Brutal Precious
Page 15
Nameless laughs, and quickly, too quickly, pats my shoulder. My panic tenses every muscle without my permission and, like it’s being pulled by marionette strings, my leg juts out and kicks him square in the side. He makes a winded coughing noise, and the genial mask he keeps up fractures to shards, the smile turning cruel, the jovial light in his eyes twisting to malicious offense.
“You little bitch –”
His hands reach for me, and I’m ducking, but neither of us get to move any further, because someone steps between us.
“That’s about enough of that.”
And I recognize this voice, too.
Dark jeans, a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Shoulders I know – shoulders I slept against a long time ago. Tawny, gold-brown hair sticking up in the back. It’s an illusion, it has to be.
“And who the f**k are you?” Nameless sneers.
“I’m hurt you don’t recognize me, Will. All that prying into our school records, but no prying into my photos? That’s lazy of you. Lax. I’d almost call it a mistake.”
I see Nameless’ eyes go wide, but he quickly adopts a neutral face, a smirk tugging at his mouth as he stands up, his full height almost level with the newcomer’s.
“We’re all here, then. Fabulous. The party can finally start. It’s about damn time,” Nameless sneers.
He looks at the newcomer, and then me, before turning and walking away down the well-lit sidewalk. Like a spell, the paralysis lifts when he’s out of sight, and I gasp for air.
“Shit, shit, rancid shitmonkeys!” I stand and brush myself off, willing the trembling to stop. It’ll take hours. And it’s not just Nameless that’s causing it.
Jack Hunter turns to face me.
It feels like years, but it’s only been months. A few months. He looks so much older – lines around his eyes that didn’t used to be there. His face matured somehow, the sharp angles of pubescence rounded off in a handsome, hawkish way. His eyes are the same frigid, clear blue, brows drawn tight.
“Isis, I –”
I pull my fist back and punch him. His head snaps to the side, and the people around us go even quieter. Someone murmurs ‘fight’, but no one moves. Except Jack. He slowly turns his head to me, a red welt blossoming on his Legolas-high cheekbones. I expect rage to ice over his eyes, but it never does.
“Isis,” he repeats, softer now.
“Who the f**k do you think you are, running off like that?”
Jack flinches (flinch? Jack? Never.) but doesn’t break his gaze on mine.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“I know I’m f**king shaking! I’m a lot of things right now, and shaking is the least homicidal of them! You left all of us! You just…disappeared! Your Mom, Wren, shit – everyone. You left everyone behind!”
Jack’s frown deepens. I catch a glimpse of his hands at his sides – strong and spidery as ever. I want to hold them, I want to hold him, to lunge in and hug him until he can’t breathe or leave again, to tell him it’s okay, to tell him I forgive him, but the fury and Nameless’ words mush together in my head and come out as acid on my lips.
“You left me behind.”
“Isis, please, let me –”
“No!” I interrupt his soft, pleading voice. It’s so unlike him, it scares me. Almost as much as Nameless’ hands shooting out to grab me. Almost. “Did you think a f**king ticket to Europe would make me forgive you? On what f**king planet is a ticket a substitute for a proper goddamn goodbye, and how can I avoid said planet for all conceivable time?”
***
She is fire and rage, all claws extended, her hair swirling around her in the gentle night-summer wind and her cinnamon eyes ablaze with light from the hall. She shines in the velvet darkness, a little thinner than I remember, and a little sadder, but burning all the same. Always burning. I warm myself on her fury, embracing the searing hot-sweet feel of her wrath and all the vibrant life behind it.
She is here, she is within reach. She is real and corporeal and angry with me. Maybe she’s never not been angry with me, and that’s why it feels right. We have always been at odds. We have always clashed. After months of feeling wrong, this - staring down my hellion (mine? No, I threw the chance to call her mine away.) – is the only thing that has felt right. The planets are in place, the last clockgear snaps into motion, and the world begins to turn again, as is proper and right.
“I thought you were going to Stanford,” I try. She bristles.
“Don’t change the subject, buttlump.”
“You should’ve gone to Stanford. It would’ve challenged you.”
You would’ve been happier there. You would’ve bent the whole world to your will. You would’ve met smarter, kinder boys, there. Boys who aren’t me.
“Wow,” She scoffs. “I didn’t think it was possible, but you’ve somehow gotten even better at pissing me off. Call the pope, because we have a bonafide f**king miracle on our peasant hands.”
Through the anger I can see her shoulders trembling. I didn’t think it was her, at first. She was so quiet, her purple streaks all by faded. But I recognized Will Cavanaugh. How could I not? I studied his face in the dossier for nights on end, memorizing every line and curve, planning out where and how I would hurt him most. The docile girl talking with Will couldn’t have been Isis. But then came the kick to his spleen, wild and furious and all reaction, no forethought, and I knew instantly it was her. Here, of all places. My heart stuttered, the color and warmth flushing in where months of training and guilt had drained it out to grays and blacks.
“What about you?” She spits when I don’t say anything. “Harvard get too snooty for you? Who am I kidding, the Queen of England is less snooty than you.”
“I’ve transferred here. I never went to Harvard.”
“Then where. The f**k. DID. You go?”
Her words are slow venom, her eyes narrowed. I can’t tell her. She wouldn’t understand. No – she would. She would understand best of all, and that’s why I can’t tell her. It would draw me closer to her. I was thrilled to take this job at first, if only for my planned retribution on Will, but now that she’s here I regret it. This school brings us close. So close. Close enough for me to hurt her all over again, hurt her to the point of no healing, like I did to Sophia.
I savor the cuts her fury makes, the pain letting me know that yes – I’m still alive. Even after trying to kill the old me, the hurtful bastard me, to leave him behind buried in guilt beside Sophia and Tallie, a single flame from Isis’ lips and I’m reminded of our war, our words, our bond. I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her as she turns me to ash. I want her to kill me like I haven’t had the guts to.
But she is trembling. So I settle for words.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” I say. She scoffs. Her armor is out in full force, tougher and spikier than ever, thanks to me. Thanks to Will. Thanks to bastards like the two of us.
“Did you get that line from one of Sophia’s trashy romance novels –” She covers her mouth instantly, but it’s too late. Sophia’s name rings in the open, tearing apart the stitching on both our wounds. But where pain stops most mouths, it fuels Isis’.
“You little bitch –”
His hands reach for me, and I’m ducking, but neither of us get to move any further, because someone steps between us.
“That’s about enough of that.”
And I recognize this voice, too.
Dark jeans, a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Shoulders I know – shoulders I slept against a long time ago. Tawny, gold-brown hair sticking up in the back. It’s an illusion, it has to be.
“And who the f**k are you?” Nameless sneers.
“I’m hurt you don’t recognize me, Will. All that prying into our school records, but no prying into my photos? That’s lazy of you. Lax. I’d almost call it a mistake.”
I see Nameless’ eyes go wide, but he quickly adopts a neutral face, a smirk tugging at his mouth as he stands up, his full height almost level with the newcomer’s.
“We’re all here, then. Fabulous. The party can finally start. It’s about damn time,” Nameless sneers.
He looks at the newcomer, and then me, before turning and walking away down the well-lit sidewalk. Like a spell, the paralysis lifts when he’s out of sight, and I gasp for air.
“Shit, shit, rancid shitmonkeys!” I stand and brush myself off, willing the trembling to stop. It’ll take hours. And it’s not just Nameless that’s causing it.
Jack Hunter turns to face me.
It feels like years, but it’s only been months. A few months. He looks so much older – lines around his eyes that didn’t used to be there. His face matured somehow, the sharp angles of pubescence rounded off in a handsome, hawkish way. His eyes are the same frigid, clear blue, brows drawn tight.
“Isis, I –”
I pull my fist back and punch him. His head snaps to the side, and the people around us go even quieter. Someone murmurs ‘fight’, but no one moves. Except Jack. He slowly turns his head to me, a red welt blossoming on his Legolas-high cheekbones. I expect rage to ice over his eyes, but it never does.
“Isis,” he repeats, softer now.
“Who the f**k do you think you are, running off like that?”
Jack flinches (flinch? Jack? Never.) but doesn’t break his gaze on mine.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“I know I’m f**king shaking! I’m a lot of things right now, and shaking is the least homicidal of them! You left all of us! You just…disappeared! Your Mom, Wren, shit – everyone. You left everyone behind!”
Jack’s frown deepens. I catch a glimpse of his hands at his sides – strong and spidery as ever. I want to hold them, I want to hold him, to lunge in and hug him until he can’t breathe or leave again, to tell him it’s okay, to tell him I forgive him, but the fury and Nameless’ words mush together in my head and come out as acid on my lips.
“You left me behind.”
“Isis, please, let me –”
“No!” I interrupt his soft, pleading voice. It’s so unlike him, it scares me. Almost as much as Nameless’ hands shooting out to grab me. Almost. “Did you think a f**king ticket to Europe would make me forgive you? On what f**king planet is a ticket a substitute for a proper goddamn goodbye, and how can I avoid said planet for all conceivable time?”
***
She is fire and rage, all claws extended, her hair swirling around her in the gentle night-summer wind and her cinnamon eyes ablaze with light from the hall. She shines in the velvet darkness, a little thinner than I remember, and a little sadder, but burning all the same. Always burning. I warm myself on her fury, embracing the searing hot-sweet feel of her wrath and all the vibrant life behind it.
She is here, she is within reach. She is real and corporeal and angry with me. Maybe she’s never not been angry with me, and that’s why it feels right. We have always been at odds. We have always clashed. After months of feeling wrong, this - staring down my hellion (mine? No, I threw the chance to call her mine away.) – is the only thing that has felt right. The planets are in place, the last clockgear snaps into motion, and the world begins to turn again, as is proper and right.
“I thought you were going to Stanford,” I try. She bristles.
“Don’t change the subject, buttlump.”
“You should’ve gone to Stanford. It would’ve challenged you.”
You would’ve been happier there. You would’ve bent the whole world to your will. You would’ve met smarter, kinder boys, there. Boys who aren’t me.
“Wow,” She scoffs. “I didn’t think it was possible, but you’ve somehow gotten even better at pissing me off. Call the pope, because we have a bonafide f**king miracle on our peasant hands.”
Through the anger I can see her shoulders trembling. I didn’t think it was her, at first. She was so quiet, her purple streaks all by faded. But I recognized Will Cavanaugh. How could I not? I studied his face in the dossier for nights on end, memorizing every line and curve, planning out where and how I would hurt him most. The docile girl talking with Will couldn’t have been Isis. But then came the kick to his spleen, wild and furious and all reaction, no forethought, and I knew instantly it was her. Here, of all places. My heart stuttered, the color and warmth flushing in where months of training and guilt had drained it out to grays and blacks.
“What about you?” She spits when I don’t say anything. “Harvard get too snooty for you? Who am I kidding, the Queen of England is less snooty than you.”
“I’ve transferred here. I never went to Harvard.”
“Then where. The f**k. DID. You go?”
Her words are slow venom, her eyes narrowed. I can’t tell her. She wouldn’t understand. No – she would. She would understand best of all, and that’s why I can’t tell her. It would draw me closer to her. I was thrilled to take this job at first, if only for my planned retribution on Will, but now that she’s here I regret it. This school brings us close. So close. Close enough for me to hurt her all over again, hurt her to the point of no healing, like I did to Sophia.
I savor the cuts her fury makes, the pain letting me know that yes – I’m still alive. Even after trying to kill the old me, the hurtful bastard me, to leave him behind buried in guilt beside Sophia and Tallie, a single flame from Isis’ lips and I’m reminded of our war, our words, our bond. I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her as she turns me to ash. I want her to kill me like I haven’t had the guts to.
But she is trembling. So I settle for words.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” I say. She scoffs. Her armor is out in full force, tougher and spikier than ever, thanks to me. Thanks to Will. Thanks to bastards like the two of us.
“Did you get that line from one of Sophia’s trashy romance novels –” She covers her mouth instantly, but it’s too late. Sophia’s name rings in the open, tearing apart the stitching on both our wounds. But where pain stops most mouths, it fuels Isis’.
