The Warrior

by Kay Camden

  The thought returns like a rush of storm wind—home, surrender, failure. And him, abandoned with nowhere to go.

  I turn away, expelling that kiss. His fingers, still interlocked with mine, loosen. He ducks his head, rubbing a hand against his hair. Distance cleaves between us as if dropped from the sky.

  I want to give up.

  I want to take him home with me. For my dad and aunt not to kill him. To show him my everlasting Rockies, my hallowed trees. Introduce him to my dogs, my coyotes, my deer. Prove to him that love exists in families, and it can exist for him. I want him to laugh at Marcas’ nonsensical jokes, drink tea with my mom and Grandma Sloane on the back porch while the sun tucks itself behind our mountain. I want him to be loved.

  He’s squinting at me now, closed off, suspicious. His head tilted like he’s gauging my degree of danger or scoping out a way into my thoughts.

  My memory of the day my dad explained my place in the world looks completely different in the dusky light of a different day’s sun. I now see how his caged anger made his ASL careless. The tightness in his face. And the weight of it all, so visible on him, being transferred to me. And how he held my face and kissed my forehead like he knew I’d survive it anyway, no matter how grim the whole thing sounded. His trust in me backed up by the trust of our ancestors I felt that day and sense now like a hand on my shoulder.

  “I have a plan,” I say. Not ASL, not fingerspelling, but real words, and I have no idea how they got out.

  He’s taken a step back. My level of danger must’ve just reached threatening levels.

  He opens his palms as if to say, Enlighten me. Part of reading lips is knowing what the person is about to say and if he’d have spoken, that’s what he would’ve said.

  Millennia of crimes won’t be left unavenged due to my surrender. It’s not even vengeance I’m after, but peace. I will see this to the end, even if the darkness takes me over. Even if I break underneath it. Even if I become as hate-filled as the Moores, I’ll keep their gathered nastiness inside, let it devour me. I won’t let it get away from me, let it become words and deeds, let it make me one of them.

  I turn and walk to our motel room door. He follows me inside. I’m momentarily blinded by all the glaring bulbs; I take hold of the door frame to anchor myself as I turn my face away, scrambling for the switch. Rex slides his phone into my hand. I blink at the screen.

  Is the light that bad or are you clowning?

  I reply, It’s bad. Getting worse.

  He hands me the aviators. I shake my head because it’s not that bad—yet. I swipe into his texts to see if Christian replied and find nothing new.

  Telling Rex my plan means explaining that dark entity that lives in his house, the house we just cleared, and hopefully every Moore home we’ll visit. So I launch right into it, not checking him once while I pound it out on his phone. I don’t know what I expect to see when I look up, but it’s certainly not that jerkwad mocking grin or his rude disbelief.

  Is that some kind of Bevan superstition?

  We aren’t superstitious. If I glare at him harder, maybe he’ll burst into flames.

  He laughs. It’s bold and obnoxious and jarring in the way it changes his whole face. I can’t decide if it’s meant to make me feel stupid or if I just do.

  We only believe in proven things.

  So you’ve proven there’s a cloud of fuel for black magic hanging inside every Moore home?

  I’ve seen it myself. In both of them.

  You used it on me.

  Yes. And when I used it yesterday, my amulet reacted and burned me. I can’t wear it anymore. The next time it might do more than burn me.

  He puts both hands on his head and turns away. His fingers grip like they’re threading through invisible hair. I can see the movement in his jaw, so I check the screen. Sounds like you need to install the black witch mod on your amulet.

  Would be nice. Perfectly accessible solutions like that only exist in Rex Moore’s world, and I guess I should remind him he’s been transported out of Spoiled Rich Kid Land. Even if there was a way to adjust it, the magic encased in my amulet is so old I wouldn’t dare touch it myself. I lift the amulet over my head and hold it out to him. If I have to draw any more black magic, it will try to protect me not knowing it’s protecting me from myself. It’ll expend power unnecessarily, hurting me in the process. It’s of more use to him now than me.

  He’s speaking when he faces me again, but I don’t check the screen because he’s cut himself off at the sight of what I’m offering.

  I stand. He lifts a hand to hold me back. I point to the healing gunshot wound in his shoulder and tilt my head toward the amulet. This amulet would’ve protected him from that and more.

  Hell no, he says.

  I’ve backed him to the wall now, and he’s just waiting there to see what I’ll do. Defy him, or wait for his permission. Well, he’s never going to willingly accept a gift of an ancient relic created by Bevan trash. It’s a violation to him only because of his ridiculous bias. If he’d get over that, he’d understand our magic is the same as his. It’s the Moores who chose to forget their magic and condemn us for doing what’s necessary to keep it alive. They thought their money and violence was enough, and they were wrong.

  It’d be nice if he’d bow his head so I could put it on easily, but no. He gets off on this running power struggle between us. The resistance, the submission. I see his eyes go lusty, a lick of his bottom lip. So I tilt my face up, rise on my toes to close the distance. All he has to do is lean down—he does. I slide the amulet over his head and press my lips against his as soon as the cord is past his chin. I clasp a hand around it so it warms before settling against him as he tangles his fingers in my hair, dipping down, greedy for more of this fooling around when I said I would stop this. It’s a distraction. A curse. Nothing good will come of it. I shove away.

  He knows the amulet is there, but the intensity of his eyes on mine proves he’s avoiding a glance down to confirm it. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. It was worth it, is what that motion says. You win, but so did I.

  I fingerspell, Pervert.

  He releases a smile, the one with the dimple that goes straight to my head like a blow to the temple. This is why making out with Rex Moore is bad. It creates a drumming of my heart over a cute smile instead of what I should be concerned about: life and death. The end of an ancient war. Stealing all the Moores’ hate one person at a time, consuming it, praying to the elements I find a way to partition it from the good in me so it doesn’t take over until there’s nothing recognizable left.

  Hey, he’s saying. Sloane.

  It looks like anger, but I know better. It’s concern.

  Sorry, I sign. Because I am. Even if he liked the trick, I shouldn’t have done it.

  He signs it back. Sorry.

  Does he know what that means? I pick up his phone to tell him, but I can’t do it. Can’t ruin the magic of this. He’s picking up ASL almost like he wants to, and I can’t determine if he’s playing me in some way or if he truly wants to speak my language. It’s another crisis when I have too many to deal with already.

  He points to the phone so I’ll look at the screen. This fucking amulet is worse than the Bevan war paint.

  I go to him and tuck it inside his T-shirt. Type a reply: No one has to see it.

  They’ll see it.

  Not with the plan I have. So I take his hand and tug him to the bed, pushing him down and taking a seat on the opposite bed to face him. We’ll use that cloud hanging inside every Moore house. It’s a part of them all. I’ll cast a Bevan sleeping spell and tie it to that cloud.

  He puts both hands on his knees and leans toward me. You’re gonna patch an earth magic sleeping spell into the cloud of black magic fuel and it’s supposed to put everyone in the house to sleep?

  Yes. And then we move i
n. You do the bloodletting, I do the brain sucking.

  He laughs so hard he chokes. It’s almost contagious, but I hold a breath until it passes. I fear if I give in, I’ll go into hysterics. I have too much death on my conscience to let the slightest pebble slip underfoot. That’s all it would take to get me sliding down, buried alive by all that we’ve done. Distance will help me cope, I just need to keep it.

  Maybe you should do the bloodletting too, he says when he recovers. I don’t think I can handle surface wounds. All I know is killing.

  It takes effort not to roll my eyes. Be serious.

  You saw what happened back there.

  Okay, maybe he’s right. Once again, I see that whoops on his lips after dropping that unsalvageable woman in that puddle of blood. If that wasn’t genuine, then nothing that comes out of his mouth ever is. And I know that’s not the case. It can’t be. I’ve seen him toy with me. I’ve seen him be real. I know the difference.

  I better know the difference, or I’m heading toward a worse disaster than the one I’ve planned.

  Chapter 24

  Rex

  Somehow the girl convinces me to drive her back to the house where we just slaughtered my people. She says there’s belladonna growing near the house, and she needs it for her sleeping spell. Halfway to the R5 I realize it must’ve been some evil Bevan mind trick because I have the spotty memory to go along with it. All I remember is her pleading eyes and her cheeks still rosy from having kissed me. Another trick, that kiss, come to think of it.

  I’m the biggest sucker virgin piece of shit Bevan slave. How did this happen?

  The midnight sky spans above us. Legit stars galore. I take a good look before I unlock the R5 because it could be my final look. Every look could be. My family will have some serious guns on us as soon as they get any hint of us or the R5, and we’re about to return to our last known position. My final look could be any second of any day from now until the end.

  This motel is so remote I see the clustering of the Milky Way banding across the sky just like it does at home. It’s hard to resist staring. To think myself back there, to my before, to my sweet ignorance. That shiny bliss of anticipation, knowing someday I’d kill Sloane Bevan and score all the cred that goes along with it. Sloane’s eyes are on me like she’s wondering what I’m so interested in.

  “Claí Mór na Réaltaí.” A test to see if she can lip read Irish. What else do we call the Milky Way? Oh, right. “Or how ‘bout, An Láir Bhán?”

  She extends a hand, fingers curling in a gimme gimme for my phone. I open the doors to the R5 and we get in. I hand her the phone and say, “You wanna drive?”

  Headshake. No indication of knowing I was saying something else. It seems like something I could use against her, but in what context? And why, Rex? Why be such a shitwipe?

  I start the car and scroll through the music on my phone. I know I have something goth-girl would like if she could hear, like some dark synthy doom metal or no—psychill. The one with the slowed-down drum and bass and dubstep added in. I find it and raise the volume. She stiffens in her seat when the bass kicks in, lips parted, a hand on the door like she can’t decide if she should jump ship or brace herself. She freezes like that, concentrating like she can hear it. There’s no way, right? Supposedly she’s the deafest you can be, at least that’s what I was told. She reaches for the volume, but instead of turning it down like most people would when assaulted with this dope shit, she turns it up, past brain-melting level. Now those thick vibrating synths have turned heart-murdering. I wait for the bass drop. It steamrolls through me, a thorough gutting—I jump like an idiot to her hand snapping onto my forearm.

  “You can hear that?” I can’t hear my own voice.

  She puts a hand against her chest, the other on her abdomen. She can feel it.

  And I have to look away. The idea that my music has rolled through her body—it’s so hot, so sexual, and fuck it, we have to get out of this parking lot before this noise wakes the entire motel. I turn onto the road to a soundtrack of crunchy, metallic synth and body-blanketing bass that shows off my ten-thousand-dollar audio setup in the sweetest way. As soon as we stop, I’m going to ask her how much of this she’s getting, like, only the bass? Some of the mids? Any treble? I’m not lowering the volume to ask now because I’m feeling way too much like a little boy. Get a grip, Rex, you stupid virgin. You slave to Sloane Bevan.

  I regret nothing.

  I take a cloverleaf fast, feeling the Gs, and she’s raised her arms to shoulder-dance to music she might not hear but can definitely feel, completely unselfconscious, as if it’s just her and my two twelves thumping away. And this—what is this? Happiness? I must be a virgin to that too, but not anymore as of like two minutes ago because my face is about to explode from smiling, and this girl.

  This girl.

  I think I might die for this girl.

  *

  Because we’re stupid, I pull onto the street of the D.C. house full of bodies we murdered and park at the curb. She consulted a swarm of bats two blocks away and according to them, the house is quiet and unburdened by the living. Completely solid coming from bats.

  Then she’s got my hand, and we’re sprinting among shadows and scaling the stone wall into the backyard. She leads me to a garden plot where we pick plants until we can’t hold any more, and then we’re tearing back to the car, no regard for stealth this time. She snags a small metal pail on our way; water splashes our feet as it swings into her hand. In the car I dump my stash into her lap, jam the gearshift into first, and peel away. The shriek of rubber and whining turbo so loud, so conspicuous. So golden.

  I drive into the city. Buildings packed around us, cars whooshing by, a skyline from a movie. We’re in a street racing game without all the crashes. The busy life of the city invades the car through the windows; too soon we’re driving out the other side. Light pollution turns to inky night. I voice command my audio system to play a favorite song, years old but more relevant now than it’s ever been. And I’m not sure I’ll be able to take it if she hates it. Its sexy synth groove fills the car. She’s nodding along and what it does to me—damn. I open the window for air. There’s no relief—the sticky summer moisture charges her scent, swirls it around me. She smells like midnight, like cool air that calms the head and heart. Like the breeze across the lake at home when the house sleeps behind me. Like freedom, like an unwind. I’m glad she can’t hear the lyrics because I’m pretty sure this is a love song and it would give away too fucking much.

  In this car with her time is on hold. As long as we keep driving we can stay like this forever. And when this song is over I’m going to be as deaf as her.

  *

  Another state park somewhere in Maryland, another park vehicle access road. Sloane cloaks the R5, and we hike into the woods, silencing insects and frogs as we pass by. My pills scream louder though. My schedule has been so disrupted I don’t know if I need an upper or a downer and the desperation is telling me to take both. I finger the pill case in my pocket while Sloane organizes the plants we swiped into separate piles.

  I finger the bottle of black magic.

  “So, are we just going to be nocturnal now?” I curb my compulsion to check the time. It doesn’t matter, Rex. Settle down.

  She doesn’t look up from her work.

  Reality creeps up behind me, a gross presence, an unwelcome tap on the shoulder. Even if I figure out a way to shield her from death when I break open this bottle, she won’t forgive me for killing her entire family. It’s never been so exhausting trying to figure out how to get everything I want. Usually I just get it. Sometimes without asking.

  She waves me over. Time for a magic lesson. I’m not in the mood, but if I tell her that she’s not going to care. She’ll win, and I don’t feel like being a loser right now, so I drop down beside her and give her my full attention. Or my best exhibit of it. There�
�s so much in my head right now and my pills want me so badly I wouldn’t be surprised if they broke out of the pill case and climbed into my mouth themselves.

  Belladonna and lavender, ground into fine dust and added to water inside the pail. Three smooth stones dropped in. Then she takes my phone, and when she returns it she’s written a long string of Irish, every fada painstakingly typed which is no easy feat on a phone. She must think I won’t understand it unless it’s perfect.

  She points to my mouth.

  “You want me to read this?” Because she can’t speak or because she wants me to do it? Rex Moore, painted with Bevan war paint, wearing their amulet, now reciting their spells. It’s a sure way to buy an execution from my family instead of a life sentence of being chained in one of those old shacks. Since I’d rather have the execution, I read it. She points to the screen when I’m finished.

  “Read it again?”

  The second time isn’t so harmless. A pulse unlike mine builds in my ears, an echo of the background forest noise becoming almost musical. I falter; Sloane reaches, her hand on my arm like an amp for the music, a touch that should’ve triggered a flinch but for the first time, nothing. She gestures for me to read it a third time. Now the music isn’t just coming from around us but through us like the bass in my car. And that pulse is no longer unlike mine. It is mine. It’s hers. It’s the earth, the trees, the sky. All life around us joined.

  I look at my hands, fearing my body is converting into magic itself, that I’m turning to soil, decomposing into the forest floor, absorbed. I’m no longer a single being but a part of something huge. A single leaf, a grain of dirt, powerless on my own but connected to so much raw power stretching so wide and vast it’s overwhelming. I’ve lost myself but this space proves what a liability my singular body is—how fragile, how tiny on its own. I was so alone before. I was alone always. I’m no longer alone.