The Warrior

by Kay Camden

He takes a moment to consider this before answering. Maybe. But pretty soon we’ll be rich with both.

  *

  He stops for fuel on our way out of town. I help him get the pump started then take Aaron’s money into the shop and buy some candy for the road and some sunglasses: mirrored aviators for him, hot pink plastic frames for me. But when I get back to the car, I decide to let him choose. He picks the pink ones with a smart-ass pretty-boy Moore smile that makes me slide on the aviators so I’m free to stare undercover.

  The reprieve from the glare of the sun makes me remember that meeting with the black witch. What did I do with that pouch of mint? I search my bag, finding it at the same moment Rex finds the gas station squeegee and holds it up to me like he’s found a prize. I take a leaf of mint and fold it onto my tongue while Rex squeegees the windshield in his pink sunglasses. The daylight around us eases like a cloud has passed overhead, only there’s no cloud. I lower my shades. Without them it’s still bright, but not pounding in my brain like it was before. Okay, I’ll use her mint. Someday I might know the magic in it.

  We drive by the D.C. Moores’ home as the sun burns mandarin on the horizon behind it. Surrounding that ball of orange is a smear of brilliant purple clouds, their color leaking into the sky itself. I glance at Rex to check if he’s seeing this, if his normal eyes can pick up on that color. Or if mine really have been so affected by black magic.

  But he’s too focused on studying his relatives’ house. A monolith of antique brick soars above the cobblestone sidewalk. Several ornate chimneys reach even higher. The third level is shingled like a roof but completely vertical, windows jutting from its face with smaller roofs of their own, the pane of glass in each one twice as tall as me. Or maybe taller. They’re so high in the air I think my perception is off. No ladder could reach up there. To wash those windows a person would have to rappel from the top.

  I expected another palace surround by acres of land like the Virginia Moores, but this setting is thoroughly urban. The street is packed with three-story historic mansions, giant trees, and stone walls. So many windows all around us. So many possible witnesses. I don’t know how we’re going to sneak in or escape. I count at least twenty windows on the Moores’ house alone. And that’s just the front.

  Rex has gone stone still. He drives to the end of the street and turns then turns again onto the next one. We cruise the street behind it, finding more mansions with a ton more windows all staring right at us. A white-haired couple walks twin collies on the sidewalk. When the man turns to watch us drive past, I look at Rex. He’s mouthing curses I don’t need his phone to understand.

  We backtrack to the main drag, Rex hitting the gas hard as soon as traffic allows it. I know what he’s thinking. We need somewhere to hide, close enough to allow us to trek back here on foot, far enough to allow a safe getaway. I poke around on his nav and find a nearby park. He glances at the screen, nods.

  The sign at the entrance tells us the park closes at sunset. Rex turns onto a narrow gravel service road reserved for park vehicles, following it until he spots an opening in the trees just big enough to drive into. We plow into the woods, taking down underbrush and saplings. I grab his arm to object, but it’s too late. The damage is done.

  And he’s reacted to my touch with a sharp flinch like he normally does, but this time he follows with a lightning fast grip on my forearm and another arm ready to swing. It’s not personal. His nerves are taut, and he can’t overcome that training. He’s lucky I understand that. I type into his phone, You could’ve parked beside the road. I know how to make this car invisible all night.

  You need to do that anyway. We need all the cover we can get. He leans forward to take in the tree branches above us. My cousins know how to coerce the trees… He looks over at me, seeming to decide he’d rather not show too much of his ignorance. For once I see how this weighs on him. Trained in combat, hardened for war, but never taught all the magic our families have passed down for millennia. Because why would he need it? He’s expendable. A one-use tool. Our magic is what makes us Bevans and Moores, but not him. He’s something different.

  Well, so am I. I’m a Bevan and something else. A combination of earth magic and black magic, a weapon built for surprise. Not expendable to my immediate family, but made for one purpose by my ancestors. I know enough about the plan that brought my parents together to understand now why they chose my mom. Without meeting that black witch, I might have never known.

  There are bigger holes in my knowledge of the Moores, and I’m starting to see why. This is the same psycho family that raised my dad. As I wonder about all the twisted things they’ve done to Rex, I also imagine what they did to my dad. Some of those things have been confirmed with Rex. Should I ask him what he knows about my dad? Am I strong enough to stray there before we’ve even completed one stop in our plan?

  Rex has left the car and disappeared into the trees, probably for a bathroom break. I tug my packed bag out of the car then go around back for my new clothes. We pass each other a minute later. I locate a clear spot to make camp and by the time he’s joined me, I have removed all the sticks and rocks and have a blanket of leaves started. He starts to sit. I snag the shoulder of his T-shirt and point into the woods, fingerspelling a few easily gathered flora I’ll need to make his car invisible. He gives the blankest of looks.

  Can you at least build a fire? I sign. I pantomime the act.

  He points double index fingers at me, gives a short nod. And that smile again, it’s a solar flare, its radiation entering my flesh so I burn, energized and full of gooey heat. He’s walking away, stooping to gather a short dry limb. And I’m watching the roll of muscle in his back, the determined set of his bristly jaw, the way his shorts hang on his hips.

  This is bad. So bad. Not going away like I hoped it would. In fact, it’s getting worse.

  Or do I mean better?

  Chapter 20

  Rex

  After singeing the little flowers she gathered from the underbrush over the fire, she’s grinding them against a rock. This is the magic she agreed to teach me but my lesson is completely in sign language, so I don’t understand a thing. Either she’s spacing on this flaw, or she’s a crafty one at making deals. I keep my mouth shut though, because it looks like such tedious work she doesn’t seem to mind doing on her own.

  As if I could even pay attention if I wanted to work. I’m too distracted by memories of her seeking hands in my pockets. Her arms tight around my torso in that store, the scent of her hair wafting against my face. And that jackass with the cart, his patronizing, pitying face aimed at her, backing away because he felt sorry for her. I still need to kill that guy. I can’t let it go.

  Then there’s her smile after all that. Like nothing else mattered but her and me. Like she’s into me for who I am, not for what she wants me to be. No one has ever smiled at me like that. Not even Aaron.

  All this, as if I wasn’t worked up enough from watching her drive the R5. It’s so damn hot seeing a girl drive my car. Not just any girl but Sloane Bevan. I’ve picked it apart to figure out why it’s so hot, and what I’ve come away with just makes it all worse. Sloane driving my car—it’s not that she’s taken that control from me. She hasn’t, not this time. It’s because I’ve let her have it. It’s the easy surrender, the sweet submission. Both are a new thing for me, but I don’t think it’s the newness of the feeling that’s gotten me so wound. I think it’s the feeling being associated with everything else: that not-so-innocent gleam in her eye when she’s fishing around in my pocket; the warm spot in the center of her palm where my thumb fits, the hint of her pulse; the rainbow of expression on her face, changing by the minute; those newly dark-lined eyes, annoyingly and perfectly goth; how she’s not afraid of me, even when I say stupid shit, even when I push, she’s unchanged. No fear, no anger, no anything.

  My hate for her has undergone some screwed-up chemical reaction. It�
��s retained all power but it’s become something else. There’s this new problem I have: I can’t kill her anymore. Be honest, Rex, you’ve gone farther than that. Yes, I have. I want to protect her. I hear my breath go ragged and hollow just for the thought spinning up, but this time I breathe through it and let it form.

  I think I like Sloane Bevan.

  There.

  Yes.

  An outward breath. Heart beating in my ears, my neck, my wrists, my feet. Crucified by my own pulse.

  It’s out now, but I feel something behind it, because this wasn’t what I planned. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It’s someone’s fault and it’s not mine. It’s hers. She was nice to me. She should’ve killed me. I like her, and I hate her for it. That mix—it’s the heaviest trip, a nonstop explosion in my head. It’s hate fueling like fueling hate, rotating and confined. Centripetal force.

  It makes me want to do things to her. Things I know she’d be into. And knowing she’d be into it gives me a path right there.

  I smack away a force against my shoulder. Tense for another one. But I see it’s only her, withdrawing her fist while making pissed eyes at me because I’m not paying attention. More sign language, more expression all over her face. I need to see the time on my watch. A solid reminder of reality. The constant of time. It’s gone now. You’re such a dumbass for ditching the watch, Rex.

  She’s still eyeing me like I’m purposely pissing her off. Why is she so cute? She’s a Bevan. No Bevan should be that cute. And in a few hours we’re going into that house we just drove by to ambush and disable part of my family. If I’m this distracted, it’s not going to go well.

  “You know we could die in there tonight.” I speak it fast, hoping to make it harder to lip read. “I have to kiss you until the need to kiss you is out of my system. So I can go in there with a clear head.”

  Her face is lit by the flicker of fire. Dusk has turned these woods dark. Not long ago she went far from the fire to scrounge for tiny plants I can’t believe she found with no flashlight. Maybe night vision is part of her black magic blood. No fair on that shit.

  She sweeps a hand at me as if to say, Forget it.

  Bats swoop in from overhead. I stifle the urge to duck because they’re too close and getting closer. She sits back on her heels as more bats gather between our heads and the lowest limbs, their flapping and high-pitched squeaks obscuring the night insects and faraway sounds of human civilization. An awareness hums low in my head, like I’m one decryption key away from decoding their noise.

  Now they’re flapping down to land on her arm, her knee, the stone where she’s collected her ground ingredients. They seem to be reacting to her, and she to them. One by one they peel away, disappearing into the dark sky.

  She stands. Looks at me.

  “I need a translator to learn from you.” I pop the pill I’ve been holding in my hand and swallow. Because I know she hates it. Also because I’m going to need it.

  She folds her ingredients into an oak leaf and heads off toward the R5. I lie on the ground and close my eyes for a moment of rest before the chemicals and magic infiltrate my bloodstream. For those few minutes, I regret taking the stupid pill. Rest is sublime. The horizontal release of muscle and bone better than any drug. Her footsteps return before the pill has kicked in and I stay down, relishing her quiet sounds mixed with cicadas under the rising half moon.

  Her hand on my head—oh, those fingers. She’s weaving them in, back and forth, a perfect death. I tuck my chin to give her better access. A second set of fingers joins the first. She might not notice the full-body tremble. She won’t hear the groans. The tingles scatter down my back, my legs. Oh hell, I’m so doomed.

  I scramble upward and find her mouth with mine. Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her. My fingers now in her hair, her arms locked against the ground behind her to keep me from laying her down. But she’s kissing back. So much. So good. My knees sweeping through leaves, butting against her legs, getting me closer. The lock of her elbows gives. Her arms go around me. She’s holding on, and the only thing left to do is lay her down in the leaves, so that’s what I do.

  Our lips break for a moment of clarity. Moon and fire light her eyes—all black, pupils eclipsing irises. She’s a night creature. A black witch. The way I fit against her, though, is like day joining night. Shadowed earth joining starlit sky. A colossal meld of two worlds, making two wrongs right.

  And one more thing: rebellion. The way it settles all over me. How I absorb it, make it mine. It’s perfect.

  She doesn’t move as she looks up at me. Flat on the ground, arms straight, palms against the earth as if keeping herself from melting into it. I’m breathing harder than I’d be after the hardest combat. Her chest rises and falls in time with mine. I could stop this now. She could stop it. But I want it. She wants it.

  So I lower myself against her and kiss her softly, such a change from what we were doing before. She turns her head—a second thought, maybe, but because I’m an idiot, I put my lips to her ear and whisper, “I think I like you.”

  Just to hear it voiced, released in the wild. Freed even further beyond forming the thought.

  She swivels her hips against mine. Oh—okay. That’s—

  I can’t—

  I brace my hands against the ground and lift up before … I don’t know. Before something.

  Before I lose my mind.

  She’s scooted out and gotten to her feet a couple yards away. Good. Smart.

  It’s hard to keep an eye on her with how alive the woods have come around me. The sway of limbs in the breeze like a pull in my core. The breath of every creature joining my own. The moonlight trickles through the canopy like a caress on my skin. And water—the scent of it carving through earth, its shimmer in the thin light I can sense more than see—so present somewhere, nearby, I could close my eyes and walk right to it.

  Sloane’s hand snaps out, urgent for my phone. I toss it to her.

  You’re doing it. Do you feel it?

  Feel what? Yes, I feel a lot right now. But I can’t decide what.

  The elements. You’re tapping in. First with me, now on your own.

  With her? I turn away from her to get a grip on it all. The pill I took is in full effect now, making me jittery and focused on too many things at once. I need to dial it back a notch, get an overall picture. I’m being slaughtered by the details. I glance at my empty wrist, remember my absent watch.

  She comes around to face me, going down to her knees, pointing at the ground for me to join her. I do it. I don’t know why. Maybe because my lips feel hot and freshly punched from all the making out, and going to my knees gets me closer to her. Maybe because I’ve been ordered around my whole life, and following orders is my natural position. Maybe because I’m wondering what else she’ll let me do to her.

  Opening her palm to me, she offers a handful of ash from our fire. It’s not for me, it’s only to look at. Then it goes to her shoulder, swiping down her arm. Before my eyes a pattern appears on her skin. Her war paint, scribed on her arm in ash. She does her other arm. A few swipes on her chin and cheeks for a coordinating series of lines and curves.

  Now she looks at me, part firelight, part shadow. She’s the girl from my nightmares, the one leading the army. She’s the girl from the woods by my house, killing me, healing me. Fleeing from me, following me. I watch her stand above me. If I’m king of the Moores, she’s queen of the Bevans. She’s their warrior queen. But with her above me, I feel less like a king and more like a subject. Like a slave.

  She walks to the fire and stoops, returns to me with a fistful of ash. She pokes my chest over my heart, points to my arm.

  “We don’t have a family design,” I say. “Or, if we did, we don’t anymore.”

  She scrunches her eyebrows. She doesn’t understand. Well, I don’t either. We’re one side to a forever war that’s never stop
ped. There’s no reason why her side would remember its war paint and mine would not. I make a quick, pointless swipe down both arms and shake my head at her. “We don’t do this.”

  Her eyebrows go way up. I shrug and hold it. It’s just another thing we’ve lost from our past, like so much of our magic. Might have come in handy, might not matter. Nothing will save the Bevans from my bottle of black magic I’ll unleash as soon as she puts me back to my normal self.

  Now she’s analyzing my arm though, glancing between it and the handful of ash she was hoping to hand over to me.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” I hop to my feet.

  She’s back to her knees before me. Warrior queen, making her plea. But no, there’s no pleading. It’s more like a request, an invitation from the Máistreás na nDúl herself. A different kind of blood oath, a deeper form of allegiance. She raises her empty hand, and damn the elements, I take it, allowing her to pull me down. She rolls my T-shirt sleeve to my shoulder. The thud of my heart is a natural disaster; soon the earth will split from its force. I try to imagine my family, what they’d do if they saw me here, what they’d say, and all I come away with is more desire to let this happen. To send them pictures of this scene stamped with my middle finger. This is me calling the shots now. It’s me joining forces with the only person who can overthrow them. It’s time for them to sit down and shut up. It’s a revolution.

  So I take her ash-filled hand and join it with my upper arm, holding it there a second while the heat builds between her skin and mine. Her face says so many things all coming to me at once: solace, fear, relief, resolution. I hope mine says nothing. Since she seems to be waiting for my cue, I give her a nod and watch as she drags her hand down my arm, covering it with the same design. Ripe magic swells between us. All those feelings she just expressed fall through me as if they are my own. And there’s something else—a current rolling underneath it all, a thick, unsettling grit. Something I’ve sensed outside of me, never inside like this. It doesn’t mix with me like everything else does. There’s no fluid movement, no swirl. Instead, it displaces things. It crackles and sparks.