ARC: Crushed (15 page)

Really.

“It’s illegal, you know,” he murmurs. “Stealing.”

I clear my throat. “Stealing?”

“My heart. I could have you arrested.”

I snort. “For that tiny thing? I’d get a misdemeanor at most.”

“Ouch!”

“Ah, well, incubi, get outta here with that fake cheesiness.”

“
Fake cheesiness?
That was one of my best lines!”

“The fakest. The cheese whiz of romance.”

He chuckles and leans back. “Ah, well, I know how you love your neon-orange foods.”

I laugh and my eyes meet his. Instead of humor diffusing the tension, it seems to only amplify it, and again I’m caught. Rotten boys with their rotten eyes with their ridiculous rotten eyelashes. They suck a girl in, a pair of Venus fly-traps. No, Venus
eye
-traps.

Can’t… fight… must… lean… in… closer…

“
Never....give yourself to someone you can’t trust, Meda.
” Ah, rescued in the nick of time by the ice-cold water of my mother’s memory. Always reliable to pop up anytime I’m about to have fun. But I’m grateful. I manage to pull back. To breathe.

“What?” asks Armand, blinking those eye-traps. I look away before they can get me again.

“Nothing.” I wave her away. “Just… ghosts.”

“Where?” He straightens and looks around.

“You can see ghosts?”

“Course.”

“Yes, how foolish that I didn’t realize.”

He laughs. “Our job is to punish the wicked when they die. Kinda hard if you can’t see them.”

“And the memories? Can you see their memories?” It occurs to me I may be giving away too much, but curiosity hurtles me forwards.

“How else would we know how to hit them where it hurts?”

I wait for an explanation.

“Hell isn’t all about hot pokers and coals.” He relaxes back, taking his eye-traps with him. “Or rather, not just about that.” I hear a smile in his voice, but don’t turn to see it. Too risky. “Physical torture is amateurish. Lazy.” His accent gets thicker. “Real torture isn’t about the body, it’s about the soul. In hell, a demon can pull the memories from a person, ferret out their weakness, then use it against them.”

I shiver at his tone, but it’s not in fear. Never that. I don’t say anything for a long moment, giving the shifting darkness time to settle.

He doesn’t make it easy. “You could come, be a part of it, you know, instead of…” he waves his long fingers in the air, “this. I know today was bad, so why will you go back for more tomorrow?”

Why, why, why. He looks to me for answers, I look to the sky. We’re both disappointed.

Armand props himself up on one elbow so he’s leaning over me. He’s close, real close. I can – and do – count the water droplets on his chest. “And you’re not allowed to fight back at all? I mean, even if you do want to be good – which, I can’t imagine why anyone would.” He shoots me a wicked look from beneath thick lashes. I stick out my tongue. “You don’t have to be a doormat to be good. Even good people are allowed self-defence.”

“
I
know that.”

“Then why the hell can’t you defend yourself?”

I fake a Jo-lecture voice. “‘The Crusaders want proof you’ve changed. It’s all a test.’” I drop my voice into a threat. “‘You have to pass.’”

A dark light brightens Armand’s eyes. “So cheat.”

“Cheat?”

“It’s not that you can’t get revenge, you just can’t get
caught
.” There’s wicked delight in his eyes, the escaped rays of a bitten-back laugh. He slips his hand in his pocket and pulls out my room key. “And you couldn’t possibly do anything – you’ve been locked up all night.”

The light bulb that explodes in my head damn-near sets my brain on fire. It’s so simple, so obvious. I’m embarrassed I didn’t think of it myself.

But I know why I didn’t. Because I’ve been trying to be good. I’m new to this, but I’m pretty sure revenge schemes aren’t part of that.

But they so,
so
deserve it.

A part of me whispers that this is a mistake, the part where the memory of my mom lives, the part that houses the hive of the good bees. But that part grows smaller every day, eaten away in big bites of injustice. It’s a glacier floating in a too-hot sea, warmed by the heat of my rage.

Memory Mom makes one last bid.
You won’t win them over with hate.

That’s probably true.

But you don’t have to be a doormat to be good.
Armand’s voice this time.

That makes sense, too.

I’m at a crossroads. One path is a slow, painful, righteous trudge uphill to a place where my nemeses see the light. The other is easy and fun, downhill and dark. Armand takes my hand.

I won’t walk this path alone.

The grin that dances across his face finds a partner on mine.

Armand and I have a busy night.

Chapter 17

I’m the first one to breakfast the next morning; the puppet master needs time to set her stage. I pile my plate with props: scrambled egg whites (yolks being orange, I suppose, and therefore forbidden) and toast. Armand keeps me in junk food so I don’t need it, but Meda the Innocent needs to be in character.

I choose my position carefully – down-stage as we say in the biz – picking the table furthest from the door, but on the corner seat so I have a clear view when They come in.

As show time draws near, the audience files in to take their seats. The Headmaster and the Northerners enter, though not the Sarge. I’d hoped their box would remain entirely empty for this morning’s performance, but no matter. As they say, the show must go on.

Annnnnnnnnd… Action!

The curtains sweep wide for the opening act, banging as if they were lowly cafeteria doors slammed in a rage. The Schmuck Seven roar in, my leading man, Isaiah at the head. The entire cafeteria swivels at their dramatic arrival; their mouths drop open in amazement, a reaction guaranteed to warm any director’s cold, dead heart.

One half of each boy’s face is painted like a grotesque monster. Their mouths are surrounded by giant snarls. Huge, drawn-on eyebrows swoop down into scowls. The skin is painted red and patchy, as if burned and twisted. The result is something like Two-Face from Batman. It still looks pretty good, despite the smearing from their obvious attempts to scrub it off. Their costume designer has quite the talent.

I wanted to show the world that Isaiah and his friends are liars and hypocrites. That they, like me, have a rotten side, they’re just able to hide theirs a little better than I. But not anymore. I hope the symbolism isn’t lost on them.

Then I added the drawing of pursed lips – a kiss – right on the center of their throats. A threat, so they know I can get to them anytime I want.

And lastly, Armand shaved their eyebrows and filled their shoes with Kool-Aid powder, so their feet will turn purple once they sweat. No symbolism there, we just thought it was funny.

There’s a long shocked silence. Then a choked snort.

Then the entire cafeteria bursts into laughter.

A comedy, this.

Isaiah’s furious scowl lands on me. “YOU!” he screams, right on cue. The cafeteria turns en masse to enjoy my false innocence. My victims march across the cafeteria – the entire length of the long, long cafeteria, so the entire audience can get a good look – to stop in front of me.

It’s almost like someone planned it. Teehee. Dance puppets!

“You did this!”

I bat harmless, innocent lashes. “Who, me?”

I must not be a very good actress. Isaiah lunges, but Omar slaps an arm across his chest to hold him back. “Not now,” he murmurs.

“I’ll kill you!” Isaiah screams.

I narrow my eyes. “You’re welcome to try,” I purr. Then I lower my voice and cock my head, casting a look at the kiss, centered on his tender, beating throat. His Adam’s apple bobs, lifting my artwork, and the unpainted side of his face turns red enough to match the other. He moves again towards me.

“Mr Hooper,” says the Headmaster from his table across the cafeteria. Ah, some audience participation! The Headmaster pushes from the table he shares with the visiting Northerners, and tosses his napkin onto the table. He strides down the aisle.

That snaps Isaiah out of his rage a little, and he looks smug. “This was a mistake, Monster.” He twists to face the headmaster, morphing into a dutiful little soldier. “I’m sorry, sir!” he says smartly. “But look at what she did!”

The Headmaster’s mouth twitches, but he recovers nicely. Who knew he had such a talent?
All the world’s a stage and we are but actors in it.
“Miss Porter did this to you?” He addresses Isaiah, but looks to me for the answer.

I shake my head, looking shocked.

Ah, what a phenomenal actress! So believable, so endearing. She quite stole the show.

Isaiah’s mouth thins. “Of course she did!”

The headmaster’s voice hardens. “Of course, Mr Hooper? And what proof do you have?”

This is not how Isaiah saw this going, I can tell. “But,” he sputters. Never say, he forgot his lines! “She’s a demon. She hates me. She just attacked me last week.” He lists facts in a tone suggesting the Headmaster to be stupid – a mistake. I could have told him that. Not that I would, of course. “She came into my room at night, while I was unprotected! She can go into anyone’s room. She could kill us all in our sleep if she wanted–”

Suddenly, down in the pit, the band starts the ba-da-da-da-da-da theme-music for the Wicked Witch of the West. I look up and see Graff, already in his spiffy suit at this early hour, striding down the aisle to join us. His costume designer, while unimaginative, has clearly been busy. Pleats that crisp take time.

“The boy has a point, Gordon. She’s allowed to move too freely among the grounds.”

“Sorry, Arthur, but he doesn’t,” Headmaster responds, placidly.

“You have a half-demon running loose in this school, practically unsupervised,” Graff says, calm, emotionless. “You can’t blame the boy for being anxious.”

“I can, if he throws out baseless accusations.”

Hope blooms in Isaiah’s eyes. “They’re not baseless.”

“Do you have proof they’re not?” The headmaster asks.

Graff cuts in smoothly. “Do you have proof they are?”

“I do, actually.” Headmaster taps gnarled fingers against his stomach and looks around the room until he finds who he’s looking for. “Miss Beauregard?” We all turn to where Jo sits across the cafeteria. “Come here.”

“Yessir,” Jo says, and hops gracelessly to her feet and limps over to us, her face carefully blank.

“Did you lock Miss Melange in her room last night?”

That juicy bit of gossip pulls a gasp from our already-breathless audience. The headmaster doesn’t turn to face Jo as she answers, confident in her answer. Instead he faces Graff with a raised-eyebrow-you’re-wrong look that I’m intimately familiar with.

“Yessir,” Jo answers.

“Did you unlock her door this morning to let her out?”

“Yessir.”

“Did you let her out anytime in between?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you lose sight of your key anytime in the night?”

Jo reaches under the neck of her t-shirt and holds up the key, from where it hangs from a chain around her neck. “No.”

Isaiah, nearly forgotten, cuts in, “She lies!”

The Headmaster, out of patience, smacks Isaiah with a look that shuts him up. He turns back to Graff and says dryly. “We’re a school full of teens, this is hardly the first prank” he raises an eyebrow, “or the last, I daresay – that has been perpetrated here. I’m not in the habit of crucifying students for harmless jokes.” Then he gives all the gathered students a gimlet glare – lest we get any ideas. “At least, not unless they get caught.” There are gulps all around.

He turns back to Isaiah & Co. “Why don’t the lot of you head to the infirmary and see if they’ve anything to take that off, hmmm?” Then his placid expression is replaced with something much harder. “Then report to my office.” His cold eyes lift to the rest of the room. “And we’ll all finish our breakfast.” Forgotten flatware suddenly clinks against dishes as everyone does as ordered. The headmaster turns and heads back up the aisle. Graff doesn’t leave right away, but stays a moment longer. He eyes me, his expression cool and flat, then Isaiah. His dead-fish eyes give nothing away. Then, he turns and strides up the aisle in his too-stiff walk.

Isaiah’s forced to settle on an evil look that promises revenge before slinking off after them.

Just let him try.

His posse follows suit.

I take a bow.

Then my eyes come to rest on the one person remaining next to me. Jo. But she’s not looking at me. Her eyes are on Graff’s retreating back. She looks worried.

Then she feels me watching her and turns. “Meda,” she murmurs shooting a glance around to make sure no one can hear. “Did you?” She suspects. Of course she does. She knows me.

But I know you too, Jo.

My mouth twists. “Why ask, when you won’t believe my answer? We both know you’re going to check on me tonight, so why bother?”
She pulls back. “Of course I’m not going to check on you,” she says stiffly. She gives me one long look, then walks away.

Not anymore,
is what she means.

Dance, puppet!

Predictably, jokes about my prisoner status are added to the kindergarten jokes. It’s regrettable that it had to come out, but worth it. Because even with the additional fodder, I’ve had to endure fewer taunts than in any day the previous week. It simply can’t compete with painted faces and shaved eyebrows.

Surprisingly, Kindergarten has become my favorite class. Most of the little kids don’t get why it’s funny I’m stuck in their class or locked up at night, and the few that do are easily distracted with be-tailed portraits and fart jokes – heretofore undiscovered skills at which I excel. It’s a nice break from the rest of the day. Still, I can barely pull my eyes away from the clock.

I scarf down dinner, and am back at my room by six. I force myself to sleep. Force my eyes to close and my breathing to slow. I’m a child on Christmas Eve, or rather, a prisoner the night before her probation kicks in. But I need to sleep, so I do.

I sleep through Jo locking me.

I don’t sleep through Armand letting me out.

And, like Christmas, Armand has brought gifts. But he is no fat, sweet Santa Claus who rewards the nice; he is the Lord of Misrule, the Abbot of Unreason in charge of scandalous fun. After a brief and giddy celebration, we’re off again. Clothes are coated with itching powder, shampoo bottles are filled with hair remover. Homework escapes, hidden stashes of contraband disappear and reappear in hiding places all over school. We start with Isaiah and his friends, or at least the ones who were foolish enough to let themselves sleep, but it’s over too soon and we expand our circle to anyone who taunted me, then to anyone who laughed too hard or too loudly.

Then grey taints the pitch black of the sky, and I have to return to my cell. It’s hard to be quiet, drunk as I am on so much fun. Armand takes exaggerated sneaking steps, his knees coming almost to his chest as he tip-toes. I smother a giggle and he shushes me as seriously as if we were hunting wabbits.

He unlocks my door and opens it with an elaborate bow. I curtsy, playing Lady Misrule to his Lord. He starts to close the door, but stops. Instead of closing the door, he stands there looking at where the knob rests in his hand. When the door closes, our night is over.

Drunk on repressed laughs, I lean against the door frame for support, my hands behind me. He looks up from the doorknob, and his too-pretty eye-traps rest on me. Less than a foot separates us. My eyes slide up and down his frame, admiring the way his shirt fits and his lips curve. I wonder if his mouth would taste like he smells, rich and dark, or if it would taste forbidden and toxic, neon-orange. He’s everything I wish I could be, has everything I wish I could have. He’s free, not chained with the relentless weight of a conscience. Although I seem to have left mine behind somewhere. Like a toddler, consciences, burdensome and likely to wander off the instant you forget to pay attention.

My eyes traipse up to his and see in them a breathless excitement that says he knows exactly what I’m thinking. I wonder if, once he’s gone, that will ever happen again.

There’re probably only a dozen creatures in the world who have a chance of understanding us
, he told me back in Colton’s backyard.
It’d be a pity to waste one.

A pity.
I can’t think about that. It’ll come to that when it does. Not tonight. Tonight there’s him and there’s me and there’s air filled with secrets and laughter and darkness. There are eyes filled with heat, and boys that smell of spice. It’s all going to end, but not tonight.

The moment stretches longer and gets hotter and heavier. He moves slowly, deliberately, achingly slowly, and slides his hand up my arm. My skin prickles with goose bumps and my breath comes too fast. Then gently, so gently, he wraps his big palm around the side of my neck, his thumb tracing along my jaw. Our eyes hold and–

Don’t ever… give yourself to someone you don’t trust, Meda.
The words cut into the moment like the scream of an angry infant.
Whether you know it or not, you give them a little piece of you they can break.

I close my eyes and give my head a little shake. To expel the voice of my mom, or shake of the spell of the moment, I’m not sure.

“Meda?” he asks softly in the rumbly, shivery voice of his. His hands slide back down to pull mine into his.

Meda.

Nothing like your mom’s voice to totally ruin the moment.

I haul my conscious back in as if it’s attached to one of those kiddie leashes. It comes, but with an impish little smile. Even my good-side has a bad one.

I allow myself a sway in his direction, an inhale of spicy boy scent, a minute in demon dark eyes.

Then I shut the door in his face.