Foul Is Fair

by Hannah Capin

  “But look at you.” He’s staring at me in the mirror. “God, Jade, you’re—”

  “I’m fine,” I say. And now I’m the one who can’t look away. The version of me in the mirror is every inch of the sharp-clawed ruinous creature I wanted—

  begged for—

  begged to be one week ago. There’s no guilt in my eyes. Only cold pride at the dark stains on my shirt and my skirt and my skin.

  I am the broad-winged angel blotting out the blinding white of that room. The reaper who deals out the fates boys like Duncan deserve. I’m death and retribution.

  I murder and save.

  “Jade,” Mack whispers. Weighted down with concrete dread. “Are we the villains?”

  “No,” I say. “We’re fate.”

  There’s something in his eyes swimming deep down. Something that agrees with me.

  “You did what you had to do,” I tell him. “St Andrew’s is yours now. He’ll never hurt anyone again.”

  The darkness in his face curls deeper. Stronger.

  “You’re the king now,” I say.

  He says, “And you’re the queen.”

  I nod. “Partners in greatness.”

  I turn back to the mirror. I slip my shirt over my head and drop it in the sink. I unhook my skirt and let it fall around my feet. Under the black lace my skin is shadowed in purple-blue bruises, but in the dark they’re almost invisible. Mack won’t see the dead boys’ handprints. He’ll see what I want him to see.

  He’ll see the girl he loves more than he’s ever loved anyone.

  Tonight, I decide.

  I turn my back to the mirror and pull Mack close to me, swift and sure. Bring my lips to his. I taste Duncan’s blood between us and I know it—

  He’s worthy.

  I whisper, “I love you.”

  We stumble back together from darkness to darkness. The water rushes loud.

  His lips are on mine and his hands are on my skin. We fall onto his bed and my long silver knife winks and gleams from across the room. Outside thunder shakes Inverness to its foundation and in the next room Duncan sleeps forever.

  Mack says, “Are you sure?”

  I say, “Yes.”

  He is mine.

  Morning

  Mack sleeps, but I don’t.

  We lie wrapped together, skin against skin under dark silk sheets. I watch him spent and dreamless in my arms as the night burns through into cool still dawn. The sky fades brighter so slow it takes hours more than it should. So slow I wonder if day will come at all.

  Mack doesn’t stir when the little birds outside sing broken morning-songs. Doesn’t stir when I steal away to unlock the door and stop the water and throw our clothes, scrubbed clean, out onto the balcony by the shining puddles from last night’s storm. Forgotten and accidental.

  I wash the last of the blood off my lips and I curl back into our nest.

  Mack sighs in his sleep.

  Dawn casts the whole room in rose-gold. All the lights in the hills drown in daybreak. A shadow sings across the window and circles once over the balcony—

  huge dark wings, dipping down in reverence—

  —and then the bird glides away from Inverness and disappears into the valley.

  The night is over.

  The house creaks awake. Someone is on the stairs. Climbing hangover-slow and heavy with last night’s shame. A shiver traces fast and thrilled down my spine.

  The new world is about to start. The world I made.

  “Hey,” says Duffy, thick-tongued, on the other side of the door. The weakest of all of them. The one Porter texted last night before his guilt took him over and he buried his knife in Duncan’s side.

  “Hey,” says Duffy again. “Porter. Get up. We have to talk.”

  There are no windows in the hall and I pulled Duncan’s door almost-shut, so just the slimmest trace of truth could ease through. The only light in Duffy’s sleep-blurred eyes is from far down the hall, slanting through the windows on the landing.

  He can’t see the blood on Porter’s shirt or the knife in his hand.

  “Porter,” says Duffy, loud and rude. “God, that vodka laid you out.” His foot scuffs against the floor and Porter groans. “How late were you up?”

  “Hell if I know.” Porter is still half-dead. “Fuck, my head hurts.”

  Next to me, Mack stirs awake. He starts to sit up, but I pull him back into my arms. He smiles before he remembers.

  Then it comes back and I see it all in his eyes—

  guilt and fear and pride—

  —and I whisper into his ear, “Don’t go until they call you.”

  He nods. He swallows hard.

  “You only did what you had to do,” I say.

  He nods again.

  “I love you,” I say, and his arms circle me closer to him.

  I let my eyes flutter closed.

  “We have to talk,” says Duffy outside the door. Urgent and nervous. “Before Dunc’s up. Is he up?”

  Porter groans again. “Don’t know.”

  “You texted me.”

  “Don’t remember.” Porter huffs out a laugh. “Don’t remember much.”

  “You have to rein it in, man. Dunc’s going to be pissed. He won’t let it go like he did when he was drinking and crawling all over the new girl.”

  Porter shifts and his head thumps against the wall. “Twisted bitch. She scares me.”

  “Everything scares you.” Duffy scoffs like he isn’t every bit as worrying and wondering as Porter is. Like it isn’t just the way he’s more afraid of Duncan than anything that makes him do the things Porter is afraid to do. “But Dunc likes her. She’s our shot, okay? We get her on our side, we get her to play nice with Dunc, and things will be fine.”

  “Things are never going to be fine.”

  “Fuck,” says Duffy. “That’s exactly what I mean. Don’t try that shit with Duncan. Play by the rules or—”

  “Or I’m next?”

  “Fuck, man. I give up.”

  Then there’s a knock at the door. Three quick raps.

  Mack shifts next to me, but I hold him back.

  Duffy knocks again. “Mack. We need you.”

  The door swings open. A creeping bold bolt of last night’s adrenaline slices up my veins but I keep my eyes almost-shut. I watch Duffy through eyelash-webbed slivers. His hair is tossed with sleep and his face is tired. When he sees us a smirk plays over his lips.

  My hand loosens on Mack’s arm. He sits up as slow as he should. “What is it?”

  “Damn. You got her before Duncan did,” says Duffy, and my hate wakes me with a welcome little blade-twist. I want him to be next. Right on the heels of his precious king, just the way he does everything.

  “What do you want?” Mack asks. The way he says it makes Duffy take a step back.

  “Dunc wanted me to wake him up early,” says Duffy. Eager and shameless. “We need to get on the same page first.”

  Mack pulls the sheets around me to keep Duffy’s eyes off. “Why? I didn’t piss him off last night.”

  “Exactly. You’ve been his favorite ever since Connor fucked things up.”

  “It wasn’t just Connor.”

  Duffy smiles, bitter. “Don’t. None of that was my fault. I do what Dunc says. You know that. You’re as guilty as me.”

  That brings Mack up and out of bed. “Careful. You came in here for help, didn’t you?”

  I’m proud enough that they’d see it on my face if they were looking.

  “Fine,” says Duffy, both hands up. “I know you’ve got a thing with the new girl—”

  “Jade.”

  “—but Dunc wants her. You’re not going to stay his golden boy if you stay with her.”

  “Jade,” Mack says again, half-turning toward me. “Her name is Jade.”

  “Jade,” says Duffy. It catches in his throat: half in scorn and half in fear.

  “She’s not a damn prize. She chose me.”

  Duffy shrugs. “I�
��m just telling you, you’re the only one who can smooth it over when Dunc decides what to do about this shit.”

  “It’s not my shit,” says Mack. He’s next to Duffy now, taller and stronger and holding the cards. “You and Piper are going to have to find your own way out.” He rests one hand high up on the door until Duffy drops his head and ducks back out.

  Mack shifts into the hallway. “Get it over with. The worst he can do is tell you you’re next.” It’s dark and mocking and I love him for it.

  Duffy mutters something and shuffles down the hall. He knocks at Duncan’s door. My eyes open wide and soak in the brilliant blazing morning. The breeze curls in through the balcony door. Inverness is all mine.

  “Rough night?” Mack says to Porter.

  “Fuck,” says Porter. “That storm freaked me the hell out. I was seeing shit.”

  Duffy knocks again. “Dunc,” he calls, tentative. “Dunc, you up?”

  “There was this bird—” Porter is almost laughing. Even in the morning light he’s balancing on the edge of here and gone. Hammering the nails into his own coffin with every word he says. “Outside, by the gate. Jade didn’t see it, but damn, I swear I heard that thing cawing all night—swear it was in here standing over me—”

  “Duncan,” says Duffy. Clearing his throat. “I’m coming in.”

  “Just,” says Porter with a strange rueful laugh, “fuck that storm.”

  There’s a pause so breathless and full of knowing that I sit up tall in Mack’s bed. Hold the sheets close. Feel Inverness hold itself still with me.

  “Jesus!” Duffy is shrill and crashing. “Jesus. Fuck, Dunc, get up!”

  “What is it?” says Mack.

  “Fuck, Dunc! Mack, get in here!”

  And then Lilia screams high and awful and loud enough to wake the dead.

  “Don’t look,” Duffy says, “Call somebody, get somebody—”

  Lilia’s shriek turns to a wail. A wounded wounding cry shattering open the doors to heaven and hell.

  “Get Banks,” Duffy shouts. “Get Malcolm.” And it’s all a jumble, and Mack talks over him and through him and then his footsteps fly past the door. Lilia still screams and Porter mumbles what is it. It’s chaos. It’s destruction.

  I’ve torn their tower down.

  I should wait until Mack comes back with Banks and they find Porter with the knife. Until their whole tragic mess has played itself out and they’ve sewn all the pieces together without even remembering Mack’s girl sleeping innocent in the next room.

  But this is my moment. It’s been nipping at my neck since the slanting second when Connor fell. Since the night I lay twisted in the white-sheets room where Duncan and Duffy and Connor and Banks left me.

  I draw the sheets around my shoulders. I stand up regal and ready. I go to the door and pull it open. The balcony light floods into the hallway all around me. Gleaming off my silk robe and my revenge-black hair. Turning me into a dark shining silhouette.

  My best entrance yet.

  “What is it?” I say. White lilies blossom thick under my words. A snake weaves through their stems, but no one will see it until it’s wrapped itself around them and choked their breath away.

  Duffy leans against the dead king’s door, doubled over with one hand clutched to his mouth. His neck cranes up. He says, “No—don’t—it’s horrible—it’d kill you—”

  “What?” Flock-girl Jade is all sleepy delight. The sheet slips off my shoulder and I pretend I don’t notice. Pretend I don’t see Duffy retch yellow. Keep my eyes from lingering on Porter with his face as horror-bent as Duffy’s and his eyes on the knife in his hand.

  “Just—don’t, don’t, it’s nothing,” Duffy babbles. In Duncan’s room, Lilia’s cry snuffs out to tiny wobbling gasps. Voices clamor downstairs and footsteps trample up to the landing.

  Then Banks is rushing past me with Mack behind him. “God damn, Duff, move!” Banks shouts, and he sends Duncan’s little dog reeling into the hall.

  The instant stretches tight enough to break. Duffy’s eyes are locked on mine.

  Then Banks and Mack burst back through the door. They don’t speak. Their faces almost match.

  “Banks,” says Duffy, and he breathes hard and spits bile. “He’s dead. He’s murdered.”

  I give them my line: “What?”

  They look at me. All of them. Porter panicking on the floor and Duffy with his shoulders sagging and Banks and Mack guarding the king’s doorway too late. I’m just a girl to them. Never a St Andrew’s girl, not half shiny-hard enough to take the news that poor dead Duncan met his end one door down.

  “No,” I breathe out. I read it on their faces. Write it on mine. “No,” I say again, sharper.

  Banks nods. I let my hand come up shaking in front of my mouth.

  “Somebody has to tell Malcolm,” says Duffy, still babbling.

  “Tell everyone,” Mack says. His words toll heavy. “Duncan is dead.”

  It sinks in for the rest of them when he says it. Lands soft like the bird that guarded Inverness from the oleander tree.

  Someone killed their king while they slept.

  Someone here in this house.

  Then Mack is diving for the floor. “Porter!” he shouts, and Porter howls like he’s already seeing himself strung up by the neck. Duffy scrambles for the lights and then the hall shines bright. Mack is on top of Porter grabbing for his knife. Shouting, “It was you!”

  Banks and Duffy spring to the ready. They know it’s true: it was Porter with his drunk fraying texts and his knife drawn all night. Porter who knew too much.

  “Say it!” Mack shouts, and his hand is on Porter’s throat and Porter squeals and they struggle for the knife—

  “Mack!” I cry with all the desperate dread I can wring out. “No!”

  He stops. He turns with his hand over Porter’s on the knife.

  I let my legs go weak. Grab for the door and try hard to stay standing—

  poor brave new girl, drowning in the knotted St Andrew’s secrets—

  —and I whisper, “Mack—” and I crumple to the floor. My eyes fade closed.

  “Help her,” says Banks. “Leave Porter. We’ll deal with him later.”

  “I didn’t—” Porter gasps.

  “You killed him in cold blood.” Mack is next to me now. Tucking the sheet closer around me. Brushing my hair out of my face.

  “I didn’t!” Porter says again.

  No one believes him.

  There’s noise from the stairs. I raise a weak hand and find Mack’s face. Open my eyes. Stay where I am, the perfect portrait of shock, so when Piper and Malcolm and the rest of them crowd into the hall I’m just last night’s conquest on Mack’s arm. Not even worth a second glance.

  “What is it?” Malcolm stands in front of his worried little pack. He’s barely a wolf this morning. He already knows what he’s almost too afraid to ask.

  Their eyes meet. Duffy and Banks and Mack.

  I blurt it out. “It’s Duncan. He’s dead. Porter—” I bring one hand up and point. Shaking so hard Mack wraps his arms around me and draws me in. Our hands stay folded together over my skipping-fast heartbeat.

  The color drains out of Malcolm’s face until he’s as bloodless as his brother. “No,” he says. “No.” He pushes toward the door but Banks and Duffy block his way.

  “Malcolm,” says Mack. “Don’t. You don’t want to remember him like this.” He squeezes my hand tight and then he lets me go. Then he’s next to Malcolm, one hand on his arm, captain to soldier. The second-string boys and the flock-girls shift a little and I know they feel the way everything has changed—

  —the way Mack is king now.

  “Go with Jade,” says Mack. “Take her downstairs. The rest of them, too.” He turns to Duffy and Banks guarding the tomb with Lilia still sealed inside. “We’ll talk,” he says, as heavy with meaning as anything Duncan ever said before I cracked his kingdom apart.

  Little-boy Malcolm, baby-wolf Malcolm, crouc
hes down next to me and helps me stand. He’s trembling. He’s ruined. But I’m glad, because baby-wolf Malcolm is still the boy who mixed the drink and sneered wide in the doorway and said, you know I trust my dealer, and waited for me to go still.

  “Mack—” I say before Malcolm can lead me away from the horror I made. “Don’t leave me.” Still playing the flock-girl, but under it I’m twitching tight. He’s different this morning, the boy I’ve turned him into, and I’m glad. He’ll kill the rest of them when it’s time. He’ll even like it the way I do.

  But if I hadn’t stopped him when he had one hand on Porter’s throat and the other on his knife—

  I need him close to my promises and my lips. Where I can keep him from ruining the careful plot I’ve built.

  “I’ll be downstairs soon,” he says, and then he and Duffy and Banks slip through the doorway into Duncan’s room.

  I steal a glance at Porter. He’s clutching his knife close. His eyes dart from the pack at Duncan’s door to the rust-red blade in his hands.

  He knows he’s finished.

  “Malcolm—” I stop. “Wait. I’m dizzy—” And I stumble another step out to where the hall widens onto the landing. I steady myself on the wall and lean my head on Malcolm’s shoulder. Keep him there with me, caught, and let my eyelids droop heavy for just long enough that everyone ahead of us troops the rest of the way down the stairs.

  I lift my head and look over Malcolm’s shoulder. The lights gleam brighter than the sun outside. Sweat beads up on Porter’s lip and his hands tremble. I lock my eyes to his until his shivering stops. He’s desperate. He’ll do anything to get away from the pack that’s turned against him.

  I cut my gaze hard toward the stairs and back. My lips make one word, murder-silent: Run.

  Then I let my head fall back onto Malcolm’s shoulder. I whisper into his ear, “You can’t trust them.”

  He goes still. There’s something aching about him, something that feels different when his brother isn’t watching. Like he’s almost a boy who would never do the things his brother made him do. Almost a boy I could see and touch and trust.

  Almost. Not quite.

  “You’ll be next,” I say. Hushed and scared. “I heard them talking—” The words float up higher and higher toward the skylights, toward heaven—