse, and I’ve gone back a moment, seeing it replayed. I’ve covered my lips because those last words I didn’t just mouth, I spoke them. I swore I’d never let him hear my voice. No, just no.

  Now he’s gone for my jaw, both hands, his eyes trained on my lips like he’s in such disbelief it happened he needs to see it a second time for proof.

  Come on, he says. But my lips aren’t moving, so he looks into my eyes.

  It all changes then. He’s forgotten he wants me to speak and so have I. We’re back in the cottage against that wall in the middle of the night.

  Don’t.

  Stop.

  Don’t stop.

  Next time will be worse.

  One of his thumbs drifts to the corner of my mouth. The contact against my skin in that tiny movement incites every nerve. It’s heart-pounding ecstasy, yes, but I’m not kissing Rex Moore again. I’m so not. He said next time would be worse, and by worse he means better. I cover his mouth with both my hands. Since I can’t stop myself I have to stop him.

  Chapter 16

  Rex

  The warmth of her hands on my mouth registers in my brain as the opposite of what she intended. Not a block but a sample. A skin-on-skin connection. A come-on. I jerk away, knocking my skull against the toilet tank. More bumps aren’t what this brain needs after that fight at Trey Bevan’s cottage. It’d be pretty dorky to fight sixteen guys only to get a concussion from a toilet hours later.

  I don’t even know how I got in this bathroom, or why she’s in here with me. I search for my phone to ask, but she’s now standing in the doorway looking very annoyed. All she has on is a long T-shirt. Her hair is extreme. Past her a lamp glows in between two beds—one rumpled, one untouched. It all comes back then: my demand she return me to normal, her smartass dismissal, my exit of the room. My fatigue in the R5, the pill, the nightmare. Waking up under attack.

  Which means she saw me have another freak-out. I could puke with the stupidity of it all.

  And now that it’s been fully remembered the panic lingers, close enough to start it all again if I don’t find control. “What time is it?”

  She signs something that looks like “What?” from the expression she makes. My phone could help me if I could find it. Where’s my dumb phone? She’s looking annoyed again, so I get up and push past her out of the bathroom, catching sight of the digital clock between the beds.

  Everything wound in me loosens. Held lungs release. Air is so damn good sometimes. It isn’t the hour and minutes that relieve me, which is the stupid part. It’s just that time exists at all. That clock could be hours off and it wouldn’t matter to me. All that matters is it’s there, keeping its own time.

  Sloane gets in her bed and switches off the lamp. I strip to my boxers and pull back the covers on my bed, considering a pill, deciding against it. It’d be nice to get actual sleep but one freak-out is enough tonight, and I don’t want to take the risk of another. When my head hits the pillow, I remember one more thing: her fingers in my hair and the full-body tingle they caused. Just fingers? My ass. She lies worse than me. That was magic, and it’s the first thing I’m going to make her teach me. Just fingers can’t create feelings like the one that traveled across skin not even being touched. Just fingers can’t make me think she cares. No one cares. It’s a damn good trick though because a tiny part of me is still fooled like hell.

  I rub my head against the pillow again, hoping to rouse the memory of her fingers against my hair. I fall asleep replaying her voice in my head, plotting ways to get her to speak again.

  The banging in my head turns real when I come out of a doze and realize it’s someone pounding the door. Where’s my .45? There—on the floor. Magazine? I dive for it, pop it in. Sloane sits up a second later, her eyes on me hunkered beside the bed like I’m the one who woke her. I check the clock: noon.

  More pounding. “Open up, Rex, or I’m coming in.”

  Holy oak that’s my brother. What to do? Hide? Shoot him? Sloane catches my interest in the door and hops from the bed to scoot along the wall and peer out the peephole. Then I’m blinded by the burst of light she’s let in, and Aaron’s closing the door behind him, cutting it off.

  “What—” I don’t exactly know what to ask.

  “You say you’ll meet and don’t show, so I come find you. That’s what.” Aaron brushes Sloane’s bangs aside and nudges her chin so he can better see her face. I stop myself from getting up to break his hand. She signs something; he signs something back.

  “Dude, since when do you know—”

  Aaron points at me. “Shut up.” He takes Sloane’s hands and looks her arms over before stepping back for a full view. But he doesn’t have time to record her good health because she rushes him, clinging on, her face buried against him, and I’m on my feet fast. To save him from her or her from him? Rex, you are so damn confused.

  “You’re lucky she’s okay,” he says to me over her head. “I was going to save the Bevans some trouble and kill you myself.”

  “Uh, okay, traitor.”

  “Me
? I was never loyal to them. But you are, so who’s the traitor?”

  The nerve he just hit has a direct line into my trigger finger. To my surprise I feel the weight of my .45 in my hand, and I have no idea how it got there—I thought I’d put it down. Sloane turns her face a little so she can tighten her grip on Aaron, a line of tears shiny on her cheek. He’s staring me down, just daring me to aim at him. I go into the bathroom and shut the door.

  I take a piss, splash my face, gulp some water. Look in the mirror. Rip the bandage off my forehead and wish I hadn’t because it’s as gory as a shark bite. Rip the one off my cheek—same thing, so I stop there and leave the rest. Shower? Okay.

  Then I get out and realize I should shave so I don’t look so much like a homeless guy. I end up screwing up that wound on my cheek even worse. That’s ten bonus points, Rex, for being a genius. A clean-shaven genius, though, so an improvement.

  When I get out I hear two voices: Aaron’s, and the phone voice speaking for Sloane. My bag is out there, so I go out with a towel around my waist and unzip my bag. There’s no break in the conversation. It’s interesting how they’re instant best friends. Also interesting how Aaron found us. Nope, not a coincidence at all.

  “She tell you we were here?” I interrupt. “That’s great.”

  He cuts his attention to me. “No, she didn’t. I saw the charge on the credit card I gave you. Don’t be dim.” He stands up, gently knocking Sloane on the chin with his knuckles. “Get dressed and meet me outside. We need to chat.”

  I do it because I don’t know what else to do.

  “What’d you do to your hair?” he asks when I’m outside with him, pulling the door closed behind me. The sun reflects off the pavement straight into my face. Another day so hot I instantly need another shower.

  “I cut it.”

  “You look like a punkass.”

  “I am a punkass.”

  “Good point.” He looks at me so long without speaking I’m afraid he’s going to hug me. Or punch me. I step back to lean against the wall and save him the trouble. The hot brick threatens to burn a hole through my shirt. I can’t believe I’m staying in this dump.

  “There’s something different about you, Rex.”

  “Yeah, I cut my hair, remember?”

  “No, it’s—” He slides on his sunglasses. “It’s not that. What’re you doing with Sloane Bevan? Be real.”

  I shrug. I’m not sure what she’s told him, and telling the truth has never done me any favors. “Can we find some a/c? My face is melting.”

  “I need to know what’s going on.”

  Yeah, so do I. “My father’s sending teams to kill me, and I’m trying not to die. Or get crabs from skeezy motel rooms.”

  “You and Sloane Bevan, on the run. Together.”

  I shrug again. “Pretty much.”

  “Getting along.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  He chuckles. “Okay, then, not killing each other.”

  “That’s more like. Well, we were, but not anymore. We probably should get back to it.”

  “No,” he says, turning away to face the sun. “I don’t think you should. I think this is …” He turns back, grips my shoulder hard. “This is good. Unexpected, but good.”

  “She’s a fucking black witch, dude. She did this … thing. And the other day another black witch just shows up outta nowhere telling Sloane they share blood and giving her advice and crap.” Regret surges over me. I probably shouldn’t mention that black witch.

  “Who did that to your face?” It’s like he didn’t even hear what I just said.

  “My father’s guys. Before I killed them.” I feel kind of sick saying it, not because Sloane has made me feel guilty, but more because the punishment my family’s going to dream up is casting its shadow on me already. That’s how big and shitty it’s going to be. My stomach churns and it’s gotten hard to swallow.

  “We don’t need to have the safe sex talk again, do we?”

  I choke, turn it into a cough. “Please no.”

  Aaron takes out his phone and starts texting. “I need to get you to my dad. We need to hide you somewhere until we figure out what to do.”

  “I’m not going. Sloane and I have a plan.”

  He looks up, studies me a long time before he says, “You’re a minor driving around with no driver’s license. You get popped and they’ll haul you right home.”

  “I have Sloane Bevan and her bag of tricks.”

  “Okay, but Sloane has morals. I don’t see her tricking or lying to cops. What makes you think she won’t tell them she’s been kidnapped? Because that’s exactly what this is.”

  “Stop harshing it.”

  “Harshing what? Reality?”

  “Let her tell them that. You know what our family can do.”

  “I do, but it takes time to work that kind of thing. In the meantime you’ll be taken home, and while your dad is working over the police, your uncle is going to be working over you.”

  I hate how those words find a way inside me, drilling straight into the fear I keep bound with duct tape and shoved into in a dark corner. I hate how he sees it on me, how he’s tightened his lips, how he’s gone both sad and angry in the eyes. He reaches to grip my shoulder, and I want to shake it off but I can’t because he’s the only one who ever grips my shoulder like that and I never fucking see him.

  “Here’s what I think, Rex. This is all salvageable but not without my dad’s help. He’s still willing to meet. You and Sloane pack up and get in my car and I’ll take you to Roanoake now.”

  Damn my stupid watering eyes. I scrub them dry with my palm. “I told you, Sloane and I have a plan.” I don’t expect him to care, though, so I don’t know why I say it. No one ever listens to me. I’m just a thing to be ordered around. Well, not anymore.

  He takes a few steps away and turns his back to me, his phone forgotten in his hand. When he finally pockets it I know something has changed, some decision has been reached. Well it’s not his decision to make. I don’t want to fight him but I will.

  “What’s the plan?”

  Without seeing his face I’m sure I heard him wrong. There’s no way he’s entertaining this, and I hope he’s not because I can’t exactly admit I never agreed to her plan. She’s nuts to ever think it’s possible or worth it, and there’s no way I’ll allow her to break any of them before she fixes me. Once I’m back to normal, I’ll kill her and all this will be over.

  I make a grab for a finger that’s poked into my shoulder and find it attached to Aaron.

  “You were zoning out,” he says, shaking out his hand and the finger I nearly broke. “What’s the plan?”

  “Ask her.”

  “I’d rather hear it from you.”

  If I explain the plan does that mean I’m committed? Maybe that’s what he’s doing here. Maybe he and Sloane are working together against me. Well, let them. I call my own shots now. I can go along with the plan today. Doesn’t mean I have to go along with it tomorrow. “We’re going to visit every Moore household and Sloane is going to carve the evil out of their brains with her tricky magic.”

  “They’ll kill you.”

  “Not with Sloane Bevan on my side.”

  The scrutiny comes again, hotter than the sun that has sweat trickling down my back and forehead. He’s reading way too much into this Rex and Sloane thing. So I don’t appear to be bothered by that look he’s giving me, I check my phone. Two new email messages from my online friends and one from my game subscription service saying my pre-order was just delivered. Oh, wait, is that date right? Because if so, Blood Tower 4 came out today and I’m supposed to be logging into multiplayer like right now.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yeah. Hey, any chance you have your laptop on you?”

  He grabs me by the neck and steers
me back inside the motel room. Sloane is sitting cross-legged in the middle of her bed reading something in her lap. Looks like she got dressed in one of her cute—no, not cute—homemade dresses. She’s put her hair in a ponytail, the long braid hanging past all the chaos of bundled hair. I get an elbow in the arm from Aaron, start to ask him what the hell it was for, decide not to when I see what’s written on his face: stop staring before she catches you, assclown.

  “You could just say it, you know. She’s deaf.”

  The look he gives me then has me bracing for a follow-up elbow jab, or some kind of painful death. Instead he says, “I can’t decide if this is all great or a horrible disaster.”

  “I’m hoping horrible disaster. We Moores get off on that shit.”

  “And why the R5? All those cars to choose from. That’s the loudest, flashiest one in the garage. You’ll be noticed everywhere you go.”

  “’Cause it’s mine.” I shrug, hoping to appear nonchalant. I’m the loser who only knows how to drive a ridiculous rally car.

  He takes his car key out of his pocket. “Here, take the Tesla.”

  “And die of boredom? No thanks, old man.”

  He pockets his key, looking me over. “Really, what’s changed about you? I feel like I can finally get through to you.”

  Maybe for once he’s trying? For once he’s not too busy to have a conversation? And something else that’s actually not his fault: we’re finally out of that house, no longer watched by guards and my uncle and all my stupid cousins. We can speak freely. I’m struck by how those two things go together. What if ignoring me wasn’t his fault at all? What if he doesn’t hate me?

  “Give me your phone so I can put my dad’s number in it.”

  I hand it over.