Chapter 15
15
On the starting line, I feel less like a conquering heroine. The obstacle course finds us on the banks of the river, where the challenges wait in intimidating sequence. I follow the outline of the imposing events—the course involves crawling under ropes, climbing over high fences, balancing on logs in the mud, and more.
Honestly, it looks like something from Survivor . I love Survivor —watching it, I mean, preferably with hot cocoa, in pre-errands free time on weekend mornings, with my computer on the couch.
Not, you know, competing in it.
Not even for Val.
With my nervousness joining forces with the sun—shining directly overhead, like Kethryn described—I’m sweating, and the race hasn’t even started. I haven’t competed in anything athletic since middle school soccer, so I’m not sure why I let Brit convince me this was a good idea.
Half of the other sign-ups look equally unnerved, which is encouraging. The other half look intimidatingly excited. No one is in costume. In an omen of how seriously everyone is taking the event, they’ve exchanged leather armor and demoness gowns for activewear. Honestly, it looks like the Elytheum guard has a sponsorship with Lululemon out here.
I did not pack activewear. Instead, I went to the nearest running store off campus twenty minutes ago.
I picked the first thing I tried on, fighting insecurity and self-doubt as I took in my unfamiliar reflection in the far too well-lit changing room. While I desperately yearned to leave all spandex behind, I refused to lose my nerve for the obstacle course. I figured if I purchased running clothes—if I really committed—I would have to follow through. Otherwise the black nylon, incriminatingly unworn, would remind me of my cowardice.
Now here I stand, in my very first pair of activewear shorts, which are already rolling up my thighs and climbing into my butt. I’d better win so this is worth it. With everyone busy assembling on the starting line, I attempt to discreetly resolve the wedgie situation.
Quite naturally, this is when Scott comes up next to me.
“Surprised to see you here,” he remarks.
I straighten. Forget the wedgie in my shorts. Scott is the wedgie in my soul.
I prioritize accordingly. “Why?” I demand, hands on my hips.
His eyes never leave me. The look he gives me is curiously fraught. Like he’s angry with himself for how he feels. Like…Well, if circumstances weren’t otherwise, I would say he looks like he missed me yesterday.
His sharp-edged voice says nothing of the sort. “Because this is an obstacle course. Outside,” he replies. “Doesn’t exactly feel like a Jennifer Worth activity.”
Okay, no, he didn’t miss me.
“You don’t know anything about my activities or what I’m capable of,” I protest, meeting him spite for spite. Sarcastic sword fighters on the ramparts of our unfortunate working relationship. “I could easily compete in Ironman races in my free time—you know, the time I spend outside the office as part of my personal life?”
“How many miles does one bike in an Ironman?” Scott returns.
I’ve spent the past days living the fiction of Jennifer the main character, lady of Elytheum. What’s the difference in conjuring a Jennifer who competes in Ironman races? “Twenty,” I reply firmly, despite having no clue.
Scott laughs. I scowl.
“Would you like to know the real answer? I actually did do an Ironman, you know,” Scott informs me.
Fuck .
He’s going to be good at this obstacle course, isn’t he? “Are you trying to impress me?” I demand, sidestepping his question.
Pulling one arm in front of his chest to stretch his shoulder, Scott eyes me with purposeful dispassion. “Impress you? Why would I care to do that?” he retorts. “Hey, found anyone better to hook up with yet? I’m just honored you entertained me at all, considering I never volunteered.”
I flush fiercely. Great to know he heard everything. I mean, of course he did. He was standing right there. I guess I just hoped some Elytheum magic would shroud my words or something.
Unfortunately not. No, I’ve found myself in a nightmare. Kethryn-captured-in-Nightfell-level disastrous. Scott Daniels heckling me over my friends’ unconcealed plans for me to rebound with him. I have the urge to go walk into the river and fall face-forward into the mud to hide from the world forever.
I make the closest reasonable escape. “Please just forget you ever heard that,” I say, heading for the starting line, leaving Scott and his supercilious remarks and his shoulder-stretching.
“What if I did volunteer, though?”
I round on him slowly, ready to glare. He’s…He’s messing with me. Just playing some cruel Scott Daniels game.
Instead, I find him watching me, eyebrow raised. Just one eyebrow. Just like Val.
Which he physically could not do when we arrived here. I remember the notebook I seized from him. Learn eyebrow thing. Scott has succeeded in putting one of his most important observations about Val into practice. He actually fucking learned how to raise his eyebrow.
“How did you learn to do that?” I ask quickly. I’m genuinely astounded enough to abandon our petty debate.
Of course, he revels in my reaction. “Oh, is it supposed to be hard?” he replies, indulging in sarcasm like I might indulge in fogberry jam.
He raises it once more. Then once more in fast succession.
No way. I will not stand here while Scott quirks his damn eyebrow like he earns credit card points every time he does.
I reach forward automatically to his forehead and push his eyebrow down. Childish, perhaps, but I do not care. “Cut that out,” I order him.
Scott grabs my hand, deflecting my prodding. He raises his eyebrow again. “It appears you are the one who doesn’t know what I’m capable of,” he replies, clearly enjoying every drawled word.
While he holds my wrist, I wrestle in vain for his defiant eyebrow. The struggle only pushes us closer together, chest-to-chest in the midday humidity. His face comes close to mine, his scent inescapable in the afternoon air.
“This is only one on a long list of things I’ve mastered since coming here,” he informs me.
I feel surprising heat spread through me. I go weak in his grip, waylaying me momentarily.
“Oh yeah? What else?” I challenge him, renewing my efforts. Am I mocking his accomplishments? Or daring him to give me an unforgettable answer? I don’t even know.
“Another pity,” Scott replies. “You won’t experience them. Since I’m at the bottom of your rebound list.”
Of course . Now I understand. He’s mocking me, returning the favor for the comments he overheard. Pretending he wants to hook up with me, hoping I’ll embarrass myself the way I embarrassed him. In real life your enemy doesn’t want to hook up with you. They want to embarrass you. I may be prone to romanticizing, but I won’t forget that. Suddenly I feel like I’ve just plunged off the logs over there into the cold water of the river.
I withdraw my hand, no longer having even grudging fun now. Scott can eyebrow me freely if he wants. I frown and face the starting line, keeping him in my peripheral vision. His stare never leaving me, he rolls his neck like a fighter entering the ring.
I roll my eyes like my life depends on it.
One of Kethryn’s footmen standing to the side calls out, sparing me from further bickering with Scott. “Competitors ready!” With ceremony he obviously enjoys, the footman lifts to his lips one of the large horns the courtiers held in the Great Hall on our first night.
Some of the other participants crouch like Olympic runners. I don’t chance it. I don’t need to look like Spider-Man, not when I’m genuinely unsure what consequences such a stance would visit on my new shorts. Everyone looks intense, focused—especially Scott, whose competitive glare I do not dignify with one of my own in return—until, out into the afternoon, the foghorn rings loud and low.
I run.
No, I fly . I pick up momentum fast on the grassy hill where the course opens, leading us to the river under the cover of the campus’s impressive oaks. Even when my feet start to skid on the slope—even when I notice a few of my competitors wipe out on the wet grass—I stay upright. I don’t let myself panic. Forget the date with Val. Right now, I’m motivated by beating Scott.
Inspired or not, exertion hits me hard. I expected I would get—I don’t know, farther without knifelike pain in my windpipe and dull stinging in my legs. It’s embarrassing, which only makes me more uncomfortable, which only makes running hurt worse. I’m an unathletic self-fulfilling prophecy.
Nearing the ropes challenge, which waits alongside the river, I correct myself. When I got here, I marveled at how I could be anyone. Not someone— anyone. Princess. Demoness. Lady. Warrior.
I’m not Lady Jennifer right now. I’ll return to Lady Jennifer when I’m recuperating from my sporty outburst with my friends. In fact, I deeply look forward to it. Right now, though, with each furious footstep, each push of power in my miserable legs, I reimagine myself.
This isn’t a race. I’m not in North Carolina. I’m rushing into combat to slay the demons stalking the realm. And if my annoying coworker catches a stray sword slash—well, it happens.
In a stroke of unexpected genius, I manage to distract myself with my fantasizing. I reach the ropes, surprised to find my legs moving less strenuously. While I’m far from the lead, I’m not last, either. I can’t see Scott, which is probably good.
In front of the ropes, I hit the ground. Wooden poles frame the obstacle, the ropes connecting them a foot off the ground at odd angles. A few of my fellow racers decide to go right into the ropes, loping and ducking to pass the heavy woven cords.
Not me. I wiggle on my stomach under them the entire way. I know I’m getting grass stains everywhere, but I don’t care. Would a courtly lady of Elytheum? Certainly. Would a vengeful warrior, charging into the fray to hack up horrid demons? Hell no.
And don’t I have the most horrid demon of all to face down?
When the end is in sight, I pull my arms in tight and roll the rest of the way. Staggering to my feet, I find my strategy has worked. Not many other runners are in front of me now. If I push—if I stay inspired—I could win.
The fence, the next challenge, waits only yards in front of me. Unfortunately, the obstacle is imposing. The wooden wall rises nearly to the height of the younger oaks hemming the river. We’re meant to use the spaces in the wooden slats to climb up, then heave ourselves over the fence.
Whatever. I’ll manage it. I sprint.
Only, when I’m seconds from the fence—Scott passes me.
Devastating. Disastrous. The dismay I felt when the Darkness claimed Val’s oldest comrade in The Risen Court ’s most emotionally wrenching scene. How could this happen? When Scott dares to shoot me a victorious glance over his shoulder, I’m just glad he does it without his eyebrow stunt.
I hit the fence moments later, straining every muscle in me to push faster, ignoring the severe cramp in my side. This fearsome warrior is yearning to hunt down some vitaminwater right now. I’m next to my competitors, each of us grunting and gasping as we surmount the tall wooden slats.
With finger strength forged from flipping pages, I manage to pull myself up over the fence. Scott, I’m distraught to discover, has surmounted the obstacle entirely. He’s dropping nimbly to the ground, landing solidly on his feet.
Knowing my chances are disappearing, I make the calculated decision to fall off the fence onto the other side. Who needs gracefulness when you have gravity? I release my grip, plunging the fifteen feet to the ground. The drop knocks the wind out of me.
Scott does a double take at the sound of my impact on the grass. He stops, then… abandons his lead . He rushes to my side while dull pain pervades my upper body.
“Ow,” I say.
“Jen, are you okay?” he asks.
“Ugh,” I say.
I would have preferred losing. I would have preferred his victorious laughter while he lopes on his long runner’s legs to the finish line. I would’ve preferred he cock his left eyebrow fifty million times. I would have preferred anything instead of what he’s doing now.
“Jen,” he murmurs again, urgently. When I start to sit up, only to drop down again from the ache of impact stinging in my side, Scott crouches swiftly. He’s right next to me. Kneeling over me, really.
He reaches out. Concern, or something—it couldn’t be concern, not for his arch competitor, his rival—sharpens the gray in his eyes, like lightning hiding in the clouds.
He hesitates a moment, and then, firm and sure, he wraps his hand under my shoulder. Like he’s going to help me up, or pull me into an embrace. Just like on the starting line, his scent is everywhere. Slicked now with sweat, like…
No, Jennifer .
It’s absurd for him to pretend this way. People pass us left and right. Our lead vanishes. I struggle onto all fours while Scott, supporting my shoulder, his frame bent close to mine, watches me intently. Like he’s nervous. Like he actually cares! It’s more fantastical than the notion of real live fae in enchanted Elytheum regalia coming to heal my wounds with magic.
Which is why, the moment Scott withdraws his hand, I spring to my feet and sprint past him, laughing.
It feels fucking wonderful. Imagining myself fighting fearsome demons can’t even match this pure exhilaration.
Scott is startled for a moment—I can tell from the footsteps I don’t hear pursuing me—until he remembers himself and reengages, sprinting to catch up.
Still, I’m in the lead when we reach the next obstacle. Logs are laid lengthwise over a patch of thick mud. We have to dash the length of one without falling off.
I step onto my chosen log. Quickly, I learn what I lack in running power, I also lack in coordination. On my first attempt, I wobble. I’m forced to drop off the log and plant my feet in the mud. Impatiently, I renew my efforts.
I get frustrated when Scott passes me, walking the length of his log with precise paces. My irritation only makes me clumsier. When I fall for the second time, I pause. I close my eyes, collecting myself. Daring to walk the log more slowly, I manage to reach the other side.
The instant I land on flat ground, I’m sprinting again. The course leads sharply uphill. I give the incline everything I have, outright ignoring my unrelenting cramp. With the slope slowing everyone down, I seize the opportunity to make up ground, passing wearier competitors.
Nearing the height of the hill, however, I realize the worst has happened.
Scott is literally in the lead.
It’s incredibly frustrating. Personally and philosophically. I contemplate shouting out He’s not even a real fan! and everyone would drop everything and pile onto Scott like zombies.
I don’t, obviously. I want to win using the nobility and perseverance Val prizes in warriors. Sweating profusely in the humid heat, I scramble up the hill, using my hands for extra stability. I know I look like hell. I’m proud of it, honestly. Hill dirt coats my hands. My hair has come chaotically loose from my ponytail. Glittered cheeks are for making Scott notice me in the Great Hall. Grass stains are for a different kind of victory.
Unless Scott wins, of course. I straighten up, preparing for disappointment or salvation. The hill opens onto the final challenge.
Relief rushes over me.
For the end of the obstacle course, we only need to toss three beanbags into a black bucket.
I beam. This I can do. I did not spend my childhood dashing over logs or recreationally surmounting high fences. I did spend summers under the Oklahoma sun playing cornhole.
I confidently grab my first beanbag. In the same moment, Scott overhands his and it lands way wide of his objective. Promising. Very promising. The man is out here looking like he’s playing darts. Meanwhile, I step, swing, and—neatly score my first.
My progress visibly frustrates him. He glares. I even hear him growl watching me outscore him. Either he’s overcommitting to the Lord Valance storminess or he really doesn’t want to lose.
Scott is no quitter, however. He’s also irritatingly disciplined and determined. His scavenger hunting proves it. I’m not surprised when he refocuses quickly, reassesses his throw, and lands his first and second shots impressively.
The crowd cheers us on from the finish line. I will not lose out now, not when this is something just regular Jennifer excels at. I exhale—I wind up—
Scott does the same—
Of course, we land our beanbags in our buckets at the very same instant.
No one else has finished the challenge. I lock eyes with Scott. We hold each other’s gazes for a split second—and then we both take off, flying for the finish line.
Disappointment draws on me immediately. With yards until the finish line narrowing into feet, I watch victory slip out of my grasp. Scott is faster than me. He just is. Stupid annoying Ironman experience.
I see the finish line nearing, see how Scott will get there first.
And I decide impulsively, the Jennifer who defends Elytheum doesn’t accept defeat. Screw nobility and perseverance. I can’t pass Scott. But I can keep him from winning.
Drawing on my very last reserves of strength, I throw myself forward, leaping and grasping onto Scott’s shirt.
The snarl of fabric flings him off his stride. He flails, crashing to the side, and poetically, we go down together. “What the—” I hear him grunt-gasp. He catches sight of me, and his eyes widen. “Why—?”
He doesn’t get to finish the question. Unfortunately, we… keep going down. I’d not considered how close we were to the edge of the hill we just surmounted.
I clutch Scott, and we roll all the way down the slope and onto the muddy shore, right into the river.