“She did not. You were starting something on purpose. And you’re one to talk about having people’s backs. You obviously don’t have mine. You know I’m telling the truth. You know it!”
Her fists clench. “Russell says you begged him—”
“To be my patron? Yeah, he bragged to me about fooling you with that. You can’t actually believe him. Would I ever do that?”
“Russell’s incredibly rich. You knew he could hire a bodyguard for you.”
“I would never ask for a patron! And if I did, the last person I’d ask would be my best friend’s boyfriend! Ugh, the last person I’d ask would be Russell.”
“Siobhan says she heard you do it.”
I laugh harshly. “Of course she did. Do you expect anything else of Siobhan?”
“I don’t know what to believe!” Amanda shouts. “One of you is lying! So what, I have to pick between my best friend and my boyfriend?”
“Yes. You do.”
Amanda looks around, her expression growing tight and cagey. So do I. I realize now that the whole cafeteria has descended into silence. Everyone is watching with interest. Except for Russell, who glides over to put his arm around Amanda.
“Everything okay, babe?’
“Don’t touch me,” Amanda hisses, throwing his arm off. She shoots a venomous glare around at the onlookers and then stalks out of the cafeteria.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
There’s one person I never see in the school cafeteria. I have a theory about where he goes. After the drama in front of the whole school, I’d rather not stick around for the rest of lunch.
I repress a shudder as I walk down the empty hallway of the service corridor, remembering the ugliness of my last visit here. Then I knock on the door of that locked room. “Alexander? It’s Kat.”
The door swings open. Alexander raises his eyebrows in silent question. I hold up a plate.
“Want a sandwich? It’s turkey. I swiped it from the cafeteria.”
Bemused, he lets me in. I step past him. He settles on the cot and begins eating the sandwich.
There’s something reassuring about his presence. Someone who won’t stumble over words when they talk about the school hunting guild around me. Someone who won’t flinch from the worst of me.
I plant my hands on my hips and tell him, “I punched Russell today.”
Alexander rises to his feet, something sinister on his face. “Is he harassing you again?”
“He’s still mad about the fight. I did it just like you showed me. Thumb out.” I wiggle my thumb. “See? Not broken.”
A ghost of a smile teased his lips. “How’d it go?”
“He wasn’t knocked unconscious and my hand kind of hurt. But I think it hurt him more.” Grim pride colors my words.
“Well done, Kathryn.”
“Can you…” My stomach flutters uneasily. “Can you maybe teach me some other stuff?”
He considers me a moment, then finishes the last third of the sandwich in a bite. “Fine.” He rises fluidly to his feet and strips off his usual long, black coat.
It’s the first time I’ve seen the inner lining of the coat, and my jaw drops. There are holsters with knives of different lengths, all carefully concealed so they can rest against his skin. Other parts of the coat have what look like metal plates sewn in over strategic places, like his heart, his stomach, and probably his groin.
“That’s why you wear this all the time,” I murmur.
“You get a high enough bounty, it becomes a necessity.”
“Where’d you get all the weapons?”
“From hunters.”
The implication hangs heavily in the air. My eyes rove over the weapons. That’s a lot of hunters. “Is that how your bounty got so high?”
“Most hunters and their families know what they’re getting into. They rarely spend huge sums of money adding to anathema bounties.” He’s silent a moment, then, “All it takes are a few rich enemies.”
I find myself remembering Liam at the Waste. Uneasiness flutters through me. “Is it… Well, is one of them the person who gives orders to all those anathemas at the Waste?”
Alexander sends me a long, measuring glance. His expression is suddenly carefully veiled, cautious. “Yes.”
“Do you know who their boss is?”
“Do you want to learn something or waste more time asking questions?” he answers flatly.
I close my mouth. Alexander reaches out and takes me by the shoulders, then spins me around so my back faces his, my hair just skimming his broad chest. He’s so close, I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
“In my experience, the vast majority of hunters are male. That means most of them will have a physical strength advantage over you. That’s what you need to learn to defend against. And you can.”
“How?”
“Every martial art focuses on using your opponent’s strength against him. His momentum, his weight. When your attacker guards one weak point, you go for another. First thing you need to learn is how to break a headlock.”
His arms lock around me from behind, and suddenly I’m breathless. I’m painfully aware of the entire long, lean expanse of him, pressed up against me. The scent of his sweat and his shampoo and the sheer maleness of him.
Then the bell rings, and Alexander says, “But not today.”
It’s only the beginning. Alexander took Taekwondo for years before becoming an anathema. The hobby became a critical survival skill once he lost citizenship. In the days that follow, I go down every day at lunchtime.
There’s only so much I can learn in a short time, but I did spend most of my life dancing and doing gymnastics. I may not be in my best shape ever now, but I’m primed for movement. My muscles welcome the burn as he takes me through the basics. It helps that I have a very real reason to need these lessons. He teaches me to stomp on his instep. To throw him forward when he grabs me from behind. And every time, I worry about hurting him.
“Get that out of your head,” he orders me.
“What?”
“You have to ignore that instinct to hold back. It will get you killed. You have to accept the necessity of hurting someone else.”
“It doesn’t come easily, okay?”
I grew up with a safe, loving family, and people who protected me. I’ve never taken a fighting class or even done a contact sport. I didn’t grow up like Alexander, with a messed up father abusing his sister, and then immediately become an anathema. Physical aggression is entirely outside my comfort zone.
Alexander seems to be thinking of something similar. “Maybe you’re just not capable of this.” He considers me a moment, then shrugs. “Or maybe you’re just not strong enough.”
That stings my pride. I hit him harder next time, and he staggers back with an oomph. I clap my hand over my mouth, horrified. He looks up at me and flashes me that rare smile of his. “Good job.”
“Good job? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He rubs his side. “You’re stronger than you know.”
I try to hide my flush by laughing. “I guess eleven years of dancing and three years of cheerleading was good for something.”
He straightens with a wince. “Boxers take ballet.”
“They do?”
“Keeps them quick on their feet. Agile.” He takes an aggressive, swift step towards me and I hop back. “See? You’re quick.”
We go up to comp sci afterwards, seated side by side, my muscles aching and his skin littered with bruises. I work on our project, and he plays the indifferent, lazy partner— until I’m making a mistake. Then he steps in. I watch his hands move the mouse, his long, graceful fingers typing. I’m becoming good at JavaScript, because I have to do the work, but I know there’s a safety net. Just like self-defense. For some reason, it’s so interesting to me, seeing him lost in something. Watching a line press between his brows in abstracted thought when he studies the screen. It’s then that I drink in the sight of him, his chiseled f
eatures like a marble statue, the graceful line of his profile, the black lashes and brows cutting across his smooth skin, the hair slanting darkly across his forehead.
We pass each other in the hallway, the two anathemas, and our eyes meet with the knowledge we’re going to spar again tomorrow. The shared secrets floating between us are almost enough to distract me from the 1-800 numbers plastered in the hallways, asking for tips about the Shelter Valley Massacre. I forget the reporters outside the school, the new hunting guild members eagerly gravitating together in the lobby, the gymnasium, the cafeteria.
Alexander even gives me one of his own weapons, just for extreme cases of self-defense. He presses a finger to his lips. “We’re not supposed to have these at school. Teachers mostly understand when it comes to us. They’ll look the other way, but you’ll have some who buy into the stereotypes.”
“Ms. Dodd.” I found out she’s also the faculty sponsor for the new school hunting guild.
“Case in point.”
I take it from him, nervous about cutting myself with it. Alexander slides a sheath over it with great care. “You need to carry a bigger bag. Something that will fit this. Unless you opt for the massive coat approach.”
I laugh. “I know I’ve got some awful hair going on right now, but I still sort of care about my appearance.”
He reaches up briefly, touches a strand of my newly short hair. “I like it.”
I find myself holding my breath. He touches me when we spar, but otherwise he’s the most withdrawn person I’ve ever met. My scalp tickles, and too soon, he seems to realize what he’s doing. His hand drops.
“It suits you,” he says.
Everything that comes from him is given sparingly like he’s shut off some warm, human part of himself to conserve it. He’s not a person of ready touches, words or smiles. For some reason, though, that just makes each touch, each syllable more important somehow. It all means something. I focus on my brand new short sword thing, trying to think of that and not the heat rising in my cheeks.
“So am I supposed to have epic sword duels with this?”
“Machete, not sword,” he corrects. “And no. Hopefully, the sight of it in your hand will stop you from dueling at all. That’s the point. Best way to avoid getting killed is to avoid fighting in the first place.”
“So my machete will do that… Despite being an HI-1?”
“You could change that hazard index.” His voice sounds strange. “You just won’t like what you’d have to do to raise it.”
I swallow and shake my head. I know what he’s implying. I’d need more blood on my hands. Shed publicly. Publicly enough that a few people notify central hunting databases that there are inherent risks to claiming my bounty.
I already see the bodies from the massacre when I close my eyes.
There are things I simply can’t do.
Not unless I have to.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I’ve been riding to and from school every day with Heidi. We always leave an hour after school ends because of newspaper related activities. As a great but unintended consequence, I’ve become involved with writing again.
Stupid stories. Fluff ones. “We need something to fill about two inches on the sports section,” Heidi told the room of young journalists, who all looked away.
Silence reigned.
In the back corner where I was waiting for her, I tentatively raised my hand.
“I could write something.”
Heidi’s smile wavered a moment, uncertain.
“I don’t need a byline. I don’t even need to talk to anyone,” I offered quickly, remembering the no-human-interaction stipulation of our faculty sponsor, Mrs. Tierney. After all, it only took me a Google search to find out things like the rankings of our best swimmers, or their strongest opponents; the best plays of competing football teams, things like that.
Writing a small sports article earned me another article about the Fall Formal. I just had to walk into the gymnasium to see the preparations for the Fall Formal, no human interaction needed there, either.
That article earned me a current events one. I needed to turn out something good, so I swallowed down my own feelings and penned a story about Mayor Alton and her potential to become California’s next governor. To my dismay, I discovered through research that she’s the frontrunner. She’s got a fantastic reputation among the voting public. She’s the tough-on-crime mayor of Cordoba Bay with enthusiastic and wealthy constituents eager to fund her campaign.
Despite the massive enclave of anathemas I know are hiding in our town, there’s almost no anathema-related crime in Cordoba Bay. They don’t wreak havoc in their own backyard. Her two most prominent opponents are the state treasurer, who was recently caught with two pounds of cocaine. He’s facing loss of citizenship himself. The other is the mayor of Los Angeles. His city is suffering from an unprecedented, anathema-fueled crime wave. Apparently, Wolfman Savage himself has practically set up camp there for some special episodes of his online show.
I produce the article despite my misgivings, and it goes to press despite Mrs. Tierney’s objections to my participation. Writing here and there wherever a story was needed makes me feel involved in something again, and the more I write, the more I get to write.
An early flu begins spreading around school. So on Wednesday night, a few days before the Fall Formal, Heidi is panicked. We have an edition due out Thursday before the dance Friday, and half her reporters are out sick.
“I have to stay late tonight, even if I need to write all the articles myself.” She looks frantic as she confesses this to me right after school. “Can you help? I’ll give you bylines.”
“Yes, I’ll be glad to.”
“We’ll have to stay late.”
“Just drive me home afterwards and it doesn’t matter what time it is.” I’m thrilled. The same adrenaline I used to feel before a dance competition buzzes through my veins. We retreat to the computer lab with the rest of the school newspaper staff, and I’m just another member of a tightly-knit team again. Tonight I’m not the anathema.
I call my parents to warn them I’ll be in late. Mom frets about the late hour, but I swear, she almost sounds pleased, too. Second only to her worries about my safety, are her worries over how my anathema status has whittled away my involvement in school activities. She asks every now and then whether I’m depressed. Hopefully this will put some of those fears to rest.
“Since I won’t be home anyway, why don’t you and dad go out to dinner?” I suggest.
Her voice brightens. “We’ve wanted to try the new Italian place on Shoreline. But Kathryn, I don’t like you out so late. The minute you’re done—”
“I’ll call you. Then you guys can pick me up.”
Despite my promise, I’m reluctant to call her when we finish cranking out the Thursday edition. It’s only 7:30, earlier than any of us expected. Mom and Dad are probably still at the Italian place.
“You were such a huge help,” Heidi says, giving me a swift hug. “I’m going to talk to Mrs. Tierney. You really shouldn’t get shut out the way you have. Still want a ride home?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her my parents are going to get me, then I reconsider. Mom and Dad haven’t gone out together once since I’ve lost citizenship because they’ve been so busy protecting me. They’ve confined themselves to home just to make sure I’m not besieged by hunters while at home by myself.
Why ruin the night for them? I want them to have dinner and enjoy it. Heidi can drop me off. Mom may yell at me when she gets home and finds me there already, but it’ll be worth it to give her one night to be a regular human being.
“Yeah.” I beam at Heidi. “Let’s go.”
We’re driving past the park on Beach Street. My eyes comb the shadows outside the car, uneasiness crawling into my heart. I’ve only been out after dark twice since losing citizenship: the night of Conrad’s birthday and the night of the Shelter Valley Massacre. Something feels
wrong tonight. I’m nervous.
“I love this song,” Heidi proclaims as we sit at the long stoplight on Beach and Acre. She turns up the radio.
I look down only for a moment.
And then suddenly they materialize out of the darkness, rushing in front of the headlights, beating their hands on the roof of the car, the windows. Heidi shrieks. I go rigid in my seat.
A familiar face flashes by. Hands yank at the locked doors to the car.
“Open up!” shouts a voice from outside.
All I see are the weapons. The knives, the swords. Heidi exclaims, “It’s a hunting guild!”
“It’s the school guild,” I tell her, recognizing familiar faces.
“What do they want?”
“What do you think? Drive.”
She bursts into tears.
The hands keep hammering on the windows. Keep yanking on the doors. Others gesture for Heidi to open them. For a moment, I’m shocked that classmates are actually out there trying to kill me, then I brush the thought aside.
“Drive!” I order Heidi again.
“I can’t,” she sobs, shaking. “They’re in front of the car. I’ll hit them.”
Anger surges through me. “Just drive anyway. They’ll move rather than get hit!”
She convulses with frightened tears. “But what if they don’t? It’s assault. I’ll be an anathema.”
She’s right, of course. She hits these people with her car, and she’s interfering in legitimate law enforcement activities. She injures any of them, and she will lose her citizenship.
“Okay, okay, calm down,” I urge her over the sound of hooting and shouting from outside. “You’re freaked out. That’s okay. They can’t get in the car. Go forward slowly and they’ll get out of the way. I swear.”
She shakes her head over and over again. “If they don’t… If they don’t…”
I might as well have been driving myself this whole time. Heidi is not any sort of protection. “Back up, then! The way is clear!”
Still sobbing, she backs us up. The school guild runs after us. They’re going to surround us, block the way again. I know it.
Anathema Page 17
