ARC: Crushed (6 page)

I sit back, trying to digest all the bad news I’ve just been fed. Suddenly there’s no room for breakfast – even if it wasn’t broccoli.

“But they’ve been discussing me for months. Why now?” I look at the group of suits at the head table.

The answer is so obvious, Chi gives it. “The war, Meda. You’re a greater asset now than ever.”

I look to Jo to confirm. Her eyes are troubled. “And a greater threat.”

Chapter 8

I manage not to faint. The others talk around me, but it’s hard to hear their words over the buzzing in my head as I work through the bad news. The Corporates want to take over my custody. If the Crusaders here are considered biased
towards
me, I can’t imagine what it’d be like at a chapter that’s biased
against
me. Not good. Not good at all.

Then, on top of that, there’s the minor issue of the good-versus-evil epic war about to be unleashed, and I’m stuck right in the middle of it.

Seriously not good.

I’m caught in my internal drama so it takes a minute before I realize my friends have grown quiet around me. I glance up, but none of them spare me a look. All their attention is spread out over the cafeteria. Jo sits upright with a “try me” expression, while Chi and Zee both lounge against the table while managing to look distinctly coiled. Mags’s face is redder than usual and I imagine the expression she’s going for is tough, though I have to say she doesn’t quite hit the mark. They all look ready for a fight – and that’s when I notice they aren’t the only ones. The cafeteria is filled with fighty expressions, most of them pointed at yours-truly – the half-demon in a room full of Crusaders.

Crap. The war’s not going to help with my popularity. I wince. “Guess my dreams of being voted prom queen are out,” I murmur. No one laughs.

As soon as the bell rings announcing the end of breakfast, I hop to my feet, figuring it’s better to stay out of the crowds as much as possible. Chi and Jo must have the same idea as they also leap to their feet and walk ahead of me, like a pair of bodyguards clearing the way. We stride between tables of students collecting trays and shuffling to their feet. Some glare as I go by, some avert their eyes. It’s going be a long day.

For most of my classes, I’m without friends or even tolerating-acquaintances. Chi, Jo and Zee are all seniors, while I’m pretty horribly behind, even in the non-Templar classes. The two years I spent on my own before landing with the Templars were spent doing whatever the hell I wanted – and, surprisingly, what I wanted was not to study Western Civ or Advanced Algebra. Mags, only a sophomore, should be in some of my classes, but she apparently got brains instead of beauty, and isn’t. That leaves me alone in hostile territory for most of the day.

Usually not a position I’m opposed to, except that I’m not allowed to eat anyone.

The only exceptions are the physical classes – Combat Training and Strength and Conditioning – and my first class today, English, which I share with Jo.

Me can read good.

Unfortunately it only barely counts, as the professor uses that cruel and unusual punishment known as assigned seating. As we enter class Jo stops at the Bs while I head back to the Ps, for Porter. I tried to explain my last name is Melange, but the Crusaders prefer to pretend I spontaneously spawned from my mother.

The cramped classroom is packed with short, two-person tables, crammed so close that the bulkier kids need to twist sideways to fit between them. The usual sleepy boredom of the class is replaced with a buzzing energy brought by this morning’s news – the tiny confines seem almost too small to contain it all.

I work my way through the classroom, toward the middle of the back row. Omar, one of Isaiah’s cronies, slides out a foot to trip me. I pretend not to notice, then stomp on it.

Jo spins at the smothered yelp, and gives me the “be-good” glare. Then her eyes flick to Omar, taking in the way he’s cupping his foot and puts it all together.

“Be-good” morphs to “Fine-but-no-more”.

I smile.

She rolls her eyes.

I slide into my seat, ignoring the glare of my tablemate, Eli. “If it’s not the Loch Shit Monster,” he says nastily. “How’s it hanging, Nessie?”

“Oh that wit!” I say as I drop into my seat. “Rapier sharp, I tell you! And here I thought it’d be as dull as the rest of you.”

Professor Wendell, an angry woman who was young with the dinosaurs, chooses that moment to enter the room, but her arrival does nothing to halt Eli’s whispered assault. She only operates at a bellow, either because she assumes we’re as deaf as she is, or, I suspect, is trying to make us as deaf as she is under the whole misery-loves-company theory. Usually I’m grateful for my spot in the back row, as there are times when I see Jo visibly cringe when Crusader Wendell gets particularly worked up, but today it provides the perfect cover for Eli’s snide comments.

I promised Jo I’d be good, so I clamp down my back teeth and I stare straight ahead. I try to block his words out, but they’re right there, making a little hissing sound as they slip into my ear.

He grows bolder when I don’t respond, and leans in even closer. From the corner of my eye I see a fat smirk stretch across his face and I can’t help it, my hands think about how easy it would be to snatch that smirk right off his face. They creep onto the desk, dancing a little across its surface.

Down, girls!

I flatten my hands on the desk with a little more force than necessary. The nearby students turn around and, despite being all the way across the room, Jo turns around as well. I swear she has a special sixth-sense that warns her when I’m plotting. She sees how close Eli leans, and the way my wicked hands are already again waltzing across the surface of the desk. Her be-good glare is back.

I force my hands smooth again and she turns around. The instant she does, Eli starts in again.

Good, good, good. The word follows like a swarm of stinging bees. Breathe in, breathe out. I look at the clock. Forty-five minutes left to go.

Forty minutes.

They’re just words, insults by an idiot. Not even particularly clever ones.

Breathe.

Thirty minutes.

Just words.

Eli elbows me
hard
. That’s it. My chair squeaks as I shove back from the table and my hands curve into claws. Jo spins in her chair and catches my eye. She lifts her eyebrows in a way that uncannily resembles the way my mom used to do it. “Behave,” they say.

I glare back a “no”.

Her eyebrows go yet higher in a haughty “
Yes
.”

I switch approaches. My eyebrows sweep down at the sides, in a “pleeeeeeeeeease”.

My hands twitch and wiggle. Jo sees them, shakes her head and mouths, “Sit on your hands.”

She can’t be serious. As if my butt would stop my hands even if it could. Does she not realize it’s in league with the rest of me?

But her expression says she’s not kidding. Then she mouths, “You promised.”

I sigh. I did, though it doesn’t seem fair as that promise was made before the student body decided to declare war on me. Still, I sit on my hands like an obedient little monster, unwilling to threaten my and Jo’s fragile peace. Think of something else, Meda. Ignore him. Go to your happy place. I close my eyes and expect to see my mom. But I don’t.

I see Armand.

My second-to-last class on Monday is by far my favorite of the day and the only other one I share today with Jo – Strength and Conditioning. I duck into my room to change into gym clothes (though dutifully pulling the pink T-shirt back on over my sports bra), then wait in the hallway for Jo. She clomps out at the last minute in her gym clothes with her wild-woman hair bullied into a ponytail. She looks vaguely ill. She doesn’t smile when she sees me, but this time I don’t think it’s my fault. While S and C is my favorite class, it’s Jo’s least.

Poor girl, it’s the only one she doesn’t excel at.

“Hi, Jo.” I walk next to her down the hallway.

“Meda.” Her gaze latches onto my vilely pink shirt and her expression sours. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

I bat innocent eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You thoroughly intend to ruin that shirt in gym so you can’t wear it the rest of the day.”

My shock at these baseless accusations stops me in my tracks. “Who, me? Scheme like that? Jo, I’m offended.” I hold a hand to my heart.

She rolls her eyes and presses her lips together so they can’t smile.

I continue. “Why, I’m just following orders!” I start walking again, shaking my head.

“Uh-huh.” We clatter down the stairs and out into the sunshine. S and C is held in a hastily renovated warehouse on the other side of the valley from the school.

“I was told to wear this shirt, and I always do what my good buddy Jo tells me to.”

I’m watching her out of the corner of my eye, so I notice when her smile turns a little mean. I realize I overplayed my hand just a hair before she confirms it. “Oh, good, I’m glad to hear it. I’ve got a whole stack in my room. Backups, just in case.” Her evil cat’s smirk stretches as she looks me over. “You know,” she says thoughtfully. “I’ve always thought you’d look good in yellow. A bright, sunshiny yellow.”

At the thought, I turn faintly green. “Yellow, Jo?” My voice is a tiny thing.

“Everyone looks happy and harmless in bright yellow.”

“
Bright
yellow?”
“Or I have a pastel. The nursery-of-a-baby-of-unspecified-gender yellow.”

I glare at her, and her grin gets more wicked. “I think it might even have a duck on it.”

“I hate you.”

She swings an arm around my shoulder and grins. I fake a tragic sigh, and she laughs.

Maybe I can live with yellow.

Then her arm stiffens on my shoulder and I look up. We’re approaching the construction site of the new school. Jo slows and uses the arm wrapped around my shoulder to slow me as well.

The Sarge leads a parade of people into the new building. The group is mostly Corps, some Mountain Park officers and, oddly, Professor Puchard who sticks out like a geeky thumb in an otherwise ass-kicking fist. I haven’t had much to do with him, as I’m not trusted enough to be trained to use any of the grimoires, but I recognize him as the Crusader who would have done my Inheritance ceremony had circumstances not made Jo be the one to do it.

We wait, watching, as they disappear into the maze, leaving one Crusader at the entrance to watch. There will be one stationed at each entrance, I know. They always do that when they meet to discuss me. They don’t trust me not to spy. Which stings, as they started that
before
they caught me scaling the walls.

Once they’re out of sight, Jo drops her arm from around my shoulder.

“What are you thinking, Jo?”

Her face instantly smooths. “Nothing.”

“Secrets don’t make friends, Jo.”

She rolls her eyes. “I just wish I knew what they were discussing, is all.”

I study her suspiciously. I’ve been subjected to a thousand, maybe a million, Jo eye-rolls, and this one felt forced. She rolls her eyes again at my prolonged study (this one feels entirely natural) and starts toward class again. She doesn’t wait for me when I hesitate before joining her, and I have to jog a few steps to catch up.

The bell rings and we pick up our pace to make it to S and C relatively on time. The ancient warehouse where class takes place was patched together so quickly you can still smell the sap in the new boards. One wall of the building had completely collapsed and was replaced with a large metal roller-door. It looks horribly out of place on the old brick-and-wood building but is a life-saver on hot days, like today, when it’s left open. Class is organized in circuits and, with the door open, I can see that our classmates have already started breaking up into their randomly assigned groups. As we walk up to the assignment sheet Jo groans, then makes a face at my happy grin. I love S and C.

I’ve always been a badass, but thanks to the added strength and speed from the Inheritance ceremony, I impress even myself. Plus, after seven hours in hostile territory, I can’t help but delight in ninety minutes in which I get to remind everyone they shouldn’t mess with me. I’m Bruce Banner all day, but in S and C I get to remind everyone that I am, in fact, the Hulk. For ninety minutes I can turn it over to the beast. Footrace? Hulk, run! Hurdles? Hulk, jump! Punching bags? Hulk, smash! Weight-lifting! Hulk is the strongest there is!

Actually, screw the Hulk. He only kicks ass when he’s pissed. I take names all day.

Meda is the strongest there is!

I’m sent to beat the boxing bags (Meda, smash!), while Jo’s off to weightlifting.

I square off with my canvas-covered foe and kick its ass in a flurry of fists and dust. I pause and notice the circle of kids around me, their mouths hanging slightly open.

It never gets old.

We cycle through our circuit, until we’re on our last leg – wind sprints. Crusaders are fast, Olympic-record fast, but I usually lap them by one and a half. Or, if I’m really determined to sweat through a hideous pink shirt, two to one. Today it seems like it’s more three to one, as I zip past Mark, a tallish kid with nice shoulders, for the third time, then the guy ahead of him, Saul.

Then I notice they’re not paying attention to where they’re going. Their heads are twisted away toward the other side of the gym. As I loop around the orange cone, I look for the distraction. My tiny heart makes a tiny splash as it sinks into my stomach.

Jo.

She’s a third of the way up the rope climb and struggling visibly. Even the kids who haven’t yet been granted the Inheritance can pull it off, but Jo hangs about eight feet up flailing, her legs swinging.

I’m reminded of just this morning when she opted not to scale the brick wall with me.

Jo tries to clamp her feet together on the rope, but her bad leg slips, jerking her down six more inches. She stares up the rope in fierce concentration, as if she can will her way to the top.

Or maybe she’s trying hard not to hear the whispering going on below. I realize I’ve come to a stop, as have the other kids in my group. In fact all the kids in the room are now watching her humiliation.

“Jo,” the professor says calmly but without any mercy. “This is basic conditioning.”

As if Jo doesn’t know.

“If you can’t even climb a rope, how can you keep your Beacon safe?”

Where does her Beacon live? In a tree?

“Miss Beauregard, if you cannot climb this rope, I cannot recommend your continuation on probation.”

Ouch. Back before I knew her, Jo was the head of her class; until she was attacked by demons. Both her parents died and her leg was ripped to shreds. She spent the last two years mostly bedridden. She was deemed a non-combatant and condemned to a future as a desk-knight.

I know. Jo the accountant. Or worse, Jo the school teacher. I just vomited a little in my mouth.

But after our battle royal with the demons a few months ago, Jo decided she wasn’t going to accept her fate. After much arguing, the admin agreed to give her a trial period: if she could catch up before graduation, she could be back on the roster. She attacked physical therapy and came back to S and C with a bang, but recently she’s regressed.

We don’t discuss it. I pretend not to notice her failures and she pretends they didn’t happen. She doesn’t like to talk about it and I don’t like emotions. It’s why we’re friends.

We’re also friends because she doesn’t have a choice. By the time we finish S and C, she always needs a friend to lean on as she limps out of class. Thanks to her association with the Monster-girl, and the fact that everyone thinks she’s going to going to get the golden-boy Chi killed with her incompetence, there’s not exactly a line of people waiting to help her.

Jo’s face is already flushed with effort, but I swear it gets redder. She manages to get one hand over the other, and kind of half-assedly pulls herself up. She was holding her breath, and when she lets it out, she loses the tension in her biceps and dangles limply like a lure on a fishing line. I can see her labored breathing from here.

The whispers get less subtle, and I make my way into the thick of the watching crowd.

“She doesn’t belong here,” a voice to my left says.

“She’s going to get someone killed.”

I stop to glare at everyone within my line-of-sight and they shut up.

In the sudden quiet, a muttered “Demon-lover”, by one of Isaiah’s crew sounds exceptionally loud. It almost makes me laugh. Jo hates demons more than anyone I know. I haven’t the puniest, most pathetic shred of doubt that, had I not met Jo back on that night in March, her single-minded hatred for demons would have made her my nemesis. Instead she’s forced to defend me.

What a thing, to have your best friend also be your worst enemy.

I shove the jeering boy hard with my shoulder as I move past, to let him know I heard. Instead of the fear I want, he jerks up his chin.

Problematic, but I’ll have to deal with that later. I hear something that pulls my attention away from the little dirtbag. Something I never thought I’d hear in a million years. At least not from Jo.

“I can’t.”

My head snaps around to where Jo still dangles, her arms visibly shaking. “I can’t do it,” she repeats, a little more firmly. Then softer, almost broken. “I think I need to go to the infirmary.”

The professor doesn’t look pleased by Jo’s admission, but he doesn’t look disappointed either. He looks… relieved. A failure here, on a stupid rope-climb, would bring her one step closer to admitting defeat. I want to deck him.

He opens his mouth to say something, but I cut him off. “Yes, you can.” She’s always harassing me to be better; it’s only fair I return the favor. I push through the crowd, carelessly shoving kids out of the way (some with more force than others), until I’m at the bottom of the rope, looking up at Jo.

“Come on, Jo. Climb,” I order.

Her reply hits me like a slap. “Stay out of this, Meda.”

Some of the meaner kids snicker, and their nasty comments fill the air. I don’t think they all hate Jo. I don’t even think half do, but they all love Chi, and are frustrated by Jo’s refusal to accept “God’s will”. If any of them bothered to ask Chi, they’d know he’s not the least bit worried about being partnered with Jo. Even if he were, he’d rather die a dozen times than live without her. But no one asks Chi. Besides, it’s honorable for him to sacrifice himself for her, but it’s sinful for her to allow it.

I don’t know what’s going on with Jo, but unlike any of the other jerks in this room, I actually have fought demons with her. And she’s good at it. Great even.

She just needs to remember that. “No,” I tell her. “Now climb the damn rope.”

“I. Said. I. Can’t,” she grits out.

“Yes. You. Can.”

She
snarls
at me.

“Miss Porter,” Crusader Keller places a hand on my shoulder. I manage to shrug it off rather than rip it that way. “I think Miss Beauregard knows the limits of her abilities.” He stresses the word limits.

“She has no limits,” I snap at him. “Dammit, Jo, climb
up
.”

The laughter gets a little louder at the ridiculousness of the situation.

The professor steps in. “Miss Porter, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

I turn on him. “It’s Miss
Melange
,” I glower. “And make me.”

The class gasps, and I hear Jo’s horrified “Meda!” above them all.

The professor and I stare at each other as he considers my challenge. Then he says to Jo, without taking his eyes off me. “It’s alright, Miss Beauregard. If you would like to quit, you may come down.”

Quit. Jo’s no quitter.

To my horror she slides down without a word. She lands heavily at the bottom and stumbles a little, her weak leg giving out, and she grabs the rope for support. Someone snickers, but someone else, to their credit, elbows them in the gut before I figure out who. Jo sticks up her chin but doesn’t make eye contact with any of the students. She looks only to professor Keller when she says, “Permission to go to the infirmary, sir?”

“Of course.” His voice is not without sympathy.

Jo stumbles again as she turns and I duck forward to take her arm, but she jerks it away. “I told you to
stay out of it,
Meda.”

I hear a few more snickers as Jo limps off, and I whip around. Professor Keller steps between me and the rest of the assholish student body, filling my view. I try to look around him and he reaches out an arm as if to stop me. I snarl, finally looking at him. He doesn’t back down, but he does drop his arm. I turn on my heel and stalk out.

Thanks to my early exit, I’m early to Western Civ. I drop into my seat in the empty classroom and glare stonily at the chalkboard (yes, chalk, none of those fancy-pantsy dry-erase boards here!) until the bell sounds (yes, a real, old-school bell), and the room starts to fill up.

A sly voice slithers into my pissy contemplations.

“Hey, Meda.”

My hands tighten on my pencil. Of the mountain of people whose shit I’m not currently equipped to take, Isaiah is at the top. “Not now, Isaiah,” I growl, without looking at him. It’s a struggle not to kill him when I’m in a good mood.

I am not in a good mood.

I hear a chair slide as he pulls it over and sits facing me. His tone drips sweet-and-low sympathy – overly sweet and entirely fake. “Having a bad day?”

Even though he’s not in S and C with us, it’s pretty obvious he heard what happened. Not surprising. Scientists looking to break the light-speed barrier should study the speed of gossip in small-town high schools.

If Isaiah were clever, he’d know that now is a dangerous time to antagonize me, but I’m fairly certain no one has ever accused Isaiah of being clever.

He keeps talking. “In S and C, perhaps?”

The pencil snaps in my hands, I picture his spine. Be good, Meda. You promised. “Not now, Isaiah,” I repeat, keeping my eyes carefully on the chalkboard on the front of the room.

“I think now’s perfect.” His tone oozes with smugness. “I heard your pussy, demon-loving friend’s finally dropping out.”

Beeeee gooood,
the annoying words buzz.

“You heard wrong,” I bite out.

“I don’t think so,” he says, and I don’t turn my head. I can tell by his voice he’s smirking and if I see it, I will rip it off his face. “I heard she wussed out on the rope climb. Dangled there like a six year-old crying for her mama.”